Radio Belly (18 page)

WE LEFT THAT meeting in all kinds of disharmony—I know because I followed after the different factions, taking notes.

Some went home and set to work organizing their lives into three piles—essential, not-so-essential, and junk—amazed at how easily a life gave itself over to these stark categories. While they packed their boats, they told themselves the story that comforted them the most. It was of a beautiful island that died a natural death and all the smart and wily people who got away. The next day these people said their goodbyes and we were all a little surprised by their lack of feeling as they paddled off to taste a wilder, greener world, the island shrinking to a little grey dot behind them and inside them.

Meanwhile, the Peggys relinquished all their worldly possessions, and spent their last days dancing nude on the beaches, howling and making love until they blistered in tender places. Then they lined up quietly and were ferried in an orderly fashion to the barge offshore. We could see them standing on deck, waving back at us, waiting smugly for the island to complete its change.

Others, who vowed to love the island and stick to it, spent their final days boxing heirlooms, scrubbing floors and wrapping dishes, because life keeps on demanding right up to the end, and because destruction is, after all, beyond logic. At the end of each day, when their work was done, they gathered to remind each other that they had endured a great test of character, that by resisting the temptations of the wider world, they proved they had honour, loyalty and a proper respect for history.

Tex took to the water to practise his front crawl, his duck dive and deadman's float.

I set to work documenting it all. The beginning of the end.

On the dreaded day we awoke to a high-pitched whine rising up from the ground, as if overnight we'd been pinned to the back of something wild. It was the usual end-of-the-world stuff, the same business we'd managed to bob over for three decades. A heavy wind circled, gathering fear atop regret atop guilt with each pass as if we were a human stew at a slow boil. When the ground started to shake and everything creaked and groaned and exhaled a fine yellow dust, we gathered at the foot of the hill for whatever comfort we might offer each other. We complimented ourselves on our decision to stay, said it was the best choice, the right and only choice. We held hands and trembled even as our houses folded like wet cardboard. We only parted once the ground started to rumble, splitting off to take shelter in whatever places we'd chosen in our final days. Some clung flat to the ground. Some cowered against buildings, under desks or beds, each with a different idea about where to be when an island has a change of heart. While the ground bucked and slapped, we closed our eyes and prayed. We stayed that way, eyes pinched tight against the end of everything while the wind howled and whinnied, while the sea gurgled and spat, and while everything we'd ever known to be upright fell down around us.

Eventually, everyone must've emerged from their chosen hiding spots. They must've looked around at the new landscape—all those places where the jungle had burst up through shredded rubber, and congratulated each other on their bravery, their stick-to-itiveness. Imagine that, they must've said, all this time, rubber as a straitjacket on something so wild and resistant. All this time, the jungle growing strong beneath their feet, Mother Nature healing and forgiving. Then they must've set about going wild themselves, painting their faces with mud and putting bones through their noses, because that's what all that green will do to a person.

I SAY MUST'VE because I didn't stick around to see it. As soon as the ground stopped shaking, Tex and I—the only two wise enough to know better—sprinted over the new ups and downs of the land toward the hill. When we finally arrived, we discovered that, in all that shaking, most of my museum had slid down the hill into his boat. And so, without questioning the wisdom behind it, we set out together.

Now here we are, adrift again, this boat so crooked it almost makes Tex come out right again. There've been times on a moonless night when we've had to feel around for each other in the dark, just to know we're not alone. Days, too, when the fog makes it impossible to tell up from down, when you can start to feel swallowed up by so much grey. It brings great comfort to reach out, days like these, and find a warm pair of hands reaching back.

Turns out the math on this boat is surprising: turns out one plus one is three. So now it's us and you—a floatable family in an endless sea.

The sea continues to recede, giving back land, green and raw, but we wait instead for the world above or the world below. In the meantime I've begun to fill the pages of your father's book with some kind of history so you will know where you come from, a stronghold amidst so much that is watery and changeable in this world. Until then the three of us float, rootless, unbound. Until then you are our moon and we look to you for light.

A
HUGE THANK YOU to my family: Grandma, for setting me on the path; Mom, for holding me together; Dad, for keeping me on the path; Dylan, for knowing me better than I know myself; Alexander, for inspiring me and supporting me when it mattered most; Sue Mac, for always telling me I can; Kaia Scott, for often showing me the way. Thank you Ryan Buckley for always being willing to talk about ideas. Thank you Susan Housel for the sanctuary. Thank you to George and Ruth Nicklas for your generosity in the final stages of finishing this book.

Special thank you to my editor, Barbara Berson, for so much guidance and patience; to Chris Labonte, for believing in me; and to my agent, Hilary McMahon, for always knowing exactly what to say.

A world of thanks to Zsuzsi Gartner for helping me find my voice. Without you this book wouldn't exist. Thank you to the faculty and staff of the UBC Optional Residency MFA program. And endless gratitude to my fellow writers and friends—Zoe Stikeman, Laura Trunkey, Una McDonnell, Jason Brown, Miranda Hill, Lisa Baldiserra, Lori McNulty, Melanie Schnell and Vicky Bell—for your generosity and expertise and for being my constant muse.

BUFFY CRAM'S FICTION has appeared in
Prairie Fire, The Bellevue Literary Review
and the bestselling collection
Darwin's Bastards: Astounding Tales from Tomorrow.
She has spent the last decade teaching and writing in Vancouver, Montreal, Boston, Texas, Mexico, South Korea, South America and various parts of Europe. She currently lives in Berlin.

Copyright © 2012 by Buffy Cram

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

Douglas & McIntyre
An imprint of D&M Publishers Inc.
2323 Quebec Street, Suite 201
Vancouver BC Canada V5T 4S7
www.douglas-mcintyre.com

Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
ISBN 978-1-55365-902-0 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-55365-903-7 (ebook)

Editing by Barbara Berson
Cover and text design by Peter Cocking
Cover illustration by Brian Tong

We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the British Columbia Arts Council, the Province of British Columbia through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.