Come, Thou Tortoise

  Praise for

  Come, Thou Tortoise

  “Jessica Grant has an engaging, wry and forthright style, which echoes Miriam Toews, Don DeLillo, Lewis Carroll and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (right down to the occasional and appropriate use of illustrations)…. It’s a delight. Pick it up, and prepare to see everything from Methusalan mice to palm trees in England. Pack a lunch. You may end up reading all day.”

  The Globe and Mail

  “The real success here is not the reptilian point-of-view or play-fulness with language, but that Come, Thou Tortoise manages to be touching without excess sediment. Sorry, sentiment.”

  Toronto Star

  “A funny and sad and splendid first novel.”

  Winnipeg Free Press

  “A writer whose work twinkles with wordplay.”

  Ottawa Citizen

  “Come, Thou Tortoise is many things: a story about finding belonging, a paean to the importance of family, a commentary on relationships, and a kindhearted critique of modern life.”

  Quill & Quire

  “A funny yet poignant story of family frailty.”

  Edmonton Journal

  “Come, Thou Tortoise should be issued with a health warning: you will split your sides laughing, your eyes will leak, your heart rate will accelerate, and the abundance of wit will rewire the synapses in your brain…. A tortoise de force.”

  Lisa Moore, author of Alligator

  “In Come, Thou Tortoise, everything on the top shelf is now in the bottom drawer, and all the things you left in your backyard happen to be under your pillow. Mysteriously, this difference is all the encouragement you need to evict nonchalance from your heart. Please—I beg you dear reader—read Jessica Grant.”

  Michael Winter, author of The Architects Are Here

  Contents

  Part One

  ODDLY FLOWERS

  Part Two

  ODDLY THE BIOGRAPHER

  Part Three

  THE PLANE IN THE BASEMENT

  Part Four

  COME, THOU TORTOISE

  Epilogue

  THE GRAND FINALLY

  ODDLY FLOWERS

  The plane is a row of gold circles and a cockpit. One of those circles will carry my head halfway home. I count back fourteen. That circle. In the cockpit the pilots are having a good time. Boy are they. Coffee cups have to be put down. They are really laughing. One puts a hand on the other’s shoulder. Then the one with the hand leans over and kisses the other’s cheek. A quick impulsive happy peck.

  A fellow passenger joins me at the terminal window. Hey, I tell her. Our pilots just kissed.

  No response.

  I’m thinking that kiss bodes well for our safety.

  She pretends she has a cup to throw away.

  That is my plane. With the word NAP resolving on its tail. How do I feel about that acronym. Not great.

  My phone rings and it’s Linda.

  What’s up.

  Winnifred isn’t moving.

  Never assume a tortoise is dead. Rule Number One of Tortoise Ownership. What’s the temperature in your apartment. Remember it’s winter. It’s still dark. She’s not nocturnal. These and other environmental factors have likely caused her to withdraw into her shell. Her heart beats maybe once an hour. Be patient. Wait an hour.

  Still, I crouch down next to the window. Feel the heat coming up from the vent. Is my tortoise dead. Should I go back.

  My own heart is all apatter. This is being alive. Can you feel the body worry before every beat. I can. Will this be the last. No. Will this be the last. No.

  Should I go back.

  I look up at the pilots who are possibly in love and I don’t want to catch any other plane but this one. This is my plane.

  Yesterday I peered down into her castle and she was beside the pool making the same journey I’d seen her start two days ago. I knocked on her shell. Excuse me, Winnifred.

  No legs emerged. No little ancient head.

  I picked her up and held her under my armpit. This usually worked. I did have a heat lamp, but paper castles tend to be flammable.

  Finally she woke up.

  There, I said. I put her in the pool.

  I knelt down beside the castle with windows that look out onto my kitchen. Many times I have seen Winnifred poke her head wistfully through one of those windows. Many times I have seen her drop a piece of lettuce like a note.

  She climbed out of the pool and creaked over to the window.

