T U R T L E

“Turtle.”

The bearded man delivered the word with a breathy gravitas, as if it actually meant something.  Royce figured the old guy was snapping under the pressure, or perhaps Paul Winston had always been crazy.  Royce didn’t know the restaurateur well enough to speculate on his long-term mental state. Royce hardly knew him at all. He’d eaten at the man’s establishment dozens of times over the years, and of course, he’d seen the man there, keeping an eye on his employees and checking with customers to make sure they were enjoying their meals. Beyond that Royce had had no contact with the guy.

Winston was a fit man in his early fifties who looked like he’d been athletic once but whose muscles had softened over the years.  Bald with a neatly trimmed white fringe over his ears that blended seamlessly into his beard, Winston reminded Royce of Santa.  Royce had always liked Santa; he wasn’t as fond of Winston right now, so he kept the pistol pressed to his head. 

Royce had been in the man’s house for fifteen minutes.  He’d surprised the old guy.  Winston’s face had lit up with recognition upon seeing Royce.  Then the bright expression dimmed a second later, the moment he noticed the gun.

Inside the house, Royce had locked the door.The place was decorated for Christmas, smelling heavily of pinesap and cranberry candles. Plastic garland, like snaking fir boughs, ran over the wainscotings.  Lights circled the bay window in the living room.   Next to this stood the tree.

Once the man had been secured, tied to a wooden rocking chair beside the fireplace, Royce had begun the questioning, but Winston had said nothing of consequence.  Obviously distraught by the ordeal, he’d sat silently for several minutes, refusing any communication at all.  Then Winston had opened his mouth and the word turtle had come forth, like it held the answers to any question Royce might pose.

“I didn’t ask about your favorite soup,” Royce said through a tight jaw.  “I asked what you did to Monica.”

The gun felt heavy in Royce’s palm, the handle slicked with sweat. He worried about dropping the weapon, worried about it going off. Royce wasn’t a thug. He wasn’t a private detective or a cop. He was an investment banker with Harly-Mack.  He led a respectable, even enviable, life.  What was he doing in Winston’s home, pressing the muzzle of a gun to the old guy’s temple?

Of course Royce knew the answer.

His wife, Monica, was dead. The once dynamic woman with a Midas touch for publicity had been reduced to babbling incoherence. She had mumbled and sobbed, and then she’d turned violent against herself. It had all happened quickly and it had all begun the night they’d left Winston’s restaurant for the last time.

“Go home, Mr. Royce,” Winston said.  “I won’t call the authorities.  This isn’t you.  You’re just in shock.”

“What did you do to her? What did you say that night?”

“I asked her if she enjoyed her meal,” Winston said evenly.  “I wished her a good evening.”

“Bullshit.  She started losing it about ten minutes after we left your restaurant, and she kept mumbling about something you said.”

“I read the papers,” Winston replied. “She wasn’t exactly stable, now was she?”

“She was fine,” Royce countered.  He glared down at the baldhead, the full cheeks made red with alarm, and again he thought of Santa. 

I’ll bet you can’t.

Can so.

I dare you.

The remembered voices struck Royce like a sickness.  His head grew light and he stepped away from the chair, pulled the gun away from Winston’s temple.  He looked around the room for something on which he could focus and found the Christmas tree. Metal orbs and quaint wooden miniatures adorned the pine. Simple white lights brought a glow to the ornaments. A single silver cone, like the funnel of a tornado, twisted back and forth on its green thread. Wiping his brow and feeling an unnatural tide of sweat on his fingers, Royce closed his eyes and took deep breaths to regain control of himself.

I dare you.

The old voices were understandable.  The memory they belonged to had originated with a Christmas long past. And here he was in Winston’s apartment – decorated to the hilt with cheap holiday whimsy – and confronting a man who looked like Santa’s healthy younger brother.  With the strain of the situation, it was perfectly natural he’d remember that long-ago morning, absolutely normal to be thinking about Wes, but:

“I don’t have time for this shit,” Royce said. The sound of his own voice brought clarity to his thoughts.  He returned to his place by the bound man and held the gun to his head. “What did you say to her?”

“She wasn’t well,” Winston replied.

“She carved the skin off her fucking hand!  I think ‘wasn’t well’ understates the situation, don’t you?”

“But you just said she was fine.”

