Eleven Twenty-Three, page 40
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What do you mean, look at his watch?”
“The one time Hajime went under during the eleven twenty-three, he succeeded neither in killing himself nor anyone else. Then eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds later, he actually had to check his watch to confirm the time he was supposed to pass out. Doesn’t that mean something to you? Doesn’t it seem just a bit odd?”
I say nothing, and lean over the railing to peer over the side. Below, there’s only water and the occasional whitecap. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man rubbing at his temples several feet back. Then I notice that no one else on the bridge is walking anymore, either. No one else is pedaling their bicycles or gliding along on their rollerblades. No one chats on their cell phone or sends messages from their Blackberry. All motion, all semblance of normality across the footpath, has ceased.
“The reason I know we’re meant to be together is because my brother has willed it, Layne. He’s wanted it from the beginning.”
“I love my girlfriend, Mitsuko,” I mutter. “That never changed. Even last summer.”
“Yeah, maybe, but Tara isn’t going where we’re going, sweetie. So cheer up. Kiss me.”
Mitsuko tugs at my jacket and tries to reel me in. I resist, and when she finally manages to get me to face her, I look at the sky. I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I look anywhere else.
“It’s just you and me, Layne. There is no one else.”
“If I walk away right now and leave you here, will you jump?” I ask, grinning at the possibility.
She considers this for a moment and coughs.
“Why don’t you try it and see?”
I immediately break away from her grip and resume walking toward Marin County. The fog surrounds us, and instantly the horns bellow into the mist, warning ships to stay clear. Mitsuko doesn’t follow this time.
When I finally peek over my shoulder, she is standing in the same place I left her, arms folded and a smirk across her face. But the man who was rubbing his temples has climbed onto the railing. So has the old woman farther back, who sits on the balustrade with her feet dangling over the side. The young college student walking his dog a few feet down is on the railing too, still clutching the Yorkie in his lap.
The more I peer out into the fog, the more it becomes clear to me that everyone on the bridge has done the same thing, and harbor the same inescapable urge.
“Mitsuko—what is—what are they—?”
Everyone on the Gate simultaneously leaps from the railing. The divorced middle-aged men and widowed old women, the failed writers and depressed college freshmen, the war veterans and bankrupt entrepreneurs, the schizophrenic mail men and bored nine-to-fivers…they all jump, and they all plummet into the black ink below. Only Mitsuko and I remain.
Tara regains consciousness not long before we get into Orlando. She coughs from the acidic odor of throw up, which slides up and down the floor and creates patterns as the truck wobbles and merges in Tuesday night traffic. I help her to sit up, and cradle her in my arms. She’s weak. Her skin feels prosthetic.
“What’s going on?” Tara asks sleepily.
“Um…quite a bit, actually,” I say. “Mr. Scott has had much to tell me.”
“Did he tell you that this is all simply a bad dream?” she murmurs, still groggy from whatever the suited Japanese man did to us back in the woods. “Did he tell you the truth, which is that we’re both simply asleep in Suzhou right now, and that our family and friends are alive and well back home? Please tell me that this was part of the debriefing he gave you.”
“Not really, Sunshine.”
Mr. Scott watches us and smiles.
“You know, you’re actually very lucky,” he tells me.
“Explain that statement before I go over there and strangle you, asshole. How could either of us even remotely consider ourselves lucky at this point? Even as some kind of obtuse, wholly abstract comment, what you just said is preposterous.”
“I just mean that you’re lucky to have her with you. For them to have allowed both of you to escape together like this, that’s—well, it’s not standard operating procedure for these people, believe me. The truth is that they only need you for their next objective, Layne. Tara was just as expendable as everyone else back there. No offense or anything, Tara. But consider yourself blessed with the small favor of having a friend on the inside. Lydia—that was my wife’s name—she wasn’t so well-connected. She died the very first night.”
“Look, man,” I begin, “I’m really sorry about that but—”
“Consider yourself lucky, Layne. You two get to stay together, even if the circumstances aren’t exactly ideal.”
Shortly after that, the truck pulls off the Interstate and slows down for the first toll booth.
“So now then,” Mr. Scott says. “We’re almost there now, so I suppose this is as good a time as ever.”
“Good a time as ever for what?”
Mr. Scott clears his throat and leans in toward us.
“Want to know what’s in that briefcase you’ve been carrying?”
