Come, Thou Tortoise

  What did Toff do to him.

  I gun it out to the airport. I drive badly, stupidly, with Uncle Thoby’s note open against the steering wheel. Trying to read while driving. Occasionally I look up and there is no one on the road. No one, no one, no one. This is a desert island. I carry on through red lights.

  Does that say London or Lebanon. London. And he does not say why. He does not say goodbye. He says anon.

  I glance up and I am on the Parkway. I am high above the city. On my left the Confederation Building is shaped like a staircase going up and coming back down. On my right, far away, Seagull Hill wears a bright star like a sheriff’s badge for Christmas. Merry Christmas, can I see your licence and registration.

  Flashing lights behind me. Shit. I pull over.

  Merry Christmas, can I see your licence and registration.

  Good morning, sheriff. I’m afraid I’m without licence.

  I’m not a sheriff.

  I do have one. Somewhere.

  The wind fills up his jacket. He glances at the note pressed against the steering wheel. You were driving very erratically, he says.

  But I’m an excellent driver.

  You might have killed someone.

  I didn’t think there was anyone left to kill.

  He looks uneasy now. Anyone left to kill.

  I mean, I thought the roads were empty.

  So you decided to catch up on a little reading.

  We both stare at the note. I decipher the word sorry. And once I do, I see it everywhere. It is all over the note.

  I look up at him.

  He has seen the word too.

  I’m trying to get to the airport, sheriff.

  He nods and thumps the roof. Go on, he says. Git.

  Suddenly I have a thought. The note is not a Goodbye-I’m-off-to-London note. Of course it’s not. It’s a See-you-anon-I’m-seeing-Toff-off note. Because Toff is leaving this morning. That’s right. Toff. Toff is going to London. Not Uncle Thoby. Uncle Thoby is seeing Toff off. Toff off. I like the sound of that.

  Except why would he do that. And why the sorrys. Why Toff’s address.

  Sweatshirt, I’m sorry to live for the clipart like this. Something something stroll something London. See you anon.

  I hang on tight to the word anon. Because that is Uncle Thoby’s word. And he has used it many times, when he is going down to the basement, when he is going across the pond, when he is going out to do an odd job for someone like shovel their driveway or replace a hard-to-reach bulb. He has never used it when going to London. Because he has never gone back to London. Never. The farthest he has gone is the Civil Manor. And whose fault was that.

  I can’t get into the airport because it’s been evacuated for a grenade. People are milling about outside, eating Timbits. Stand back, she’s gonna blow.

  What, the whole airport.

  Just them revolving doors would be nice.

  I scan the crowd. No sign of him. Someone with a similar build, but symmetrical, tells me that the passengers who were already through security have been evacuated elsewhere.

  Oh. I stand next to him because he is the closest thing.

  If Uncle Thoby is not in the parking lot, that means that:

  a) he is a passenger who has already gone through security, or

  b) he is not a passenger but has already said goodbye to Toff and taken a Clint’s cab home, or

  c) he is buying clipart at a store that is open twenty-four hours.

  Twenty minutes later we are given the green light. Not a real grenade after all. A grenade-shaped belt buckle in someone’s checked baggage. All is well. Proceed.

  And so we pour en masse into those ridiculous slow-revolving doors. They immediately seize up. Oh my God is there a limb caught somewhere. Let us pause. Indefinitely.

  Who’s touching the goddamn glass, someone says.

  We all scrunch together. We’re stuck.

  All because of a grenade-shaped belt buckle purchased at the mall in that cheap little store next to the food court. The cheapness of a store is directly proportional to its proximity to the food court, someone says. We all stare at that someone. Really. Anyway, this grenade belt buckle was obviously not so cheap as to not fool security personnel at St. John’s International Airport. Who have been waiting their whole careers for a moment such as this. And now look how it turns out. Humiliating.

  At least they’re scanning checked baggage for grenades, someone says.

  Good to know.

  I feel safer.

  The door moves. We are in.

  I rush upstairs. I will penetrate security, temporarily, sans boarding pass. Make my day, burly man with weapon and Santa hat.

