“Castration?” she says. “Do you mean surgical neutering, sir?” He nods fiercely. “No, we definitely don’t do that. These animals are close to endangered. If anything, we want them to breed in captivity so we don’t have to collect them from the wild.”
May must have sensed that something is wrong, because she has stopped protesting. She shrinks against me.
“What gives you the right to collect them at all?” Frank says, and the attendant glances at me, alarmed.
“I’m so sorry.” I lay a hand on Frank’s arm. “You’ll have to excuse him. He doesn’t realize what he’s saying.”
Two people nearby are eyeing us now. Something like schadenfreude flickers between them. I marvel, as I have before, at how easily anger can reorganize a room. One rupture in civility, and attention rushes toward it, predictably as matter toward a void.
To my surprise, the attendant smiles. “I get it,” she says. “It’s a common misconception people have about aquariums—that we harm the animals, or neglect them, like they used to do in zoos. But that’s not true, at least nowadays. We’re about habitats, not cages.” She turns to Frank. “And, sir, I can tell you that inspiring conservation isn’t just our priority. It’s our mission.”
A cry of wonder rises from the penguin exhibit, followed by a splash. The voice on the loudspeaker mutters something that elicits scattered, adult laughter.
“So diminished,” Frank whispers, as a shark cruises past us. With a twinge of embarrassment, I see him as he must appear to her, with his wild hair and faded clothes and bright old eyes, wet with grief and passion.
“Are you folks from around here?” she asks me. Then she jumps, startled, as Frank stabs the floor with the ferrule of his umbrella.
“Take them home,” he barks at her. May’s hand closes around my thumb.
“Let’s go,” I hiss, grabbing Frank’s arm. To the attendant, I say: “Thanks for your time. I really do apologize.”
Frank wrenches free, then shoves me back with surprising force. I stumble against May, who has begun to cry.
“Let them out,” he bellows.
There is nothing familiar in his expression. He clutches the tapered end of his umbrella, raising its steel handle in the air. The attendant gasps.
“Don’t!” I shout, but he is already in motion. I dive for May as, in one agile sweep, he swings the metal toward the glass.
Twelve
I see the impact before it comes: the crash, the rushing water, the sleek gray bodies lunging at us between splinters of glass. The force of the image drives me against May, pushing her down to shield her from the wreckage. She screams, and before I can explain, the stone floor races up to meet us. Then comes the fragile crunch of her glasses against my cheek, the twinkle of pain.
A tinny flavor enters my mouth. May is crushed beneath me, straining for air. There are shouts, running footsteps. When I roll off her and lift my face, however, I see no carnage. The same beasts are gliding overhead, with ancient poise. Before them, staring stunned at the bull’s-eye crack he has inflicted, is an old man wielding an umbrella.
By the time I have scrambled to my feet they are upon him. A uniformed man grabs him by the shoulders, steering him through a camouflaged door beside the tank. Another employee stands in the threshold of the cephalopod exhibit, barking into a radio. Behind us, the penguin feeding continues, though most of the onlookers have turned to stare. Some of them are hurrying toward the next hall, clutching purses and toddlers to their chest. The attendant we were speaking to has disappeared.
May is crawling across the floor, groping for something. Her glasses are splayed on the stone behind her, one lens shattered. In some cosmic gesture of sympathy, they must have fallen off her face before breaking against mine.
“Hi there, folks.” The same male voice that had announced the penguin feeding blasts through the hall: “We regret to announce that our rockhopper exhibit is temporarily closed, I repeat, closed. If you are in the area, please find the nearest exit. We should have this cleared up momentarily.”
I lift May up and carry her toward the camouflaged door where they have taken Frank. She is whimpering, but seems physically unhurt. Just as we reach the door, it swings open, revealing a bearded attendant.
“Please stay back, sir,” he says.
“That man in there . . .” I gesture toward the fluorescent hallway behind him. “He’s with us.”
“Authorized staff only.”
His gaze lingers on my cheek, and I reach up to feel a jagged stickiness. My fingers come away bloody.
Two personnel in navy suits push past us, clutching their radios. The man nods, beckoning them inside. And then the door shuts.
May is shaking all over. I hold her close to me and scan the room, wondering whether we should return to the lobby. A clearing has opened up before the tank, ringed by five staff members with clipboards. The crack is about the size of a tennis ball, a network of shrill white rays that impose a Euclidean violence on the water.
I am about to approach the staff members when a police officer sidles past us, through the camouflaged door. As it hisses closed on its mechanical arm I stick my foot in the threshold, waiting a few seconds. Then I slip inside.
“Where are we going?” May says.
I hold a finger to my lips, and she nods.
We follow the officer down a corridor paved with lime green carpeting. There are doors on either side of us, distinguished by copper nameplates. Parabolic lamps buzz overhead.
The officer takes a left and disappears. Shifting May onto my other hip, I hurry after him, rounding a corner into a hall that opens out into a glassed-in conference room. Three people are blocking the entrance, murmuring to one another. Others are clustered inside, around an oblong table. Between a pair of shifting bodies I catch a glimpse of Frank. He is sitting with his back to us, nearly swallowed by an ergonomic chair. The employees are staring at him with a mixture of disgust and fascination. From where we stand I can make out a few of their muttered phrases: “. . . evacuation . . . till Lisa paged me . . . that old guy? . . .” They fall silent as the officer approaches.
