“Both,” the pale kid said.
Hannah seemed to be playing a slow-motion riff on the drums, banging one, then the other. Martin watched, scribbled some more. “So what does she think of them?”
The boys rolled their eyes at each other, and the black kid said, “You better ask Hannah that.” Smartass.
“Oh, yeah, right,” Martin fake-laughed. “Hey, you’re quick, kid.”
“Uh huh,” he said.
“Yeah, Speedy Gonzales,” the pale boy said, elbowing the first one in the ribs.
“Cut it out!” The boys started sparring but subsided as the crowd of visitors around them applauded for Hannah, who had walked away from the drums, dropping the drumstick in the dust so she could pick up her tire.
“What now?” Martin asked.
“Hell, you’re the reporter,” said the smartass.
“Yeah, well, thanks, kids.” Martin started moving away toward the heart of the crowd when he heard the pain-in-the-ass kid holler after him.
“Hey, mister! You going to get our names so you can put us in the paper?”
Martin turned back. “Okay, shoot. Why aren’t you guys in school, anyway?”
“It’s Thanksgiving break,” the smartass said. “Man, aren’t you supposed to know that kind of thing? You write the damn newspaper—”
“Yeah, well, it must have slipped my mind, okay? You bust my chops, kid, and I’m leaving without names,” Martin said.
“Sorry, mister. He’s Winslow Levy, funny name, his dad works here,” the other boy said, jerking his thumb in Winslow’s direction.
“Your father works here? Really?” Martin asked Winslow, perking up. The kid might have potential as a source.
“Uh huh,” said Winslow. “And he’s Reginald Poole. It has an ‘E’ on the end. The Poole part, not the Reginald.”
“Yeah,” Reginald said. “I help out here sometimes.”
“Oh, yeah? So what do you do exactly?” Martin asked. This could be rich.
“I help when Sam takes Hannah for walks.”
“She goes for walks? You mean like a dog? Must be a pretty big leash, huh, kid?” Martin cracked himself up. “Jeez, I’d sure hate to see the bone.”
Both boys looked at him with disgust. “She’s an herbivore,” Winslow said.
“Okay, okay, hey, sorry. Jesus, doesn’t anyone have a sense of humor around this place?” Martin said.
“So how come they’re not called florivores, anyways?” Reginald said to Winslow.
“Florivores?”
“Flora, fauna, like that. Florivore.”
Winslow considered this. “Well, they don’t call carnivores faunivores, either.”
“Hey—Boy Wonder!” Martin broke in. “How about standing over there by the elephant and the drums so I can take your picture? How do you call her over, anyway?” Martin made kissing noises, the way you’d summon a household pet.
“That won’t work, mister,” Reginald said.
“Yeah? Well, show me something that will.”
Reginald turned around and waited to catch Hannah’s eye. When he did, he said as softly and precisely as Sam, “Hey, sugar.”
The elephant walked toward them, getting as close to Reginald as she could from the other side of the fence. The drums were in the background, but it was good enough. Reginald and Winslow posed for him. Martin snapped three, four, five pictures.
“Are we going to be on the front page?” Winslow said.
“Probably not, sport, but you might be in tomorrow’s edition someplace.”
“Hey, Reginald,” Winslow said. “We’ll be in the paper. Did you hear?”
But Reginald was paying attention only to Hannah, who was shifting her feet and making low noises to him. “She knows me,” Reginald said. “Did you see her come over? She knows me.”
Truman sat at his desk, looking at a memo Harriet had tossed there with instructions that it was to be placed in Neva’s personnel file immediately. She obviously meant for him to read it; otherwise she would have put it in the files herself. It was an ugly thing, closing with, I, Harriet Saul, recommend immediate termination if or when this employee acts without prior authorization in the future.
Christ.
Truman slipped the memo into the file, locked the drawer, and called the elephant barn. Neva answered.
“Hey,” Truman said.
