The Back of the Turtle

by Thomas King

  Mara turned the photograph towards Gabriel. “That was his name.”

  Gabriel stopped eating.

  “Her son. Your nephew.”

  “What?”

  “Riel.” Mara pushed her plate to one side. “Lilly named him after you.”

  Gabriel sat back in the chair. Then he pushed away from the table, got up without a word, and stepped through the door of the trailer, letting it swing shut behind him.

  Mara stayed seated.

  Hell.

  He hadn’t known.

  Well, that had certainly been tactful and considerate. She waited, hoping Gabriel would come back inside. She still had questions, and she wasn’t about to let his feelings get in the way of answers.

  And when he didn’t reappear, she picked up her fork, reached across the table, and finished the food that was left on his plate.

  64

  SOLDIER WAS ON THE DECK, WAITING FOR HIM. GABRIEL hoped he might find some sympathy in the dog’s eyes.

  “So, you think it’s my fault.”

  Of course it was his fault. He should have gone home. He should have looked after his mother and sister. He had been angry. Angry that his father had been killed. Angry that his mother had stayed in Alberta. Maybe if she and Little had come to Minneapolis with them, his father wouldn’t have died. She hadn’t even come down for the funeral.

  She’d thrown Joe away.

  She’d thrown him away as well.

  That was how it had felt. That was where the fault lay.

  So, why should he have gone back to Lethbridge? There was no promise there. Just high prairie winds and small town cruel. Except for the people on the reserve. The Blackfoot had been generous. But that hadn’t been enough.

  His mother and sister had been the only family he had left, and that hadn’t been enough either.

  Gabriel heard the screen door bang behind him.

  “Your sister loved you.”

  “I loved her.”

  “But you never came home. What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  Mara tried to remember when Rose and Lilly had come back to the reserve. Mara had been what? Twelve? Thirteen? That would have made Lilly eleven? Eleven years old with a sick mother, a dead father, and an absent brother.

  That wasn’t quite right. Lilly’s mother hadn’t been sick then. Not at first. That would come later.

  “And now, here you are.”

  Gabriel tightened his mouth. “Here I am.”

  Lilly had liked to drag Mara into the woods and for long hikes along the shore. She could name every bird, every animal, every fish, and if she found something new, something she didn’t recognize, she would name it herself.

  “She made a bet with you once.” Mara watched Gabriel’s face. “A bet about … seagulls?”

  “Pelicans.” Gabriel nodded. “Pelicans in the coulees.”

  “You told Lilly that they were …”

  “Large pigeons.” Gabriel turned and faced Mara. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m moving back.”

  “Back?”

  “To the reserve.” Mara spread her feet and anchored them to the deck. “I could use some help.”

  Gabriel shot a glance at the truck. “You’re going to move everything in that?”

  “I rented the house furnished. The furniture isn’t mine. All I have is the easel and a bunch of boxes.”

  Gabriel walked to the edge of the deck. He could see the motel from here. He could see the beach and the Apostles. Higher on the side of the hill, steam was rising off the hot springs.

  How could the sun be this cold?

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll help. If you’ll tell me about my mother and my sister. And my nephew.”

  “Why?”

  Gabriel shrugged.

  “Sure,” she said. “And you can tell me why you never came home.”

  LOADING the books and the boxes and the bags took no time at all. The easel was another matter. Gabriel walked around it several times, trying to see how things went together. It looked simple enough.

  “You’ve taken this apart before, right?”

  Mara balanced a box on her hip. “Is there a problem?”

  “Maybe we should make two trips. Boxes and bags in one load and easel in the other. That way we won’t have to break it down.”

  “It won’t fit through the door.”

  “Here or on the reserve?”

  “Both.”

  Gabriel ran a hand along one of the wood uprights. “Did my mother ever say anything to you?”

  Mara set the box on the table. “Thought we were going to do this after the move.”

  He nodded. “You got a screwdriver?”

  “In the drawer by the stove.”

  “And a wrench?”

  “Same place.”

  Gabriel sat down next to the easel and began working the screws loose. Did my mother ever say anything to you? There was no purpose in asking that question, no salvation in knowing the answer. There were only so many things his mother could have said. That she had a son. That she had a son who had run off. That she had a son who never came home.

  Or maybe his mother hadn’t said anything at all. That was always a possibility. She had changed her name. She had left without a word. Maybe, by the time she found her way back to the reserve, she had been able to erase him from her memory as well.

  65

  DORIAN’S DREAMS—WHEN HE DREAMED AT ALL—WERE disturbing, non-sequential chase fragments in which he was beset by enormous dogs. Sometimes they were friendly, sometimes they were murderous. There were people who claimed to be able to analyze dreams, but Dorian had never seen the point. First, he was sure that such individuals were frauds, playing on the insecurities and vanities of the gullible. Second, he didn’t need anyone to tell him what his dreams were about.

  He didn’t care, had no interest whatsoever in an explanation.

  When he was in his early teens, he had had dreams about mermaids. Mermaids were most likely about sex. That didn’t take any clairvoyant abilities. A pack of murderous dogs was about the anxieties and pressures of life.

