by Thomas King
Sonny quickly lays pieces of driftwood on the harrow disc and watches as the beacon flares, hot and powerful again.
Situation saved by Sonny.
Situation saved by Sonny and doggy.
The pile of wood is smaller, and Sonny knows he will have to find more, but for now, he needs to rest. He’ll look for wood later.
And then Sonny smells it.
Sonny stands up and looks around, and when he does this, he sees the blanket spread out on the sand and he sees the wicker basket. He sees the dog lying on the blanket next to the basket.
The doggy is having a picnic.
Sonny knows that smell. Sonny would know that smell anywhere.
Toasted cheese sandwiches!
Good doggy, Sonny tells the dog. Toasted cheese sandwiches are Sonny’s favourite.
“Aye,” says a voice that makes Sonny jump. “I remember ye have a tooth for a soft melt.”
Wham-wham!
Sonny reaches for his hammer.
“Easy lad,” says Crisp, “for I mean ye no harm. This be your tower? A fine piece of work it is.”
Crisp sits down on the blanket, opens the lid of the basket, and lets the aromas spill out.
“I thought you might be hungry from your exertions.”
Sonny looks at the tide. Then he looks at Crisp.
Tide. Crisp.
Crisp. Tide.
“Toasted cheese with Dijon mustard. There’s fruit and juice. Scrambled eggs and sausage, and tea in the Thermos, if ye have an inclination.”
Sonny looks at the dog.
“Yes,” says Crisp, “the dog will vouch for me, for we saved each other upon a time, and if ye have an inclination, I’ll tell ye the story while we eat.”
Sonny comes to the edge of the blanket. He is very hungry, and the food smells very good.
Is it safe? Sonny asks the dog. Is it safe?
The dog rolls over in the sand and farts.
Good doggy, says Sonny. Good doggy.
“Eat what ye will.” Crisp holds out a sandwich. “For there’s more things in heaven and earth than can be imagined.”
Sonny takes the sandwich. It is still warm and soft, but with a crunchy crust. Just the way he likes it. Sonny gives part of the sandwich to the dog.
“His name is Soldier,” says Crisp, “though he’s not opposed to a new name now and again, and perhaps ye can find something to please the both of ye.”
Sonny chews on the sandwich. He can taste the cheese and the mustard, the bread and the butter.
Salvage, Sonny tells the dog. I name you Salvage.
“A fine name,” says Crisp, wiping the grease from his beard and licking his fingers. “And when ye have done your fill, there’s something I must show ye, something ye will want to see, for it is creation itself and not to be missed.”
Sonny sits in the sand at the edge of the blanket and eats his sandwich. Somewhere behind him, he hears the sharp scraping sound he has heard before, and he turns to find it.
“Aye,” says Crisp, “I hear it, too. But ye must eat first and gather your strength, for we’ve a long day ahead of us.”
The tide has turned. Sonny surveys the ocean, watches it swell and rise up, marks the fog as it tries to steal its way back across the water. He smells salt on the wind now, tastes it on his tongue.
And in the distance, out on the Apostles, Sonny catches sight of two figures huddled together on the rocks.
91
DORIAN SAT IN THE HOTEL RESTAURANT, ENJOYING A LIGHT breakfast while he watched the street come to life. He had been tempted by the sausage and waffle pairing, but had resisted, had ordered the yogurt and fruit with a whole-grain bagel instead.
As a single man, he would have to watch his figure.
The server had just cleared away the dishes, when Dorian’s cellphone began to vibrate.
LAST night had been intriguing. And revealing. The hospital, the tour of Bloor Street in the dark, the woman in the doorway. He had spent the rest of the night and early morning sitting in bed with his clothes on, watching television with the sound off, and coming up with questions he could have asked.
Sixty dollars.
Will I be remembered?
God, but he was glad he hadn’t asked that question. The woman had frightened him. He didn’t like to admit it, but she had. Her red hair. Her blue eyes. Her yellow teeth. He had been thrown off, had lost sight of who he was.