Meredith Prescott looks out at the glowing red lanterns that dangle from wires strewn across the canal. She gazes in awe at the fireworks exploding in brilliant colors over our heads. Saggy men in stained wife-beaters wave to us as our boat passes. Children splash their feet into the water at their doorsteps. Pale tan women and their pale tan mothers-in-law stir hand rolled jiao zi around in huge steel cauldrons, honoring New Year’s tradition.
“I can see what you mean, baby boy,” she beams. “This is absolutely amazing. How long did you say the fireworks will last? At least a week?”
“More like fifteen days or so,” I tell her, putting my arm around my mother’s shoulder. “This is China’s big year, after all. It’s 2008, which is lucky in and of itself because of the eight; the Olympics are in a few months; the nation’s economy is booming; everything is great here. In fact, there’s going to be so many fireworks that by the time the celebrations finally end in a couple of weeks, you’ll have shell shock and a thousand yard stare.”
My mother giggles. I hold her close. The old man rowing the boat flashes us a rotten-toothed grin and resumes his course down the narrow canals of Suzhou.
“You know, Paul would have hated it here,” my mother says. “With the exception of the massage parlors and tea houses, he wouldn’t have much to do, would he?”
“I guess, Mom. It doesn’t matter though, does it? You’re here now, and we have about a million things to see together. So let’s enjoy it and not talk about him anymore. Okay?”
She nods and continues leering at the fireworks bursting in the January sky. I look up too, but can’t concentrate. Something is amiss. I wrinkle my nose and detect something in the air, something faint that grows stronger the deeper the boat heads into the canal.
“Do you smell that?” I ask.
My mother ignores my question and lowers her hand over the side. Two of her fingers graze the surface of the water, creating lines that expand across the surface. The smell is stronger now. It’s something I used to love as a kid, and told everyone that I’d wear as cologne if I could. No one believed me.
“You know, baby boy, I love it here so much that I think I might stay for a while,” Mom mutters, no longer watching the fireworks. She gazes absently into the water instead. The water gazes back into her.
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s just—it’s just so nice here, why would I want to leave? In fact, why would either of us? Back in Lilly’s End there’s cat hair on the furniture, my pot roasts are always getting burnt, and I’m alone, Layne. I’m always alone. But here, in this moment, everything is all right. Don’t you understand? Here, your father never abandoned us and we never have to attend another funeral. Here, we can just celebrate the present moment forever and don’t have to worship the past anymore. We can—”
“Mom, get your hand out of the water,” I interrupt. “There’s something wrong with it. It’s bad. Get your hand out now.”
She brings her arm back into the boat and slaps it against her thigh. Liquid splatters across her blouse. She plunges her hand back in again and splashes more water up into the boat, soaking her entire lap.
But it’s not water anymore, I realize.
It’s gasoline. The entire canal is full of gasoline.
“Layne, you still smoke, right?” she asks.
Before I can answer, however, the Chinese man paddling the boat turns around in his seat to face us. Except when he opens his mouth this time, he no longer flashes a macabre yellow grin, but instead two rows of straight white teeth. His black oily hair is shorter and dried out from too much hairspray. He’s taller than before. He only speaks English. He is my father’s son.
The man driving the boat is me.
And I’m lighting a cigarette.
It’s a black leather Schlesinger American Belting attaché case, four-and-a-half inches deep, eighteen-and-three-quarters by thirteen-and-one quarter inch in size. It radiates nothing. It hints only at modern ubiquity. If not for the metal coil and handcuff emerging from the handle plate or the myriad dents, bloodstains, and scratches all along the surface, this case would look no different than any other. The world would ignore it.
Tara and I stare transfixed at it for some time before I finally relinquish my hold and slide it over to Mr. Scott.
He gingerly takes it from me and inspects it in the fluorescent light. Then he rests it on my lap. We watch as he reaches down and begins turning the three number wheels on the left side. I can hear the click as he moves from digit to digit. The sound seems to go on forever.
He stops the first lock on the numbers *** [at the request of the author, the combination will remain undisclosed] and there is a sharp snap as the left side of the briefcase pops open.
Mr. Scott moves on to the second lock. No one breathes. Not even him.
I watch as he positions the wheels on the *, the *, and the *.
From inside the case, an insignificant beeping sound. On the outside, a loud click.
I exhale, half-expecting the case to suddenly erupt in a fiery explosion, spew sarin gas, or begin speaking to us in Enochian tongue. It doesn’t.