  At the top of the stairs there’s a sign that says COMING SOON: SNIFFER DOGS.

  Burly man picks me up and carries me back through the free-standing rectangle, setting off an alarm. Because he is armed.

  What’s wrong with this picture. He, with gun, is allowed through. I, without gun, am not.

  Get yourself a boarding pass and we’ll talk, missy, he says.

  But I just want to say goodbye to someone.

  Wave your soundproof, bulletproof goodbyes from upstairs.

  There’s an upstairs.

  Observation deck.

  I take the steps two at a time.

  He is at the gate. He is standing at the window looking out at his plane. I am filled with love for his asymmetrical outline.

  I knock on the glass. No one looks up.

  Then I see Toff. He is sitting closer, right under me in fact, reading a newspaper.

  They are on the same flight.

  There is a feeling I get called the feeling of Foul Play, and I am getting that feeling very strongly. It is a bad feeling, but it is also a little bit good. Toff is behind this. Toff has arranged this. I nod to myself.

  This is not a see-you-anon kind of trip. This is not across the pond. This is across the ocean. Via Montreal. But for now let’s not dwell on the stupidity of Air Canada. Uncle Thoby is crossing the ocean via Montreal. Why.

  Because the word I thought was stroll is stroke.

  Your grandmother has had a stroke. She is waiting for me to open her eyes. Must depart.

  Oh. Is that what this is about. Grandmother’s stroke. Of bad luck. Of genius. It’s a trap. A plot. To shuffle us apart.

  I knock on the glass. No one looks up. Pound, pound.

  The observation deck has an outward-sloping window, so you can lean your whole body out over the boarding area and pretend to be parachuting into it. Of course there is a sign that says not to do this.

  Also waiting to board flight 623 to Montreal: Three guys in military fatigues, laughing into cellphones. No doubt they are relating the grenade-belt-buckle debacle to fellow military personnel. Or maybe one of them is the owner of the belt. That would make sense. I mean, if grenades are part of your daily life and have killed a few of your enemies, maybe you develop an aesthetic fondness for them and want to showcase one over your groin.

  I envy them their cellphones. Uncle Thoby and my dad are, were, against cellphones. My dad for the obvious reason: They make people ring. And Uncle Thoby is against them because they are a way of not seeing people in public. But it occurs to me now that a phone is like a heat vent between two people. And I desperately want a heat vent to say Uncle Thoby’s name into.

  Toff looks up. Slowly. Like he has known all along that I was in the ceiling and was just finishing a paragraph first. I point at Uncle Thoby. Get him for me.

  He rubs his beard. Goes back to his paper.

  I smack the glass. Why. Why would he do that.

  A fellow observer on the observation deck says, Excuse me, should you be leaning on the glass like that.

  No, but this is an emergency.

  Oh. Okay, carry on.

  I sidle along the window. Movement will make me more noticeable. I feel like a tap dancer. Turn around, Uncle Thoby. Turn around.

  He does not turn around. They are boarding
now. Uncle Thoby picks up his bag with his long arm. He looks like an extradited prisoner. Or like someone whose brother just died. He and Toff do not stand together. The Canadian army is between them.

  Sniffer dogs will brighten the place right up, someone says behind me. A few yellow Labs.

  I watch until he disappears. Is disappeared.

  I drive home in second gear. I stop at all the red lights, and the green ones too. What just happened. Was Uncle Thoby kidnapped. Or did he decide on his own to go see Grandmother. Why didn’t he wake me. Because he knew I wouldn’t have let him go. I would have made going impossible. That was why he left for the Civil Manor in the middle of the night too.

  Yes but the Civil Manor is not London.

  What was said on the porch last night in lower case voices.

  A knock on the window. I jump.

  Merry Christmas, can I see your licence and registration.

  Good morning, sheriff. How have you been.

  He looks at his watch. Afternoon.

  Is it.

  Any reason why you’re stopped at this intersection. Car trouble.

  I shake my head. I’m just gathering my thoughts.

  He glances at the note, now on the passenger seat. You have a lot of thoughts to gather, I gather, he says.

  Actually just one or two. Two, really.

