by CJ Hauser
In the moment before Elsa ducked her head back through the door and left them to their meeting, she felt like a fool.
Yes, because she’d fucked Mitchell, and it was the same old thing. Hoping other people’s certainty would bring her closer to her own. Other people telling her when she was and wasn’t allowed to be loved. When she was or wasn’t good enough. When had she consented to the rules by which she seemed to be playing this infinite game? Maybe the sooner Elsa stopped trying to hunt down some class of people who had all the answers—adults, scientists, Mars missions, Ian—the sooner she could stop the cycle of trying to win. Could look around and decide what kind of game might actually be worth playing.
And it wasn’t just that she’d fucked Mitchell. It was also that she and Nolan had told themselves they’d come to Leap’s Island for their own reasons and that Reversalism had nothing to do with them. But they’d been ridiculous since they’d arrived, acting like the children they once were—performing a dumb show of their past as they looked for answers about their father and how everything had gone so wrong. And maybe that was exactly what Reversalism was. Getting so wrapped up in the story of how your life went wrong that you acted that wrongness out, over and over again, and forgot to keep on living.
Elsa slowly backed away and returned to the Lobby. A pair of buffleheads waddled across the floor, brisk as businessmen. She went to the bank of telephones and stroked a smooth, black receiver before picking it up.
Elsa stood defensively, the receiver in the crook of her neck and the long cord wound around herself. She looked down at her feet, filthy and crabbed at the edges. She dialed.
Hello?
Hi, Mama, Elsa said.
How is it going out there?
We’re almost all packed up.
How are you doing out there?
Fine.
How is Nolan?
Do I have any mail?
You have mail from Mars.
It’s from Holland.
I opened it.
Of course you did.
It’s details about your interview.
Save that for me.
There was a soft honking and four more damp undowny buffleheads marched out of the pool, shaking themselves and leaving a trail of wet behind them.
He’s really gone? Ingrid said.
Yes. These people, Mama. I can’t even tell you.
Just come home. Leave them to themselves.
Dad had a bunch of research going on here—
The algae bloom just started on the lake, her mother interrupted.
And just like that, Elsa could smell it. She could imagine the deep mineral stink of the blooms in the water. They floated like Japanese paper flowers, undulating in the shore pool, collapsing to nothing when you pulled them up.
What are you doing right now? Elsa said.
Talking to you.
But what else.
I’m drinking a cup of coffee in my lavender bathrobe on the deck, deadheading petunias. I hate them. I only planted petunias because you like them. But they only bloom a little while and then they turn slimy, and they’re sticky and bristly when you deadhead.
They look like little trumpets, Elsa said.
Come home, Ingrid said.
Soon.
They hung up. The Lobby was empty except for the ducks.
Elsa took the path back past the marina. She told herself that maybe Nolan would be gone when she got to the shack. Maybe he had found a ride to the mainland, and they would never have to look at each other and try to apologize or fight again, and that would be easier.
There were buoys not far off, bobbing back and forth like drunks. Sitting on the buoys were pelicans. Four of them. With their dark-rimmed eyes, they watched her sadly, like so many Charlie Chaplins in a silent movie. One flexed his throat. He barely seemed real.
She told herself: none of this matters. These pathetic people. Her father’s research. The ducks. The island had tricked her into believing its reality because the Reversalists were contagious. But this wasn’t the real world.
She could see her mother so clearly: in her bathrobe, making a face at the petunia flesh stuck purply to her fingers. Potato Lake was the real world. Nolan was real, but maybe gone too. A pelican gurgled. Elsa clapped her thigh and spooked the birds away.
* * *
——————·
Elsa found the shack empty. Nolan and the dog were gone.
She’d wished for this, hadn’t she? Instead, she found she could not bear the thought that Ian’s death had vanished the last cord between her and Nolan and that there was no reasonable reason for them to ever see each other again. Could they be trusted to be reasonable together? Could she?
She wanted to know she would see him again. Nolan carried so much of Ian with him. And this was part of it. But it was also Nolan himself. Nolan qua Nolan.
