Generation Loss (31 page)

I
watched Toby through the window. When he put out his cigarette I grabbed
another glass and sloshed some Moxie into it.

"Hey,"
I said as he walked back in. "Here—"

I
handed him the doped glass. He looked approvingly at my nearly empty one.

"See?
It grows on you." He took a sip. "You know, it's going to be an hour
or two till I get back from Denny's. If I'd thought this through better I
wouldn't have drained the hot water tank. You could've taken a shower."

"That
bad?"

He
smiled and drank some more. "No, no. I just thought, you must be tired. I
know you're cold."

"I'm
better now." I looked around and tried to determine which piece of
barbed-wire furniture would be the most comfortable for someone to pass out on.
I decided on a chaise that looked like a head-on collision, pulled a chair
beside it and sat. "So where does ol' Denny live?'

Toby
settled on the chaise. "Other side of the island, past the little
quarries. His place is by the biggest one. Maybe a mile. There's an old road
where they used to haul granite down to the harbor."

He
pointed toward the empty beach. "Hard to believe now."

"Mmm."

I
waited impatiently. I was so wired I felt like smashing through those nice big
windows. That would fit right in with Ryel's aesthetic. I choked back a
mouthful of Moxie and poured myself some Jack Daniel's.

"Cheers,"
I said, drinking. "I'm reverting to type."

Toby
finished his cocktail. "You sure you don't want to take a nap?"

"Toby,"
I said. "Listen to me: I don't want to take a fucking nap."

I
prayed those Percocet weren't controlled-release. Best-case scenario, Toby
would start feeling drowsy within a few minutes. I banked on the alcohol
boosting that.

"You're
the one doing all the work," I said. "Rowing and stuff. Why don't you
chill out for a few minutes? I'll wake you."

Toby
leaned back on the chaise. "Too much to do, if we're going to get back to
Paswegas tonight." He yawned.

"Go
on, rest for five minutes," I urged. "I will if you will."

"Yeah,
okay, maybe. But. .."

He
looked at me, dazed. Faint comprehension crossed his face. "Hey. This is
kinda . . ."

He
tried to stand then sank back, staring at me with glazed eyes. "You."

"It's
okay, Toby." I poured myself some more Jack Daniel's. "I can
wait."

He
closed his eyes. I waited.

It
didn't take that long. When I thought he was out, I crouched at his side.

"Hey,
Toby," I whispered then raised my voice. "Toby, man, wake up."

I
shook him gently. He snorted, and I lowered him onto the chaise.

Down
for the count. I folded my anorak and slid it under his head. His eyes
fluttered open. He gazed at me blankly then began to snore.

I
looked outside. It was almost three o'clock. The sun would set in an hour. I
had ninety minutes before nightfall, tops. I went into the kitchen and yanked
open drawers and cabinets until I found a flashlight. I pocketed it, got some
water and swallowed one more Adderall. I only had two left.

My
instinct was to bring the Konica. But I didn't want to risk losing it. If I
made it back safely I could retrieve it then. If not...

I
stood and zipped my leather jacket. I pulled on the orange watch cap, grabbed
the boat hook, and headed for the door. As I did, I caught a glimpse of myself
in a dark window: a gaunt Valkyrie holding a spear taller than I was, teeth
bared in a drunken grimace and eyes bloodshot from some redneck teenager's ADD
medication.

"Hey
ho, let's go," I said, and went.

24

Christine
once showed me a quote from Nietzsche: "Terrible experiences give one
cause to speculate whether the one who experiences them may not be something
terrible."

"That's
you." She shoved the book at me. "What happened to you in the Bowery
that night—"

"Shut
up," I said.

"I'm
right! You know I'm right! You can't let go of it, you can't even
think
of
letting go of it or grieving or doing any goddam thing that might help! So you
better just hope nothing else bad ever happens to you. Because you know what,
Cass?"

She
stabbed a finger at my portfolio on the table:
Hard To Be Human Again.
"You've
got so much rage in you, you're hardly even human now."

I
walked until I found the road Toby had spoken of, an earthen track covered with
chunks of stone. Far below, the wind roared off the gray Atlantic; to either
side, cat spruce thrashed and moaned like something alive.

The
speed made me even colder. My fingers on the boat hook were almost numb. I slid
on wet rocks and struggled to keep my balance as the sky darkened. It was
difficult to believe there had ever been sunlight at all. My lower abdomen
burned as though I'd been branded. I slipped my hand beneath my T-shirt and
felt the familiar ridge of scarred skin.

I
thought of Kenzie Libby. Studs in her chin and ear, a necklace of weathered
glass and aluminum. That childish face and the bad dye job on her cropped hair.

People
make themselves spiky for a reason. Maybe being stuck in Burnout Harbor was
enough, watching the trickle of rich strangers grow to a torrent and wash away
your world, with no hope of anything for yourself but a job at Wal-Mart
or—maybe, if you were lucky—someone from away who'd take you with them when
they left, spikes and all.

But
those spikes don't do anything to protect you. I remembered what Toby had said
about the fishers—how they'd flip a porcupine over then rip its belly out.

They
think nothing can kill them.

Fishers
never came to the islands, but I'd seen one.

Denny
never leaves the island.

I
kept climbing. It felt strange to walk along a road without houses or telephone
poles or utility lines. Ragged thickets covered the thin soil, along with dead
ferns, scattered birch and maples. Bushes thrust from cracks in moss-covered
granite. A crow flapped up from a tree, screaming, and disappeared into the
shadows.

But
after a while I began to see signs of former human habitation in the
underbrush. Crumbled stone foundations; fallen chimneys; cellar holes filled
with rubble. A few minutes later I reached the first quarry.

