Elizabeth Hand - Generation Loss

“Sure is slow today.” She laughed again and pointed to where a figure in yellow raingear paced slowly along the beach, head down. “Look at Tyler! He’s still looking for his keys. Man, he was pissed. He came roarin’ back up here, but they were gone, and he starts yelling at me—’ Where’s my goddam keys, goddamit, where the goddam hell you put my goddam keys! ’”

She finished her coffee. “I told him he better not be accusing me. You saw them, right? Right there on the counter? I told him he probably came in and got ‘em and just forgot about it. He’s always wasted. That or one of his friends picked them up for him and he’ll get ‘em later when he runs into them.”

I watched the man on the beach.

“Yeah, I saw them,” I said thoughtfully. “They were right there on the counter. Maybe one of those little kids picked them up.”

Suze frowned. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll ask Becky next time she comes in. Or I’ll just sic Tyler on them—that would teach ‘em.”

She gave her rough laugh and edged past me to the door. “I better get back, before someone else loses something. So, you’re a friend of Gryffin’s? He’s an odd guy.”

I finished my beer and followed her back inside. “Odd?”

“Well, you know.” Suze pulled her dreadlocks back from her face and fastened them with an elastic. She looked prettier that way. “His family’s kind of weird. Did you know his father, Steve?”

I shook my head. Suze gave me a funny look, as though she was about to say something. Instead she began fiddling with the register.

After a moment she glanced up again. “He was a nice guy, Steve. A poet—he hung out with Allen Ginsberg and those guys, they came up a few times when the whole commune thing was happening. I was just a kid, but I remember; it was very cool. That’s how Ray ended up here. But I don’t really know what the deal was with Steve and Aphrodite. He was gay, and, I mean, she had to know it. Everyone at that commune was screwing like rabbits. Aphrodite got pregnant, and then Steve and Ray, they began living together. Ray pretty much raised Gryffin after his father died. He’s a sweetheart—total opposite of Aphrodite. Who, as you may have figured out, is a total bitch.”

I nodded. I took the two pints of bourbon from the bag and shoved them in my jacket pockets, turned to toss the empty beer bottle into the trash.

“Hey!” Suze frowned. “We recycle here!”

“Sorry.”

I grinned sheepishly and handed the empty to her. Suze stuck it beneath the counter then lifted her head as a woman walked in. Before she could say a word, Suze had a pack of cigarettes and a lottery ticket on the counter. I looked across the room to the darkened stairway.

“Historical Society open?”

“Yeah, sure. Light switch’s on your right. It’s pretty rank, no one’s been up there in about six months.”

I went upstairs. A bare bulb illuminated a sparsely furnished room, cold and smelling of mildew. Two grubby armchairs, their greasy upholstery covered with knitted afghans. A few makeshift cases held arrowheads, fishing spears, rusted farm equipment. Faded photographs on the walls—members of the Paswegas County Grange circa 1932, lobster boats, the Island General Store in palmier days. The island school’s eighth-grade class of 1978, seven bright-faced kids in jeans and tie-dyed shirts. I looked at this one closely and recognized Suze, her blond hair and the same puckish grin, flashing a sardonic peace sign.

That was about it for the Historical Society. There was also a shelf labeled library that consisted entirely of the collected works of Clive Cussler, and a third-place trophy from the Collinstown Candlepins Bowling League. Beside the trophy was a turtle shell the size of my hand, black with yellow spots.

Something was scratched into the shell. I picked it up and tilted it until the ragged letters caught the light. Letters and something else—a crudely carved eye.

S.P.O.T.

“Spot,” I whispered and rubbed my finger across the carving. A pet spotted turtle. I turned it over. Someone’s initials were carved on the bottom.

ICU

I started to put the turtle shell back on the shelf when something rattled inside. I shook it, turning it back and forth until a small object dropped into my palm. I held it toward the overhead bulb.

It was a tooth. Not a baby tooth, either—a grownup incisor. The upper part was smooth as ivory, but the long root was discolored, mottled brown and black.

Not with decay. When I scraped it with my fingernail, flecks came off. Dried blood.

I sank into one of the armchairs, set down these mildly gruesome trophies and pulled out one of the pints of bourbon. I took a few sips, again picked up the shell and the tooth and stared at them broodingly.

I traced the letters on the upper carapace—S.P.O.T.—and wondered if they’d been carved while the turtle was still alive. I hoped not. I swallowed another mouthful of Jack Daniel’s, then slid my hand beneath Toby’s sweater, across the scar tissue on my lower abdomen and the raised lines of my tattoo.

I let the sweater fall back and studied the shell some more. Some kid’s pet, I assumed. I peered inside, but I couldn’t see anything, so I stuck my finger in and wiggled it around. Something prickly was stuck on the bottom.

I fished it out. I thought it was a wad of cloth, but when I rubbed it between my fingers I realized it was a frizz of human hair, dark brown and friable as a dead leaf.

I flicked it away. I dropped the tooth back inside the shell and replaced it on the shelf. I wiped my hands on my jeans, stuck the Jack Daniel’s into my pocket, and went back downstairs.

The place was empty again, save for Suze and her dog.

“I better go,” I said. “See you.”

Suze leaned on the counter and grinned. “You get bored, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” At the door I stopped. “You know where Toby Barrett lives?”

“Toby? Yeah—he’s right down there in the Mercantile Building—”

She pointed to an old granite structure on the far side of the dock. “His apartment’s in the basement. You go round to the back, there’s a door there. You have to pound on it and hope he hears you. He’s not there now, though,” she said, scanning the gray water. “His boat’s out, so he must’ve gone back to Burnt Harbor. He’ll either spend the night there or come back here late. You need to talk to him? I can give him a message when I see him. Probably won’t be till tomorrow.”

“That’s okay. I was just curious. I’ll catch up with him later,” I said and headed up the road. At the crest of the hill, I stopped.

There on the beach was that stocky yellow-clad figure, still looking for his keys. He was a lot higher on the shore than he had been; it must be close to high tide. The sun had dipped behind the far end of the island. Ragged clouds hung above a sea streaked yellow and green as an overcooked egg yolk.

I wished I’d brought my camera. For a few minutes I watched the solitary form pacing the shore, slate-colored gulls wheeling above his head like the black cloud that used to follow Joe Btfsplk in old L’il Abner comics.

Some people make their own bad luck. Others, I help them out.

Finally I turned. As I approached the shadow of the firs, I looked down to make sure the sea urchin was where I’d left it. It was.

By the time i reached Aphrodite’s house, it was almost dark. The wind had risen, and my boots squeaked on the frozen ground. But in the kitchen everything was noticeably warmer and brighter than when I’d left. All the lights were on, and someone had stoked the woodstoves.

Aphrodite was nowhere in sight. Neither were her dogs. I heard Gryffin’s voice from the next room, looked in to see him pacing as he talked animatedly on the phone. Before he could see me, I retreated to the woodstove and tried to warm up. I did another shot of Jack Daniel’s. Then I pulled out the film canister I’d nicked from the basket earlier and opened it.