by Thomas King
It had to be the boy.
Sonny.
No one else would take the time. No one else would have imagined such a structure to be important. Inventive. The lad was inventive.
But what was it?
The boy had an original intellect, that much was known, but he never did anything without a reason, even if the understanding of the thing required a plough to bring it to the surface.
The light was gone now, and Crisp would have to find his way back to the hot springs in the dark. Hardly a problem. His feet knew the terrain as a child knows its mother’s skin.
He wondered what Mara and Gabriel would do with the occasion, for such fortune was not easily gained and rarely realized. There would be decisions made in the coming days that would shape the match and put the sport in play.
He would have to be attentive so as not to miss a moment of the drama.
The sound filtered down through the trees and out onto the beach. Crisp turned his head to catch it. Someone was at the springs. Someone was at the springs, trying to start his truck. A visitor whom Crisp had not expected. He moved quickly through the sand to the harder ground, hoping he could arrive before they left. There was chili on the stove and bread on the counter, so no one would have to go hungry.
And then he stopped, turned back to the riddle in the sand and the grass.
A tower.
Of course, Sonny was building a tower. Crisp could see that now. A four-square tower. A beacon facing the sea. The boy had seen something on the water.
And he was raising a light to bring it home.
61
THE EXERCISE MARATHON HAD BEEN A MISTAKE.
He had stayed on the trainer far too long, had pumped his way up and down virtual hills until his left calf had cramped up.
Hard.
By the time he arrived at Queen’s Quay and extracted himself from the limo, his back was stiff, and he could feel blisters forming on the balls of his feet.
DORIAN turned on the television as soon as he stepped into the condo. The top story was still the two breached dams, but the visuals had changed. Camera crews had spread out along the river and were documenting the waste matter as it floated past on its way to the next camera crew.
The road along the river was lined with trucks and vans and cars. Dorian could see people standing on the bank, shoulder to shoulder, cameras, cellphones, and iPads held over their heads.
He felt as though he were watching a rock concert.
Already the networks had lined up their resident experts in litters of three, all of them looking solemn and maintaining solid eye contact with the camera. Dorian recognized a number of familiar faces and was pleased to see that Corporate had not wasted any time.
He turned the volume down and took out his cell. The phone rang six times before a mechanical male voice repeated the number Dorian had just dialed and asked him if he wanted to leave a message. Dorian hung up and tried the number again. Just to be sure he hadn’t made a mistake.
Same male voice. Same message.
Dorian checked his Rolex. Twelve-twenty. Olivia wasn’t a night owl. She should be in her suite by now. What would be open in Orlando at this hour? No one played tennis at midnight. The restaurants would all be closed.
Disney World?
Nightclubs. That had to be the answer. Olivia had gone out with friends.
Dorian toggled the volume up. There was a map on the screen now with a moving red line and a sonorous voice-over that described the path the toxins would take and the timetable for the mess to reach important checkpoints.
Quickly the scene switched back to live coverage, and Dorian watched as the news crews and disaster groupies all piled into their vehicles and raced off down the road.
He had been wrong. It wasn’t a rock concert. It was a moto rally.
Dorian turned the television off and went to the kitchen. He wanted a cup of coffee, but he knew that would be a bad idea. He’d be up all night, and tomorrow promised to be a busy and difficult day. Herbal tea would be the thing, something soothing. Camomile perhaps, or peppermint.
As he waited for the water to boil, he went back to that morning on Bloor Street. It wasn’t just the purchases he had made. He had enjoyed the chance to get out into the world and talk with people who had nothing to do with work. Seeing Robert again, knowing that the man was still on the second floor of Rosen’s was a comfort. Meeting Arlene at Royal de Versailles for the first time and chatting with Geoffrey in the cologne department of Holt Renfrew had delighted him more than he would have expected.
Geoffrey, in particular, had been a delight, letting Dorian sample scent after scent, explaining the chemistry of cologne as well as the etiquette. Dorian knew the basics, but Geoffrey had reminded him that relying on one cologne was always a mistake, that men, like women, should have a variety of aromas in their arsenal. A workplace cologne should be light and understated, something in the citrus family, while an evening out might call for a stronger scent with spice undertones or musky notes that would complement one’s natural pheromones.
Men tended to over-spray, Geoffrey confided. A little behind the ears, around the face and chin were excellent choices, but the best location was the chest. There the cologne could mix with the body’s warmth, and the fragrance would waft up and settle around a man’s head like a halo.
“You don’t need to use too much,” Geoffrey cautioned. “And don’t spray it down your pants. It’s a waste and such a cliché.”
Dorian tried to remember the colognes he already had.
“We’ve just started carrying Ambre Topkapi.” Geoffrey had brought out a small but elegant bottle. “Very expensive. You might like it.”
He had been comfortable inside the stores, behind the glass, surrounded by the merchandise, pampered by the sales staff. Being back on the street had been a different matter. Every vehicle had a working horn. Every construction site had a jackhammer. Every corner had a raucous contest of pedestrians and cars, all trying to get through the intersection at the same time.