“Until she spoke to you.”

“Are you suggesting I cast a spell on her?  Cursed her?”

“I think you knew something.  I think you were going to blackmail her.”

“And what could I know?” Winston asked.  His soft face grew tight with anger.  “You came to the restaurant because it was in your neighborhood and the paper said it was trendy.  You barked orders at the staff, complained and whined. You and your wife were no different than a hundred other patrons.  None of you stand out.  You’re a table number – end of story. So please tell me what the fuck am I supposed to know about you?”

I dare you.

I don’t wanna.

Because you know you can’t.

Royce bit his cheek to silence the ghost voices. 

“Look,” Winston said from his place in the chair, “I know what you’re going through.  I’ve lost someone myself recently. It’s never easy.”

The restaurateur was talking about his daughter.  The story had been all over the papers and the news six months ago.  The girl had been a hostess at Winston’s restaurant.  Royce remembered her as being a plain thing with a charming smile. Monica had found nothing charming in the girl. Royce’s wife had always called the girl the Bridge Troll, because they had to get past her before they could cross into the dining room.

The girl had been attacked in the park next to Winston’s restaurant.  Three men had dragged her into the bushes.  The girl had been violated and beaten and left for dead.  Monica had refused to go back to the restaurant for months after the incident.

Royce felt a flash of pity for the man, but it was quickly washed away.  There was a big difference between what happened to Winston’s daughter and what happened to Monica.

“Your daughter didn’t die,” he said.  “She didn’t carve herself up, screaming.”

“Do you really believe death is the worst thing we can experience? My Carla is gone, Mr. Royce.  She lies in a hospital bed day after day.  Those men beat her so badly her mind is broken, useless. Carla isn’t there anymore, her amazing gifts are gone.  She used to have such a beautiful voice, an angel’s voice.  She was studying opera and was preparing for an audition with the city company.   Now, all she can do is grunt like an animal and each of those noises is like glass scraping my ears and my heart.”

Tears slid down Winston’s round, red cheeks.  Each traced a line to his beard where the white hairs captured the moisture.  The droplets twinkled in the festive lights strung about the room, giving his beard a silvery cast.

“But she’s alive,” Royce said. “Monica isn’t.  I don’t give a shit about your daughter.  I want to know what you did to my wife.”

What did you do to your brother?

Nothing.  He just fell down.

“You don’t give a shit?” Winston asked.  He sniffed back snot and tears and sat up straighter in the chair.  “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it, Mr. Royce?  That’s why we’re here now isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind, Mr. Royce. The why of it doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.” Royce pressed the gun into the skin and moved it back and forth causing ripples in the flesh.

“You and your wife,” Winston said, his voice low and measured, “you were in the restaurant the night those men attacked my little girl.  You left while it was happening.  You heard her cries for help, and you did nothing.   You kept walking because you couldn’t be bothered to help a meager restaurant hostess.”

The accusation sent Royce back a step.  It wasn’t true.  Not exactly. 

He remembered the night Winston was talking about. After dinner, he and Monica had left the restaurant.  They had been celebrating Monica’s recent raise.  Both were eager to get home and continue the celebration in bed. Yes, they’d heard a girl shouting for help, but they hadn’t known who she was.  For all they’d known, it was a trap, some kid trying to lead them into the dark park for her friends to rob or kill.  The cries had grown more disturbing, and Royce had gone so far as to suggest calling nine-one-one, but Monica had stopped him. 

“Then we’ll be up all night giving statements to the police.  There could be a trial.  I don’t have time for a trial. Do you?”

The argument had been convincing at the time. Maybe it was the wine.  Maybe it was his anticipation of sex. Whatever the case, they’d wandered down the block and even managed to forget the incident before seeing the news about Winston’s daughter. By then, it was too late. The press would make them look like monsters if they came forward after the fact.  No.  They kept their silence and after a few months, they again forgot the incident entirely.

“My baby girl was begging for her life and you walked away.”

Royce thought to deny the claim, then threw the idea out.  He was holding the gun.   He hadn’t attacked the girl and neither had Monica.  “She wasn’t our responsibility.  We aren’t the police.  We didn’t know what was happening.”

“You didn’t care what was happening, because it wasn’t happening to you.”

“How could you possibly even know we were there?”