Neva said, “Hi. How’s life up there in the gulag?”
“Scary. Would you have dinner with me tonight?”
Neva sighed. “I don’t think I’d be very good company.”
“Please say yes.”
“All right, as long as I don’t have to be perky. I’m definitely not up for being perky.”
“I’m not feeling all that perky myself. How about meeting me at Teriyaki Time at six-fifteen?”
“Okay.”
Truman hung up the phone and pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. It was only 10:05 and he could feel a pounding headache coming on. He decided to martyr himself and attend Harriet’s morning lecture—she might find his attentions soothing.
He came out the front door just as Harriet prepared to make her salutations from the porch. Not to be upstaged, she nodded to him regally and gave him a moment to pass, descend the stairs, and find a place among the visitors.
There were probably a hundred people gathered around the porch. Even in November the zoo was comfortably full. Yesterday they had received a phone call from a tour bus operator, asking about group rates.
“Good morning!” Harriet boomed, slapping her riding crop smartly against her puttees and doffing her rough-rider hat. “My name is Maxine Biedelman. Welcome to my zoo!”
Applause broke out, and several women shushed their children. The group pushed forward as one to hear better.
“The thing is, she’s weird as hell, but you’ve got to hand it to her, this whole Maxine Biedelman thing works,” a young man laden with camera gear whispered to Truman as they stood together on the outskirts. Truman hadn’t even noticed him there. Now he recalled having seen him at the zoo once or twice.
“You’ve seen her do this before?”
“Sure, a couple of times.” The young man extended his hand. “Martin Choi, Bladenham News-Gazette.”
“Truman Levy.”
“Hey, then I just talked to your kid down at the elephant barn.”
“He’s a big fan of Hannah’s.”
“Yeah, well, he and a buddy of his were telling me they help with her sometimes.”
“Not officially,” Truman said, alarmed. He could only imagine what Harriet would say if she saw Winslow quoted in the paper.
“Gentlemen,” Maxine boomed, sending death rays out to Truman with her eyes. “If you aren’t fans of mine, kindly move along so others can hear.”
The crowd laughed and Truman apologized, calling, “Yes, Maxine, I was only discussing your new lemurs with this fellow. He wants to know if they should be met at the station with a cage or a net.”
“Ah,” Harriet said, accepting her cue. “It seems that the people of Bladenham don’t always know what to make of me. Why, when I brought my first zebra home, there was nearly pandemonium. That was only one of many times we’ve found ourselves on the front page of the Bladenham News-Gazette. Isn’t that right, Martin?”
Martin Choi grinned and acknowledged the crowd. Truman slipped away under the cover of laughter. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone transformed by a theatrical role, but it was certainly the most startling. Harriet’s performance was electric, though god knew if she was actually basing her role on the real Max Biedelman. Rhonda had had a theatrical bent, too. Her whole life was a play, with herself occupying center stage. There had been moments during their marriage when Truman could almost hear her practicing her lines. He’d pointed that out to her several years ago, and she’d said, Oh, really, Truman, grow up. Nothing is truly spontaneous, it’s all been rehearsed before. The only difference is, most people aren’t honest enough to
admit it.
The thought had depressed him then, and it depressed him now.
Just as he reached his desk he heard muffled applause from the lawn—Harriet taking her bows, no doubt. A half-hour later, she appeared at his cubicle, flushed with success.
“You’re really very good,” Truman told her, because she was.
“Yes, I am,” Harriet agreed. “I think it’s time we talked about renovating the ballroom.”
Sam removed his zoo ball cap and said to the receptionist, “Miss Saul wanted to see me.”
“Who?”
Harriet called out through her open office door, “Come in, Sam.”
Sam walked in slowly and stood in front of her desk, cap in hand. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Were you here last night when Neva Wilson brought in the drums?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She lied, then. She said no one else knew about it.”
“I didn’t know, ma’am—I was already here.”
“Why?”