She didn’t know what to do with that.
The green field journal was on the table, and Ian’s old iPod was still sitting there. She grabbed both and went to the deck. It was warm and she lay on a towel, her head on the pink plastic tiger.
Elsa hoped he’d taken the dog. That Jinx was not lost. Though that seemed unlikely.
Weak morning light cut in slats across her belly. She clicked Ian’s iPod on and snugged the headphones into her ears. There was Satie. The first of the Gnossiennes. She let it play, slid her sunglasses down her nose, and opened the journal.
PERSONAL FIELD JOURNAL OF DR. IAN GREY
Watched the Paradise Duck cavort for one (1) hour today in the western inlet. Sustained joy for the whole period of cavorting. Activities included self-dunking, self-splashing, self-bathing. Each act seemed to generate new and equally fresh delight on the part of Duck Twelve. Renewed activity greeted as new activity. Feedback loop of self-amplified pleasure. Reached a state of pleasure and entertainment almost violent. Unsustainable levels of glee. Thrashed in delight; thusly reeds entangled feet. Immediate panic and despair. An extremity of honking and thrashing. Abnormally intense. But resolved quickly. Abnormally quickly? Seemed to forget incident as soon as it was past. Then resumed cavorting. Regarded water droplets permeating feathers. Their disappearance a mystery? The sensation pleasurable? Playfully snapped at said water droplets attempting to catch them before they…
DROPLETS!!! Sample to be taken for comparative permeability but very hopeful. Duck much easier to catch than others, and less intensely unhappy to be caught and have samples removed. Waders full of mud. Possibly some insect life. Perhaps need new waders.
Elsa felt Nolan’s footsteps vibrating the floorboards. She pulled the headphones out. He stood in the doorway, stooped to fit himself within it.
She squinted up at Nolan through her plastic sunglasses. Where’s Jinx? Elsa asked. At the sound of her name, the dog came trotting through the door, circling Elsa. Her fur was hot from the sun.
Where have you been? she asked.
I stayed up all night reading that, he said, pointing to the journal.
And now?
Out walking the beach, he said. Thinking. Where were you?
I slept at the Lobby, Elsa said. She saw Nolan take in the man’s shirt she wore, but he couldn’t be bothered with her bad behavior.
I thought you left, Elsa said.
I want to find Duck Number Twelve, Nolan said, pointing at the journal again.
Elsa sighed. Nolan, we don’t even know how to find it.
Yes, we do, Nolan said. He lists the places he’s seen it in the journal. We can hike out to the sites. There are only three of them.
What if we get lost and miss the boat, she said.
Elsa, I think it’s important, Nolan said.
I think Dad thought it was important.
I’m not ready to accept those aren’t the same thing. I just want to
see this amazingly special fucking duck he loved so much, Nolan said. After that we’ll leave. But I need to see it.
And of course Elsa wanted to see the duck too. Of course Nolan could admit to wanting this and Elsa couldn’t. The problem was that Nolan wanted answers, and Elsa wasn’t sure what she would do with answers if she found them.
What if we don’t find it, Elsa said.
Nolan sank down and rested in a deep squat so he was on the same level as Elsa. We just try, Nolan said.
Elsa stroked Jinx. She and Nolan couldn’t fight. She had almost lost him. Maybe they could avoid being like they were before. Maybe they could be something different. To make that happen, she needed to apologize, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.
She said, I’m afraid the duck is real.
It’s obviously real, Nolan said.
I mean I’m afraid he was right, Elsa said. What if we find this duck and all of a sudden it looks like Dad wasn’t crazy? That he was actually onto something the whole time—
Then we’re assholes.
Elsa nodded. It’s probably just a duck, Elsa said. Nothing special.
Even if it’s not, I just want to know what he was seeing, Nolan said.
Elsa nodded. Okay, she said.
