The Gallery of Lost Species (24 page)

When I flipped the coin, the nail of my thumb hit it sharply and it emitted a sustained ringing sound as it turned in the air. It landed on the hardwood floor, rolled on its edge, and spun faster and faster before coming to an abrupt stop.

*   *   *

L
ESS THAN A
week later, I heard from Omar. He specified that I return to the Coin Shoppe in the evening, after regular business hours. Judging from his shifty manner and the lack of coins in the store, I suspected he conducted plenty of business there at night.

I walked over at dusk. Thin white clouds marked the darkening sky like brushstrokes on water. I wanted to get this ordeal over with, and I told myself I was doing it to save my sister. In truth, I wanted to take care of the situation to disentangle Viv from my life in case Liam came back. I knew he probably wouldn't. Yet I couldn't stop with the wishful thinking. I was no better than those women standing at windows in paintings throughout history. Holding a handkerchief, looking out at cows and castles, bracing myself for what would not happen.

*   *   *

“I
NEED TO
see the money,” I told Omar.

He opened one of the display cases and pulled up a false bottom, handing me a thick wad of cash. From where I stood, I could see Serena's sawed-off shotgun, still in its same spot under the counter.

“You'll be awarded the rest when we're through, M'lady,” he bowed.

“How did you get this?”

“I'm a sniper, can't you tell?” He raised an arm in the air and flexed. His muscles popped under his black T-shirt. I was still having trouble associating this suave guy with the gangly kid I once knew.

I unrolled the wad and flipped through the bills. “Prove it's real,” I said, unflinching.

Omar frowned. Then he led me to the back room, where he switched on a metal tower that buzzed and shot out blue lasers. He told me to pick any bill.

“Flatten it under the light,” he ordered. The counterfeit machine gave a green flash with each hundred I ran beneath it. “I'm a man of my word. Don't insult me.”

I dropped the roll of cash into my backpack. Then Omar directed me to the staircase.

In his room, the Star Wars wallpaper curled off the walls. The windowsill where we used to sit was cracked and mud-spattered, the carpet scummy.

“Your place is a dump,” I told him.

Omar turned on a floor fan and aimed the current of air at us. Then he made for the mattress and patted the spot beside him as he kicked off his boots. I sat next to him and he nudged my arm and tucked my hair behind my ears. “Let's lie down. Hang a bit.”

He unzipped his pants and pulled off his T-shirt. Then he lay back and stretched out, watching me.

I knew I owed him. When I undressed, Omar whistled. The sheets smelled fresh, which surprised me. Crossing my arms over myself, I focused on the clean sheets. Then I zoned in on a water stain on the ceiling as Omar climbed on top of me and tore open a condom. The banana-flavoured smell triggered my gag reflexes.

“So amazing … baby … so … hot…” His voice cleaved the air as he bashed his body against mine.

My insides clicked and locked.

I pictured
The Child's Dream
—the tank appearing smaller each time I saw it, and the animal constricted inside it. Viv's destitute face flashed through my mind. Briefly, I even thought of Serena. I thought, this is the start of something horrible.

Minutes later, Omar's invigorated body slackened and he pushed himself off me.

“You weren't into it. You could've at least pretended,” he said, perturbed. “I hate to break it to you, but you and your family are just as bad, the way you use people. It's all business to you.”

I felt cheap and vulgar enough as it was. And here Omar was rebuking me, making himself out to be the victim. There was no purity left in either of us.

I moved away, sat up, and pulled my knees to my chest. Omar put his boxers on and lifted some weights in the corner of the room, grunting and pumping them to his shoulders.

“You're disgusted by me,” he went on, his mouth ajar. “Your feelings haven't changed.” He made noises from the back of his throat, swallowing repeatedly. The nervous tic from childhood was still there.

I watched his chest rise and fall. There was a long scar across his rib cage. “What happened there?” I asked.

