Juliet Was a Surprise (3 page)

“I was sort of hoping we would,” Adam said. He looked genuinely hopeful, boyish.

As he watched Adam and Eden play their parts, he considered her use of the word “ordained,” and the bag of apples, which was so biblical as to be funny. He wondered if the apples were planned, or spontaneous slapstick on Adam's part. And now the supposed change of plan, of Eden coming along. It occurred to him that no one, not a soul, except the McGregors—but who could say they weren't a part of this?— knew where he was. He hadn't told his wife, an omission that had felt vital at the time. As for his work, he was over two years into his extended leave, and most ties there had stretched and broken.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Can you wait one minute? I have to go up and …”

Adam said of course, he had to get the rods ready anyway. Eden asked if he wouldn't mind bringing down a thermos of water or, she said in singsong, “something stronger.” Stepping through the cattails he heard her ask Adam to put some lotion on her back.

He dug the number from the depths of his wallet. An odd European number with more than one area code, he'd dialled it perhaps three times in the half-dozen years since Casey had gone there. Theirs was a profound and troubling relationship, one where not calling always felt as richly significant as calling. He suspected Casey felt the same. They'd never been able to talk about meaningful things; their conversations resembled a small red canoe moving superficially across the lake of what mattered. Casey had been adopted. He was one of the first proofs he had received that nothing happens by accident. Seeming chaos was always choreography, but more complex, and more tightly woven. Your role was yours to find, and the barriers to finding it were towering—career, medication, psychiatry, the visible world, logic itself. But the truth was luminous. It was as exciting as magic.

And he was excited on the walk up to the house. The sun cooking his neck. The fabric of his shirt teasing his skin. The smell of the grass as it respired, sending his nose the choreography of water and chlorophyll. The bronze doorknob—he could feel tarnish though it wasn't raised, and though soundless he heard the inner springs and gears of the mechanism as he turned it. Clarity was getting more consistent, and closer.

As he'd hoped, Casey's voicemail came on. He found his son's voice unsettling; he'd never been comfortable with its higher register. Casey asked, in both English and French, that callers leave the date, time and purpose of their call. He sounded the crisp bureaucrat.

The voice caught him and he hesitated too long. He had to hurry through his message.

“Casey, it's your father. It's Dad. I'll be quick. I'm going … I'm going fishing, trout fishing. I might be in some kind of trouble, I don't know. So if you don't hear from me again by tomorrow, I'm at Pinanten Lake, B.C., renting a house from the McGregors. Mom doesn't know any of this. Okay.” He wondered what more he might say, until a beep sounded.

He found a thermos, held his finger under the tap as the water got cold and ran over his message in his mind, wondering what his son might make of it. He hadn't wanted to sound disturbing—or even worse, crazy—but he could think of no better way of telling the
truth
, so to speak. He'd only been accurate. Still, if Casey decided he was already in trouble, how long would it take for an address to be found and authorities contacted?

It occurred to him that it might have not only
sounded
like a cry for help but
been
a cry for help. Did some hidden, frightened shadow-self want police to show up tomorrow and … what?

Well, if the police did come, he could always just show them that everything was fine. He could introduce them to his young friends. At that point he could check everyone's eyes, the police too, see if they pretended not to know each
other, hopefully discover how far-reaching the scenario was this time.

He found himself gripping the door frame and staring into the hall closet, blinking, as if searching for something he needed for fishing. He truly needed sleep. The coffee hadn't helped, hadn't been good for him. He was deadly tired, yet on the opposite side of calm. He cocked his head to a crow yelling from the ridge of trees that separated the McGregors' yard from the neighbours', but he didn't know what it meant. He was getting frustrated with being unable to tell even a warning from a welcome. Generally you just knew, but when they sounded or looked identical, your only chance was to open up and see under the surface of things. Which had been the whole point in coming here.

Recalling from another time a trick for staying aware, he rummaged through kitchen drawers and cupboards. Peppercorns were good, but he found none, and in the end he settled on wooden matchsticks. He dumped a couple dozen from the box and snapped them in half. With duct tape he painstakingly taped all the jagged bits to his bare ankles and feet, tops and bottoms, binding them tightly.