The Greys understood that it didn’t matter whether or not the duck was actually special. What mattered was that Ian had thought it was special. Thought it was happy. What did happiness look like to Ian? They knew it didn’t look like Elsa, who had broken his heart twice, once on purpose. They knew it didn’t look like Nolan, who had never managed to be enough like him or Keiko to make Ian marvel. Ingrid had betrayed him, and even Keiko had not been enough in the end.
What was enough to warrant Ian’s attention? What did Ian love enough to stalk in the woods and the mud and the salt?
The Paradise Duck. Jesus H. Christ.
* * *
——————·
They packed their bags. They took the twin field journal and logbook. They took Ian’s sleeping roll and tent. They took a small bag of feathers for sentimental reasons. Nolan packed two sets of Ian’s clothes. Elsa took his Beethoven t-shirt. Jinx worried as they shoved things in bags, whining as her home disappeared. They packed their last stale bagels and a jar of peanut butter they’d bought on the mainland. They packed pouches of dried fruit. They filled their water bottles. Elsa took Ian’s iPod.
Nolan sat on Elsa’s tiger float, deflating it to a shriveled husk. He toweled off the crumpled plastic and came over to shove the bundle into Elsa’s pack, which she wore. She stood straight, holding Ian’s journal, as he forced the bundle down, the weight of his shove pulling on Elsa’s shoulders.
They were ready to head out.
Nolan stood back and clapped his hands together. There, he said, satisfied.
You really are so much like him, Elsa said.
Nolan felt as if he might weep. He felt as if he might kiss her. It was such a stupid little thing to remind her of him. The satisfied clap of a job well done. But he knew she was right. He wanted to be better parts of his father. But if Elsa could see him in the clap, it was enough. It was so much.
Should we keep his blanket? Nolan asked, pointing to the unmade bed. It smelled like Ian, Nolan said.
Elsa didn’t know. They had proved this once already.
Elsa said: I have no idea what our father smelled like. And began to cry.
They put down their packs and lay on the bed, smelling the smell that was mostly theirs but was also, maybe, their father’s. Nolan grabbed a fistful of the knitted cover, balled it up, and pressed it to Elsa’s nose.
Smell, he said, pressing the fist of fabric harder against her face.
Elsa smelled.
Nolan, I think that maybe you were right. I want you to know—
Hey, read to me, Nolan said. He retrieved Ian’s journal.
Nolan, Elsa said. Listen, I’m sorry. I’m saying I’m sorry, about everything. Last night—
But he couldn’t bear for her to say it. He’d thought it was an apology he wanted from her, but now he knew an apology was irrelevant. What he wanted from her was Ian. No one else could do it, use X-ray vision to look past his own mediocrity and weakness and general not-enough-ness and see the shape of his father. His mother too. His parents were gone, but Elsa could show him the parts of himself that were worthy of them. If she apologized, it would ruin everything.
You’ll feel better in a minute, Nolan said. Just read to me.
PERSONAL FIELD JOURNAL OF DR. IAN GREY
It frisks in a moment of stolen time! Observing Paradise Duck interacting with Female Duck Seven. Seven normal relative to other UBH. Perches on railing to dry. Daily activities purposeful and frenetic. Paradise Duck enjoying leisure time. Paradise Duck attempts to initiate play with Seven. Seven resists, honks aggressively, continues feeding. Second attempt. Seven capitulates, cavorts briefly, goes back to feeding. Third attempt leads to mating. Duck Seven mounted twice by gleeful Paradise Duck. Will any existing mutations be passed on? It’s a mutation, almost certainly. Lab results will show which pair. One sample from Twelve in already. Must send samples of Seven in case of any offspring. Use Georgia lab. M working out of Louisiana. Will visit Site Two tomorrow.
There are three sites where he saw the duck, Nolan said. One is at the cove. The second is at a sinkhole in the middle of the island, and the last one is somewhere out by Gates’s and Esther’s houses. If we head out now, we have enough time to visit all three before the post boat comes.