“Him,” says a woman in black, pointing at Frank. Her jacket reads “Security.” As the officer moves toward him, her eyes settle on me and May.
“Can I help you, sir?” she says sharply.
“I’m here to collect that man.” I gesture toward the conference room. “He’s my—”
“Who gave you access to this area?”
“No one. I . . . Wait”—she is speaking into her radio now— “He’s not well. He’s been off his medication.”
Some of her colleagues have noticed us, too. She hesitates. In their collective gaze I sense the same revulsion they had directed at Frank, and it plants a foreign desperation in my voice.
“He’s bipolar,” I blurt out, feeling May’s breath quicken against my collarbone. “If you’ll just let me through . . . ”
“The police are handling the situation, sir. You can meet him at the precinct.”
Inside the conference room I notice the Australian man. Somehow, through everything, I have managed to keep hold of my audio guide.
On impulse I shout, “Frank!”
He turns, and our eyes meet. I see terror in his face, muddied by confusion. And then the police officer steps between us.
“Sir?” the woman is saying now. “If you don’t cooperate, I’m afraid we’re going to have to escort you out of the building.”
The prospect of ceding Frank to the state—and having to confess as much to Prue—fills me with dread.
“But, the meds . . . He needs them now,” I say—pure invention—yet I am suddenly willing to stake my life on the lie. “This has happened before, I’m telling you. Please. I have them on me.”
She is no longer listening. One of her colleagues steps forward, and together they s
teer me and May into a back stairwell, guiding us down two empty flights. By the time we have reached the ground floor, I have extracted Frank’s destination: the Narragansett Police Department, on Wanda Drive.
“Someone should take a look at your face,” the woman says in parting, taking my audio guide and pushing open a barred door marked Exit.
Rain slams against us. I push back against the door, my arms aching from May’s weight, only to find that it is locked from within. I am standing between a loading dock and a garage, facing a welter of cars that bear no resemblance to the tidy lot we entered an hour ago. A siren howls. People scamper toward their SUVs, some of them holding plastic bags over their heads.
When I lower May to the ground, she sucks in her breath. A few strands of hair are sticking to her tearstained cheek. She stares with horror at mine.
I bring my hand to the wound and feel a viscid warmth. The blood must be running under the freezing rain. I start to explain as much, but she is already tugging off Maurice’s sweater, balling it up and pressing it against my cheek. Too surprised to thank her, I tug her hood over her head and lead her out across the pavement.
“Listen for it,” I tell her, pressing the panic button on the electronic key fob.
Our car is mercifully close. So is the police station, I find, once we climb in and I have Googled the address. I pull out of our parking space, flicking the windshield wipers on high.
“You said he was getting better,” May whimpers.
Lightning flashes in the distance. They must have evacuated the place, because the entrance to the highway is jammed.
“I know, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Everything’s blurry.”
“We’ll get you new glasses.”
A thunderclap prompts her to cry out. As we finally pull onto the highway she whispers, “I want to go home.”
“That’s where we’re headed, just as soon as we pick up Grandpa.”
“I don’t want Grandpa.”
Still pressing the sweater to my face, I glance in the rearview mirror. Her face has crumpled. With a spasm of guilt, I imagine how she will recount this day, when she is older: The time my grandpa almost killed me and my uncle. And my uncle didn’t stop him.
I say, “We have to rescue him, sweetie, before—”
“I don’t want to rescue him.” She wipes her face with Maurice. “I don’t want to see him ever again.”
“May . . .”
“I want to go home,” she says through a sob. “I want my dad.”
In silence I redirect the GPS to Walt’s apartment. The half-hour detour takes us through the outskirts of West Warwick, down scrubby, rain-swept roads. The houses lining Walt’s street are vinyl, some of them flanked by motor homes. A chariot draped in Christmas lights flashes on one lawn, steered by a plastic Santa. A wooden reindeer rears before him, its sodden scarf thrashing in the wind.
May unbuckles her seat belt before her house is even in sight. When I pull into her driveway, she struggles with the door lock.
“It’s going to be all right,” I say, unlocking her door. The clouds flash. She doesn’t bother to reply, stumbling out of the car and across the icy lawn.
Walt opens the door in a robe. Julia must be here, I remember suddenly, as May throws her arms around his waist.
“What’s up, guys?” he says, and then does a double take, noticing my cheek.
“Jesus,” he adds. “What happened, man?”
From deeper in the house comes the roar of a televised crowd, mingled with the scent of pancakes. Their orange cat, Felix, weaves around his shins, its fur gone matte with cold.
I mutter, “Nothing I couldn’t have predicted.”
“Where’s my dad?”
“At the police station.”
“You’re kidding. Hell’d he do now?”
“I’ll explain later,” I say, and glance meaningfully at May, unwilling to make her relive it.
“Well, come inside.” He looks over his shoulder. “Let me just—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, backing away. “I have to go.”
