West with Giraffes: A Novel

by Lynda Rutledge

  “How do you know that?”

  “Why, you’re famous, young man. You’ve been in all the papers as you travel. I was figuring you’d come along the Lee Highway, and I was right. So what do you say? A peek and the coin is yours.” When I didn’t snatch it right up, he pinched it between his thick thumb and forefinger and held it out, the thing all but glittering in the lantern’s glow.

  With real gold hovering so near, I forgot all about the trick coin, the Old Man’s circus outbursts at the railway, and pretty much everything else. In a time when you could buy a hot dog and a soda pop for a nickel, a twenty-dollar gold piece was John D. Rockefeller. I didn’t just want it, I needed it. There was no bigger devil-deal to offer a hard-knock boy in a Hard Times world. I’d lived on tumbleweed soup and been tempted with raccoon parts cooked over crazy-hungry bums’ fire barrels. Not until years into my army days did I trust that tomorrow would hold food without fear. I’m back on my own at Memphis, aren’t I? I told myself, staring at that gold. Even with a ticket to Californy, I could be broke and hungry again soon, couldn’t I? Right then, my fool young self started angling how to get the gold piece with no harm done to the giraffes or the Old Man. I was cocksure I could do it, having yet to learn that nobody gets devil-dealing both ways, there being either heaven or hell to pay for everything in this world and nothing in between.

  I reached for the double eagle.

  He palmed it. “First, a look.”

  So I stepped up on the fender to open the giraffes’ windows. At the sound of me so near, both Boy and Girl pushed their heads out on their own.

  “Ohhhhhhh,” the ringmaster moaned with smarmy pleasure, eyes glistening. “They’re sublime! And so young! Perfect, perfect.”

  The giraffes, however, took one look at him and pulled their heads back in.

  He groaned. “No, no, no, make them come out!”

  Since I already knew you couldn’t make a giraffe do anything, which he didn’t seem to know, I thought it was over. “You saw them. A deal’s a deal,” I said, eyes on his clenched palm.

  “But I must see more.” He opened his golden palm. “More and it’s yours. You have my word.”

  I glanced back and forth between the coin and the rig, pondering the least I could do to get the gold piece. Considering he’d seen their heads, I opened the trapdoors to reveal both giraffes’ lower halves, hoping that’d be enough.

  It was not.

  “Come now, you can do better.”

  All I could think to do next was open the top for a look down on them. Climbing up the side ladder, I headed up, expecting the roly-poly ringmaster to follow.

  “Young man,” he called up, rubbing his belly, “there’s got to be another way.” When I didn’t hop right to it, he waved the gold piece at me once again. I couldn’t think what else to do. He was now bouncing it in his open palm, just so it would gleam in the lamplight. There was the double eagle, all golden and glittering. Waiting. For me. “It’s yours, son! Don’t you want it?”

  Tearing my eyes off the coin, I glanced around me, my eyes landing on a big clamp near my hand, one of the four heavy “ramp” clamps holding the entire side upright. Maybe I can lower the side—only a bit, I thought. Never mind I’d hadn’t touched the clamps before and never mind I had no idea how heavy the side was. Halfway down—that’s as far as I’ll go, I told myself, temptation as bad in inches as in miles.

  I opened the top first, then started working on the side clamps. The Old Man had battened the things down to last for the entire ride, and I had to work them loose. You’d think that would’ve given me time to think about what I was doing. But that gold piece had me still believing I could outsmart a tricky fat cat making me deaf, dumb, and blind to all but it. When the last clamp opened, I grabbed hold of the middle and stepped a boot down on the fender—as far as I was going to go—and lowered the traveling crate’s side for the first time since the giraffes had been put in. I might as well have drawn a diagram on how to do it, Mr. Percival T. Bowles watching my every move. It was worse than a knucklehead stunt, it was a selfish and deadly one that I was to regret the moment I’d done it. Because no sooner had I stepped down, I lost my footing on the fog-damp fender and I fell, landing on my back in the dirt with the rig’s entire side flopped down on top of me, chest-high.

