Murder at the Turtle Pageant

by Emma Wren

“Everyone comes to the turtle pageant,” sounds like a thing that would be said about the turtle pageant by most of the people who come to the turtle pageant. These people are mistaken. These people come to turtle pageants. I was dragged here, kicking and screaming [only in my head, (my aunt has a shitty knee) though I did yell “no”]. My aunt and her shitty knee got into turtles a while ago. Her regular knee got into them too. Do I have to tell you that? I think it’s implied, but better safe than sorry, like my aunt always says. She’s said that maybe twice.

We’re in the gym of the neighboring town’s high school. They have lots of championship titles in field hockey. They must suck at everything else. All the folding tables are arranged haphazardly, except for the row beneath the basketball hoop. The tables under the hoop function as a sort of stage. Beneath the opposite hoop is the taped-on racetrack.

Here’s the way the turtle pageant works: the first round is for dressing up your turtle. Most people stick to a general theme like “doctor” or “cow- boy,” but some people like to try celebrity costumes too. This never goes well. Then there’s a talent portion. You’d never guess how many turtles specialize in eating lettuce. One time, my aunt told me, someone tried to get their turtle to eat arugula instead of regular lettuce and it threw up all over its detective outfit. Turtles have such delicate palates. After that, there’s a race. This part is always the saddest. Everyone lines up their turtle on the sad gym floor and there are sad strips of masking tape to delineate each lane and they strike this mini gong that looks like a burnt silver-dollar pancake and the turtles are supposed to, I don’t know, race? They just sit there and wonder why they aren’t getting more lettuce for this bullshit.

My aunt’s first turtle was named Bruce. R.I.P. Bruce, I guess. I forget how Bruce died, but it wasn’t natural. She found Bruce by a pond, stole him from his turtle family, and claimed him for her own. Her friend Marge or some other old person name had a grandson who had a turtle who had been bought from a pet shop or other turtle sales place. My aunt visited Marge while her grandson was there with his turtle. I didn’t witness this phenomenon, but here’s how I imagine it:

My aunt enters the home, greets Marge, whatever whatever, turtle scene. The turtle is sitting in its turtle home and my aunt locks eyes with it. The turtle is motionless, as turtles tend to be. My aunt freezes, not in temperature but in motion. It’s this whole moment, the kind that juts out in your memory. This turtle, or the idea of this turtle wedges itself into her psyche by way of an elbow or a knee crease. She stands paralyzed like she has just seen a ghost (or a turtle), and then continues normally about her visit. But there had to be a moment, an instant, where this turtle got into her bone marrow.

This next part I know because she told me. She was driving home, past the pond, when she saw poor old Bruce. Just sitting there, the turtley fool. She stopped her car, scooped him up, and put him in the cup holder. Some- times I imagine his turtle family wondering where he has gone. Sometimes I imagine them making a turtle noise that translates roughly into, “what the hell Bruce?” I imagine that they imagine that it was his fault. But instead of spending the rest of his cold-blooded days with his old-people- skinned brethren he was stuck with my aunt and her shitty knee. Instead of sinking gracefully to the bottom of a lake or however turtles are supposed to leave this earthly realm, he was placed in a shoe box for a flat, brown, size seven shoe and covered with dry mulch.

So now I’m here. The folding chair is beginning to take a toll on my comfort.

My aunt told me what kind her turtle is but I forgot. I’ll call it a standard turtle. Does it really matter? This one is named Zachariah. Today Zachariah is wearing Oscar de la Renta. Just kidding. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, but it’s on his shell instead of his head. I don’t know a lot about fashion. I eye him more closely, looking for a personality, but he just pushes his head in and out of his shell house and I feel a pang of jealousy somewhere in my chest.

Everyone’s here, my aunt tells me. There’s Hilda with her new boyfriend who she never talks to, Josephine who really can’t pronounce “turtle,” Rich in his electric wheelchair, Craig who once tried to tape two turtles together so they’d look like a “super turtle,” Alberta who’s barely thirty and already a regular at the pageants. Everyone except Alberta is older, or they look older and are actually just withered. My aunt is older. Well, she’s older than my mom.

I’ll tell people I didn’t want to come to something that would allow itself to be called a turtle pageant, that is, if anyone asks, but really I have nothing else to do. This is my second pageant. I protested both times, but my aunt is stubborn and my parents thought I should get out of the house anyway. I’m not sure why they thought I’d enjoy a turtle pageant when I don’t even enjoy fun things.

It’s cold out now so there are more scarves and hats lying around for small semi-spherical reptiles to get lost in. Josephine’s turtle Boo, who seems dangerously tiny, has woven herself into Josephine’s scarf and gone to sleep, leaving her hula skirt in a heap next to the cozy wool. A few feet down, Craig’s turtle Craig Jr., a snapper I think, is inching its way over to the edge of the table.

One year someone tried to bring a tortoise. I heard that it somehow made it all the way to the talent round before anyone noticed.

A judge clad in a thick red sweater speaks shakily into his cupped hands. “Everyone get ready, the costume round will begin in just a few minutes.”

My aunt’s mouth tells me his name is Dale. My aunt’s eyes tell me she likes Dale. My aunt has no one but Zachariah. I would count myself, but I don’t count myself.

“How long has Dale been judging?” I ask her.

