The Back of the Turtle (32 page)

TODAY IS A VERY GOOD DAY. IT IS SUCH A GOOD DAY THAT
Sonny doesn’t even think to check for salvage as he walks along the beach.

Big Red has returned.

Halfway up the slope to the motel and the neon star, Sonny looks back at the water. He can’t see the tower anymore, but he can see the glow of the beacon fire burning bright.

Sonny. Keeper of the flame.

Sonny. Turtle master.

The sand and the dirt roll under his feet, but he leans into the hill and climbs all the way to the top without stopping. Tonight is going to be a special night. Perhaps he and Dad will go for a swim. They haven’t done this for a long while. Not since the pool heater stopped working. Or maybe the two of them will sit on lounge chairs under the stars.

Together.

And Sonny will tell Dad what he’s done. He will tell him about the tower and the turtle and all the exciting things that have happened in the last little while, things that Dad may have missed.

Wham-wham.

They could even buy a frozen pizza from the Co-op. Pepperoni with extra cheese. They could sit on the patio by the pool and eat pizza together.

Can you see the light on the beach, Sonny will ask Dad. Your Sonny built that. All by himself. See how it lights up the dark.

Sonny hurries past the EverFresh vending machine and the Lava Java machine, and stands in front of Dad’s door.

Dad.

Sonny knocks softly on the door.

Dad.

Sonny knocks on the door again, his knuckles snapping against the wood.

It’s your Sonny.

But there is no answer. Perhaps Dad is sleeping. Or maybe Dad’s gone to town to pick up the pizza.

Dad.

Sonny slumps down next to the door and presses his face against the frame. All the light is gone from the sky now, and just as Sonny settles in to the darkness, the electric eye turns on the courtyard lights, and the patio is bathed in a soft yellow blush. Sonny curls up in the doorway and begins to sing quietly to himself.

Turtle bone, clamshell, clamshell, clamshell.

Turtle bone, clamshell, clamshell, stone.

And little by little, he sings himself to sleep.

GABRIEL STOOD ON THE PORCH AND IMAGINED THAT HE
could feel the world swell as it prepared to welcome the spring tide.

Inside, Crisp and Mara and the two families swapped stories. Crisp was telling everyone how, as a young man, he had worked his way to Australia on a tramp steamer, how he had been chased by a pig in the outback, how an emu had tried to kick down an outhouse while he was in it.

The spring tide.

It would arrive tomorrow, well before dawn, and Gabriel would follow it out to the Apostles. From the saddle high on the rocks, he’d watch the sea retreat, would watch it pause to take a breath before it turned and rushed back to the beach, drowning everything in its path. Tomorrow he would watch the sun break out of the mountains for one last time. Tomorrow the water would do the rest.

GABRIEL
heard the door open behind him.

“Mr. Crisp suggested that I come out here and keep you company.” Mara stuffed her hands inside the sleeves of her
sweater. “He said you were thinking of taking advantage of the spring tide.”

“Why do women do that?”

“Do what?”

“Put their hands in their sleeves. My mother and sister used to do the same thing.”

“What do men do?”

“We put our hands in our pockets.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

SCIENCE
was supposed to have been the answer. World hunger. Disease. Energy. Security. Commerce. Biology would save the world. Geology would fuel the future. Physics would make sense of the universe. At one time, science had been Gabriel’s answer to everything.

Love. Friendship. Family.

He had loved the quiet calm of numbers and symbols, had been fascinated with the way in which molecules arranged themselves in orderly patterns, had been driven to see what was behind each of nature’s doors. Who wouldn’t be? Who could resist such questions? Who would want to?

How had he come to such a fantasy, that there was a benign purity in scientific inquiry? He had mistaken the enterprise completely, had seen only the questions and had ignored the obvious answers.

What was the proper goal of research?

Profit.

What was the proper use of knowledge?

Power.

He could see his errors now, could see all his illusions in stark relief. Too late, of course. Very much too late.

“
NICHOLAS
said you walked the canyon.”

“Needed the exercise.”

“No one walks the canyon for exercise.”

Inside, Mei-ling was telling a story about an uncle who had gone to California and got a job driving ambulances up and down the hills of San Francisco.

“Tell me a story.”

“What?”

“A story,” said Mara. “Tell me why you came home.”

“This isn’t home.”

“Then why come? Why come to this place?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Sure I will. You don’t want to tell me, because you’re afraid that I
will
understand.” Mara drove her hands deeper into her sleeves. “Besides, if you’re going to kill yourself, my knowing isn’t going to matter.”

“I’m the reason for all of this.” Gabriel spread his arms, as though he were trying to embrace the world.

Mara leaned against the porch post. “Rather ambitious, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“Responsible for all of creation? Yes, I can see how such a burden would drive a body to Samaritan Bay.”

Gabriel lowered his arms and let them hang dead at his sides.

“I’m going home.” Mara stepped off the porch. “You want to walk with me?”

