“How did you know he was out there?” asked August.
“I’d seen him, Augie,” said Owen. “I’d even fed him once.”
Grandpa raised his right arm, the one that ended before his wrist. “He’d already eaten my right hand.”
Augie eyed the stump at the end of his grandpa’s right arm.
“People talk about phantom limbs, August. They talk about getting itches or pain in hands or legs they no longer have.”
Augie imagined trying to scratch an itch on a hand that was no longer there. It was a strange thing to think.
“For me, Augie, it was different. My missing hand didn’t hurt or itch. In my case, I felt the bones of my missing hand trying to claw their way out of the turtle’s belly. Part of me – my hand – was a prisoner inside that beast. But no matter how much my hand clawed and scratched, it wasn’t getting out. It was trapped. There was only one way for my hand to escape. The beast had to be killed – and I had to do it. And that is what your Daddy and I were doing out on the lake that moonlit night.”
Grandpa Owen shifted his grandson from one thigh to the other. When the boy was comfortably settled, he continued.
“We paddled out to the middle of the lake. Then we lifted the trap door of the cage and we waited.”
“Waited for what, Grandpa?”
“We waited for the beast to come and take the bait.”
“What did you use for bait, Grandpa?”
The boy’s brain was teeming with possibilities.
“I used what I knew it liked. I used one of my limbs. I greased my right leg with animal fat so that I could slip it in and out quickly without getting snagged. Then I slid it into the hole we had made in the top of the trap, and we waited.”
“How did you know he would come, Grandpa?”
“I didn’t know. But I had a feeling. The moon had been full the first time he attacked. I thought maybe the full moon might draw him out again. I did mention there was a full moon that night, didn’t I, Augie?”
“Yes, Grandpa, you did, several times. A September moon.”
“Yes, well, so as I was saying, we sat there and waited. And as we waited, I began to feel certain the turtle was coming. ‘He’s coming,’ I said to your Daddy. And your Daddy said, ‘How do you know?’ And I said, ‘I can feel my hand drawing near.’
“The lake shimmered in the moonlight. The surface was still, calm, flat and shiny. Then suddenly your Daddy cried out, ‘Look!’ Your Daddy pointed. And I saw what he was pointing at. Cutting through the water like the fin of a shark was a wooden handle – the handle of the ax I had planted in the beast’s back the night it had attacked us.
“‘Get ready!’ I told your Daddy.”
“Get ready for what?” asked August. “What was my Daddy supposed to do?”
“After the turtle went for my leg and the trap door dropped, your Daddy’s job was to cut the rope that secured the cage to our raft and then shove the boulders in the steel mesh sacks over the side.”
“What would that do?” asked Augie.
“Remember, the steel mesh bags full of boulders were connected by cables to the bottom of the trap. The plan was for those heavy rocks to drag the cage and the turtle in it to the bottom of the lake. We were going to bury him in the deep dark depths from which he came.”
“So what happened. Grandpa?”
“At first, only a few inches of the ax handle protruded above the surface. But as the monster approached, it stuck out higher and higher. It was closing fast. I wiggled the toes of my right foot to make our bait seem lively. Then, like a car crashing into a wall, the turtle struck. As it entered the cage, the handle of the ax was knocked backwards from its upright position. The trap door dropped down and the turtle began thrashing furiously. Through the hole in the top of the trap, it eyed us with unspeakable hatred. You’ve heard the saying, ‘If looks could kill?’ Well, if they could, none of us would be here today. Your Daddy and I would be dead, and you, my boy, would never have been born. But the monster’s eyes, yellow and horrible as they were, had no power to harm us. The beast’s weapons were its claws, its jaw, and its razor sharp beak. Its eyes? I spat in them! Then I told your Daddy, ‘Cut the rope!’ Your Daddy sawed through the rope. ‘Now shove the boulders overboard!” I told him. ‘It’s time to bury this bad boy!’”