Sam ducked his head. “Me and Mrs. Brown come in the evenings sometimes to keep Hannah company.”
Harriet frowned. “Do you? I wasn’t aware of that. How often?”
“Not often, ma’am,” Sam said, alarmed. “Maybe once a week, sometimes twice.”
“And how long do you stay?”
“Maybe an hour or two. It does Hannah good to—”
Harriet was shaking her head. “I can’t have that, Sam.”
Stunned, Sam said, “Why?”
“You’re an hourly employee. I can’t have you here working hours I’m unprepared to pay you for. There are liability issues.”
“I don’t do it to get paid, ma’am. I’m just giving Hannah a little extra company. She gets lonely chained to that—”
“I’m sorry.” Harriet’s attention was already moving on. She began sifting through a pile of papers. “Please let Geneva know, also. You may not be on the premises except during your regular hours.”
Sam scrambled. “We could change our shifts around, so one of us is here early and the other is late.”
Harriet paused, frowning. “No, I don’t think so. I need you both here during regular zoo hours, to keep up the exhibit.”
“But, ma’am,” Sam protested with growing alarm. “Hannah’s already alone in that barn for twelve, fourteen hours a day sometimes.”
“That’s all, Sam. Thank you.”
“Miss Saul, you’re doing the wrong thing, the wrong damn thing for that elephant,” Sam said bitterly.
“I don’t appreciate being sworn at, Sam. And I really must insist that you call me Maxine.” Harriet began to write notes in the margins of a document on her desk. “Maxine Biedelman.”
Teriyaki Time was packed when Truman got there, but Thomas had saved a table for them. Truman stood until Neva had slipped into the booth, a gesture of respect his parents had drilled into him early. Women are stronger and smarter than we are, Truman, as your mother will tell you, Matthew had often said ruefully. If the world is ever in the throes of Armageddon, it’s the women who’ll be left standing. Nothing in Truman’s experience had ever successfully challenged this.
Now, as he slid into the booth, he thought Neva looked strained and tired. Even her hair seemed at odds, pulled into a messy bun from which strands kept escaping. He’d never seen anyone less able to disguise what she was feeling. Whatever toughness she had achieved must have come at a high price. Was there a man? Had there ever been a man? Or had her life been invested in a succession of needy animals? He envisioned her standing on the deck of an ark, Noah-like, surrounded by pairs of animals stretching all the way to the horizon.
“What?” Neva said, blushing. She attempted a smile, but it failed before it even reached the corners of her mouth.
“Nothing. You look tired. Tired and discouraged.”
Neva opened a packet of sugar, shook some onto the table, and absently pushed it around with her finger. “How do you do it?” she said.
“Do what?”
“I’ve known rhinos with better dispositions. And I hate rhinos.”
Truman conceded the point.
“So where’s Winslow?”
“Ah. He’s with his mother. She got into town last night. He’ll be with her through Thanksgiving.”
“Is that okay?”
Truman shrugged. “Rhonda’s always believed in spontaneity. It plays hell with planning, but I think Winslow was glad to see her.”
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Just about a year.”
“Why?”
“Why did we divorce?” Truman blew out a ruminative breath. “I guess you could say we had trouble synchronizing. You know that carnival ride where two cages swing in opposite directions, going higher and higher until they go over the top? That was us. We passed each other all the time, but we never actually stopped in the same place until it was time to get off the ride.”
“So that doesn’t sound good,” Neva said.
“No.”
“How is Winslow dealing with it?”
“Mostly okay—frankly, I think he’s relieved that she’s not around very much. She tends to take up a lot of space.”
Neva looked at him for a long moment, weighing something. Then she said, “I have a son Winslow’s age.”
Truman put down his fork.
“Surprising, I know. I don’t seem like the motherly type. I wasn’t the motherly type. I gave the baby up for adoption. I was twenty-five.”
Truman leaned toward her across the table. She leaned back, shrugging. “It’s not glamorous. My birth control pills failed.”