What had she said? Something about being well?
THROUGH the window of the restaurant, Dorian watched a Mercedes SL65 AMG drift by. “I am the master of my fate,” he said, letting his voice roll across the table. “I am the captain of my soul.”
“Sir?”
The server was standing at his shoulder.
“‘Invictus.’” Dorian took the napkin off his lap and considered the man. “Tell me, how long have you worked here?”
“At the Hermes?”
“Yes.”
“Since it opened,” said the man. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” said Dorian, “everything is fine. But I was curious. If you had one question you could ask, what would it be?”
“About the hotel?”
“No,” said Dorian. “About life. Life in general. Your life.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the man. “We’re not allowed to ask such questions.”
Dorian’s cellphone began vibrating again.
HE had called Olivia’s suite after he had returned from the walk. He expected he would get her answering machine. And he had. He waited until he heard the beep.
“We don’t need no stinking questions.” That’s the message he had left. “We don’t need no stinking questions.”
And then he had hung up.
THE server circled the table. “Will there be anything else?”
“Do you have pie?”
“Pie?”
“Cherry,” said Dorian. “Apple, if there is nothing else.”
“I’m afraid we have no pie.”
“No pie?”
“We have some excellent lemon pound cake with a raspberry compote,” said the server. “Shall I bring you a portion?”
“No,” said Dorian. “We don’t need dessert all the time, do we.”
A heavy-set man in a dark suit hurried into the restaurant. He looked remarkably like the bronze statue on Cumberland.
“Mr. Asher?”
Dorian smiled generously and waved the man to the chair across from him. “Mr. Knox, I presume.”
“I’m sorry to be late, but it was somewhat short notice.”
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
Dorian raised a hand, but the server was already on his way.
“Gordon Knox,” said the man, and he handed Dorian a card.
“Dorian Asher.”
“The head of Domidion.”
“Just the CEO,” said Dorian, pleased that the man had done his due diligence.
Knox waited until the server had poured the coffee. Then he opened his briefcase and took out a large brochure.
“Are you staying here?”
“Last night.”
“It’s a very exclusive property.”
“Yes,” said Dorian. “It’s why I called.”
Knox cleared his throat. “In addition to the hotel, the Hermes has seventeen residences. There are two currently for sale.”
Knox turned the brochure so that Dorian could see the pages.
“The Miliken and the Leeson.”
“The residences have names?”
“The names can be changed of course,” said Knox. “Depending on the owner.”
Dorian ran a finger down the page. “Does either of these have eastern and southern exposures?”
“Yes,” said Knox quickly. “The Leeson. It has 3,587 square feet, two terraces, and a private elevator, all on two levels.”
“Price?”
“Asking 7.5.”
“Offer 6.5. Settle at 6.8.”
“Wouldn’t you
like to see it first?”
“No need.”
Dorian glanced outside. The limousine was at the curb. Dorian hoped that Kip was at the wheel. He wanted to tell him about the woman and the sixty dollars. The man would enjoy that story.
“Have the papers sent to my office. Tell the courier to ask for Winter Lee.”
DORIAN finished his coffee and paid the bill. He was sorry there was no pie, and he would mention this to the management after he moved in. As he walked through the lobby, he could feel the phone buzzing in his pocket like an angry insect.
He could check the screen, but Dorian was sure that it was Olivia. She had come to her senses. She was calling to tell him it was all a misunderstanding, that she didn’t want a divorce, that she had just been annoyed with him and his reluctance to consider a property in Orlando.
“I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.”
The doorman saw him coming and moved effortlessly to open the door.
“Have a good day, sir,” said the man.
“The Asher,” said Dorian out loud, as he stepped through the door and into the first day of his new life.
What will I do with my new beginning?
Now there was a question he could answer.