“Carla.”

“No,” Royce said.   “The papers said she was all but a vegetable.  She couldn’t even describe the men who attacked her.  Even you just said she couldn’t do anything but grunt.”

“She’s my daughter.  I can communicate with her in ways no one else can.”

“Well Kreskin, why the hell didn’t you tell the police so they could arrest the assholes that attacked her?  Why did you decide to punish my wife?”

“Those men were managed,” Winston said.  “Believe me, no one was forgiven.”

And now Royce understood.  Winston had threatened to take what he knew to the police.  Monica had panicked, fearing what the publicity would do to her career.  Others might find it a terribly small thing, but Monica knew the importance of her reputation.  Her high profile clients would vanish overnight in the wake of something like this. The public humiliation would have been too much for her.

“You fuck,” Royce said.  “Monica’s dead because your daughter was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  We didn’t do anything to her. In fact if anyone’s to blame, it’s you. You’re the one that should have kept her out of the park at night. You’re the one that should have been watching her.”

You should have been watching him.   He’s your brother.

Royce’s head grew light again.  He stumbled back from the chair as beads of sweat dripped into his eyes, coating his vision and stinging his corneas.  The room tipped, then righted too quickly. He thought he might vomit and reached out to the wall to stable himself until the sensation passed.

His thoughts roiled and melted, blurring like his vision.  He smelled turkey and stuffing, cooking in the oven. On the floor, his little brother, Wes, was playing with his newly opened Christmas presents.  Their parents had gotten the day’s fight out of the way early.  Their father was down the street drinking beers with Merle and Lon and Dexter.  Their mother was upstairs crying.

Wes bounced a toy on his thigh and spoke in a high-pitched nasal tone, creating a voice for the bit of plastic pinched between his fingers.

The giant’s coming to eat me, the toy cried.

Royce hated the little shit.  His nose was always bubbling with snot and his lips were constantly shimmering with fresh spit.  Wes was a disgusting piece of crap, but he got whatever he wanted because he was the baby.

Yes, I’m going to eeeat yoooou,Wes said trying  to make his voice low and threatening, but it still sounded girly to Royce.

You couldn’t eat that, he said, taunting his little brother.

Could to.

I’ll bet you can’t.

Can so.

I dare you.

I don’t wanna.

Because you know you can’t.

Royce shook his head.   The unwanted memory tore loose but it wouldn’t go away.  He stood in Paul Winston’s dining room, but ghosts from another room hung about the place.  Winston remained in the chair, eyeing Royce, and at the man’s feet, Royce’s little brother Wes rolled amid torn boxes and shredded holiday wrap.  The child bucked on the floor, clutching his throat.

“It’s only going to get worse,” Winston said.

“What are you talking about?” Royce asked, looking at the man’s face so he wouldn’t have to see Wes’s desperate thrashing.

“Your wife came to me at the restaurant that night,” Winston said.  “She told me how much she liked the hostess I hired to replace Carla.  Your wife told me she thought the new girl added a touch of class to the place, as if Carla wasn’t good enough to lead your pretentious asses to a table.  She might as well have spit in my daughter’s face.”

“She was complimenting the restaurant,” Royce said.  He barely registered how ridiculous the defense sounded. He was still too disoriented by the bizarre double-vision he was experiencing.

“You people,” Winston said in disgust, bobbing his head up and down like a rooster hunting a worm, “everything and everyone that fails to serve you or appeal to your precious aesthetic is distasteful. You wear entitlement like wings, thinking it raises you above anyone who doesn’t share your narrow ideals. You didn’t help my daughter because you couldn’t be bothered, because she wasn’t part of your accepted class, because there was no benefit to you.”

On the floor, Wes slapped the carpet, crushing a swatch of blue Christmas wrap.  Through his claw-curled fingers, Royce saw Santa’s face, grinning with good cheer.

“Wes,” Royce whispered.

“You want to know what I told your wife that night?” Winston asked. “It was one word.  One simple word: Marlboro.”

“Marlboro?” Royce said.  Suddenly he could concentrate again. His brother’s body had stopped moving, making Wes less of a distraction.  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Ask your wife,” Winston said. 