Two perched crows watched him try to take normal steps as he navigated the lawn. The flip side to the matchsticks and duct tape was that he'd had to don shoes and socks to hide things. They were brown leather shoes and white socks and didn't go with his bathing suit or, he guessed, with paddling a canoe. He didn't mind being ugly but feared his outfit might give away that he was on to them and would not be distracted, no matter what lure or drama they used.

Halfway down the lawn he had an idea. He turned painfully and doubled back. In the fridge he found some mustard, the brownish European kind, and applied an earnest layer to his nose. He checked himself in the hall mirror and with a finger fashioned a pointed little flip of mustard at the nose tip. He would tell them it was a new and superior sunscreen from Germany. If they saw past this shield and asked about his wearing dress shoes in a canoe, he would tell them that the last time he'd been fishing his son hooked him in the foot, right between the toes. Anyone who'd suffered that would never fish again without shoes, he'd say.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and he smiled at the man with ball cap and sunglasses and ochre nose with its elfishly curled tip. Of course, if they were on his side—he still held out hope that they were—they'd understand these precautions. They could all laugh together after they revealed themselves. But he mustn't be deluded by this hope. That was what usually got him in trouble.

HE STROKED STRONGLY
and alertly from the rear while Adam dipped a seemingly calmer paddle up front. In the middle, Eden kneeled in a regal posture, having joked about being an Egyptian queen. Her arms hung straight down from her shoulders.

He'd forgotten to bring water or beer but they'd forgiven him and Adam had sprinted up for three beers after Eden comically batted her lashes. Her top was back on. When Adam returned with three cans (and where had
they
come from?) he
tried to commandeer the rear seat, saying he'd been a camp counsellor and could scull a canoe into a dock sideways, and quipped that men with yellow noses couldn't be trusted to steer. Neither of them mentioned his feet. But there was no way he was going to let both Adam and Eden sit behind him, let alone steer. He refused and told them that he was also expert, and once they'd cast off and paddled a small distance, he saw what it took to steer. Though he jolted them a few times he thought he did a fairly convincing job, but after the failed negotiations there on the dock, Adam and Eden pretended to be angry and neither spoke to him.

The water, the naked fact of floating on it and moving through it, was thrilling. Anyone's small shift of balance was instantly felt by the other two, a communication so intimate it wasn't unlike sharing one long body. When they approached the middle of the lake, he didn't like it when a fish jumped right beside them. It was a ridiculously large trout and such a blatant lure to “come fishing” that it felt heavily portentous and dark, especially as it happened in the deepest, most isolated part of the lake. Adam pretended to be excited by it. The plan had been to paddle to the span of reeds on the other side, because that was where most boats appeared to gather, but after the trout jumped, Adam wanted to fish right there and then. Eden had the rods lying to either side of her, and Adam asked her to pass him one.

But he ignored Adam and kept paddling, even when they questioned him. When he ignored them long enough, they stopped talking. So he was succeeding. They were learning who exactly they had taken on. He began to feel immensely proud,
even to the point of taking deep, ecstatic breaths, which he noticed in time and recalled from the past and stopped. But not soon enough.

“Know what?” Eden said softly. “I think I'd like to go back.”

He was careful not to change his paddle stroke. Adam didn't speak.

“I'm maybe feeling a little seasick, you know?” she added.

“Want us to turn around?” asked Adam, gently.

“I dunno. What do you think, honey?” She did a good job sounding vulnerable.

“Captain?” said Adam, rather too loud. “What say we head back. We can do this thing another time, maybe.”

“No,” he said. “I really want to go in … there.” He lifted his paddle to point in the direction they were headed, a dark gap in the bank of reeds. He'd been watching it for some time. Yesterday he'd seen two canoes emerge from it. It was a stream or inlet.

“That's the channel I heard about,” said Adam. He cupped a hand over his eyes, gazing like a sailor. “It goes to a second lake. Little Pinanten.”

He wasn't sure if he liked that Adam knew about it, but he kept paddling. It wasn't far. He could see that the channel was no more than eight or ten feet wide. Now Eden was acting angry with Adam, who in turn acted excited about their new adventure, marvelling at how narrow the channel was, and how tropical looking, and then blurting, “African Queen!” Which might have been a mistake on his part, joining her earlier comment about Egypt and revealing the choreography in too broad a hint.