Not so long ago, Elsa had been wishing for the post boat to come and save her from Nolan. To take her away from this place. Now all she wanted was for Nolan to let her apologize, before it was too late. Now the post boat was coming, and it felt as if they were racing the clock.
Let’s go, Nolan said.
Nolan, wait a minute, listen, you were right about back then. I—
Nolan stood up and whistled. Jinx trotted to the doorway.
* * *
——————·
They went into the woods. Through the paths that led to the first of the three sites where Ian had seen the Paradise Duck. It took them thirty minutes to reach Site One, the cove.
It was a long rocky beach of boulders and black stones. Only a ribbon of sand slipped between the overhanging trees and the shore. One tree had fallen and hung its head over the bay, trailing moss. Its trunk had been smoothed by the waves, and swimming and feeding beneath it were half a dozen undowny buffleheads.
They tied Jinx’s lead to a tree from which she could not see the ducks. The children crouched on the largest of the boulders. Elsa slid out of her pack. Nolan pulled off his sweaty shirt and traded it for one of Ian’s: faded gray with a monarch caterpillar on the front, curled into a question mark, dotted with a green chrysalis. He pulled it over his head.
Elsa slipped the field glasses around her neck. Twisted the dial to bring the cove into focus. The ducks were squat and round as loaves of bread upon the water. They traveled in orderly circles as they snapped at the grasses beneath the fallen tree. The males’ green necks ruffled slightly in the wind and all of their bellies were damp and disheveled at the waterline.
How will we know? Elsa whispered. We can’t catch it.
Nolan passed her the field journal.
PERSONAL FIELD JOURNAL OF DR. IAN GREY
As other UBH dive for weeds and snap at bugs, Duck Twelve drifts for fifteen minutes, watching the horizon line. Appears deeply content. Does not eat. Occasionally cocks head in breeze to get better angle on feather ruffling around face. Squints eyes/bleats softly. Listening to Bach’s Arioso (Adagio in G) through one ear while observing so perhaps am projecting mood of deep tranquility onto duck, but don’t think so. Duck Twelve appears to be in an almost meditative state. Other ducks ignore Duck Twelve and continue feeding. Must stop listening to Ba
ch, but cannot stand drone of mosquitos otherwise apparent. Samples sent to Georgia last week.
Be the bird, Elsa thought.
The ducks drifted and dove. They surfaced with strands of kelp in their beaks. They ate clusters of larvae and kept up a constant banter of quacking as they drifted and fed. They chased the Jesus beetles skittering across the surface and ate them. They snapped at clouds of hovering gnats and motes of pollen. To the children they seemed cross, a score of bustling no-time-to-waste mothers. Not one of them seemed meditative. Perhaps Ian had been right about the Bach.
The children’s backs grew stiff.
Elsa set down the field glasses. She had gone to bed with sweaty hair and today it was turned in thick, salty twists. She shook it out.
Nolan pulled a strand. You’re going islander, he said. You thinking of staying?
Elsa rolled her eyes and twisted her hair up and off her neck. I’m thinking I’m going to the Netherlands in a month, she said. And after that, I’m going to Mars.
Oh my god, enough, Nolan said. He put down his own binoculars.
What? Elsa said.
You’re not going to Mars. Will you just stop?
I’m going if they pick me.
You’re being ridiculous. Even for you.
Just because you can’t wrap your head around the fact that the planet is dying doesn’t mean it’s not happening. This is a real exit strategy.
Nolan snorted.
He couldn’t understand, Elsa thought, because his life was too bound up in bougie San Francisco minutiae. But soon it wouldn’t matter who believed them, because Elsa would be gone.
If she could just get to Mars, Elsa thought, she would know what was her responsibility and what was not. Elsa would not need to worry about elections, or the prison-industrial complex, or the dye in pink birthday cupcakes, or pornography that made women want to whimper instead of moan, or the disappearing bees, or celebrities whose names wormed their way into Elsa’s brain, she did not know how. She felt like wiping the clutter of her whole life clean and beginning over. Maybe everyone did. Maybe humanity needed a mulligan.