“But you went through with it.”
Neva nodded.
“Did you ever think about keeping him?”
“No. I only saw him for a minute, and then he was gone.”
“Why?”
“Why didn’t I keep him? My work doesn’t mix with childrearing. I didn’t think it would be fair. He deserved not only to live, but to live with someone more suitable than me. If it were to happen again today, I’d probably make a different choice, but then I still had too much to do, to prove.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No. I thought I saw him once in New York, but that’s not likely. I lived in San Diego when he was born.”
Truman stirred his rice.
“It’s okay,” Neva said. “It was a long time ago. I can’t believe I even told you.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Not then. A couple of years later.”
Truman raised his eyebrows encouragingly. Neva pushed some rice around on her plate. “His name was Howard. His dream was to become a securities analyst. My dream was to shovel shit, as he liked to put it. Shit and securities don’t mix. Luckily, it only took us two years to discover that.”
“So you got out,” Truman said.
“So I got out. It was all very amicable—we did much better as friends than spouses. We still talk from time to time. When he remarried a few years ago, he invited me to the wedding and neither of us thought it was strange. I would have gone, too, but I thought it would make the bride’s family uncomfortable. She was a good choice for him. I think they’re happy.”
“So it’s not a sad story,” Truman said.
“No.”
“Good.”
Truman suddenly stood and beckoned with one raised hand to Sam and Corinna, who had just arrived.
“Now I know why you had Thomas put us at a big table,” Neva said. “How nice!”
Truman helped Corinna into a seat. “Thanks, baby,” she said, and then to Neva, “How are you, honey? Sam said it was a bad, bad day.”
“Yeah, it was,” Neva said.
“Well, I have some news that might help,” Truman said. Three faces turned to him as one. “Though we’re not quite sure what it means yet.”
“Spill it, honey,” Corinna said. “I think we could all use something good.”
Truman crossed his hand
s on the tabletop. “My father’s a retired judge. You probably know that the zoo’s financial situation isn’t the best, so a few weeks ago I asked him to go through some old city records to see if there might be a long-forgotten fund or an endowment that could help make up the zoo’s shortfall. He found something interesting. Sam, when Max Biedelman passed away, did anyone say anything to you about Hannah?”
“No, sir.”
“Not anything?”
“Not that I remember. Except that I got to keep my job.”
“Well, they should have. Before she died, Max Biedelman set up a trust that would be used for Hannah’s upkeep. It isn’t enough to cover all her costs anymore, but it helps.”
“She told me she was going to do that,” Sam said. “She said she didn’t want me or Hannah to worry about things after she was gone.”
“But she didn’t say anything else?”
Sam shook his head.
“Well, there was another piece to it. I wonder why she didn’t tell you. The trust was to be overseen by a trustee whose job was—is—to make sure Hannah’s being well cared for. The trustee is empowered to make decisions about anything that involves her welfare.”
“I never heard anything about that,” Sam said.
“You should have,” Truman said. “Because it’s you.”
“What?”
“You’re the trustee!” Truman grinned. “How d’ya like them apples?”
“Yes!” said Neva, and pumped her fist in the air.
“But what does it mean, honey?” Corinna asked Neva.
“I’m not sure yet, but I know it’s good,” Neva said.
“It means that Sam is Hannah’s legal guardian,” Truman said. “Technically, it means if he feels Hannah’s at risk in any way, or that her care doesn’t meet her needs, he can ask the zoo to make whatever changes he feels are necessary. And if the zoo refuses, he can withhold or withdraw the trust’s funds. In other words, what Sam says, goes—the zoo has to comply, or it loses roughly seventy-five thousand dollars a year. Which, let me tell you, it cannot afford to do.”
“Are you saying that the trust owns her?” Neva said.
“No. On the surface of it, the zoo owns her, because she was gifted to the city along with Max Biedelman’s other property when she died.”
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