The Back of the Turtle (26 page)

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 doing 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.’”

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.

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.

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.”

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.