  I have to go home for a while, I said.

  Winnifred is old. She might be three hundred. She came with the apartment. The previous tenant, a rock climber named Cliff, was about to embark on a rock climbing adventure that would not have been much fun for Winnifred. Back then her name was Iris. Cliff had inherited Iris from the tenant before him. Nobody knew how old Iris was or where she had come from originally. Now Cliff was moving out. He said, Would you like a tortoise.

  I would not say no to a tortoise, I said.

  I was alone in Portland and the trees were giant. I picked her up and she blinked at me with her upside-down eyelids. I felt instantly calm. Her eyes were soft brown. Her skin felt like an old elbow. I will build you a castle, I whispered. With a pool. And I was true to my word.

  Hold her under your armpit, I tell Linda.

  Ugh.

  Trust me.

  And I hang up.

  That was rude, but I am not myself. I am unslept. I am on automatic pilot. This image brought to mind by the pilots who clearly aren’t. What does automatic pilot mean. I picture an inflatable pilot, but that is from a movie. Automatic pilot is just a computer. It is what flies the plane when the pilots take a nap or make out. It is what kicks in metaphorically when your dad is in a comma, sorry coma, and you are summoned home and you must make arrangements for your tortoise.

  Last night I stepped outside carrying Winnifred in her castle and the sky was busy with stars.

  Look, Win, I said. The past. Because the past is what you are looking at when you look at the stars.

  Winnifred looked up.

  That’s where I’m going tomorrow, I said.

  We drove out to Oregon City where the streets are all named after presidents in the order they were elected, so you can’t get lost if you are American and know your presidents. Linda and Chuck live on Taft. When I pulled up, Chuck was outside smoking with his actor friends.

  Evening, Chuck.

  Hey.

  As I climbed the steps, one of the actor friends said, Am I hallucinating or is she carrying a castle.

  Yes, a castle.

  Four people at my gate are knitting. Knitting needles are allowed on planes again. At security there was a new and definitive list of Objects You Cannot Take in Your Carrion Carry-on Luggage. All the usual weapons from the game of Clue were there, minus knitting needles, and with the addition of snow globes.

  I patted my pockets and said, Where’s that snow globe.

  The security woman in blue pinched the bridge of her nose like I was causing her pain right there.

  Move on, please.

  In the little kiosk inside security there were knitting needles and wool for sale. Christmas colours. So knitting is enjoying a revival.

  I limped on to my gate.

  Earlier, in the apartment, I had tripped over my carry-on bag in the dark. I had lain in the dark and thought, I won’t go, I’ve been hurt. I lay there and looked up at the sloped ceiling, still bumpy with Cliff’s climbing holds. Cliff liked to refer to the ceiling as an overhang.

  I had sent him an email saying, My dad is in a comma and waiting for me to open his eyes. Must depart. Apartment available for your use. Tortoise with Linda and Chuck.

  No reply.

  I sent him a second email: I me
ant coma.

  I lay on the floor. My cab with its little Napoleon hat was puffing in the street.

  Get up. Go.

  When the right person arrives at the bedside of the comatose person, the comatose person opens his eyes. Everyone knows this. This is Rule Number One of Comatoseness.

  Yesterday Uncle Thoby called and said, Oddly. There’s been an accident.

  Which word made me sit down on the kitchen floor. Accident, I said.

  Your dad received a severe blow to the medulla oblongata as he was walking home. From, this is unbelievable, a Christmas tree. Hanging sideways out of a pickup truck.

  Uncle Thoby’s voice was okay until he got to pickup truck. Then it broke down. I didn’t understand. Hit by a Christmas tree. Or walking home from a Christmas tree. Or what.

  Hit by. On his way home.

  I thought about this. Finally I said, I have a question. Are you ready.

  Okay.

  Here it is. I’ve got it. What is a medulla oblongata. A brain stem.