“Are you going to take the handcuff off too?” I ask in a low voice, afraid of disturbing it.
“I was instructed not to do that until we arrived at the hotel,” he says. “But you can look inside now, if you want. See what you’ve been carrying around with you this entire time. Go ahead.”
Tara clutches my battered arm, which causes it to spasm. The pain is almost unbearable. We exchange a glance and I reach down.
I open the case wide and rub my hands against my pants feverishly, trying to get the sweat off.
The three of us peer down into its recesses.
Attached to the handle plate and connected to wires running through the metal coil of the handcuff is a small black box dotted with a tiny green light and another red. The green one is illuminated now, indicating that the case has not been compromised. Emerging from the black box are more wires, which run along the sides of the compartment and feed into cylinders full of what I imagine is a very strong dye or acid. If one were to attempt to force the case open in any way, the sensors in the box would detonate and spray the chemical agent all over the contents therein, destroying them.
I reach in and push aside five folders, looking for the device that squelches any signals at eleven twenty-three. When I discover nothing else inside except for the folders, I grab them and toss them out onto the bench. I rummage around inside, knowing there’s nothing else there but continuing my search anyway.
“What—I mean, where is the—where is the machine that kept me from turning?”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Scott says, cracking a grin. “Machine?”
“Yeah,” I nod, completely mystified. “Where’s the—where’s the thing that kept me from turning at eleven twenty-three like everyone else?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Layne. All this case ever contained was documents. Just like mine.”
He holds out his scarred wrist for us to inspect, but I’m not paying attention.
“No, no, no,” I say, losing it. “Look, I handcuffed this goddamned thing to my wrist because I was told that if I did, I wouldn’t turn again. So don’t tell me now that there was nothing in here all along but a fucking stack of papers, Scott. Don’t even try. I’ve had this thing with me for four fucking days, and if I’d known there was nothing inside it, I never would have—”
“There is something inside it, as you can plainly see: documents. Important documents that you’re going to need. So don’t worry about—”
“There was nothing in here all along but a stack of papers!?”
“We kept you from turning again, didn’t we?” he says. “And you weren’t the only one. There were others, scattered around Lilly’s End from the beginning. They kept them from turning, as well, for reasons that were vital to the project and yet will remain undisclosed to us. Each of you were administered something that would prevent you from succumbing to the sickness. It required time to take effect, but it did, and you were spared thereafter. So does it really matter the circumstances by which you were kept out of harm’s way?”
“Yes!” I scream. “It does matter. It always mattered—oh my god. How was it administered? And by whom?”
He doesn’t answer. The empty case falls from my lap and lands on the floor with a metallic thud. It dangles uselessly from my wrist.
“It was imperative, Layne, that you escape from Lilly’s End by any means necessary, and further, that you followed orders and brought the briefcase with you. It was a seminal part of the training, you see.”
The truck stops for another toll booth. Everything is spinning. My vision becomes blurred. I sit down and bury my head in my hands. Mr. Scott reaches over and picks up the five manila folders from the bench. He places them on my lap and returns to his seat, waiting for me to calm down and begin reading.
Paul Prescott runs his fingers through damp crystalline sand and brings up a handful for closer inspection.
Nothing. He tosses the sand away and grabs more. Again. The sky is brown today. It’s been sprinkling for several minutes and the sand is clumped and soggy when my father and I grab handful after handful, looking for something. I glance in both directions along the shoreline, but see only a vast expanse of sad yellow dunes that fade out into a tired ocean. The beach is deserted. There are dim lights coming from the hotels and restaurants and stilted houses along the shoreline, but they’re deceptive: this town has been vacant for some time.
The waves are rough today. In the distance, rumbling gray clouds are churning their way toward the End. There’s a storm approaching.
“The trick,” my father says, rummaging through the sand, “is to always—”
He stops, says nothing. We go on looking. Behind us, the lighthouse beam comes to life and shines out into the Atlantic. I try to concentrate on the sand, at how it clumps and forms tiny mountains as I slide my fingers through it. I try to focus on the way the grains cling to my skin, aching for escape, for movement.
But I can’t. All I can think about is the storm. That it’s coming and we’re not prepared for it.
“The trick is to always be the—” my father begins again, but is flummoxed, speechless.