92
TOASTED CHEESE, TOASTED CHEESE, TOASTED CHEESE. Sonny has never seen so many toasted cheese sandwiches. Every time he finishes one toasted cheese sandwich, Mr. Crisp reaches into the basket and finds another.
“Ye needs consume the veggies as well.”
No, says Sonny. Toasted cheese.
“Scurvy’s no chuckle.”
Toasted cheese.
Crisp watches Sonny eat. “I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t know ye had hard-hammered the vending machines, for I’d packed the dispensers with provisions enough.”
A gust blows the napkins into the air. Crisp snatches at them, catching two before the rest get away. The tide is running hard, and the soft fog begins to blunt the edges of the world.
“Finish up, lad,” says Crisp. “For we mustn’t be late.”
Sonny leans against the dog. Is it a surprise, doggy? Is it a surprise?
“Bring the dog with ye, if ye wishes, but ye both must be quiet and reverent.”
Dad has warned Sonny about the hot springs, and Dad has warned Sonny about Mr. Crisp.
“It’s just over there,” says Crisp. “And when we gets back, I believe that there’s cherry pie and ice cream.”
Cherry pie and ice cream! Cherry pie and ice cream!
Wham-wham!
Sonny doesn’t remember Dad ever having any prohibitions on cherry pie and ice cream. Sonny thinks hard. If toasted cheese sandwiches are good and if cherry pie and ice cream is good, how can Mr. Crisp be bad? And if Mr. Crisp is good …
“Are ye coming, lad?”
Come with Sonny, Sonny tells the dog. Come with Sonny.
Crisp strides through the sand and the grass, and when he gets to where the beach starts to slope up to the bluffs, he stops and drops to his knees.
“There,” he says in a low whisper. “She be there.”
Sonny and Soldier crawl forward. Crisp reaches out and pushes the grass to one side.
“Do ye see? Did ye ever think ye would see such a thing again?”
At first, Sonny doesn’t see anything. Just the grass and the sand.
“There,” says Crisp. “Just there.”
Sonny crawls closer to Mr. Crisp and is surprised to find that Mr. Crisp smells very much like Dad. Now that he thinks about it, Mr. Crisp has the same deep voice that Dad has. But Mr. Crisp is not Dad.
“A thing of beauty, it is.”
Still, Mr. Crisp is here, and Dad is not.
“She comes ashore early this morning.”
Sonny raises up on his elbows, and now he can see what Mr. Crisp sees.
It’s Big Red!
“Easy lad, for she’s laying her eggs.”
Big Red, Big Red, Big Red, Big Red! Go, Big Red!
Sonny watches closely, and suddenly he sees an egg roll into the hole. And then another. And another. Now the eggs are pouring out of Big Red, and Sonny tries hard to keep count.
Twenty-two egg, twenty-three egg, twenty-four egg.
All the eggs are white and round, and look like large Ping-Pong balls.
Forty-six egg, forty-seven egg, forty-eight egg, forty-nine egg.
“Look there,” whispers Crisp. “She’s done and is coming out.”
Very slowly, the turtle climbs out of the hole and begins filling it in with her flippers. Sonny pushes a little sand into the hole.
“Don’t be helping her,” says Crisp, “for there is a way it must be done, and it’s she what must do it.”
Sonny can help. Sonny is a good helper.
“You are indeed.” Crisp rubs Sonny’s back. “But she don’t need our help. It’s us what needs hers.”
Sonny likes the toasted cheese sandwiches. He likes cherry pie and ice cream. He likes the feel of Mr. Crisp’s hand on his back.
Sonny reaches out and runs his hand across the indentation in the turtle’s shell.
Good turtle. Good Big Red.
Little by little, the turtle fills in the hole.
Crisp backs away from the hole. “With me,” he says, “for she’s done and will be heading back to open water.”
The turtles have returned. Soon the eggs will hatch. Soon the baby turtles will dash to the sea.
As it was in the beginning.