  Okay. Well. Can I suggest you put on your hazards if you plan to block the intersection.

  Of course. Thanks, sheriff. I turn on my hazards. I start rolling up my window.

  He knocks again. Hi.

  Hi.

  Where you trying to get to, he asks.

  And so he escorts me home. Which is really sweet of him. Because all I have to do is follow his tail lights and stop when he stops and go when he goes. All I have to do is keep up. And without him I might not have made it home before midnight.

  But not so fast. Because when I do get home, finally, and perform the Northwest Shove on the front door, the brass knob comes off in my hand. I try to screw it back in, but it is not screwable. I kneel on the porch. Keep it together. The door, I mean. Keep the door together. I give it a shove. It doesn’t open. You need the knob to perform the NWS.

  Was I rough with it. Did I push to the east instead of the west. I pound the door, briefly.

  Jim Ryan, who is out “touching up” his crescent, calls out, What’s the matter.

  I lift the doorknob.

  He waves me over with his shovel. He says to come inside. He’ll call Murph’s Turf, Lock, and Key. He’ll have her fixed up in no time, Murph will.

  Her is the door, I take it.

  I don’t realize how dark it is until I am sitting in Jim Ryan’s kitchen and he opens the fridge and the light makes me squint. How can it be dark already.

  ’Fraid we don’t have much in the way of refreshments, he says. How about olives.

  Okay.

  And coffee, he says.

  I brighten. I would not say no to some coffee.

  Jim says Mrs. Ryan is out right now remedying the emptiness of the fridge.

  On the table, the brass doorknob looks amazed to be reflecting the inside of someone’s house. It lies on its side like it has fainted.

  Murph is an old friend, Jim says.

  Murph made my Flower Shovel™.

  So you said. Jack of all trades is Murph.

  The coffee burbles. Just the smell makes me feel hopeful. In the doorknob I look nosy. A convex surface will do that. The window behind me is slanted and gold. Snowflakes fall sideways.

  You in some kind of trouble, Jim asks me.

  Sorry.

  I saw a patrol car—

  Oh. The sheriff. He was just escorting me home.

  The sheriff, Jim says.

  I nod.

  The inside of the Ryans’ house reminds me of one of Mrs. Ryan’s floral-printed dresses. It is a bit like being up her skirt. Why don’t we have flowery wallpaper, and why don’t I wear floral-printed dresses. Because that would be too much. Yes. But the Flower Shovel™ is not too much. No. Why. Because it’s not like I carry the shovel around like a trademark. Well, even if I do, there is a limit to how much attention you should draw to your own name. Most of the time you should not be thinking about it.

  Of course my dad did sometimes refer to us—the three of us—as the Bouquet. I think the Bouquet should hit the sack, he’d say. The Bouquet is wilting. Or at least one Flower is. Speak for yourself, Wilter.

  Jim puts two steaming mugs of coffee on the table and two forks. The jar of olives opens with a hiccup.

  Olive olives, I say. Get it.

  He nods. You love olives.

  Jim has a big ring on his right middle finger. What is that about. What does Jim Ryan do for a living. Or did he do. He’s retired. But from what. That ring looks like a bishop’s ring. But he couldn’t be a bishop. I’d have heard about that. Or maybe not. How can I be his biographer, sorry lapsed biographer, and not know if he’s a bishop. We stab our olives and it feels cosy like fondue. He’d have to be an Anglican bishop since he’s married.

  Meanwhile he is discoursing on locks. He can’t believe we’ve never locked our door. I tell him the door seemed locked to people who didn’t know better. He says a thief would be one of those people who knew better. Now your double deadbolt, he goes on. Jim Ryan is a fan of the double deadbolt.

  Apparently with a double deadbolt you have to use a key to get out as well as in. This is not something I want. To unlock myself from the inside. Or do I. Would it make me feel like I owned the outside if I had the key to it.

  It took Uncle Thoby three months to perfect the NWS. My dad put him through an intensive training process. You have to hold the knob and stand with your toes on the threshold. I mean, right up on the step. You have to be at eye level with the door, he said. What eyes, Uncle Thoby said. Well, where the door’s eyes would be if it had them. Then you have to thrust up and to the left, jabbing your left knee into the door’s groin to give it a little encouragement.