“Fuck you,” Royce yelled, driving the barrel of the gun into Winston’s temple, shoving the old man’s head to the side.  “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know what the word means.  I just knew it meant something to your wife.  For as long as I can remember I’ve sensed the words. They come to me when I need them. Once spoken, they act like worms, burrowing through your thoughts until they find an emotional core. You may have heard the word a thousand times before, but I make it meaningful.”  

Royce smelled turkey and stuffing. On the floor, his little brother, Wes, was playing with his newly opened Christmas presents.  Their father was down the street drinking beers with his friends.  Their mother was upstairs crying.

The ugly memory had rewound and started again.

Royce tried to fight it.  “No,” he said.  He shook his head again and bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

Marlboro, he thought.  What could that have meant to his wife?  It was a brand of cigarettes.  Maybe it meant something else.  Neither he nor Monica were the sort to associate with losers who smoked.  In fact, they’d completely cut Monica’s aunt Holly out of their lives because the redneck hag had clung to the filthy habit.

No big loss, Royce thought.  It just meant they wouldn’t be getting anymore of those hideous afghans the woman knitted and passed off as presents.

So what had the word meant?

And why wouldn’t his baby brat brother quit arguing with him?

Could to.

I’ll bet you can’t.

Can so.

A realization fell over him, and Royce tightened his grip on the pistol. For a moment the voices of children ceased.

Oh Jesus, the old fuck did something to me.  It’s just like Monica.  In the end, she couldn’t think straight.  She kept mumbling about blood on her hands and how they used to do “it” with knitting needles.

Do what?

I don’t wanna.

“Shut up, Wes!  Just do it or I’ll take it away, and you’ll never see it again.”

His little brother popped the toy in his mouth.  He tried to swallow, but the molded plastic lodged in his windpipe.  Royce thought the brat was acting, making a great show of clutching his throat and hopping around the living room.  Wes had looked totally stupid and was even more annoying than he had been playing with his toys. By the time Royce realized his brother was in real trouble, the kid was sprawled on the floor, his hands flapping and smacking the carpet like the wings of a wounded bird.

Then the struggle ended.

And Royce’s mother came downstairs, her jaw still tight from the argument she’d had with Royce’s father that morning.  She found Wes on the floor and screamed.

“Make it stop,” Royce told the man in the chair, as his mother demanded to know what had happened to her baby boy.  “I swear to God, if you don’t stop this I’ll put a bullet through your head.”

Paul Winston said nothing.  He lowered his head and gazed over his chest and belly at the floor.

“I’m not joking,” Royce said.  “If you don’t make this stop, I’m going to shoot.  Are you listening to me?”

Are you listening to me, young man?

But mom, I…

You should have been watching him.  He’s your little brother.

“Winston!” Royce cried.

He spun around, to get away from the angry face of his mother.  He tried to escape the room but it felt as if the floor was melting beneath each stride, turning thick and cloying, sucking at his feet like mud. The gun hung in his hand like a brick of lead. He felt exhausted and nauseous. The air in the house was stifling. 

The odor of turkey and stuffing wrapped around his nose and mouth like a thick filthy rag. His father had punched his mother in the mouth and stormed out of the house. On the floor, his little brother, Wes, played with his newly opened Christmas present, a small plastic turtle that he bounced on his knee.

The turtle spoke in panicked falsetto through his brother’s mouth.  Don’t eat me. Don’t eat me.

Royce dropped the gun.  It fell to the floor amid discarded ribbons, brightly colored bows and wadded gift-wrap.  He walked into a wall and dropped to his ass, stunned because there shouldn’t have been a wall in the middle of his parents’ living room.

“Don’t eat me,” Wes squealed. Then his voice fell into a lower register, and he said “Yes, I’m going to eeeat yoooou.”

“You shouldn’t eat that,” Royce said.

“Can too.”

“I know you can, Wes.  Just don’t.”

“Can so,” Wes replied.  He lifted the plastic turtle to his lips and slipped it through. 

“Don’t, Wes,” Royce cried.  “Please don’t.”

But it was too late.  His brother moved around the living room, hands clutching at his throat.  His chest heaved in spasm, but air couldn’t reach his desperate lungs.  Wes fell to the floor.  His hands slapped.

Through the clutched fingers, Royce saw a bit of wrapping paper.  It was blue and it had a picture of Santa on it.  Then Wes’s hand seized up and the bit of paper crumpled in his grasp.

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