He throws his hand through the dirt with greater and greater irritation, until finally he’s punching at the little dunes, kicking at them and cursing. He grabs huge armfuls of sand and launches them into the air, peering into the grains as they rain back down on him. It gets lodged in his eyes and he’s blinded, rubbing feverishly at his face, losing his cool. He stomps around, baying like a Russian drunk. When he finally lowers his arms and blinks the grit out, his crow’s feet are swollen and red. Tears roll down his face. His hair looks grayer, thinner. He’s ashamed and dying.
There are no shells on the beach.
Paul Prescott sighs.
“Well, I guess there will be no father-son lesson today after all, huh?”
“It’s okay, Dad,” I say quietly, looking out into the whitecaps. “You’ve handed out this lesson before, remember? Many times over, in fact.”
“Yeah, but you never really listened to me, did you, son? I can tell.”
I notice that he’s looming over me now, staring down at this lone progeny of his, who despite Paul’s best efforts and prayers, grew into a man that bathes in defeat and speaks in a language of excuses and vague three-year plans. What a disappointment I must have been to him.
“There are no shells on this beach,” he finally declares, walking several feet away with his eyes fixated on the ground. He comes back, shaking his head. “What do you think it means, Layne?”
“I doubt that it means anything, Dad,” I answer, looking at the churning clouds making their way toward Florida. “It just means there are no shells. That’s all.”
I don’t believe this though, and my father knows it. He goes on staring at me, but not with the same calculating demeanor that I’ve known for so long. He’s not measuring my anti-worth as his only child, or that I’ve never seen Portland. He’s not thinking about the fact that I’m a schoolteacher with no students, or that I’ve fled to a place where my closest ally is anonymity. He’s no longer considering my $17.22 American checking account balance or that time I asked him what a mortgage was.
Paul Prescott is thinking only of shells. How they’re gone, and in their place miles and miles of sand remain. All around us is sand. The shoreline is entirely devoid of its usual sun-bleached coquinas, chitons, conchs, bivalves, and wentletraps. There is nothing out there now but trillions of lifeless pebbles eroding in the wind.
There’s nothing worth remembering here.
When I look up again several minutes later, ready to face my father’s next lecture, he’s no longer towering over me. I scan the track of buildings dotting the beach, and then peer out into the endless lines of dull brown retreating north and south, away from here.
“The one time Hajime went under during the eleven twenty-three, he succeeded neither in killing himself nor anyone else. Then eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds later, he actually had to check his watch to confirm the time he was supposed to pass out. Doesn’t that mean something to you? Doesn’t it seem just a bit odd?”
I say nothing, and lean over the railing to peer over the side. Below, there’s only water and the occasional whitecap. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man rubbing at his temples several feet back. Then I notice that no one else on the bridge is walking anymore, either. No one else is pedaling their bicycles or gliding along on their rollerblades. No one chats on their cell phone or sends messages from their Blackberry. All motion, all semblance of normality across the footpath, has ceased.
“The reason I know we’re meant to be together is because my brother has willed it, Layne. He’s wanted it from the beginning.”
“I love my girlfriend, Mitsuko,” I mutter. “That never changed. Even last summer.”
“Yeah, maybe, but Tara isn’t going where we’re going, sweetie. So cheer up. Kiss me.”
Mitsuko tugs at my jacket and tries to reel me in. I resist, and when she finally manages to get me to face her, I look at the sky. I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I look anywhere else.
“It’s just you and me, Layne. There is no one else.”
“If I walk away right now and leave you here, will you jump?” I ask, grinning at the possibility.
She considers this for a moment and coughs.
“Why don’t you try it and see?”
I immediately break away from her grip and resume walking toward Marin County. The fog surrounds us, and instantly the horns bellow into the mist, warning ships to stay clear. Mitsuko doesn’t follow this time.
When I finally peek over my shoulder, she is standing in the same place I left her, arms folded and a smirk across her face. But the man who was rubbing his temples has climbed onto the railing. So has the old woman farther back, who sits on the balustrade with her feet dangling over the side. The young college student walking his dog a few feet down is on the railing too, still clutching the Yorkie in his lap.
The more I peer out into the fog, the more it becomes clear to me that everyone on the bridge has done the same thing, and harbor the same inescapable urge.
“Mitsuko—what is—what are they—?”
Everyone on the Gate simultaneously leaps from the railing. The divorced middle-aged men and widowed old women, the failed writers and depressed college freshmen, the war veterans and bankrupt entrepreneurs, the schizophrenic mail men and bored nine-to-fivers…they all jump, and they all plummet into the black ink below. Only Mitsuko and I remain.
