Two Exits

Down the chipped cobblestone path leading to the Weinmetz Manor sat a petrified turtle. It’s best imitation of the primate fetal position looks something of a vacant intersection; vapid holes lie filled by only a lightly streaked reptilian body, frigid with fear. Two exits, no limbs.

It wasn’t a proper sight for the young and lonesome Weinmetz boy, Elvin. His parents, Mrs. Judith Vargas-Weinmetz and Gustave Weinmetz, successfully jumpstarted their own entrepreneurial business. Both having PhDs, they gleefully opened a travel and leisure venture in the small but bustling town of Portsmith, Connecticut. The club focused on administering the wants and needs of the wealthy across the Atlantic Northeast. Whether it be planning exotic adventures to Cuba, Venezuela, or Yugoslavia or importing foreign sports cars from France, Spain, and Italy, the Weinmetz Agency of Travel and Leisure, thereby known as WATL, could accommodate such needs. But understand this: there was a catch. A club solely based on local leisure and world travel could only make so much money in this town, so Judith and Gustave mutually agreed to smuggle tropical animals and people to varnish their overhead. With one purchase, you were guaranteed another. His parents’ business structure, though illegal, profited the Portsmith community and the greater New England region to the critical point of economic euphoria. An influx of rich and middle-class persons rocketed the state’s annual report of income per capita, so the Weinmetz-campaigned governmental officials, including the state legislature, overlooked the issue of legality for the greater good of the Northeast. Although this seems outlandish and suspiciously bizarre, it crafted quite the lifestyle for their only son, Elvin.

Elvin was not a bright boy nor a star athlete. He was neither bad at either, but mediocrity called him from afar at each coo from their German-style wall clock at precisely 6:00 AM. Of course, being German and French from his father and Dominican from his mother, he was bound to culture, yes? No. Their paramount chateau beckoned white walls, floors, drapery, rugs, and people. If one were to ignore Gustave’s accent and Judith’s pigmentation, they’d have you fooled to believe in anything other than elitist privilege of America’s purest. Sadly, for Elvin, he did indeed look like alabaster. He may have inherited his mother’s thick fingernails and sense of smell, but his father’s ivory permeated within him. Elvin did not attend school like the other townspeople’s children. Even if the schools were rated amongst the top in the country, Gustave believed a boy’s education aligns with his father’s teachings. In short, Elvin was homeschooled. Intellectually average and homeschooled, Elvin learned how to play the piano at age 5, saddle and ride a Camarillo White Horse at age 6 (a 50-50 chance of being white; does that sound familiar?), and sit on his hands without having them numb at age 2. Don’t these display a form of intelligence? Why, yes, but he did not know how to tie his shoes until last year, solve basic mathematical equations until an apple bonked him sideways, and comfortably converse with others until…well, he hasn’t figured this one out yet.

*****

With his parents’ practices occupying much of their wishful thinking, Elvin often crunched his willowy body against a beech tree, one of many a row that outlined the Weinmetz property. Occasionally, one of their temporary yardbirds would find a spot across from little Elvin and spark a conversation. As anticipated, these went one-sided. Right when he would grow comfortable with one of “the guests”, they vanished along with his hope of friendship. He went back to smashing cherries in hand, dying them a purply red paste. He went back to tinkering with fallen twigs and crisped leaves. He went back to switching himself with branches, leaving red streaks that transformed into yellow streaks a couple days later.

Elvin couldn’t gain friends from school. Not church nor little league. Not from his parents. He often relied on the acquaintanceship of animals. He dared not to touch the caged prizes in the “special closest” in their pristinely dim basement. He would never disobey Vati nor Mamá, not after what he saw the first time: earsplitting bare-eared squirrel monkeys, suffocating Cuban boas and zebra tropes, hissing Eurasian otters, and yelping Golden jackals. Instead, the inquisitive boy splashed at the smooth stream running East to West, forking at the “Piper’s Feather” rock into two rivers, both reconvening to reach Lake Chamberlain.

*****

Elvin set up a biweekly schedule of skipping to, what he coined, “Turtle Creek”. There, he would dip his skeletal feet into the transparent oasis. Catching toads, blowing dandelions, and chasing fairies conquered him for much of these days. One day, not too long back, he brought home a turtle. It had a polished face complete with electrical stripes that covered its scaly body. Elvin immediately gushed at the little turtle’s beauty: yellow streaks, just like him. He felt pain, sorrow, and empathy for what this little friend must have gone through; God knows what damage Elvin experienced that led to his own yellow lines. They were intimately linked as best buddies from first touch. It altered the gangly boy’s perspective into one of hope and reconciliation.

The turtle lived in Elvin’s peacoat pocket for only 10 minutes. Once his father learned of his boy’s new pet, it was kindly snatched from the staticky wool and taken to a new home. Elvin knew what this meant: the basement. What was so special about this turtle?

The D’Orbigny’s slider turtle is native to a host of South American countries including Brazil, Argentina, and Uruguay. These turtles are a protected species. Well, to an extent. It would seem as if their protection was limited twice: once from the Weinmetz’ passion of foreign animals and another when it tattooed “Fugitive” on its shell. When Gustave glimmered upon the miracle of his boy’s find, he was enamored with the idea of property damages. His father patted his son’s shoulder; he trembled. Miserably, Elvin waddled back to his beech tree hideaway.

*****

Branch. Peel. Switch. Lash. Tighten eyes. Clench fists. Lash. Lash. Repeat. Tears. Blood.

*****

Hugging his medium-raw arms against his skinny frame, Elvin hobbled across the talkative cobblestone toward his prison. He punted loose stones into oblivion, each one glowing as a shooting star for a moment. The pathway grew too familiar. The bumps and ridges replayed images of his first abuse. The crannies smashed with sweet berries soured his sore mouth. He couldn’t breathe. The squirrel monkeys screaming into his red ears, the serpents slithering up his pale thigh, the otters shushing his pleas, the face of jackal pinning him bent over a rusted cage. His hair dirtied with cherries, a squirrel monkey’s snack. His teeth bit through his tongue, snake bites. His hands seized by a former teacher, hand-holding otters. His body roughly scavenged, a jackal’s leftovers.

*****

Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Open.

*****

Midway through the grand driveway retired a rock that Elvin had never seen before; he knew this path. A marbled surface reflected the sunlight. Hues of gray, orange, brown, and black bespattered the stone. He inched closer to it in astonishment. Flabbergasted by his running thoughts, he stopped. Looked behind him. Bent over. And carefully nurtured it in his clammy palms. A shell. Two exits, no sight of life. Slowly, as Elvin lifted the armor to his chest, a turtle sprawled out with a polished face and electrical stripes. Their eyes meeting could have lit the world on fire.

“I’ve tried to escape, too.”

*****

Elvin Weinmetz wandered back to Turtle Creek to disappear. He fashioned a small raft with leaf stems and fallen sticks. He rested the D’Orbigny slider, his only companion, on the makeshift boat and set it down stream.

*****

The next morning, Alvin’s colorless body lied face down in the tranquil water of Lake Chamberlain, placid and free.