People with clipboards, donation boxes, and surveys tried to accost and surround him, and there had been a white, bone-faced woman, stout as a stump with winter-kill hair, who had come down Bloor, waving a cigarette in the air and shouting something about “argo niggers.”
Or maybe it was “cargo.”
Dorian hadn’t felt threatened by the woman, but the incident had made him appreciate the necessity of an executive car.
DORIAN decided on camomile, dropped the bag into the cup, and let it steep. He brought the tea to the sofa and tried calling Olivia again.
Dorian held his watch up to the light. The orange second hand was crooked, like a lightning bolt. Very distinctive. He’d have to go back to the store and ask Arlene for the story behind the design. He’d wear the Topkapi, see if she’d recognize the fragrance.
He lifted the tea bag out of the cup and tried the number again.
And again.
And again.
62
SONNY DID NOT GET HOME UNTIL VERY LATE. THANK GOODNESS the night had been clear and the moon and stars had been out. Otherwise Sonny might have gotten lost. Dad has warned Sonny about wandering in the wilderness, and now Sonny understands what Dad was talking about, especially if you have to carry a roll of wire.
Not just any wire. Copper wire.
Sonny is very pleased with his copper wire. It took him much of the day and most of the night to strip the insulation off the wire and put the roll together. The roll was heavy, and Sonny had to set it down more than once so he could rest for a moment and switch shoulders. It was especially difficult walking along the beach in the sand, and Sonny is tempted to share this information on wandering and wire with Dad.
Wander not in the wilderness with wire.
But now it is morning. Now the day has begun anew. Now Sonny is anxious to get started.
Wash.
Eat.
Copper wire.
Sonny goes to the bathroom
and brushes his teeth. Now that he has the wire, he’ll be able to build the tower quickly, and, with the wire, the tower will be strong and beautiful. Sonny even likes the colour.
In the sunlight, the shells and the wire will shine and glow like alabaster and gold.
Wham-wham!
Dad has mentioned alabaster and gold any number of times, and Sonny is sure that Dad will be pleased when he sees what his son has wrought.
Sonny can’t wait to start stringing the shells and the bones onto the wire and wrapping the wire around and around, weaving it in and out. And if he runs out of wire, he knows where he can find more.
Sonny wonders where the ghost Indians are and what they’re doing and whether they would like to help him gather bones and shells. This would make the work go faster, and the sooner the tower is finished, the sooner Sonny can light the beacon.
The dining room is empty and cold. Sonny looks at the menu and decides on a waffle with patty sausages and a large glass of orange juice. Sonny is very fond of waffles, but he likes them plain, without all of the fruit and whipped cream that the tourists used to demand.
A waffle for Sonny, Sonny shouts to the kitchen. Plain. No compost. Sausage and juice!
As Sonny sits and waits for his waffle, he examines the blister on the side of his finger. He got it from cutting all the wire and now it hurts. After he eats, Sonny will find a Band-Aid to put on the injury.
Sonny stands up and walks to the kitchen. The room is dark, and when Sonny turns on the lights, he can see that he’ll have to settle for something other than a waffle.
Sonny taps the cupboard with his hammer, and the wood makes a hollow sound. He taps the next cupboard. Hollow. He taps the refrigerator.
Hollow, hollow, hollow.
How can everything be so empty? The cupboards. The refrigerator. The motel. The town. The beach.
Empty, empty, empty.
Thank goodness for the EverFresh vending machine.
Sonny takes a plate to the patio and examines the selections in the EverFresh vending machine. He is saddened by all the damage to the green plastic front and by the hammer marks on the dispenser doors.
Not good.
Perhaps Sonny was too enthusiastic when he was showing the dog how he could hammer things. Perhaps he should have shown more control and self-restraint.
A man without self-control is like a city broken into and left without walls.
This is one of Dad’s sayings, and, while Sonny doesn’t know what it is supposed to mean, he is sure that it applies to vending machines as well as cities.
Today the choices in the EverFresh vending machine consist of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a ham sandwich with tomato, and a banana. Sonny puts his money in the slot and makes his selection, but the machine doesn’t make its jingle-jingle sound.
Sonny tries to open the door. Stuck. Sonny tries the door with the banana. Stuck. He tries the door with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Also stuck.
Stop being stuck! Sonny shouts at the machine.
Sonny tries to open the coin box so he can get his money back, but the box has a large dent in it, and now the key won’t fit in the keyhole.
Wham-wham, hammer-hammer.
Sonny slides his hammer out of the belt and taps the plastic dispenser door.
Tap, tap, tap.
Nothing.
He taps it harder.
Tap, Tap, Tap.
The ham and tomato sandwich is bouncing about, but the door doesn’t open.
Wham-wham, hammer-hammer!
Sonny smashes a hole in the dispenser door. The hole isn’t very large, and Sonny has to pull the sandwich out in pieces. He smashes a second door and carefully rescues the banana. The sandwich and the banana are not a waffle, but when he closes his eyes, he can almost taste the warm butter and syrup.
Sonny checks the other vending machines. All broken.
Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.
Dad has offered this advice on more than one occasion, though Sonny isn’t sure if hammers and vending machines are what Dad had in mind.