Tara regains consciousness not long before we get into Orlando. She coughs from the acidic odor of throw up, which slides up and down the floor and creates patterns as the truck wobbles and merges in Tuesday night traffic. I help her to sit up, and cradle her in my arms. She’s weak. Her skin feels prosthetic.
“What’s going on?” Tara asks sleepily.
“Um…quite a bit, actually,” I say. “Mr. Scott has had much to tell me.”
“Did he tell you that this is all simply a bad dream?” she murmurs, still groggy from whatever the suited Japanese man did to us back in the woods. “Did he tell you the truth, which is that we’re both simply asleep in Suzhou right now, and that our family and friends are alive and well back home? Please tell me that this was part of the debriefing he gave you.”
“Not really, Sunshine.”
Mr. Scott watches us and smiles.
“You know, you’re actually very lucky,” he tells me.
“Explain that statement before I go over there and strangle you, asshole. How could either of us even remotely consider ourselves lucky at this point? Even as some kind of obtuse, wholly abstract comment, what you just said is preposterous.”
“I just mean that you’re lucky to have her with you. For them to have allowed both of you to escape together like this, that’s—well, it’s not standard operating procedure for these people, believe me. The truth is that they only need you for their next objective, Layne. Tara was just as expendable as everyone else back there. No offense or anything, Tara. But consider yourself blessed with the small favor of having a friend on the inside. Lydia—that was my wife’s name—she wasn’t so well-connected. She died the very first night.”
“Look, man,” I begin, “I’m really sorry about that but—”
“Consider yourself lucky, Layne. You two get to stay together, even if the circumstances aren’t exactly ideal.”
Shortly after that, the truck pulls off the Interstate and slows down for the first toll booth.
“So now then,” Mr. Scott says. “We’re almost there now, so I suppose this is as good a time as ever.”
“Good a time as ever for what?”
Mr. Scott clears his throat and leans in toward us.
“Want to know what’s in that briefcase you’ve been carrying?”
Meredith Prescott looks out at the glowing red lanterns that dangle from wires strewn across the canal. She gazes in awe at the fireworks exploding in brilliant colors over our heads. Saggy men in stained wife-beaters wave to us as our boat passes. Children splash their feet into the water at their doorsteps. Pale tan women and their pale tan mothers-in-law stir hand rolled jiao zi around in huge steel cauldrons, honoring New Year’s tradition.
“I can see what you mean, baby boy,” she beams. “This is absolutely amazing. How long did you say the fireworks will last? At least a week?”
“More like fifteen days or so,” I tell her, putting my arm around my mother’s shoulder. “This is China’s big year, after all. It’s 2008, which is lucky in and of itself because of the eight; the Olympics are in a few months; the nation’s economy is booming; everything is great here. In fact, there’s going to be so many fireworks that by the time the celebrations finally end in a couple of weeks, you’ll have shell shock and a thousand yard stare.”
My mother giggles. I hold her close. The old man rowing the boat flashes us a rotten-toothed grin and resumes his course down the narrow canals of Suzhou.
“You know, Paul would have hated it here,” my mother says. “With the exception of the massage parlors and tea houses, he wouldn’t have much to do, would he?”
“I guess, Mom. It doesn’t matter though, does it? You’re here now, and we have about a million things to see together. So let’s enjoy it and not talk about him anymore. Okay?”
She nods and continues leering at the fireworks bursting in the January sky. I look up too, but can’t concentrate. Something is amiss. I wrinkle my nose and detect something in the air, something faint that grows stronger the deeper the boat heads into the canal.
“Do you smell that?” I ask.
My mother ignores my question and lowers her hand over the side. Two of her fingers graze the surface of the water, creating lines that expand across the surface. The smell is stronger now. It’s something I used to love as a kid, and told everyone that I’d wear as cologne if I could. No one believed me.
“You know, baby boy, I love it here so much that I think I might stay for a while,” Mom mutters, no longer watching the fireworks. She gazes absently into the water instead. The water gazes back into her.