  Oh. Right. So a Christmas tree stem had collided with my dad’s brain stem. And now he was in a coma. I put my hand on the back of my neck. I had forgotten that the brain has geography. The human brain is 1,400 cubic centimetres of geography. Our heads fit inside airplane windows for Chrissakes. We are small and we can be pitched out of our geography.

  I’ll come home, I said.

  The man in 14B is reading Out on a Leash by Shirley MacLaine and has not turned a page in fifteen minutes. I watch him in the reflection of my window. Shirley MacLaine is a good writer, so why isn’t he turning. I am finding it hard to appreciate the sunrise going on behind his superimposed book stuck at.

  I turn and glance meaningfully at the book.

  He smiles.

  He is wearing a tweed jacket with a turtleneck and a pendant. The pendant looks like some Celtic business.

  I turn back to the window. As a rule I dislike people who read.

  We are cruising along at our cruising altitude. The sun is a red exit sign. It must be romantic in the cockpit.

  I remain vigilant and concentrate on having a future. On a plane if you don’t concentrate on having a future, you won’t have one. Which is why, despite North American Pacific’s injunction to do otherwise, I never nap on a plane.

  I once saw a guy interviewed who wouldn’t fly between popes. This was his Number One Rule of Flying. Never fly popeless. So after John Paul II died and before Benedict was sworn in, he wouldn’t fly. Thus he missed the big funeral in Rome, which he would otherwise have attended, and the opportunity to touch John Paul II’s brown leather slipper with his dead foot inside. Imagine.

  I am not quite so superstitious as that. But ever since I was a kid (having spent many hours pretending to be a pilot, masterfully negotiating crises such as landing-gear malfunction), I have understood that planes are magic and one thing that keeps them afloat is belief in the magic and another is the web of goodwill among passengers. A plane with its passengers divided against themselves will crash. That is why I am curbing my irritation towards my Celtic neighbour. I am refraining from turning the page for him. Because this would signal hostility and the web of goodwill on board flight 880 would begin to unravel.

  I prefer comma to coma. A pause. My dad will open his eyes and resume consciousness when I get there. I play out the scene in my mind. I will arrive. The hospital room will glow like a cockpit. There will be a bright medical dashboard of some kind. Keeping him aloft. Keeping him alive. His heart will beep. I will pull up a chair with wheels.

  Dad.

  No response.

  Okay. I have to make a speech first. Yes, a moving speech at the bedside. Then he will open his eyes.

  Compose that speech now. Compose it on the plane. Make good use of your time.

  I do not make good use of my time. I study my neighbour in 14B. He reminds me of a Clue suspect who hangs out in the Billiard Room.

  He is still on.

  I think it’s time I force him to interact with his Shirley MacLaine. Excuse me. Certainly. He gets up. The book is dropped on the seat without a bookmark.

  I very much suspect Mr. Tweed with the memoir in 14B.

  I stumble into the aisle. Feet get bigger on planes. At least mine do.

  Steady, says Tweed.

  I’m perfectly fine. Merci.

  Isn’t it amazing that I can stomp around in here and do no damage. That a plane is a legitimate room with a ceiling, floor, and a few bathrooms. Here we all are in audience formation. While under our feet, 37,000 feet of nothing.

  I head for the bathroom because where else is there to go. There’s a lineup. Beverage carts en route. A ball of wool crosses my path. I return it to its owner. Thanks. Welcome. I rock on my heels and survey all the dishevelled heads. I’ve often wondered why the first passengers of commercial airplanes agreed to this seating arrangement. Why did they not put their feet down and say, Audience formation makes us look dumb. Then again, what arrangement of seats would not make us look dumb.

  Someone joins the line behind me. Tweed has decided to make this a group outing.

  He nods. 14A.

  14B, I say.

  The Celtic pendant is made of wire and looks like it could be manipulated into other Celtic shapes. Probably these shapes predict the future or reflect the inner self of the person wearing it. The present shape is a knotty oval. I glance at the face above it. Yes, a knotty oval. I cannot untangle that expression. Mr. Tweed is vaguely smiling but his eyes are sending a sinister beam over my head into the rest of the cabin.