“But what about your leg, Grandpa? Did he bite it off when it was inside the trap?”
“No, August. I pulled my leg out of the trap in the nick of time. That’s what frustrated the turtle so much. If he was going to die, he at least wanted to take one of us with him.”
“But then what happened to your leg, Grandpa?”
“Your Daddy had pushed the boulders to the edge of the platform. Ten seconds more and that turtle would be gone forever. But then, I did myself in. You remember how I told you I’d covered my leg with grease so I could pull it out quickly when the turtle struck? Well, I slipped on that damn grease. It was like slipping on a bar of soap in the tub. My luck was bad. My foot slipped right back into the hole I’d just pulled it out of. It all happened at once. Your father pushed the boulders off, I slipped, the turtle snapped. We sent him to his grave, but he had one last supper on his way.”
“How come you didn’t bleed to death, Grandpa?”
“I would have, August, if it wasn’t for your father. I went into shock. It was days before I was aware of anything. I was in a hospital bed, still dopey from morphine. I only know what happened from what your Daddy told me later.”
Owen Andersen nodded toward his son.
“Go ahead, Isaac,” he said. “Tell Augie what happened next.”
“I pulled Grandpa up onto the platform. Then I ripped off my shirt and tore it into long strips, which I used to make a tourniquet. I tried to row the platform back to shore, but the oarlocks were too far apart for one boy. I couldn’t do it. So I climbed into the water and dragged Grandpa with me. I put an arm across his chest and side-stroked all the way back to shore. I don’t know how I made it, but I did. Then I dragged Grandpa to the car and laid him across the backseat. I sped off in search of the nearest hospital I could find. I was driving so fast, a policeman pulled me over. Before he could even start in about me driving, he saw Grandpa in the backseat. ‘What’s happened to him?’ he asked. ‘Lost his leg,’ I said. Then the two of us lifted Grandpa into the backseat of the police car. He put on his siren and flashers and we sped off even faster than I’d been driving.”
“So you and Grandpa killed the turtle?” August asked his father.
Isaac Andersen nodded.
“We sent him to his grave.”
But for the rest of Grandpa Owen’s life, from the night he lost his foot till the day he finally died, he was plagued by doubt. He and Isaac had sent the beast to the bottom of the lake, of that he was sure. Yet he never felt that his own lost limbs were fully at rest. He had a troubling sense that they were in motion – sometimes far away, sometimes near, sometimes down deep, sometimes rising toward the surface.
Chapter 20
TURTLEBACK LAKE OCTOBER 2006
Those who paint on private or public property may think their graffiti is art – a form of creative expression to which they are somehow entitled. Yet I’d like to see these same “artists” should they someday become property owners themselves. Then let us hear how they feel when their property has served as the canvas for someone else’s creative expression. Let’s hear then what they have to say about ‘creative freedom.’ I think the song they would sing then would be very much in harmony with the one being sung in this column today.
So began the editorial Marc Bozian was working on for Thursday’s Turtleback Gazette. Marc already had written an account of the incident for the paper’s front page. This editorial, Marc’s first op-ed piece, was a chance to spread his journalistic wings and fly beyond the constraints of who, what, when, where, and why.
Marc was articulating a rage he felt sure every resident of Turtleback Lake shared. As Marc wrote, he
felt that he was speaking for the people.
For time immemorial, long before even the first braves of the noble Lenape Indians hunted in these woods and fished these waters – our lake has been distinguished by a single distinctive landmark: The white isle of rock that gives our lake and community their names. The Lenape, legend tells us, considered this rock to be sacred – the shell of a great white turtle that carried the lake and all its riches on its back into these mountains. The boldest Lenape brave would not have dared to paddle his canoe within a hundred feet of this sacred stone. To stain its sacred surface with dyes of colored berries would have been an unthinkable sacrilege.