  The lead hound was closing on him, its jaws snapping, its eyes blazing. And then there was a sudden shriek, and the dogs vanished. Dorian rolled over, turned off the alarm, and buried his head in the pillow. Maybe he could conjure up a mermaid or two before he had to get up.

  The second time the alarm went off, he realized that the sound was the phone. He looked at the bedside clock. Five-thirty? Only one person would call him at this hour, and the news wasn’t going to be good.

  “Tell me.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Olivia?”

  “Dorian?”

  What the hell? His wife? At this hour? She didn’t get up before nine on a good day.

  “It’s five-thirty.”

  “I know,” Olivia said. “I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid, if I called later, I would miss you.”

  Dorian sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You didn’t miss me.”

  “I saw the news. It’s terrible.”

  Yes, yes, Dorian thought to himself. It’s terrible, horrific, shocking. Every distressing adjective you could find in a thesaurus and more. Blah, blah, blah.

  “They had a picture of you on CNN.” Olivia sounded more upset than Dorian would have expected. “They made you sound like a criminal.”

  “It’s a spill,” said Dorian. “Unfortunate, but it happens.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Dorian paused and took a deep breath. “I called you last night.”

  “You did?”

  “I called late, and you weren’t in.”

  “I must have been out.”

  Dorian lay back on the bed and tucked a pillow under his head. “So, when are you coming home?”

  For a moment, he thought he had lost the connection.

  “Olivia?”

  “I’m here,” she said. “Dorian, that’s why I’m calling.”
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  DORIAN stood under the shower for a very long time and let the warmth seep into every part of his body. Now that he was up, he might as well make the most of the early start. Treat himself to a good breakfast, arrive at the office early, get prepared for what promised to be a very busy day.

  Dorian laid out the dark blue Kiton with the chalk pinstripe. It was the perfect suit for the crusade ahead. Something with gravitas.

  Gravitas.

  He had always liked the word. He had heard Morgan Freeman use it in an interview about acting, and he was sure the same principle applied to business.

  Dorian sorted through his shirts. The soft yellow Zegna with the colour-on-colour texture would go well with the suit, but he went for the silver grey Brioni instead.

  It had the look of armour.

  The tie was more of a problem. Bright colours might be read as insincere or smug. Sombre colours could be misinterpreted as repentant and apologetic. Dorian wanted something that said “powerful and in control of the situation.”

  In the end, he settled on the navy blue Stefano Ricci with a grey stripe, white dot details, and a gold shadow line. It was a gleaming presence knotted at his neck. If the tie had had a hilt, it might have been mistaken for a sword.

  Mark Twain had said that clothes make the man. But what most people didn’t know was that Twain was being satiric. The complete quotation is “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.”

  Still, Dorian was sure that the writer would have been impressed with today’s attire.

  Dorian considered turning on the television, to see if anything untoward had happened overnight. Instead he stood at the windows, stared at the lake in the early light, and regretted, once again, that he hadn’t bought the condo near Avenue Road and Bloor. He hadn’t seen the problem until he moved in and discovered that the area around Queen’s Quay was a tourist magnet, discovered that each time he stepped out of the building, he would run into families from Medicine Hat, Alberta, or Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, or Dildo, Newfoundland.

  With three kids and a camera.

  All the way down in the elevator, he debated where he was going to eat. Not the Bluebird. He didn’t think he could ever go back there. But there were two places he had been meaning to try. The Stock restaurant at the Trump Tower on Bay and Toca at the Ritz-Carlton on Wellington. Both had been recommended by friends at the country club.

  Dorian was tempted by the Stock at the Trump, but he had never felt much affection for, or kinship with, “The Donald,” as Trump’s first wife had referred to him at a press conference. The man was extravagant and arrogant. A loud-mouthed egotist who gave wealthy people a bad name. Trump might have been nicer, Dorian speculated, if he had made his fortune on his own rather than having it handed to him by his parents.

  On the other hand, narcissism was not an intelligent reason to dismiss good food.

  There was a cab at the curb. Dorian climbed in the back.

  “Do you know where the Trump Tower is?”

  “You want to go to the Trump Tower?”

  “Perhaps,” said Dorian, “I may want to go to the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “You want to go to the Ritz-Carlton?”

  “Which one do you think is the better place for breakfast.”

  “Trump Tower,” said the driver. “You go to Trump Tower.”

  Dorian checked the time. Six-thirty, and no call from Winter. That was good news. With any luck, he might just be able to have breakfast in peace.

  “Let’s go to the Ritz instead.”

  “You like the Trump.”

  “No,” said Dorian. “I wish to go to the Ritz.”

  “The Trump is just there.”

  “The Ritz. Take me to the Ritz-Carlton.”

  TOCA opened for breakfast at 6:30. Dorian was surprised by the number of people already in the restaurant.

  “For how many?”

  “One,” said Dorian. “Someplace quiet.”