Sonny drops the banana peel into the trash can and casts his eyes over the beach in case something has come ashore when he wasn’t looking. Then he loops the wire over his shoulder and heads for town.
63
MARA GOT UP AT FIRST LIGHT AND BEGAN PACKING THE house. She had kept the cartons that had arrived with her, so it was simply a matter of reversing the process. The books went back in their boxes. The oil paints were arranged in their Tupperware containers. The bedsheets, towels, and pillows were stuffed into plastic bags and tied shut. Her clothes were folded neatly in the larger of the two suitcases.
Her easel was going to be a problem. Mara could see that it wasn’t going to fit in the back of the pickup, that she was going to have to take it apart and put it together later. It was a pain, but she had done it before. She could do it again.
Mara hadn’t thought this through. She knew that. Best just to do it and work on the details and the difficulties later. There would be plenty of time to find reasons why this was a bad idea.
Crisp’s truck was waiting for her when she stepped off the veranda. It was an old stepside Ford, red, with rusting wheel wells and wood running boards. Mara slid behind the wheel, pumped the gas pedal, and turned the key in the ignition. The motor coughed and struggled to its feet. Mara pumped the gas again, and the engine exploded several times before settling into a rattling wheeze.
ANGELO Cosimo, who owned the deli on Queen where Mara worked, had let her hang four of her paintings just inside the front door.
“With a name like mine,” Ange had told Mara, “I need something on the walls besides the flies.”
The city had been expensive. The hard boards had had to be replaced with stretched canvases, the cheap brushes and paints put to one side in favour of boar bristles and quality oils. Mara had expected she would be able to save enough to fly home that first summer to see Lilly and her mother and grandmother, but when June arrived, Mara’s chequebook showed a balance of $156.
“Good news,” she said, when she phoned her mother. “It looks like I’m going to get a summer intern grant.”
“So you’re not coming home.”
“I want to,” Mara had said, “but if I get the grant, I’ll have to stay here.”
“No crime being broke.”
“I’m not broke. It’s the terms of the grant.”
“Big city,” said her mother. “I guess we look pretty old-fashioned.”
“Mum …”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“No, Mum, I’m not pregnant.”
“Your grandmother wanted me to ask.”
“I tried calling Lilly last night.”
“No one’s home,” her mother had said. “They had to take Rose to the hospital in Vancouver.”
MARA had expected to find Gabriel sitting on the deck, enjoying the sun with Soldier lounging at his feet.
A Norman Rockwell moment.
She had not expected to find him inside the trailer, asleep, in bed with the dog. If she hadn’t been anxious to get the move underway, she might have taken time to enjoy the tableau. Gabriel with an arm thrown over Soldier. Man and dog with the same expression on their faces. Both snoring.
Perhaps men and dogs had more in common than she might have imagined.
Mara opened the refrigerator door and sorted through the tenants. Eggs, some milk, butter, sausage, and an apple a little the worse for wear.
As she shut the door, Mara noticed the photograph. It took a moment for the image to register.
“Hey!”
Gabriel floated up out of a deep sleep and tried to focus. There appeared to be a woman in the trailer.
“Wake up!”
“Mara?”
“Sampson.” Mara stabbed at the photograph. “This is Lilly Sampson.”
“Sampson?”
“My best friend,” said Mara. “What are you do
ing with a picture of her and her son on your fridge?”
Gabriel rubbed his face. “Sampson was her maiden name.”
“What?”
Gabriel glanced around in search of support, but Soldier had disappeared. “My mother. Rose. Her maiden name was Sampson.”
Mara stood in the middle of the kitchen, her hands on her hips. “You’re Lilly’s brother?”
Gabriel eased himself out of bed. His shirt and pants were badly wrinkled, but at least he was dressed. “Have you had breakfast?”
“You’re Lilly’s brother?”
“I can make pancakes.”
Mara peeled the photograph off the refrigerator and thrust it at him. “Do I sound as though I want pancakes?”
THAT first summer in Toronto had been difficult. Business at the deli had fallen off, and Ange had had to cut her hours.
“Fancy schmancy French place on Bay is killing us,” Ange told her. “Lots of glass. Gourmet hams from Italy. Twenty-two different kinds of olives. Who the hell pays a hundred bucks for a bottle of vinegar?”
By the time September arrived, Mara’s bank balance was barely treading water and she had had to close the savings account. But she sold a painting. One day, when she had come to work, there was a blank space on the wall.
“Woman walked in,” Ange told her. “Bold as brass. No questions. Took it right off the wall. Paid cash.”
“Who was it? Did she leave her name?”
“Two hundred grams of Black Forest ham and three hundred grams of sliced provolone,” said Ange. “That’s all I can remember.”
“Did she say anything about the painting?”
Ange shrugged. “Must have liked it,” he said. “Who buys something they don’t like?”
OKAY, so this Gabriel could cook. Mara would give him that. The pancakes were fluffy and golden.
“You were all she talked about. Riel this. Riel that. How smart Riel was. How Riel looked after her.”
Gabriel nodded. “When she was little, she couldn’t say ‘Gabriel.’ The best she could manage was ‘Riel.’”