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s just—it’s just so nice here, why would I want to leave? In fact, why would either of us? Back in Lilly’s End there’s cat hair on the furniture, my pot roasts are always getting burnt, and I’m alone, Layne. I’m always alone. But here, in this moment, everything is all right. Don’t you understand? Here, your father never abandoned us and we never have to attend another funeral. Here, we can just celebrate the present moment forever and don’t have to worship the past anymore. We can—”
“Mom, get your hand out of the water,” I interrupt. “There’s something wrong with it. It’s bad. Get your hand out now.”
She brings her arm back into the boat and slaps it against her thigh. Liquid splatters across her blouse. She plunges her hand back in again and splashes more water up into the boat, soaking her entire lap.
But it’s not water anymore, I realize.
It’s gasoline. The entire canal is full of gasoline.
“Layne, you still smoke, right?” she asks.
Before I can answer, however, the Chinese man paddling the boat turns around in his seat to face us. Except when he opens his mouth this time, he no longer flashes a macabre yellow grin, but instead two rows of straight white teeth. His black oily hair is shorter and dried out from too much hairspray. He’s taller than before. He only speaks English. He is my father’s son.
The man driving the boat is me.
And I’m lighting a cigarette.
It’s a black leather Schlesinger American Belting attaché case, four-and-a-half inches deep, eighteen-and-three-quarters by thirteen-and-one quarter inch in size. It radiates nothing. It hints only at modern ubiquity. If not for the metal coil and handcuff emerging from the handle plate or the myriad dents, bloodstains, and scratches all along the surface, this case would look no different than any other. The world would ignore it.
Tara and I stare transfixed at it for some time before I finally relinquish my hold and slide it over to Mr. Scott.
He gingerly takes it from me and inspects it in the fluorescent light. Then he rests it on my lap. We watch as he reaches down and begins turning the three number wheels on the left side. I can hear the click as he moves from digit to digit. The sound seems to go on forever.
He stops the first lock on the numbers *** [at the request of the author, the combination will remain undisclosed] and there is a sharp snap as the left side of the briefcase pops open.
Mr. Scott moves on to the second lock. No one breathes. Not even him.
I watch as he positions the wheels on the *, the *, and the *.
From inside the case, an insignificant beeping sound. On the outside, a loud click.
I exhale, half-expecting the case to suddenly erupt in a fiery explosion, spew sarin gas, or begin speaking to us in Enochian tongue. It doesn’t.
“Are you going to take the handcuff off too?” I ask in a low voice, afraid of disturbing it.
“I was instructed not to do that until we arrived at the hotel,” he says. “But you can look inside now, if you want. See what you’ve been carrying around with you this entire time. Go ahead.”
Tara clutches my battered arm, which causes it to spasm. The pain is almost unbearable. We exchange a glance and I reach down.
I open the case wide and rub my hands against my pants feverishly, trying to get the sweat off.
The three of us peer down into its recesses.
Attached to the handle plate and connected to wires running through the metal coil of the handcuff is a small black box dotted with a tiny green light and another red. The green one is illuminated now, indicating that the case has not been compromised. Emerging from the black box are more wires, which run along the sides of the compartment and feed into cylinders full of what I imagine is a very strong dye or acid. If one were to attempt to force the case open in any way, the sensors in the box would detonate and spray the chemical agent all over the contents therein, destroying them.
I reach in and push aside five folders, looking for the device that squelches any signals at eleven twenty-three. When I discover nothing else inside except for the folders, I grab them and toss them out onto the bench. I rummage around inside, knowing there’s nothing else there but continuing my search anyway.
“What—I mean, where is the—where is the machine that kept me from turning?”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Scott says, cracking a grin. “Machine?”
“Yeah,” I nod, completely mystified. “Where’s the—where’s the thing that kept me from turning at eleven twenty-three like everyone else?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Layne. All this case ever contained was documents. Just like mine.”
He holds out his scarred wrist for us to inspect, but I’m not paying attention.
“No, no, no,” I say, losing it. “Look, I handcuffed this goddamned thing to my wrist because I was told that if I did, I wouldn’t turn again. So don’t tell me now that there was nothing in here all along but a fucking stack of papers, Scott. Don’t even try. I’ve had this thing with me for four fucking days, and if I’d known there was nothing inside it, I never would have—”
“There is something inside it, as you can plainly see: documents. Important documents that you’re going to need. So don’t worry about—”
“There was nothing in here all along but a stack of papers!?”