  Toca was a collection of connected rooms and alcoves. It felt somewhat disorganized and, at the same time, intimate. Dorian was shown to a corner table at the back. Water, coffee, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, along with a copy of The Globe and Mail. There should be more moments such as this in a life, when you were allowed to sit back, relax, and have someone else do all the work.

  What was that proverb they had learned on their trip to Spain? Qué bueno es no hacer nada y descansar después. “How beautiful it is to do nothing and then rest afterwards.”

  So Olivia wanted a divorce. Qué bueno es no hacer nada, indeed. Now there was someone who knew how to sit back and let someone else do all the work. There was someone who knew everything about doing nothing and resting afterwards. All this time in Orlando, all the talk about a place in Florida. A divorce. In the middle of a major business crisis, and she wanted a divorce.

  Dorian was surprised how calm he felt. He knew men who saw marriage as a fashion statement rather than an institution, men who changed partners with the same frequency as they changed their wardrobes.

  Dorian didn’t think of women that way, but he could see where one might.

  “Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

  The menu was not extensive, but there were some interesting choices.

  “I’m torn between the Salmon Benedict and the Lobster Vol au Vent.”

  “Both are excellent,” said the server. “You can’t go wrong with either.”

  “Tell me about the Lobster.”

  “Puff pastry,” said the young man, “with Yarmouth lobster, mushrooms, and egg.”

  Dorian ordered the fruit selection as well. It would probably be too much food in the end, but a little indulgence never hurt anyone.

  He had finished the juice and was enjoying a second cup of coffee when his phone rang. This time it was Winter.

  “I’m at the Ritz-Carlton having breakfast. Could you have the car sent around.”

  “Certainly,” said Winter. “Half an hour?”

  “Any new problems?”

  “No, sir. The holding ponds have been drained and the dams repaired.”

  “Where do we stand on the PR front?”

  “As well as can be expected,” said Winter. “You have an interview with Manisha Khan this evening. I’ll have a briefing for you when you get in.”

  “I’m looking forward to the interview.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Winter. “I’m sure you are.”

  THE lobster was fine, though not excellent, the puff pastry somewhat soggy. But the dish had been a pleasant and interesting combination of textures and tastes. The fruit filled in the gaps nicely.

  He was finishing his coffee and getting ready to pay the bill when he noticed that he was sweating. The front of his shirt darkened in ragged patches, and his face was wet and flushed. The trembling started in his hands and fell upon his body with a vengeance.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Dorian, trying to hold himself together. “Late night, early morning.”

  “Would you like some more coffee?”

  “No, just the bill. And another napkin please.”

  The tremors slowly passed. Dorian leaned forward on his elbows, feeling cold and drained.

  This was Toshi’s doing. The man had pricked and probed him enough to know what the hell was going on. And if he knew, he should have fixed it by now. What if this had happened during the Khan interview? The CEO of Domidion breaking out in a sweat and shaking on camera? He was going to have to change specialists again. And this time, he’d have to be firm with the man—or woman—as to his needs and expectations.

  Dorian took the bottle from his pocket, shook out a pill, and held it up to the light. The side effects would probably kill him more quickly than any disease.

  A divorce.

  Dorian hoped Olivia didn’t expect to get rich from this adventure. That wasn’t going to happen. Any division of their property was going to leave her holding the short straw
. Now that he thought about it, she was probably having an affair. The extended stay in Orlando. The late nights. The distance in her voice.

  An affair? Whom had she found to sleep with in Orlando? A washed-up tennis coach? A sleazy real estate agent?

  A cartoon mouse?

  THE car was waiting for him, and he was pleased to see that it was a Mercedes, rather than a Lincoln Town Car. The Mercedes was the classier of the two, and it also had the more comfortable back seat.

  The traffic was heavy, and the limo had to creep its way down University and onto the Lakeshore. Dorian settled in the seat and let his mind float. The mermaids were nowhere to be found, but neither were the dogs. And for the first time in a long while, there was nothing waiting for him when he closed his eyes.

  66

  MARA BACKED THE TRUCK UP, SO GABRIEL COULD WALK THE boxes onto the porch and straight into the house.

  “Just put everything in the living room.”

  The easel had not been as difficult to dismantle as Gabriel had feared, but, as a precaution, he had marked the matching joints, in case there was any question as to how it went back together.

  “What are you going to do for a table?”

  Mara looked around the room. “I’ll manage.”

  Gabriel did a quick inventory. No stove. No fridge. The only parts of the house that were still in place were the roof and the walls.

  And the kitchen sink.

  Gabriel tried the faucets. Dead dry.

  “What were their names?”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother. Your grandmother.”

  The question caught Mara off guard. Mum. Granny. Those were their names. Those had always been their names.

  “My father’s name was Joe,” said Gabriel, bailing Mara out for the moment. “My mother’s name was Rose. But you knew that.”

  “June,” said Mara, now that her memory had caught up with her mouth. “And Muriel.”

  THE easel went together well enough, but when Gabriel stepped away to admire his handiwork, he discovered he still had two screws left. He checked the easel carefully, but he could not find where they were supposed to go. Mara was busy arranging the books and her paints, and didn’t notice as he searched for the mistake that had left him with extra parts.