by Thomas King
Mothers and fathers and children who sing.
These are a few of my favourite things.
The hummus is very good. Sonny especially likes the fresh vegetables and the soft cheeses. You wouldn’t have to melt these cheeses to make a good toasted cheese sandwich. You could just spread the cheese on bread and put the sandwich in the microwave for twenty seconds.
The soldiers are still on the screen, doing unfortunate things. They don’t sing or dance, and Sonny believes that this is one of their problems. Maybe if they sang the song about the goatherd, they wouldn’t be so mean.
But as Sonny watches the musical, he finds himself thinking about the ghost Indians. He had thought there was only the girl, but now he knows that there are many more, and he’s not sure what to make of this. He had tried to count exactly how many ghost Indians there were, but the fog kept messing up the total.
So tomorrow he’ll go to the reserve. That’s where the ghost Indians will be. On the reserve. Sonny is sure of this.
The soldiers are gone now, and everyone is singing and dancing, so Sonny turns the sound on. The family is all together again. Everything is okay now. Everyone is safe.
And this makes Sonny very happy.
43
CURIOUS.
Crisp sat on a rock, his haunches drawn up to his chest, and considered the situation. The party had been a rousing success. He was sure that Mara and Gabriel had enjoyed themselves, and an audience, no matter how small, was a gift to be treasured. The story had gone well, maybe not as well as in past years, but he had told it with energy and snap. He had always liked the part where the animals dive for the mud, for that moment allowed all manner of theatrics.
He might have stayed underwater longer. He might have exploded out of the pool with greater effect, but those gymnastics were best saved for larger groups, where such displays were necessary to hold the attention and dazzle the eye of the congregation.
And the song. That had been a fine moment. Crisp would have preferred something with backbone, but the round dance had been full of rhythm and community, and Gabriel had sung it well and with conviction.
Mara finding Gabriel’s underpants was an added delight.
Clever girl.
He hoisted his body out of the water and shook himself like a great dog. The people who had come in the night had made good work of the food. Crisp sat down at the edge of the water, raised his face to the sky, and drew a long breath in through his nostrils.
Curious.
“Ye are not from the Bay, are ye, for ye have not the stink of the place on your person.”
Curious, curious, curious.
“From somewhere else,” Crisp whispered to himself between bites. “From somewhere farther out.”
Sonny had come, and that was an encouraging sign. Not officially of course. Not in the open. But it was a start. Perhaps a reconciliation was possible. Crisp had been tempted to call out, but he knew that any word of acknowledgement would have run the boy to a rabbit.
What had Sonny made of the gift? Crisp wasn’t sure what he made of the trunk himself. Perhaps the people in the night and the trunk were related. Much in the world was. And if that were the case, then the lad would sniff it out, for he was as good a hound as any and could follow a scent to the moon and back.
And Mara and Gabriel. What was Crisp to make of them? Mara had come back after The Ruin. That had not been a surprise. But in the aftermath of the disaster, Mara had stayed. That had been a proper startle. Crisp half expected that he would wake up one day to find her gone.
That hadn’t happened.
She had rented the yellow house at the end of Station Street and had stayed there, floating in place, as it were. Still, he could taste change on the winds that came across the headlands.
Wait and see. Wait and see.
Gabriel was the easier of the two. Crisp had known him from the first, knew why he had come, knew the sharp secret that be wrapped up in his skin. By now, Crisp had expected that the man would be departed and unlamented, the trailer swept and scrubbed and readied for the next soul what needs sanctuary. But somehow this Gabriel had tricked him, had sailed through destruction, and found safe harbour where there should be none.
Wait and see. Wait and see.
As for the strangers, whoever they be, they was frightened and lost. There had been misgivings on the mist and fear in the fog.
Crisp rubbed his belly and let loose a tremendous belch that buried itself in the night.
“I endure eternal!”
And then he eased himself off the rock and slid smoothly into the water, without leaving so much as a bubble or a ripple to mark his passing.
44
THE CANVAS WAS WAITING ON THE EASEL, WHERE MARA HAD left it. Gabriel stood back and considered the image.
“Who’s this?”
“Elvin Grunes,” said Mara.
There was a second canvas leaning against the wall. “And this one?”
“Thelma Walker. She was one of our elders. She and my grandmother were close.”
“You’re not using brushes.”
“Palette knife,” said Mara. “It’s a bolder effect.”
“You should paint Crisp,” said Gabriel. “He’d be an interesting subject.”
“You mean nude?”
Gabriel tried to imagine how Mara would manage the bald head, the flaming red beard, the hairy legs. “I was thinking head and shoulders.”
“I’ve painted naked men before,” she said. “They’re not all that interesting.”
They had walked from the springs in silence. Gabriel wasn’t sure why he had followed her home. Maybe this was the sort of thing one did while waiting for a sunny day and a low tide.
“Are you using photographs?”
“Memory. I’m painting from memory.”
“The Ruin?”
Mara nodded. “You’ve been talking to Nicholas. ‘The Ruin’ is his name for what happened. Sounds monumental, doesn’t it. Biblical even.”