  That sudden, the giraffes had nothing between them and us but air. They went full tilt into a tizzy, rearing up, rocking the rig, readying to kick anyone near. And I was the one near. I locked eyes with them. Those trusting brown globes were so full of fear and confusion I felt my insides ripping apart. It was as if I were glimpsing their big giraffe souls, and they, God help me, were glimpsing the sorry state of mine, because they started clawing their fragile legs up the sides, away from me. The giraffes had seen me for the lion I was. Any second, they’d do what they do to lions. They’d kick me dead as I deserved, tumbling down the panel to do it.

  If I didn’t do something and do it quick, we were all done.

  Scrambling up and throwing all my weight under the downed panel, I somehow shoved it upright, jumped back on the fender, and thrust the heavy thing over my head, clamping as fast as I could until the top and sides were fixed back tight.

  Tumbling to the ground, I stared at their windows, praying for the giraffes to appear. Instead I heard the beginning moan of the sound I’d hoped never to hear again—the giraffe-terror caterwaul from the night of the yahoos. Climbing halfway up the side ladder, I began cooing the Old Man’s giraffe-speak the best I could through the slats, fearing—knowing—they’d never trust me again. To my shock, though, as I kept on cooing, their moans began to soften. I upped my cooing. Within seconds, the giraffes had quieted all the way down, and then, forgiving me all my treachery, they moved toward me.

  It was too much. For an instant, I was seeing my mare’s trusting brown-apple eyes in theirs, reliving the sure crime that sent me running toward Cuz, and I wanted to yell at the giraffes, Don’t you forgive me—don’t you dare! Instead I dropped to the ground and bent over to keep from passing out, knowing I’d dodged a bullet of my own firing.

  “Get ahold of yourself, lad,” I heard Bowles say. “They’re just animals.” Upon hearing my pa’s words spewing from his mouth, the only thing that kept me from punching his porky face was the pair of eyes I still felt watching us from the fog. “You’ve got to remind them who’s boss, that’s all,” he kept on. “Now, let’s try once more.”

  I straightened my sorry ass and forced my eyes off his golden-coined fist. “I’m not who you need to ask for any more looking.”

  He considered me for a moment, the lantern glow now making him look like Lucifer himself. “Ah, and who might that be?”

  “Mr. Jones,” I mumbled.

  “And where is this Mr. Jones?”

  “Don’t want to wake him.”

  “Well, then.” He flashed his toothy coyote grin. “The twenty-dollar gold piece is still yours, and there’s lots more of those where that came from. We are living in a time of opportunity, young man. It pays to take what you want, remember that. The job offer stands. Percival Bowles is a good friend to have.” He looked back at the rig. “Such a pity, isn’t it? These animals are so hard to get yet die so quick, and they never breed before they die. But, oh my, there’s money to be made while they last. Here you go.”

  I’d quit listening after “the gold piece is still yours,” not realizing until much later what he’d said and what it all surely meant. Because, right then, he opened his fist. There was my double eagle. I snatched it up, looked quick at both sides, and shoved it in my pocket before he could change his mind.

  “I’ll return to speak to your Mr. Jones in the morning.” He tipped his silly hat and then disappeared into the fog, which was spooky enough on its own without a yellow-suited, top-hatted, black-booted man being swallowed up into it.

  Easing down on the running board, I pulled out the piece of gold to gaze at it in the lantern light. I must’ve stared mighty hard and mighty long,
because I was still gazing at it when the Old Man appeared from the fog to relieve me, and I stuffed it back deep in my pocket.

  “Everything all right?” the Old Man said.

  Nodding, I hustled past him to the rented trailer, flopped down on the trailer’s cot, and stared into the dark. Until daylight, I spent the hours waiting for the night to end, fingering my new gold piece and thinking only of my Memphis ticket to ride.

  By dawn, though, I must have dozed off, because I thought I heard the giraffe-terror wail again, far away, like in a dream.

  I sat up to listen, but what I heard sounded like . . . Red.

  “WOODY! WOODYYYYYYYY!”

  In nothing more than my skivvies and boots, I threw open the trailer door to gaze through the remains of the fog hanging in the trees, and what I saw chilled me to my marrow.

  A cornfield.

  “WOODY!”

  Thirty yards away, Red was standing by the rig. The entire side looked open to the ground facing the field, and she was gaping up. Into the traveling crates.