It
was set off from the old road, a miniature lake cut into the hillside. The
water looked solid and cold as obsidian. Wiry, leafless trees clustered at the
water's edge.

I
used the boat hook to keep from sliding on loose scree, grabbed one of the
trees and bent it toward me. It had smooth, silvery brown bark covered with
tiny bumps that looked like insects. Dozens of blood red shoots sprouted from
its trunk, like a hydra. It looked malevolent, and more alive than anything in
that frigid landscape.

I
clambered back up the slope and kept walking. I passed two more small quarries,
and more cellar holes, but nothing that even a hermit could have lived in.

Eventually
the road curved. I found myself looking down across crowns of cat spruce to an
expanse of rose-colored rock that gave way to a muddy beach. Blocks of granite
were scattered across it, like giant dice. In the center of the beach stood a
ramshackle wooden pier. Tied up at the end was a motorboat: Lucien Ryel's
Boston Whaler.

I
saw no other signs of people. My forehead grew clammy with sweat. I swallowed a
mouthful of Jack Daniel's and kept walking. A few more minutes, and I reached
the big quarry.

It
was about the size of a baseball diamond. Sheer rock walls rose thirty or forty
feet above the waterline. I didn't want to think how deep it was. A crow
swooped down, flew croaking above the black surface, and landed in a dead tree
on the opposite shore. I stared at it and frowned.

There
was something in the tree, a ragged mass like a squirrel's nest, but with
something snarled in it, something blue and white. A plastic bag, maybe, or a
balloon. It was impossible to tell from where I stood. But if I wanted a better
look, I'd have to walk all the way around the quarry then fight my way through
the underbrush. I didn't want to do that.

I
continued on up the road. It was nearly full dark, but I was afraid to use my
flashlight and draw attention to myself. Beyond the quarry, I could just make
out the remains of several buildings, worksheds or barns. Still nothing that
looked like where someone might live now. An icy mist blew up from the shore.
The air grew hazy, the ruins insubstantial as paper cutouts. I couldn't stop
shivering. A few minutes later, I stood on the crest of the hill.

Around
me the island dropped down to the sea. Fog rolled across the water and up the
hillside. I could just make out the Boston Whaler. I turned to where the road
began its descent.

Through
the dusk, lights gleamed. A group of small buildings stood behind the quarry,
tucked between spruce and more remnants of Tolba's abandoned industry—broken
statues and granite columns, piles of rubble that gleamed in the yellow glow
from a small house with smoke coiling from its chimney.

The
sight of those glowing windows made me sick. I clutched the boat hook, leaned
over and spat up a thin string of bile, waited for the feeling to pass.

It
didn't. I swallowed another mouthful of Jack Daniel's.

Fear
and whiskey,
I thought.
Run, Cass,
run.
Light guttered from a broken streetlamp.
So you're really from New
York, huh? That must he really, really nice.

I
saw her stumbling through the cold dark toward Burnt Harbor, then down toward
the beach, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie. Trying to get up the
courage to go into the Good Tern and talk to a stranger from the city.

I
would love to go to New York.

Yeah,
well maybe I could fit you in the trunk on my way back.

Whose
voice did she think she'd heard as she walked on the beach by the Good Tern?

My
fingers tightened on the boat hook. I took a few steps toward the lights when I
heard the crow again. I looked up.

Several
yards from the road, a single pine reared from a black thicket of underbrush.
The crow sat in the tree's uppermost branches. It stared at me and gave another
harsh croak, lifted its wings, and flew down toward the beach.

I
watched it go then squinted at the tree's lower branches, at a dark tangle like
what I'd seen in that other tree overlooking the quarry: a shapeless mass like
a squirrel's nest.

Only
this was way too big for a squirrel's nest. I tugged my jacket tighter and
headed toward the tree. Between the failing light and the thicket, it was
difficult to see clearly.

The
tree was huge. In its shadow, a mossy area had been meticulously cleared of
everything save a few sticks and dead leaves. Here a number of small, flattish
objects had been set in a circle about eight feet across.

I
crouched and turned on my flashlight.

At
first I thought they were rocks, maybe as big as my hand. But they weren't
rocks.

They
were shells. Not seashells—turtle shells.

I
picked one up and grimaced.

It
was a baby snapping turtle. I used to find them as a kid in Kamensic; they'd
fall into swimming pools and you'd have to retrieve them with a skimmer. The
most vicious little things I'd ever seen—after you rescued them, they'd run at
you hissing, tiny jaws wide.

It
had been a while since this one had attacked anyone. I tipped it back and
forth. It seemed empty. But I caught a whiff of something, a musky reek like
rotting fish and skunk.

I
set the shell back down and stared at the others: a dozen baby turtle shells in
a circle. In the center of the circle, four small indentations formed a square.

That
circle had a definite ritual appearance. The indentations looked more like
holes left by tent pegs. But the area was too small for a tent, only the size
of a Porta-Potty. I straightened, saw a small white object beside one of the
turtle shells.

A
candle nub. I rolled it between my fingers, thinking, and put it in my pocket.

The
sky was nearly black. Icy rain spattered my face as I slowly traced the
flashlight's beam across the circle. A few tiny objects shone white against the
ground, like bits of broken crockery. I picked one up.

An
eggshell. Not a turtle egg or something exotic, just the broken shell of an
ordinary egg. I chucked it away, continued searching the ground until I saw a
faint gleam, as though my light struck glass.

I
got on my knees, searched until I saw a glint like gray metal. A nail head, I
thought; but when I tried to pick it up, there was nothing there.

What
the hell?

I
pointed the flashlight at the ground. The reflected light was gone.