“Actually, he hasn’t said much.”
“He hasn’t told you how the river ran bright green that morning? How the people sickened and died? How they continued to die in the weeks and months after? How the turtles and every living thing in the river’s path were destroyed?” Mara hunched her shoulder around her neck. “It can be quite a production. Every bit the equal of his version of ‘The Woman Who Fell from the Sky.’”
Gabriel touched the edge of the canvas.
“I was in Toronto.” Mara looked past Gabriel.
Gabriel put his hand behind his back and tried to rub the paint off his finger.
“By the time I got home, everyone was dead.” Mara folded her arms as if she had caught a chill. “Well,” she said, “aren’t I a happy host.”
“No problem.”
“Hardly. I invite you back to my house. You probably thought that sex was in the offing and, wham, I dump this on you.”
“I didn’t think …”
“Sure you did.” Mara started to laugh. “Maybe I should paint you.”
“Me?”
“I could add you to my collection of dead people.”
“Nude?”
“Course, you’re not dead yet. But I suppose I could make an exception.” Mara stopped and shook her head. “I’ve freaked you out, haven’t I?”
“No.”
“Sure I did.” Mara ruffled her hair and dropped her voice for dramatic effect. “I paint dead people!”
“Bruce Willis, Haley Joel Osment. Sixth Sense.”
“Scared the hell out of me,” said Mara.
“So you came home.”
“I came home.”
“And you stayed.”
“That’s why they call it home.” Mara smoothed her hair. “But you don’t have a home, do you?”
“No.”
“You’ll have to tell me about that some time.”
Gabriel tried to stop it, but the yawn got away from him.
“Aha,” said
Mara. “Crazy woman. And boring.”
“I guess I’m tired.”
“Of living?”
“Sometimes.”
“Now?”
“No,” said Gabriel. “Not now.”
“You can stay if you want.”
“Here?”
“It’s a long walk back to your trailer,” said Mara. “It’s dark. You’ll just get lost.”
“It is dark.”
Mara turned to Gabriel. “Were those your underpants in the pool?”
Gabriel couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “They were.”
“I would like someone to hold me.” Mara glanced at the canvas. “Is that something you might be willing to do?”
“Sure.”
“I’m not talking about sex.”
“No.”
“Just two people under a quilt, keeping each other warm.”
MARA checked her brushes. She turned out the lights and went to the bedroom. Gabriel was already there, lying on the covers, trying to look casual.
“You can take your shoes off,” said Mara. “And your jacket.”
“This is a nice bed.” Gabriel got up and pulled the covers back. “The one in the trailer is lumpy.”
“Which side do you want?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Good,” said Mara. “I want the right side.”
Mara slipped off her shoes and climbed into bed with her back to Gabriel. She waited, hoping that he would pull the quilt over the both of them without her having to ask.
He did.
Mara lay there, rigid and tense. There was something about having someone that close to you and so far away. She realized that her breathing was quick and shallow. She’d never get to sleep this way. “Are you tense?”
“A little.”
“Would it help if you held me?”
“It might.”
“Okay,” said Mara, “why don’t we give that a try.”
Mara held her breath as she felt the bed shift. And then Gabriel’s body touched hers, and it was as if she had been struck by lightning.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” Mara could feel her nipples stiffen and her groin begin to glow. “But I don’t want this to get out of hand.”
“No,” said Gabriel.
Mara’s breathing was returning to normal now. Gabriel’s arm felt surprisingly good. He had buried his face in her hair, and that felt good as well. She wasn’t sure she could sleep in this position, but having someone in bed with her was comforting, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. She moved back into Gabriel, pressing herself against his body and drawing his hand to her breasts.
“This is nice,” she whispered to herself.
GABRIEL stayed awake most of the night, listening to Mara snore. Nothing horsey. Just a soft, gentle murmur. At first he had been aroused, and, in spite of his efforts to think of sheep and hockey, he had remained aroused. It didn’t help that Mara’s hair smelled like flowers or that his hand was up against a breast. Though that didn’t last long. After a short while, the arm had gone to sleep, and his fingers had gone numb.
But he didn’t move, didn’t want to disturb the moment and have Mara shift away. He liked being in bed with this woman. He liked holding her.
He liked being alive.
And as he eased into sleep, he thought about the woman who fell from the sky, how it would have been to have seen her streaking through the heavens like a falling star, plunging towards earth.
And how different the outcome might have been if the birds hadn’t caught her.
45
THE DRIVER DROPPED DORIAN OFF IN FRONT OF THE CONDO. It had been a while since he had been in a taxi, and he hoped not to repeat the experience any time soon. The interior of the cab had felt bored, as though it had lost any interest in the job at hand. He hadn’t been able to see what was on the floor, and that was just as well. The seats had a tacky feel, and there was a cloying smell to the vehicle that reminded him of the blue discs used to disinfect urinals.
The driver had been pleasant enough, asking Dorian where he was from, whether he was in town on business or pleasure, and pointing out the various sights as they drove towards Queen’s Quay. Dorian decided to play along and told the man he was from San Francisco, that he was in Toronto for a major agribusiness conference.