And throughout the centuries since the red man has departed, this rock had remained a hallowed symbol of our community. No one has ever dared to deface its pure white surface. No one, that is, until this Monday night, when someone – or some ones – wrapped in the black cloak of night, defaced our town’s most precious landmark with a galling cartoon of our high school football team’s Snapper emblem.
We have always been proud of our young people’s athletic achievements. This defacement, this defilement, this disgusting display of degradation, however, is a harsh wakeup call – especially in light of the horrible occurrences that have taken place in recent weeks.
It is the duty of all of us who hold true to the values of this community to help root out not only the monster that lives in the depths of our lake, but also any monsters that lurk within us.
Marc read over what he had written in long hand. A few words would have to be edited, maybe a few more alliterations added, but otherwise, Marc was pleased – perfectly pleased.
Marc set his notepad alongside his keyboard and began typing. When he was done, he gazed out of his cluttered cubicle at the claustrophobic chaos of The Turtleback Gazette’s office. Though his eyes were open, Marc saw nothing. He was looking inward for the perfect title. Then it came to him.
He typed it – in capitals. Then he tried highlighting and boldfacing the letters. Then he increased the point size. There. Maybe it wasn’t perfect. But it was good:
SHELL SHOCKED!
Who in Turtleback Lake wouldn’t read that?
* * * *
Deena Goode stood on the stage in front of a packed auditorium. She had stood waiting patiently as students filed in and found their seats. Dozens of conversations were still going on, but she would extinguish them like little fires, simply by beginning to speak.
“As a student body,” she began, “we have suffered a great loss.”
Nobody in the audience stopped talking.
Deena looked irritably at the microphone. She turned it from side to side in her hand. She loathed audio-visual equipment. Something always malfunctioned. But this time, at least, the fix was easy. The microphone was simply off. All she had to do was turn it on. She found the switch, gave it a flick, and started again.
“As a student body,” she repeated, “we have suffered a great loss.”
Deena paused to allow any lingering conversations to end.
“What happened to Ian Copeland is something he will have to live with for the rest of his life. And the rest of us – his friends, classmates, teammates, and teachers – will never forget. When Ian returns, I expect all of us to show him the same kind of understanding and compassion we would hope for if we were in his shoes.”
Looking into the crowd, Deena noticed that a number of students in the first few rows were wincing.
She thought for a moment and then it hit her. Shoes! Plural. Dammit!
What was she thinking? Ian Copeland wouldn’t be wearing shoes – he’d be wearing a shoe, singular. She cursed herself for not preparing something in advance. Extemporaneous speaking was a landmine. But what could she do now? She plowed ahead before any wiseacre could seize on her faux pas.
“But Ian’s loss is no excuse for the actions of those who defiled Turtleback Rock last night. Some people might say that what they did was simply ‘acting out.’ But I disagree. I say acting out is no excuse! I say it is adding insult to injury.
“So I stand here today to ask you, in fact to deputize you, to help find the perpetrators of this shameful deed. If you know something, say something. If you are afraid of retaliation, if you think that telling on someone is “squealing,” I ask you to think again. Do not be cowed into silence by those who would have you be their mute accomplices. If it makes you feel better, report what you know anonymously. But do not remain silent. Do not allow yourself to be intimidated.”
Deena now had everyone’s undivided attention. She paused for dramatic effect then continued with her grand finale.
“And I’ll conclude by saying this: I believe whoever committed this shameful act sits among us today. Look to your right and look to your left, look at the person sitting in front of you and look at the person behind you.”
Deena paused again. As instructed, the students in the auditorium looked awkwardly about.
“One of you,” said Deena, her voice now rising like a courtroom lawyer’s, “has just looked into the eyes of the vandal who has shamed this community. Let him or her or them come forth on their own – or I assure you they will be brought forth by others.”
Dr. Goode dismissed the students back to their classrooms. She turned off the microphone and secretly congratulated herself for the “him, her or them” at the end of her speech. It had been spontaneous but spot on. By adding that “her,” no one could accuse her of being sexist, though she’d be willing to bet her life that the perpetrator wasn’t female.