  Sprinting across the gravel and pine cones, I looked where she was looking, and what I saw all but dropped me to my knees. Boy was still in the road Pullman, barely, leaning so far into the open that gravity would soon be making the next move.

  But Girl was gone.

  From behind me, I heard the giraffe-terror caterwaul again—this time loud and long. Jerking full around, I could see a ruckus on the far side of the field, cornstalks flattening every which way. There was Girl, her long neck stretching above the dried cornstalks. Two men were moving toward her, one pulling at a lasso around her neck, one twirling another . . . and she was kicking . . . kicking at the lions.

  If that sight wasn’t horrifying enough, halfway between me and them was the Old Man, wobbly as a drunk, shotgun aimed their way. If he took a shot like that, with a gun like that, he’d be more likely to hit Girl than the demons after her. I had to stop him.

  Hearing Boy stomping behind me, though, I spun back around. He was pawing at the downed panel. He had to get to Girl. Once again, I threw my full weight under the panel, rushing to get it up in front of him, Red pushing, too, then snatched the rifle from the truck cab and sprinted toward the Old Man.

  I was halfway to him when I heard the shotgun’s blast.

  Stunned, I stumbled, dropping the rifle in the cornstalks, and braced for what I’d see.

  But the Old Man had missed and fallen to his knees.

  Across the cornfield, the men, knowing the Old Man couldn’t stop them now, were back at it. One was wrestling with the rope around Wild Girl’s neck, Girl throwing him around like a puppet until she reared up and the second man’s rope found its mark—her front leg. Pulling the rope taut, he now had Girl splay-legged and they were closing in.

  For a moment I stared at the sight, deaf to all but my own thundering heartbeat. Then scooping up the rifle, I stood, aimed, and fired.

  As the leg-rope lackey dropped into the flattened stalks and the other took cover, I was hearing nothing but my nightmare’s rifle report . . . because this was not the first time I’d shot a man.

  The lackeys disappeared into the cornfield, and within seconds, I spied streaks of yellow and red careening through the stalks.

  To the sound of their truck barreling away, I stared at the gut-wrenching sight before me. Girl was wandering slow among the cornstalks, a rope dangling from her neck.

  Struggling up on his boots, the Old Man lurched her way. Heart in my throat, I remembered word for word what he’d said in DC.

  There’s no taking the giraffes out of the rig, because once they’re out, there’s no guarantee we’d ever get ’em back in, and that’d be the death of them one way or the other.

  The Old Man fell again. I ran to him. Blood was running down his face. He tried to get to his feet and couldn’t. Grabbing him by an arm, I was struggling to get him up, when there was Red, camera swinging from her neck, grabbing his other.

  “Get the rig,” he gasped as we got him to his feet.

  I ran to the truck. Wires were dangling behind the starter. I shoved them back up and got the engine going, then rolled the rig and Boy into the cornfield, splaying stalks as we went.

  We jolted to a halt behind the Old Man, who was now down on his haunches, cooing his giraffe-speak to Girl twenty yards away. Girl’s matchstick legs were swaying, the rope moving with them, like she was readying for more lions.

  “Let her see Boy,” the Old Man called over his shoulder.

  I swung the wild boy’s trap window open. Boy’s head popped out, and as soon as he saw her, he started bumping against the rig’s side to get to her.

  “Easy . . . easy, Girl,” the Old Man kept cooing, all the while whispering back my way. “Lower the side—we’ve got to get her back in.”

  “But couldn’t Boy be out, too?”

  “Not unless he falls out. He’ll want to, but he won’t step down on his own. Unless Girl starts loping away. Then I don’t know what the hell he’ll do. But it won’t be good.”

  Boy, head still out, was bumping the rig so hard the frame was shuddering.

  Seeing him, though, Girl slowed her swaying and took a halting step toward us. The Old Man cussed under his breath and I saw why—the splint on her wounded leg was half unwound. And it was bloody. Balancing on three legs, she was now doing her best not to use the wounded one.

  The Old Man moved toward her, and the Girl kicked—a heart-crushing weak one—and it loosened the bandage even more. Another kick could have her falling to the ground and, once down, maybe never getting back up.