  Uncle Thoby fell back off the step, laughing.

  It was not easy to get into our house, but it was easy to get out. Which, now that I think about it, is what you want in a house. The double deadbolt poses an obvious safety hazard. What about fire. Imagine looking around for your key when you’re trying to get out of a burning house. Where is my key to the outside world that is not burning. Where oh where. Sizzle.

  I have been well-drilled in fire safety. Uncle Thoby made sure we had four different fire extinguishers in the house. Each for a special kind of fire. One was for hair and fur. Necessary because I had once caught my ponytail on fire while trying to see my aura in the bathroom mirror with a candle. The hair and fur extinguisher became known as the Oddly extinguisher. Then there was one for ice cream and fat fires. Another for curtains. One for indoor flora (Christmas trees, hedges).

  Ice cream fires, said my dad, reading the instructions. What am I missing.

  When you deep-fry ice cream, said Uncle Thoby.

  Which we do regularly.

  Nine times out of ten when you deep-fry ice cream.

  What.

  House burns down.

  If I refused to go to bed, my dad would pretend to look around for the Oddly extinguisher. Where is that extinguisher. I want to put you out. Now.

  Anon.

  Now.

  Anon.

  Uncle Thoby also organized drills. Sometimes in the middle of the night his harmonica would “go off.” I was responsible for no one but me. I just had to get out of the house, fast. My dad was responsible for Wedge. Uncle Thoby blew the harmonica. Only when we were all safely on the front lawn did he take a breath. Does Jim Ryan remember those drills. Do you remember us all out on the lawn in the middle of the night, Uncle Thoby’s harmonica blaring like a siren.

  Oh yes, he says. God yes.

  Mrs. Ryan comes home with her hands full of bags and says why are we sitting in the dark.

  Audrey’s doorknob came off.

  Yes, but why
are you sitting in the dark.

  Didn’t notice.

  How are you, honey. She touches my cheek. The snowflakes on her coat are disappearing.

  Good.

  Did you call Murph, she asks Jim over my shoulder.

  Yes.

  Mrs. Ryan unzips her boots. She has one tone for Jim and one tone for me. I prefer my tone. When she straightens, her face is flushed. Where’s your uncle, she says.

  He had to go to London.

  Jim stops mid-transfer of bags to the kitchen counter.

  London, says Mrs. Ryan. England.

  I purse my lips. Nod.

  Turn on a light, Jim, for the love of Christ.

  So he does. It is of the overhead variety.

  When did he leave.

  I look at my watch. Um.

  But it’s Christmas, Mrs. Ryan says, her voice all whispery. Which makes me feel like crouching down on the floor. Don’t say that. Don’t say anything against him or I’ll have to hate you. I explain that Grandmother had a stroke. And the stroke caused her to fall. She’s on her last legs, I say, even though I don’t know this for sure.

  Oh. I’m so—

  Can I use your bathroom.

  Of course.

  I take the doorknob with me. Is that weird.

  Last legs, I think, as I climb the stairs. As if we have several sets and then arrive at the last pair. I stop on the landing. There’s a picture of a young Jim Ryan in a cop’s uniform. Well. Mystery solved.

  In the bathroom I tighten my ponytail. Itch my left eye. Pee. Stare at myself in the doorknob while I pee. My eye is red. Look around for the toilet paper. It’s behind me, under a Barbie doll’s flared skirt. Her legs are down inside the roll and her skirt is poufed out over it. So you have to lift up her skirt to get some toilet paper.

  Sorry about that.

  Barbie’s teeth are bared. Is that usual.

  As I come down the stairs I hear Mrs. Ryan say, She’s all alone. And Jim says, She’s got the Russian, sure.

  How can it be dusk already. It’s like the sun came on for a few minutes—when Uncle Thoby’s plane was leaving—and then went out again.

  I was standing by the chain-link fence. His plane was pale blue with a crumpled maple leaf on the tail. Since when is Air Canada pale blue. Like a candy wrapper left in the sun.