And only now, watching Eden kneeling no more than two feet in front of him, did he consider what he'd been taking in all along. Her hands resting on her thighs, her spine straight— this posture would be called “pert,” except for the strategic, languid rolling of her shoulders in rhythm to their paddling. It was adept and perfect in its subtlety. Of course she knew he watched her. Her communication couldn't be more direct. Her bare skin, luscious tan. From her bum crack, peaking above her bikini bottoms, a tattooed blue hand waved at him. He could smell her, a confusing mix of scents. Appropriately, comically, a tackle box full of lures lay not an inch from her bum. They would know, probably to the month and day, how long he'd been without sex.

He saw how easily she could overwhelm him if he paid her any more attention at all. He raised his gaze. He wriggled his ankles to locate the many pains of the matchsticks.

He was almost certain now that they weren't on his side. And he sensed that whatever happened, good or bad, it would happen in Little Pinanten Lake.

About fifty yards from the mouth of the channel he began a careful, curving aim toward it. He had gotten good at steering. Everything was coming together smoothly. Even the several boats in the area, soundlessly propelled by their tiny electric motors, had been elegantly dispersing.

“It really might be fun,” said Adam, pausing in his paddling to regard the approaching mouth, “to see where this goes.”

Eden offered a sarcastic “Mmhmm.”

Their acting was so obvious it was insulting. From behind
her he snorted loudly, and waited. When neither said anything to this, he asked, “When will you reveal yourselves?”

Adam stopped paddling again and turned painfully around to look at him, peering over his sunglasses. The canoe wobbled with this awkwardness.

In a tone that was almost convincing, Eden whispered shakily, “Martin? I'm a little scared …”

It wasn't the use of “Adam's” real name that made him act, it was the sudden appearance of the duckling, which surfaced not far to the right of the canoe, instantly followed by a full-grown loon, which surfaced perhaps five feet away from it, quickly closed the distance and attacked with what would have been a lethal peck, had it connected. The duckling, which looked tired, shaggy and damaged from other pecks, dived again, and then so did the loon.

It was all he needed. She wasn't wearing a life jacket, so he had to get Adam, Martin, first. It was hard finding leverage while sitting, but as best he could he swung the paddle blade over Eden, or whatever her name was, and clipped Adam, Martin, just above the ear. It sounded and felt solid, but Adam, Martin, only hunched down into a ball, still conscious, clutching both hands to his head, his paddle dropped, drifting. Eden screamed words of some sort and, as if it were possible, lurched at both him and Adam at the same time, torn. He stood, balancing frantically with knees bent, and took another swing at Adam's, Martin's, head. The paddle blade caught the air like a wing, or maybe it hit something unseen, for at killing speed it lifted and missed his skull by an inch.

This swing toppled them. The water was nonsensically icy and he thought, Of course, they were high in the mountains. He felt his breath come in gasps, watched his body breaststroke toward the mouth of the channel into the reeds. He could hear her screaming, and a moan from her partner in answer.

He smiled at their surprise, whoever they were. He'd done well, as well as could be expected, but things might get ragged now. The pure and necessary always fell to the ragged and confusing. He neared the channel mouth and slowed his stroke; there was no way she would come after him, no matter how powerful a swimmer she might be. If she did follow him, into these reeds, it would be incredible, it would be fantastic— not only proof that this was all ordained, but also the most powerful choreography he'd ever been invited into. But she no longer felt a part of it.

Despite the life jacket it was hard going, partly because his dress shoes were useless for swimming. Breaststroking and breathing hard, he finally made the channel. He touched a foot down, could stand if he wanted to. He knew by her periodic screams that she hadn't followed. He let his feet settle into what felt like mud. He sculled himself forward while walking, head and shoulders above the water. Remarkably, he hadn't thrown his back out. He'd lost his hat but still wore his sunglasses; he took them off to shake away the drips, then replaced them. The channel was close-walled with reeds, about ten feet wide and winding. He turned the first corner. Her screams stopped. Perhaps a boat had arrived to help them. On the reedy bank not three feet from his face a big turtle startled at his approach and plunged in, and because the thing had launched itself in
his direction, the absurd image arose of the turtle attacking him underwater, and it was real enough that he held his breath and tensed for it. When it didn't happen, he understood that he had just absorbed something of its power.