“Come on. At least—”
“Grandpa’s sorry,” I say to May.
She turns her puffy face toward mine. They watch from the doorway as I start the engine and revive the windshield wipers, speeding back in the direction of the sea.
* * *
—
THE POLICE STATION is only ten minutes from the aquarium, a homely building skirted by dunes of graying snow. Inside I find no sign of Frank. There is a backlog in Patrol, the receptionist informs me, but yes, their records do indicate a Franklin Baum in custody. He should be in Central Booking now, getting processed for arraignment. No, it won’t be possible to see him at this time. Charges against him will depend on the prosecutor’s evaluation. Corporal Banks will provide more details. He is on a break but should be back shortly. Once again, Mr. Baum’s bail amount has not been set. Yes, he may be held overnight.
I lower myself into one of the lobby’s plastic seats, across from a rangy, toothless man and a woman playing Sudoku. A rottweiler dozes between them, its nose twitching. The man glances at my cheek, and then averts his eyes.
My phone rings. Prue. Walt must have called her. May would have told him everything and worse by now.
“Oh god, P . . . ,” I begin, but my voice gives out. I count the squares on the linoleum, collecting myself.
“I just got off with Walt,” she says, wind lashing her voice. Can she be walking home from campus in this weather?
“He said May could hardly talk, she was so upset,” she continues. “He said you ran off without an explanation. What happened?”
“Your dad . . . ,” I say, anchored by the sound of her. “He completely freaked out.”
“Where are you?”
“Some police station.” I knead my forehead.
“Oh my god.”
“We were at the aquarium.” I prop my elbows on my knees. “He started hallucinating. He thought the animals were talking to him, that he had to help them.”
She is silent.
“You know our good umbrella?” I take a breath, hardly believing what I am about to say, even though I witnessed it myself. “He swung it against the shark tank.”
The Sudoku player glances up at me. I close my eyes.
“Just text me what town you’re in,” Prue says. “I’m out already. I’ll call a cab.”
“No, don’t come here,” I say. Don’t see him like this.
“Of course I’m coming. How much cash should I bring?”
An officer leans through the door beside reception. “Ivan Link?”
“Here!” I stand up. Into the phone I say, “I have to go. I’ll call you back.”
“Wait, just tell me—”
“I have everything under control.”
As soon as I hang up my phone flares back to life, but I decline her call. I should have answered, I realize, sickened, as I follow the officer through the doorway. But the thought of recounting the snarl of events—and with them, my incompetence—is too much to bear.
“Corporal B-banks’ll see you now,” the officer says, over her shoulder. “He’ll answer any qu-questions you might have.”
I follow her down an aisle of cubicles, most of them cluttered with family photographs. A belly laugh sounds from one of them.
“Here we are.” She pushes open a door, decorated with a child’s drawing. It depicts a man standing on a hill, his head twice the size of the sun. A tiny plane careens across the sky, painting the sky in bubble letters that read “Philandro Banks’ Room.”
A man sits inside, typing, his heels propped on his mahogany desk. Though it is easily six feet wide, it is bare except for a laptop, gum wrappers, and a bobblehead of Muhammad Ali.
“We’ve g-got a relative,” the
officer says in parting. “Here for suspect nine.”
“Thanks,” says the man, without looking up.
“Sir . . .” I clear my throat. “Sorry to bother you. I’m here for Franklin Baum. Seventy-four-year-old male, with a history of—”
“The shark whisperer,” he interrupts, dropping his pen. “That’s your old man?”
He props his elbows on his gut, fingers tented, regarding me with the friendly arrogance of a man who has seen worse.
“He’s my father-in-law, yes.”
“Well.” He taps his fingertips together. “He’s made my Saturday pretty interesting.”
There is sarcasm in his face, but a trace of wonder, too. Pointing at his own cheek, he says, “You want some ice for that?”
“I’m all right, thank you. The important thing to know—”
“That was one mean umbrella,” he interrupts. “Steel, he said?”
I nod. “He’s bipolar, sir.”
“So we heard.” The corporal swings his heels off the desk, and the bobblehead quivers. “He’s been easy. Connected us with his doctor as soon as he rolled in. Our psych team called her, recommended a thorough review. We can release him for the night, on the condition that he show up to All Saints Hospital by noon tomorrow.”
He slides a document across the desk. Its heading reads Request for Emergency Admission.
“They’ll keep him for a day or two.” He laces his hands behind his head. “Then get back to us with an assessment.”
“When would the trial be?” I say carefully.
He laughs. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. With psych cases, misdemeanor charges are usually dropped. Officer Shah filed the report. He’ll brief you on the specifics.”
A misdemeanor? I search his face for humor. Can he have actually written off the episode as vandalism, rather than the near multiple homicide it was? But there is no derision in his eyes, only impatience. He stands, glancing at the door.
The tank was not glass after all, but acrylic. So I learn in an interview room beside the holding cell, where Officer Shah—a lean man with stubbly jowls—spells out the damages: more than $5000 in repairs, likely covered by the aquarium’s insurers. Even if he passes his medical review, Frank could face up to $1,000 in fines.
The Study of Animal Languages Page 12