“Have you heard of Domidion?”
“No,” the driver had said, “but it sounds important.”
“Yes,” Dorian had told him, “it is.”
The driver was duly impressed. He praised San Francisco as a place to live and offered his services if Dorian needed a driver during his stay.
When Dorian paid the fare, he added a twenty-dollar tip, holding the bill out at arm’s length, so the man could enjoy the Rolex.
“You call, any time,” the driver had said, as he handed Dorian his business card. “Twenty-four hours, no problem. We businessmen must stick together.”
Yes, Dorian had agreed, businessmen should stick together.
“A wonderful watch,” said the man. “It must make you very happy.”
DORIAN went straight to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of the forty-year-old Laphroaig that he and Olivia had bought at Cadenhead’s in Edinburgh, when they toured Scotland with Ray and Meredith.
“Smoke and peat, with sweet licorice root and seaweed,” the man at the store had told him. “If you like the taste of fine cigars and can afford the pleasure, then this is the Scotch for you.”
Dorian settled on the sofa in front of the windows that overlooked the lake and called Olivia. He let the phone ring, and when no one answered, he hung up and dialed the number again, carefully this time, in case he had made a mistake.
“Dorian?” Olivia’s voice sounded distant.
“Are you all right?”
“It’s midnight.”
Dorian consulted the Rolex. It was actually three minutes after midnight.
“Sorry.”
“Have you been drinking?”
Dorian put the glass on the side table. “No,” he said, “I was just wondering when you were coming home.”
“Haven’t you seen the weather report?”
“For Orlando?”
“No, silly,” Olivia said. “Toronto. There’s a big snowstorm on its way.”
“That’s Sudbury,” said Dorian. “Weather’s great here. All the snow is gone. It’s not even that cold.”
“Two days,” said Olivia. “It’s supposed to be there in two days.”
“Jennifer and David have invited us to come up to Jackson’s Point this weekend. Dinner at The Briars.”
For a moment, Dorian thought he had lost the connection.
“Olivia?”
“I’m here.”
“I thought I lost you.”
“I’m going to stay in Orlando a little longer.”
“Longer?”
“Just another week,” said Olivia, “maybe two.”
Dorian began tapping the arm of the chair.
“What’s that noise?”
“Nothing,” said Dorian. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Pardon?”
“Staying in Orlando.”
“You’re sweet.”
“What?”
“That you miss me.”
“Of course I miss you.”
“And I’ll be home before you know it.”
THE jury had deliberated for three days and returned a not guilty verdict.
Dorian had been surprised. How did you kill a policeman and get away with it? Church’s contention that he feared for his life seemed weak. He must have noticed the patrol car parked in front of his house. He must have seen that both Quinn and Martinez were in uniform. He would have heard Quinn identify himself. But he had come to the door with a pistol in hand and had shot Quinn before the officer could say another word.
And then he had turned the gun on Martinez.
The prosecution hadn’t ask
ed Church why he didn’t kill Martinez. If the man had feared for his life, why hadn’t he finished the job? If Church had believed that Quinn and Martinez were assassins, why hadn’t he shot her a third time as she lay wounded in his front yard?
Dorian wished that the transcript had contained photographs of both the officers. Maybe Church had been frightened by Quinn’s appearance. That might have been the tipping point for an angry man with a loaded gun.
DORIAN stared at the phone. So Olivia wasn’t coming home. Jackson’s Point was one of her favourite places, but even the promise of a visit to The Briars hadn’t swayed her. So far as Dorian could tell, all Orlando had to recommend it was sun. Toronto was a world-class city. It had the better restaurants, the better theatres, the better shopping.
Orlando was a tourist trap.
Now that he thought about it, Olivia hadn’t sounded sleepy so much as she had sounded annoyed. As though he had been an interruption to her evening.
Dorian picked up the remote and flipped through the channels. Duck Dynasty was on. He had watched parts of previous shows, had found them mildly amusing. Rich rednecks in Louisiana who made duck calls. Or was it Arkansas. He checked the Turner Classic Movies channel.
The Sound of Music.
Dorian took his drink with him to the windows overlooking the lake. But in the dark, the glass acted like a mirror, and the only thing he was able to see was himself.
46
GABRIEL AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO FIND HIS ARM hanging over a pillow. He tried lifting his hand.
Nothing.
He tried moving his fingers.
Nothing.
He dragged the arm free and waited for the pain to begin. Not pain exactly. More an ache, an excruciating pricking that bordered on arousal, without any of the pleasure. All he could do was bury his face in the bed and wait for the sensation to pass.
His last clear memory was of being pressed up against Mara, his hand on her breast. Now her side of the bed was empty. Most likely she had realized her mistake and slipped away in the night.
Just as well.
If she were still here, he would have had to come up with something to say, something to mark the moment. Something wise and gentle. Something that didn’t sound like the inside of a greeting card. It wouldn’t need to be profound or apologetic. They hadn’t had sex. They had simply slept together.