“I'm the kind of guy that violence follows. Like Hercules.” He looked at me, bleary-eyed. Then, resigning himself to the fact this was the first and last time anything would happen between us, he picked up my clothes and sat back down on the mattress, handing them to me. “Did you ever get that dude you were chasing after? Lismer? Mesmer?”

“Liam.”

“Right.”

“Not really.”

“I didn't get the girl either.” He flopped backwards, lying down again. “She came back briefly, but she only wanted me for my money and my body. Speaking of briefs, can I keep these?”

I grabbed my underwear and started getting dressed.

“So what's the story with your sister?”

“I already told you.”

“As if. Why a transplant?” His nicotine-stained fingers made quotation marks in the air around the word
transplant.

“Booze.”

At this, he sat upright again. “That's whacked—your sister? Didn't she become a famous artist?”

“Almost.”

“Man. Oh, man. Tragic.” He shook his head, dumbfounded. “I remember when you stole those Baggies of snort from her, though. So I guess it's been a long time coming.” He ran a hand through his hair over and over, as though it helped him to think. “My dad's Spaniard blood combusted with it too. Big time. Bourbon in his veins, Mom said. Douche bag. Watching him battle the bottle was more entertaining than watching a dogfight.”

Apparently everyone had a drinker in their family.

We heard an explosion, then another, as firecrackers and sparklers went off in nearby yards—a common sound on summer weekends.

“At least there are fireworks somewhere tonight,” Omar said, this time without malice. He went over to his dresser drawer, came back, and dropped two thick rolls of cash into my hands.

I sensed the colour rising in my cheeks. “I have to go,” I told him. I shoved the money into the backpack and descended the staircase.

Omar followed me. “So this is adios, songbird. Deuces.”

“I'll see you,” I said.

“Chances are you won't. I've been holed up here long enough. I'm telling you, so you don't die of a broken heart or anything.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not sure. Gotta bounce, though.”

Omar seemed lost to me and his life, aimless. I hoped he'd abandon his dodgy ways. I knew I was hypocritical to think that, as I walked off with his money. There was some truth in what he had said. I was like a mercenary motivated by private gain, using whomever I had to to accomplish my final task.

He unlocked the deadbolts and I was outside again. He looked up and down the sidewalk, then the door shut quickly and the lights went out. Then it reopened a crack.

“Last chance, songbird—marry me?” he called out.

Omar's voice plummeted through the streets as I ran from the old neighbourhood into the darkness.

THIRTY-SEVEN

B
Y MID
-S
EPTEMBER, THE AIR
cooled drastically, and the days turned unstable and cloudy.

Viv told me that she'd decided to go on a medically authorized ten-day mindfulness retreat. I took it as a positive sign that she was finally making an effort, and wanted to meet people who were in a similar situation to hers, whom she could relate to and share with. It was encouraging that she had enough energy to leave the basement. I thought the group sessions would be good for her and I was glad to get a break from seeing her.

Meanwhile, I continued finalizing our travel arrangements. Sometimes I pulled the rolls of money Omar had given me from my sock drawer. The bills stank, but it was reassuring to flatten them and spread them across the table. Then one day, after touching the filthy cash and overanalyzing the transplant surgery, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. The violent spasms went on until I was sweating and dry heaving. Even in the shower under the hot flow of water, I couldn't get rid of my shakes.

Thinking about my sister—what I'd done with Omar and how I was going to be gutted, risking my health for hers, which she'd flushed down the toilet—an acidic residue developed at the back of my throat like the aftertaste of a cigarette. I started retching again. No matter how many times I brushed my teeth and rinsed with mouthwash, the sensation wouldn't go away.

*   *   *

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON
at the Gallery, the wind started up and an inhospitable rain pounded against the viewing room's panes.

We all put down our work. Maud tightened her shawl around her shoulders. Arnold had come in with her and sat beside her, studying the telegram relaying Tom Thomson's death. From his spot in the back, Theo looked up too. Even Dorothy stopped examining her etchings long enough to evaluate the sky and shudder.