“Hurry, lad,” Crisp shouts. “For the rest of the faithful have arrived.”
Sonny shuffles through the sand, digging his toes into the loose beach, and kicking it up in front of him.
Turtle bone, clamshell, clamshell, clamshell.
Turtle bone, clamshell, clamshell, stone.
Sonny stops and turns his face to the wind. He listens to the sea crash into the land, and as he watches, he sees shapes emerge from the scuttling fog.
Two figures.
Two figures stolen from the water and carried to shore, like salvage on the incoming tide.
93
GABRIEL WAS QUITE SURE HE HAD NEVER MET A MORE STUBborn woman.
“You can’t stay here!”
“The hell I can’t!”
“You need to go now!”
“I’ll go when I feel like it!”
Gabriel was afraid they had waited too long. By the time they made their way down the sides of the shafts and reached the base of the Apostles, the flat had vanished. The water here was already up to their knees, and the rip was strong. It pulled at their legs and sucked the sand from under their feet.
And then another wave would come in and break over them. “Hold onto me!”
Gabriel leaned into the tide, as though he were hiking up a steep hill. Mara gripped his belt as they floundered in the roil. The white water yanked them backwards, tossed them forward, sometimes sideways. As he struggled towards the beach, Gabriel could hear the surf pounding the sea floor behind him. It smashed into the rocks and drove the wind against them, as the ocean tried to run the fugitives down.
That’s how Gabriel imagined the scene. Fugitives. Escapees from an island prison. The count of Monte Cristo. Papillon. Napoleon.
Gilligan.
“What?”
“Nothing!”
“You said, ‘Gilligan’!”
“Don’t let go the belt!”
Once, a massive wave caught them from behind, knocked them off their feet, and then sucked them backwards. Gabriel had clawed at the sand, had felt Mara ripped away by the surge, felt himself being dragged off.
“Mara!”
“Gilligan!”
“What?”
“I’m right here!”
And so she was. Somehow it had been Mara who had kept him from being swept away.
“That was a good one.” She stood waist deep in the water, wiping the hair out of her face. “You feel like doing that again?”
“No.”
Another wave bro
ke on their backs.
“You’re not the only one who didn’t come home.”
“What?”
“Home!”
“What?”
Gabriel began timing the waves, driving forward with each surge, trying to hold his place in the undertow.
Drive and hold.
Drive and hold.
And then he was on his hands and knees in quiet water.
“You okay?”
“Fine!”
Mara helped him to his feet.
“You’re going to love the next part.”
Gabriel didn’t hear the cheering right away.
“Look at that,” said Mara, and she started walking towards a large group of people standing by the tower.
“What are they doing?”
“Waving,” said Mara. “Cheering us on.”
Gabriel straightened up. His pants were soaking wet. His shoes were gone, and he only had one sock. He tucked his shirt in and succeeded in driving more sand into his crotch.
Mara picked something off his forehead and straightened his jacket. Then she headed up the beach towards the people and the dry sand.
“Fix your hair,” she called back. “It looks as though someone tried to drown you.”
94
GABRIEL DID NOT FOLLOW MARA RIGHT AWAY. INSTEAD, HE stood on the shore with the surf snaking about his feet and watched the waves explode over the Apostles. It was an impressive show of force, and he had to admit that the view of this natural cycle was better from where he now stood than from where he had just been.
It was only after he turned to join the people by the tower that he saw the turtle.
A sea turtle. Dragging itself towards the water. A turtle with a depression in its shell and a blood red slash across its neck.
It couldn’t be the same turtle from the tank in the lobby at Domidion, the turtle with whom he had shared his lunch all those years. Surely there were other turtles with indentations in their shells, other turtles with red markings.
That turtle had disappeared in Toronto.
This turtle had appeared on a beach in Samaritan Bay.
“You catch a train or something?”
The turtle was moving slowly, coming right at him. She looked tired. Her fins were ragged and scarred, as though she had crawled a great distance.