“Sure.”

“Try to make it interesting.”

“What?”

“The truth.” Mara fashioned a smile. “If you’re not going to tell me the truth, at least try to make the story interesting.”

IT WAS WELL AFTER TWO IN THE MORNING BEFORE DORIAN
took the elevator to the garage and eased himself into the back seat of the limo. He wasn’t particularly tired, was wide awake in fact. And hungry.

Tension would do that. So would excitement. The leak of the Kali Creek file should have enraged him, but strangely enough he felt calm and in control. The warrior was back. Turn a setback into an advantage. That was the way of the warrior. The media liked blood. Fine. He’d give them blood enough to choke on.

Athabasca. Kali Creek. The other large and small misfortunes that Domidion had been a party to over the years. Taken as a whole, they could be seen as the environmental wreckage left behind by a callous corporation that valued expediency over morality, profits over ethics.

Or they could be understood as a concerted assault by shadow extremists on one of the world’s most successful and innovative conglomerates.

Corporate malfeasance or international conspiracy. The trick was to control how the matter was read.

Dorian made a mental note to caution PR against using the term “terrorist.” Now that he thought about it, television and politicians had already sucked all of the power out of the word.

An environmental collective.

Now there was a good catchphrase. Attacked by an environmental collective. No need to mention Marx, Lenin, or Mao. Some eager journalist would do that job for him.

“Am I taking you home, sir?”

Dorian hadn’t been paying attention. “Kip, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve driven me before.”

“I have.”

“I don’t suppose there are any decent restaurants open.”

“Just fast food.”

Dorian tried to picture himself at the drive-through of a McDonald’s or a Tim Hortons or some other fat-on-a-bun establishment. He was hungry, but he wasn’t
that
hungry.

“There is a place you might wish to consider.”

Dorian leaned forward.

“A hotel. Five stars. On Cumberland near Avenue Road.”

“The Hermes?”

“Yes,” said Kip. “That is the one. I am told the room service is excellent and available twenty-four hours for hotel guests. But you must take a room for the evening.”

“I had considered buying a condo in that building.”

“Very expensive,” said Kip. “Very exclusive.”

Dorian sat back and straightened his tie. “You’re an exceptional driver, Kip.”

“Are we to go to this hotel?”

Dorian put his face against the window and watched the city lights flash by. “Drive by Toronto General.”

“The hospital?”

“Yes.”

Kip shook his head and glanced in the rear-view mirror. “That is not where you wish to go. My auntie went there, and she did not come out.”

“I have a friend there.”

“Ah,” said Kip. “I sincerely hope your friend is in good health.”

“No,” said Dorian. “It appears that he might be dying.”

“This friend,” said Kip, “is he wealthy?”

Dorian sat up straight. “What difference does that make?”

Kip turned onto University and came to a stop behind a panel van. Even at this time of the morning in the city, there was traffic.

“Dying wealthy is harder than dying poor.”

“Really.”

“Oh, yes. Assuredly,” said Kip. “The wealthy may buy anything they wish. Anything at all. But they may not buy their way out of dying. This is most frustrating, is it not? To have all that money and power, and no control over one’s mortality.”

“Everyone dies.”

“Yes, yes,” said Kip, “but having lived in such luxury and security for so long, the wealthy must feel cheated by the equality of death.”

The traffic lightened as the car crossed Richmond.

“Is this friend a good friend?”

“Yes,” said Dorian, “a very good friend.”

“Then you should not tell him he’s dying. If at all possible, keep this truth from him. He will be happier if he doesn’t know.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“It is an excellent idea,” said Kip. “For if your friend does not know that he is dying, then he will continue to enjoy what he can purchase with his money and not waste his time cursing what he cannot.”

TORONTO
General looked like any number of generic office towers in the downtown core. Dorian had remembered something a bit more grand, something more architecturally distinct, but it was a hospital after all, not a world-class hotel.

“You should bring your friend some chocolate.”

“Chocolate?”

“Yes,” said Kip. “My mother says that people who are dying enjoy chocolate.”

Dorian stepped out of the car. The building looked deserted. The lights were on, but he couldn’t see anyone inside. He wondered if people got sick this early in the morning or if heart attacks and strokes waited until the sun was up.

The woman at the reception desk was reading a book.

Dorian closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on the idea of authority. “Good evening.”

The woman closed the book reluctantly.

“Admissions?”

The woman kept a finger stuck between the pages. “They’re closed.”

“Oh dear.” Dorian flexed his jaw muscles. “That’s awkward.”

“Can I help you?”

“Toshi,” said Dorian, filling his voice with generosity and privilege. “Dr. Benjamin Toshi. I need to check on one of my patients.”

“Toshi.” The woman checked her computer screen. “Internal medicine?”

“That’s right,” said Dorian. “The patient’s name is Dorian Asher. He’s booked for a procedure tomorrow morning. I wanted to know if he has been admitted.”