I watched Theo struggle to button his blazer with his large arthritic hands. I realized our jobs weren't that different—what he did with hidden animals and what I did with collections, uncovering works locked away in storage, which remained unseen until I recorded their existence in Avalon, treating each one like a rediscovered species.

I prepared for closing. Everyone filed out except Theo. When he approached the desk, he leaned on his cane to steady his uncertain gait and asked if I'd join him for tea. Not wanting to be home alone anyway, I said yes and locked up.

We slowly made our way to the cafeteria. Theo lumbered beside me, his breathing laboured. In my peripheral vision all I could see was an immense, dark mass, as if I were accompanying a costumed bear.

I led him through back passageways to a restricted door entering directly onto the Veronese gallery—a ritzy, vaulted room with deep-red walls. He paused at the altarpiece of a dead Christ supported by cherubs. Before continuing on, I asked if he'd seen
The Child's Dream.

“Indeed,” he replied.

“And?”

“The artist should have used a larger horse.” He struck the ground with his cane twice to seal his judgement.

“Ever track down a unicorn in your line of work?”

“Along with sphinxes?” He raised his thick grey eyebrows, his forehead transforming into a series of deep folds. “It is possible. There are many uncharted territories where they could be dwelling.”

“Uh-huh.” I was half listening, trying to make conversation.

We sat at the window with a panorama on
One Hundred Foot Line.
The sky lit up and there was thunder. From inside the glass and granite building, the steel sculpture shimmered.

“It's lightning proof,” I told Theo.

“It resembles an alicorn.”

I imagined the rest of the animal buried under the hill. “Actually, it's just a line.”

He stared, waiting for further commentary. “What does a thing like that cost?”

“A million bucks.”

We watched for the violet glow of lightning to strike the sculpture as it would the mast of a ship or a church spire. But the storm began weakening as we drank our tea.

Theo's cane leaned against the chair. The handle was carved into the head of an animal.

“What's that on your stick?” I asked.

“The okapi.” He picked up the cane, turning it from side to side.

“Looks like a giraffe.”

“The okapi is smaller with a shorter neck, a dark rust body, and zebra-like markings on its legs. And they have longer, blue tongues to strip leaves from trees, extending from your elbow to here.” He pointed to his elbow and then to his knuckly hand. “Tongues that touch their eyelids.”

“Where do they live?”

“In secluded forests of the Congo and western Uganda. They're not social.”

“Endangered?”

“Even in some wildlife reserves, they have only been spied once in fifty years.”

Raven walked by with a coffee and a bag of chips. She did a double take and gave an exaggerated wave before moving on.

Theo told me about the animals he'd been searching for over the years, which he called his cryptids. Many were being wiped out by deforestation, poaching, and civil wars. He went on about how parts of Africa and interior Australia and South America hadn't yet been inhabited by humans. Even though they were mapped out, cartographers had identified these ecosystems only from airplanes. In some far-flung places, Theo said, explorers chronicled descriptions in their logbooks of creatures so fantastical that they were considered insane.

“Are Bigfoot and Nessie part of your research?”

“I denounce hoaxes. You may have heard of the pygmy hippo or the giant panda?” I nodded. He dabbed his eyes again. They were silvery in the changing light. “The Indian tapir, the giant squid, or the Komodo dragon?”

“Of course.”

“These used to be monsters of folklore.”

The rain was pounding down again. I offered him a ride home and he declined, saying he'd arranged for a driver. Then he told me he wouldn't be in this climate much longer.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere far and warm.”

My thoughts jumped to Liam on his hot continent, suntanned and surrounded by gems and minerals like a conquistador. For the rest of my conversation with Theo, my mind was elsewhere.

*   *   *

I
N THE EVENING
, Raven called.

“Who's your friend?”

“Theo.”

“He's too old for you.”

“I'm hanging up.”

“What's he doing in an art gallery?”

“Long story.”

“I bought a Rothko.”

“Poster?”

“No.”