* * * *
Oscar Hall was on his way back to the boiler room after replacing a bank of lights that had blown in the school’s faraway E-wing. As unobtrusively as possible, he tried to navigate through the congestion of young people that crowded the hallways between classes.
Oscar limped along like a maimed and aging member of an otherwise strong and healthy herd. It had been ages since he’d been as young and strong as the students around him. But having dragged his bum leg through these halls for decades, he knew their youth for what it was: Fleeting. The most precious thing they’d ever possess was even now slipping through their grasp. In a flash, their youth, their beauty, and even their dreams would be behind them. And they didn’t even know it.
Oscar tried to go about his business as invisibly as possible but there was always someone – invariably a boy – who would use his infirmity to get a laugh. How many times had Oscar walked down these tiled halls and heard laughter welling up behind him? And he knew what was happening without turning around. Someone was aping him. But of course, they were not content to simply mimic him. They had to exaggerate his limp for comic effect.
Oscar no longer turned around because once, years ago, he had.
He remembered it like it was yesterday. He had replayed the scene in his mind a million times, like it was roll of game film he was studying.
Oscar had turned suddenly and grabbed the boy by the collar. Then he had lifted the boy off the ground. It was funny how the kid had tried to run away even though his two feet were a foot above the floor. At that point, the laughter had stopped pretty quickly. Oscar had had an urge to slam the boy against the metal lockers that lined the corridor, but he had resisted the temptation. It was a good thing. Even back then, assaulting a student, regardless of the provocation, would get a man fired. And Oscar had needed the job. He needed it still. So Oscar had simply dropped the kid to the floor. He could still remember the sudden stink that told him the boy had crapped his pants.
So as he had done a thousand times, Oscar ignored the titters and giggles he heard behind him. Even as the laughter grew to hysteria, he ignored it.
Then suddenly the laughter stopped.
Ken Lubowsky couldn’t understand why. He was in the middle of getting the biggest laugh he’d ever gotten. What Ken couldn’t see, however – because his view was blocked by Oscar’s back – was that Coach Lupo had just rounded a corner and was walking straight down the hall toward them.
“Hello, Oscar,” he called.
“Hi, Bill.”
Hearing Coach Lupo’s voice, Ken turned sideways like someone trying to hide behind a tree.
Coach Lupo scanned the crowd of onlookers. Not one of them dared to meet his gaze. They all stared down at their feet. Lupo summarily dismissed them all in his mind: a ball-less bunch of cowards, followers and losers.
“Lubowsky,” he said, “I’d like to have a word with you – now – in my office.”
Then Lupo turned and walked back down the hallway with Oscar Hall limping at his side.
Chapter 21
TURTLEBACK LAKE 1965
Like all kids, August Andersen loved summers: almost three full months without school. But his summers were even better than most other kids’ because he spent his in paradise. From late June till early September, August spent every single day swimming, fishing and exploring Turtleback Lake.
Isaac Andersen tried not to give his son the fears that he himself harbored within. Why make the boy unnecessarily nervous? After all, it had been over thirty years since he and his father had sent the great snapper to its grave. To his knowledge, in all those years, there had never been another incident.
Still, Isaac felt a nagging uneasiness, especially when Grandpa Owen visited the cabin.
“I don’t know what it is, Isaac,” Grandpa Owen would say looking out toward the lake. “But whenever I’m here, I still get that feeling deep in my gut – like my bones are still moving around out there.”
“Well, for goodness sakes, dad, just don’t mention it to Augie,” said Isaac. “The last thing I want is for him to develop some kind of turtle complex.”
Augie had heard his grandfather tell the tale of the Great Snapping Turtle so many times it had lost all its terror. It was like The Wizard of Oz. The first time he’d seen the movie, he’d been terrified by the flying monkeys. By the tenth time, he was eagerly pointing out the fine wires that lifted the monkeys off the ground.
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