14
Frost stood in the graveyard, in morning fog, alone, like a ghost risen from that population of his dead. He glanced up at his bridge, at the concrete columns muted by the mist, at the span that was a mere darkening of the fog itself. The river also was more than half erased. But the markers that were ranged in front of him and to his left and to his right were clear enough.
They were T-shaped, low to the ground, wooden — each a length of two-by-four driven into the earth, with a crosspiece nailed flatways on top. The crosspieces were wrapped in clear polyethylene. Rainwater had collected in folds of this protecting material, so that the whole expanse of the graveyard shimmered slightly as Frost turned his head.
He squatted at one of the markers not far from the south edge. With both hands he pressed and smoothed flat the plastic so that he could read the name. He remained like that for some time, with his wet hands wrapped around the crosspiece, leaning forward slightly to let the marker bear his weight. Then he placed the tips of the fingers of his right hand at the left end of the crosspiece and slid them slowly toward the other end so that he could feel the letters of the name carved there. Zahra. He tried to say the name but could not.
He rose stiffly and moved through the graves toward the river. He glanced down at the grave markers of Daniel Charlie’s daughter and Tyrell’s woman and his baby son and Joshua’s wife and children. The grass was short and wet and green, like a ragged lawn. There were no thistles or blackberry.
From the graveyard it was a short walk to the riverbank. He heard someone coming and turned. It was Will. Frost said “I should’ve hauled her out. It didn’t seem important then.”
Will said “I wish I could’ve seen her. You called her Bye-bye Dubai.”
“She’s rotted now. I don’t even know where to look. Busted all apart, I suppose. Swept away.” They looked downriver into the fog. He said “We went to the Galapagos Islands.”
“I know.”
“Your mom and your grandma and me. Your mom was just a baby.”
“And you and my grandma were young.”
“Not much older than Noor. I wonder if those islands have changed. The Galapagos Islands are famous for changing. The animals, I mean. You remember Darwin?”
“Sort of. Are we changin’ here, Grampa?”
Frost said nothing for a minute. “Maybe. Maybe it’s started up again. Survival of the fittest. Maybe.”
They turned from the river and walked the short distance to the nearest graves. Frost squatted at a grave and smoothed the plastic to read the name. “Susan” he said.
Will repeated the name. “Susan.”
Frost stood. “I remember her, of course. Some things. But how true are those memories?”
“I don’t know. You’ve got a good memory as far as I can tell.”
“She had gold-coloured hair with a little red in it. She had trouble with her hair. It didn’t want to behave. She was small. We must have looked strange together. She had blue eyes and freckles.”
They walked back through the graves. A billow of fog slid off the river. They could see nothing now but the grave markers. They stopped at the grave of Will’s mother. Will squatted and ran his fingers over the word Zahra as his grandfather had. He said “I’m going to try and not forget, Grampa.”
Frost walked on a few paces to the two newest graves. There was no grass on these. The soil was dark and soft-looking and almost flat. Through the plastic Frost could read the name carved on one of the markers. It said, Baby Aisha. The other grave had no marker. Frost said “Sorry, Fire. I’ll do that now.”
He sighed and walked beyond the graves to wait for Will in the fragile light.
15
A young man reaches up through the small dark doorway of a sailboat and sets an infant on the deck. The child is dressed in bulky winter clothes. It stands there unsteadily, its dark face turned upward, blinking into falling snow. The man climbs up onto the deck himself. He wears a padded jacket and a toque, and he has wire-rim glasses. He picks up the child again and steps across onto the dock beside the boat and sets the child down and says “Stay there.” The child sits on the planks and continues to stare up into the snow. The man goes back down inside the sailboat.
After a minute the man emerges again but only partially, to check on the child. After another minute he comes on deck again. He has to struggle this time because he is carrying a body wrapped in a white sheet. It takes him several tries to get through the little doorway. He steps carefully onto the dock.
He says “Let’s go. Can you walk?”
The child grips a pant leg of the man. Then it reaches up and takes hold of the lip of his pants pocket. They proceed slowly along the dock. The man at first carries the body in his arms, but soon he has to fold it over a shoulder so that he can give the child one of his hands.
Other than the rushing of the river there is no sound but the occasional slap of rigging against aluminum masts. They pass cruisers and sailing yachts that are tied to the dock. There are no people. The man stares straight ahead. It is late afternoon and the light is weak. The child keeps looking up into the snow. They come to a ramp. The man lets go of the child’s hand. The child grips the hem of the man’s jacket at the back. The man climbs the ramp slowly, so that the child will not fall. With his free hand he holds the railing.
At the top the man says “I guess I have to carry you.” Balancing his burden, he squats and put his free forearm under the child’s bottom, and the child holds on and, grimacing from the effort, the man slowly stands. Then he goes on, more quickly, carrying the child in one arm and the body in its white sheet over his other shoulder.
There is no traffic on the high bridge just east of the marina. No planes are landing or taking off at the airport to the west. There is no movement anywhere, and no sound but the slap of rigging, which grows faint behind him. Ahead are a few small commercial buildings — janitorial supplies, collision repairs — but there is no sign of activity and there are no cars parked outside these shops.
There is also one tall building, which looks as if it could have people in it. It appears to be a hotel. He stops for a minute and shifts the body to his other shoulder and gives the child his other hand. He goes on. It is not far.
He helps the child struggle up the few steps. He says “Sit there a minute. I’ll be right back. Okay?”
“’Kay” says the child and sits on the top step and tilts its face up to the falling snow and closes its eyes.
The man pushes open the door to the hotel and goes in and stands there listening. He turns down a corridor and finds a door that stands open. In the room the curtains are closed and it is dark. The bed is made up. Gently he lays his burden on the bed. He tries the light switch, but nothing happens. He opens the curtains. He looks in a little refrigerator. There is a pair of large cookies in a plastic wrapper. He tears off the wrapper and puts one of the cookies in his jacket pocket. Then he goes out and gives the other cookie to the child.
He goes back into the building and turns in the other direction and opens another door. It does not lead into a room but into an apartment. He goes down a short hallway into a living room. The curtains on a big window are open, and there is a fair amount of light. He carries on into a bedroom. This room is dark. A man and a woman are lying dead in the bed.
He goes close but does not touch either of the bodies. They are grey haired and are wearing pyjamas and are covered by a thick patchwork quilt. There is no smell. He does not open the curtains but backs away and goes into the kitchen. There is no food in the refrigerator. He tries the taps — there is no water. There is an empty pot on the stove. Under the sink he finds a plastic bottle of bleach, which he sets on the counter. One of the bottom drawers is full of potatoes. In another drawer he finds a cigarette lighter. It lights on the first try. He puts it in his jeans pocket.