  I follow the gaze. Who. Who is he looking at.

  So. Out on a Leash, I say. A real page-turner.

  The gaze lowers. Sorry.

  My dad read Out on a Limb to me when I was a kid. One of Shirley’s first books. But isn’t Out on a Leash told by her dog. Because my dad would not approve of that. Too Walt Disney. So is it.

  What.

  Told by her dog.

  Tweed has been sharing some eye contact with the driver of an approaching beverage cart. She is tall with a long neck and the word NAP across her breast.

  Couldn’t tell you, he says.

  Interesting, I say. Yet you’re on.

  No doubt Shirley MacLaine has made many speeches at the bed-sides of comatose people and they have all woken up. Yes, they have all opened their eyes to see Shirley and her dog right there beside the bed, because who could resist a duo like that.

  Well, my dad. But who else.

  On the cover of Out on a Leash, Shirley is cuddling her dog and they have exactly the same eyes.

  Out on a Limb had a very different cover, as I recall. A younger Shirley on a beach. In a sweatshirt. Arms akimbo. She was not holding a dog.

  There might have been a dog running somewhere in the background.

  We never finished that book.

  A speech at the bedside of a comatose person should probably include:

  an apology for the late arrival at the bedside

  a lot of encouragement

  a question the comatose person will really want to answer, or

  a false statement the comatose person will really want to correct

  hand holding

  tears

  a walk down memory lane

  laughter combined with tears during the walk down memory lane

  a long look out the window

  a brief moment of forgetting the comatose person is comatose, followed by

  shaking of head, blinking, and disbelief

  an inspiring quotation

  an account of heroic acts performed en route to the bedside

  the solution to a great mystery

  I am next in line for the bathroom. Here comes the beverage cart. I flatten myself against the door. Tweed scrunches himself into a row of seats. Christ he’s a big man. He looks like Atlas carrying the world, except he’s Atlas carrying an overhead bin. In this position his jacket falls open and the Celtic pendant swings like a pendulum. It is quite hypnotic, that pe
ndulum. It seems to be gesturing. Look, it says. Look. Under the jacket. A gun. A gun.

  Which object I distinctly recall had not been removed from the list of Objects You Cannot Take in Your Carrion Carry-on Luggage.

  The beverage cart rolls past. Tweed steps into the aisle. The bathroom door opens. It is my turn. And I have to make a decision. Am I going to disarm a hijacker. Or am I going to pee. Pray you never have to make this decision.

  I jab a finger over Tweed’s shoulder. Hey, here comes the pilot.

  The idiot turns. It all happens quickly. I am very quick. The snap on the holster (a mere snap!) is already unsnapped.

  It is remarkably easy to disarm a hijacker.

  Me. With the Revolver—is it a Revolver—in the Lavatory. It is not a Revolver. It looks nothing like the Clue game piece I used to point at my dad when he said, You’re going back to the Conservatory.

  Tweed’s gun is a capital L for loaded. Heavy, sinister. Nothing in this machine revolves. No, the bullets will burst forth from its dark interior in rapid and endless succession. This is what they call a piece. This is what they call heat.

  I have a bad moment where I feel hot and in pieces. I put the gun in the sink. Imagine bullets ricocheting off all the metal in here. Holy.

  Someone is pounding the door. Guess who.

  I think of the two lovebird pilots and feel like crying with relief that they are safe. But are they. There could be other hijackers. Of course there are others. Who was Tweed looking at with that steely gaze. Will I have to engage in a gunfight to protect the pilots. Am I prepared to do that. Yes.

  Are the pilots safe is all I can think about.

  There is much commotion outside. A flight attendant identifies herself as Tuesday Miller and says, Ma’am.

  I sit down on the toilet. Tuesday Miller sounds pretty calm. Has Tweed got a plastic knife to her throat.

  That was an air marshal’s gun you—