“Oh, not that long,” she blushes. “Maybe a year or two?” She says it likes she remembers the first time he was a judge. “He started judging after his turtle died, Alberta told me. He used to live in California.”

“He’s kind of cute.”

“Honey, you should be looking at much younger boys.” “I wasn’t looking for me.”

She begins to smile, but scolds me instead.

The turtles are being lined up on the sad excuse for a stage. Zachariah and his cowboy hat are towards the middle, right under the hoop. To his left, Craig Jr. is sporting a sailor’s hat. Farther down the row, tiny Boo’s hula skirt impedes her movement. The judges begin scribbling on their clipboards, looking much too official for a turtle pageant.

I don’t bother to get up and look at the other costumes like some people are doing. Instead I remain seated, thinking about nothing. I realize I feel comfortably warm, the kind of balmy numb warm that is so perfect you almost can’t feel it. My body gets suspicious. I want to say something like “the air shifts,” but it doesn’t.

The costume judging ends and everyone takes their turtles back to their respective tables. My aunt brushes too close to the judge’s table and grabs her turtle. Zachariah returns, looking triumphant, or maybe sad, or baffled, I really can’t tell; he’s a turtle.

My aunt’s about to say something that probably isn’t important when we hear the clatter, the crunch, the scream. Josephine kneels in the corner of the gym where all the chairs are stacked. Were stacked. Now the chairs are sprawled across the shiny floor. She digs through them with gentle haste. From the rubble she retrieves Boo’s body. Her shell is cracked and she is not moving. Josephine is shock silent. I look away from the scene to observe all the turned heads. Some faces wear a mask of horror, others feigned curiosity. Then I look back to Josephine. I see the crescendo of grief. The beginnings of tears. Then I feel bad for looking away.

No one gets up, so I do. She’s cradling Boo in her arms. Well really she’s cradling Boo in her hand because Boo is tiny, but it feels right to say arms. My footsteps reverberate uncomfortably. I put my hand on her back. “Is Boo okay?” I say. “I’m only in my first year of turtle veterinary school,” I don’t say.

“I think she’s dead.” The words are choked out through sobs.

What am I supposed to do with this information? I’m just as helpless as she is.

“Her shell is cracked and she’s not moving. Oh god, oh god, Boo. She was

wandering away from me—she’s very curious—and the chairs, they weren’t stacked properly, and, and . . .”

I let her simmer in the silence for a moment. “What do you want to do?”

Craig pipes up. “I think we should hold a funeral for Boo. It would be the right thing to do.”

That was nice of Craig. Also: no shit, Craig.

A collective, helpless nod springs forth from our necks. We don our hats and traipse out of the gym, Josephine wrapping Boo in her scarf.

We have to walk a while to find some dirt, as this school has enough money for turf fields. Our motley congregation passes a parking lot full of tents for a bake sale. The bake sale patrons eye us warily but we are dealing with tragedy and cannot be bothered. Someone shoves aside some earth with her shoe (I’m being nice; it’s a clog) and Josephine places tiny Boo in the tiny concavity. The misplaced earth is replaced and Josephine rises, sporting tears that must sting in the frigid air.

“I’d like to say a few words.” She pauses to think of the words. “I’ve had Boo for almost a year now. I named her Boo because they told me she was born on Halloween. They didn’t think she was going to make it, because she’s so small. She got third in the costume part of her first pageant. She always ate her lettuce and never smelled very bad. She also liked coming to the pageants very much, because she got to see her friends.” Here her voice cracks. “I’m going to miss you Boo.”

“That was lovely, Josephine.” Craig’s smile is warm enough to melt the light frost on Josephine’s scarf. Like, if it had been close enough to her scarf the scarf would have gotten all wet and unmanageable in the way that scarves do. But it doesn’t and her scarf is left to become wet and unmanageable on its own time.

We return to the gym. Hats are cast aside. Everyone moves quietly. The turtles left in shoeboxes and crates look alert. Can they feel it? Is there a wound in the heart of turtles across the earth? Or do they not have time for that? The judges acknowledge Josephine’s loss, and continue to the talent round. Is this heartless? Does Josephine just sit on the sidelines now? The bags of lettuce emerge from beneath tables. I decide that Zachariah is good at eating lettuce; of course, I could be wrong. Eating is mostly a simple process, so it doesn’t seem like there’s a lot of room for error. But anything can be judged, right?

The judges move on to the race, regarding the taped-on racetrack with something that looks like somber pride. Each turtle is placed in his or her lane, with one empty on the end where Boo should have been. The gong is tapped, but the turtles ignore it. One turtle starts moving around the track the wrong way. The rest do not move. Craig Jr. visits the inside of his shell. Boo would have moved. She was curious.

After fifteen minutes of this, the judges give up. Dale procures a satchel of ribbons from beneath the judge’s table. Blue is first place, red is second, and white is third.

No one seems to be paying much attention to the ribbons. My aunt is picking pieces of dust off Zachariah’s shell and Craig is sitting with Josephine at her now empty table.

Tomorrow we will learn that Boo was just in shock due to her cracked shell, which will be mended with an adhesive and time. She will crawl out of her loose dirt prison and be picked up by a confused passerby who will call the school who will call the judges who will call Josephine who will cry with joy. My aunt will tell me this over the phone and I will smile about it.

Today Zachariah comes in second place, my aunt drops me off at home, and I take a nap and think about turtle shells.