The woman hit several keys. “No,” she said. “He hasn’t been admitted.”

Dorian ran a hand through his hair for effect. “How do patients expect us to help them?”

The woman shrugged. “You’ll have to reschedule.”

“I think Mr. Asher is concerned about the procedure.”

“Don’t blame him.” The woman glanced at her monitor. “Angiograms aren’t exactly a giggle.”

DORIAN
startled Kip when he opened the back door.

“That was a very quick visit,” said Kip. “Were you not able to see your friend?”

“He died,” said Dorian. “Quite suddenly.”

“Sometimes this is a blessing,” said Kip. “Though most distressing for the living.”

“Yes.” Dorian fastened his seat belt and sank back into the assurance of leather. “Most distressing.”

“Am I to take you home?”

“No,” said Dorian. “Take me to the Hermes.”

THE NIGHT WAS A PLEASANT SURPRISE. THE SKIES WERE
clear. The stars sparkled overhead. A full moon lighted the tops of the trees and brightened the trail.

An evening to savour.

But as Gabriel trudged down the hill, he couldn’t find much to enjoy.

“I’m a scientist. I developed a defoliant called GreenSweep. GreenSweep caused The Ruin. I’m the reason your mother died, the reason your grandmother died, the reason my sister and her son died, the reason the reserve is a graveyard.

“I am Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

Well, he hadn’t said that. There had been no need to say that. By the time they got to her grandmother’s house, Mara was in no mood for confessions or forgiveness.

“GreenSweep? Is that your idea of a joke?”

“I didn’t name it.”

“No, you just invented it.”

“You don’t really invent bacteria. You sort of … rearrange the DNA.”

“And they paid you for this.”

“Yes.”

“To kill people?”

“It wasn’t supposed to kill anyone.”

“Look around.”

“It wasn’t used properly.”

But by then, Mara had lost any sense of generosity, and he couldn’t think of any good way to explain his role in the destruction. Not that there was anything to explain. He was responsible.

He would always be responsible.

So the story had ended, almost before it had begun. Mara had mounted the steps and disappeared into the house. Then she had reappeared, and Gabriel had, for a moment, hoped that she wanted to continue the conversation, hoped that she might have found a reason to forgive him.

Okay. Not forgive him. That would have been too much to expect. To understand. Maybe if he could take her through the intricacies of the story, she might understand. Maybe the telling would allow
him
to understand.

Instead, she had handed him the drum and his jacket.

“These are yours,” she said.

“Actually,” said Gabriel, hoping to slow the moment, “they were my father’s.”

“Low tide is at five,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

And she walked back into the house and shut the door.

GABRIEL
stood outside the house for a moment and considered his options. He could go back to the trailer and put his things in order. Bag the garbage, pack his clothes, tidy the place up, so Crisp wouldn’t be stuck with a mess. But he had done most of that already.

“You might as well stay,” he told the dog, as he headed down the trail. “She’s not angry with you.”

But Soldier dashed off, bugling as he went. At least the dog seemed happy, though Gabriel had no idea what gave dogs pleasure. Maybe they just liked being alive. If they did, they could teach humans a thing or two.

And then Soldier was back, weaving himself around Gabriel’s legs.

“At least someone is having a good time.”

Gabriel didn’t see it until the trail broke out of the trees. A light. On the beach. A light where there should be no light. He stroked the dog’s head and drew him close.

“Curious.”

Soldier rubbed his face on Gabriel’s leg.

“What do you think it is?”

Soldier took several steps forward and waited.

“All right,” said Gabriel. “Let’s find out.”

The trail wound its way back into the forest, and Gabriel was only able to locate the glow in fits and starts. But as he cleared the trees for the last time and stepped onto the beach, he could see the light clearly.

“Look at that.”

It was a tower. Someone had built a tower on the beach. Shell and bones and stones. All held together with copper wire and rebar.

So this is what Crisp had been talking about.

Sonny.

All in all, the boy had done a good job. As Gabriel walked around the tower, he was impressed with the artistry and the
workmanship. He wouldn’t have thought that Sonny had such a thing in him.

Soldier flopped down in the sand and waited.

“You know what’s going on?”

Soldier closed his eyes.

“Did you help him?”

In the distance, the motel sign on the bluff blinked on and off, and Gabriel found himself wishing that the stupid star would stop working altogether.

Soldier’s head snapped up. He scrambled to his feet, circled around the tower, and began a low whimper.

“What is it?”

As Gabriel reached out to stroke the dog, to calm him, Soldier exploded out of the sand.

“Soldier!”

But the dog kept running, his body flat to the ground, his ears laid against his head, as he raced along the shore and vanished into the night.

“Soldier!”

The wind picked up, and the flames crackled angrily. It would be dawn soon. Gabriel sat in the sand next to the tower and waited for the tide to complete its retreat. The fire didn’t offer much warmth, but the light it gave off was unexpectedly comforting.