“We kept you from turning again, didn’t we?” he says. “And you weren’t the only one. There were others, scattered around Lilly’s End from the beginning. They kept them from turning, as well, for reasons that were vital to the project and yet will remain undisclosed to us. Each of you were administered something that would prevent you from succumbing to the sickness. It required time to take effect, but it did, and you were spared thereafter. So does it really matter the circumstances by which you were kept out of harm’s way?”
“Yes!” I scream. “It does matter. It always mattered—oh my god. How was it administered? And by whom?”
He doesn’t answer. The empty case falls from my lap and lands on the floor with a metallic thud. It dangles uselessly from my wrist.
“It was imperative, Layne, that you escape from Lilly’s End by any means necessary, and further, that you followed orders and brought the briefcase with you. It was a seminal part of the training, you see.”
The truck stops for another toll booth. Everything is spinning. My vision becomes blurred. I sit down and bury my head in my hands. Mr. Scott reaches over and picks up the five manila folders from the bench. He places them on my lap and returns to his seat, waiting for me to calm down and begin reading.
Paul Prescott runs his fingers through damp crystalline sand and brings up a handful for closer inspection.
Nothing. He tosses the sand away and grabs more. Again. The sky is brown today. It’s been sprinkling for several minutes and the sand is clumped and soggy when my father and I grab handful after handful, looking for something. I glance in both directions along the shoreline, but see only a vast expanse of sad yellow dunes that fade out into a tired ocean. The beach is deserted. There are dim lights coming from the hotels and restaurants and stilted houses along the shoreline, but they’re deceptive: this town has been vacant for some time.
The waves are rough today. In the distance, rumbling gray clouds are churning their way toward the End. There’s a storm approaching.
“The trick,” my father says, rummaging through the sand, “is to always—”
He stops, says nothing. We go on looking. Behind us, the lighthouse beam comes to life and shines out into the Atlantic. I try to concentrate on the sand, at how it clumps and forms tiny mountains as I slide my fingers through it. I try to focus on the way the grains cling to my skin, aching for escape, for movement.
But I can’t. All I can think about is the storm. That it’s coming and we’re not prepared for it.
“The trick is to always be the—” my father begins again, but is flummoxed, speechless.
He throws his hand through the dirt with greater and greater irritation, until finally he’s punching at the little dunes, kicking at them and cursing. He grabs huge armfuls of sand and launches them into the air, peering into the grains as they rain back down on him. It gets lodged in his eyes and he’s blinded, rubbing feverishly at his face, losing his cool. He stomps around, baying like a Russian drunk. When he finally lowers his arms and blinks the grit out, his crow’s feet are swollen and red. Tears roll down his face. His hair looks grayer, thinner. He’s ashamed and dying.
There are no shells on the beach.
Paul Prescott sighs.
“Well, I guess there will be no father-son lesson today after all, huh?”
“It’s okay, Dad,” I say quietly, looking out into the whitecaps. “You’ve handed out this lesson before, remember? Many times over, in fact.”
“Yeah, but you never really listened to me, did you, son? I can tell.”
I notice that he’s looming over me now, staring down at this lone progeny of his, who despite Paul’s best efforts and prayers, grew into a man that bathes in defeat and speaks in a language of excuses and vague three-year plans. What a disappointment I must have been to him.
“There are no shells on this beach,” he finally declares, walking several feet away with his eyes fixated on the ground. He comes back, shaking his head. “What do you think it means, Layne?”
“I doubt that it means anything, Dad,” I answer, looking at the churning clouds making their way toward Florida. “It just means there are no shells. That’s all.”
I don’t believe this though, and my father knows it. He goes on staring at me, but not with the same calculating demeanor that I’ve known for so long. He’s not measuring my anti-worth as his only child, or that I’ve never seen Portland. He’s not thinking about the fact that I’m a schoolteacher with no students, or that I’ve fled to a place where my closest ally is anonymity. He’s no longer considering my $17.22 American checking account balance or that time I asked him what a mortgage was.
Paul Prescott is thinking only of shells. How they’re gone, and in their place miles and miles of sand remain. All around us is sand. The shoreline is entirely devoid of its usual sun-bleached coquinas, chitons, conchs, bivalves, and wentletraps. There is nothing out there now but trillions of lifeless pebbles eroding in the wind.
There’s nothing worth remembering here.
When I look up again several minutes later, ready to face my father’s next lecture, he’s no longer towering over me. I scan the track of buildings dotting the beach, and then peer out into the endless lines of dull brown retreating north and south, away from here.