  “Onion—” the Old Man hissed back. I grabbed an onion, pushed it into the Old Man’s waiting fist, and stood back.

  Girl’s snout caught the scent. So the Old Man tried moving toward her again, holding out the onion. She still wasn’t having it, readying a weak—and maybe last—kick.

  The Old Man stepped back quick, lowering the onion.

  A second went by. I moved nearer to get a better view. The Girl’s neck moved with me, and the Old Man saw.

  “Step closer,” the Old Man whispered my way.

  I stepped closer.

  She moved her neck back, forth, eyeing me up, down.

  “Closer!” the Old Man hissed.

  I forced myself to do it again. I was close enough to be kicked. Again, the Old Man was holding out the onion, this time toward me. I should have taken it, but I couldn’t make myself do it. Instead I was fighting the urge to disappear into the cornstalks, too, so I wouldn’t be the Old Man’s last-ditch chance at saving the terrified giraffe above us.

  “Take it!” the Old Man ordered. When I still couldn’t make myself move, he scrambled to me, stuffed it in my pocket, and shoved me forward.

  Nostrils quivering, Girl stepped wobbly toward me, close enough that the useless rope was dangling near enough to touch. Then, exactly as she’d done the first night in quarantine, she lowered her neck to sniff out my onion. I pulled the onion from my pocket and held it up. Her tongue snatched, her neck rose, and the onion slid down.

  Sidling near, the Old Man dropped Big Papa’s gunnysack at my feet. “Give ’em to her!” he whispered. As I was giving her the first onion from the sack, I heard a whap behind me. The Old Man had let down the rig’s side, exposing Boy to the open air, and was pulling out a long, wide plank from below the rig that I didn’t even know was there, placing it like a bridge into the crate for her tall spindly legs.

  He motioned me his way.

  I began taking tiny steps backward, sack in hand, stuffing an onion in my pocket every few steps, and waiting for Girl to come get it. She stepped slow. But she stepped. Each time she came near, I’d give her the onion, her tongue pulling it past her lips and down that throat, while I stuffed a new one in my pocket.

  We did it over and over, until we were at the rig.

  I stepped up on the plank, the panel, and into the traveling crate.

  There Girl stopped.

  Boy began snuffling an
d stomping his hooves in the peat moss. Yet Girl kept swaying her neck at me like she was weighing the value of the next onion’s taste upside where she’d have to go to get it.

  The onion sack was almost empty. I stepped toward her from her boxcar suite, waving the onion sack her way, then stepped back into the crate.

  And she decided.

  One leg, two, then three. Her bandaged leg struggled to find the last bit of plank. I could hardly watch. Then she was up on the panel, the whole of her standing on it at an angle . . . the next second would have her either going forward or back faster to the ground than anybody could stop.

  I threw the rest of the onions into the peat moss and scrambled up to sit on the cross plank by Boy, one last onion in my hand.

  She bent her neck forward, thrusting her long tongue into the pile, and came up with one dropped onion after another. Then her long neck rose up, up, following the scent of the last onion in my hand, until she had stepped all four legs into the peat moss.

  Wild Girl was in.

  Faster than seemed Old-Man possible, he had that side panel upright and clamped all by himself, dropping to the running board to catch his breath. I wanted bad to join him, but I couldn’t move. Girl had her massive head stretched across my legs. The moment the side panel was up and latched, she’d reached past me to sniff at Boy. Then, leaning her quivering body against the crate, she dropped her heavy snout into my lap and shut her eyes, and from her nostrils came the thundering whoosh of a sigh as big as Wild Girl herself. I put my hand on her shuddering head and from somewhere deep below my clamped-down insides burst a mighty fount of forgotten emotion. It was my boy-in-knickers feeling I’d allowed myself to feel—for a moment—the night after the mountains. Now, though, with Girl’s sweet head in my lap, it was rushing through every last inch of me, my heart swelling full and warm and pure and kind in a way I’d clean forgotten it could. I was lost in it, its surging tenderheartedness taking my breath clean away.

  Girl opened her eyes, looking far too much like my mare’s brown-apple eyes. As the tender feeling turned into my nightmare secret’s purest pain, I lifted the lasso from around her neck and flung it deep into the cornstalks.