The Elephant's Girl

by Celesta Rimington

  The girl hands me a dollar in change and two frozen chocolate bananas on a stick. She looks thoroughly confused. “You two kids…work here?”

  Fisher and I smile. We get this a lot.

  “We live here,” we say together.

  Someone forgot to tell the new girl about the resident kids. It’s something every new employee learns eventually.

  “I’m Lexington Willow, but you can call me Lex if you want.”

  “And I’m Fisher.” Fisher immediately starts on his frozen banana. I think his appetite is stronger than his fear of brain freeze.

  The girl is still speechless, trying to figure us out, but Fisher doesn’t have time to stick around if he’s going to catch the next city bus. I glance at her purple food services name tag. “Nice to meet you DaLoris.”

  I pocket the dollar and Roger’s ID card, and Fisher and I take off toward the main gates.

  “Nice to meet you, too!” DaLoris calls after us.

  The parking lot is already more than half full of cars. We walk the length of the parking lot toward the bus stop on Wild Kingdom Avenue, scarfing down our frozen bananas, laughing, and moaning when the cold sends spiking pain to our heads.

  But even Fisher’s squished-up, brain-freeze expression can’t stop me thinking about Nyah and the pictures she put in my head.

  “Earth to Lex.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said are you going to check out the woods while I’m at baseball? Are you going to try to figure out what Nyah meant?”

  I glance over at the undeveloped land—the wild acres of tangled trees and unruly bushes. It flanks the west side of the zoo fences and would at least double the size of the zoo if someone had the money to do the work.

  “Um…” Fisher and I have always gone exploring in the zoo together, but we’ve never ventured out in the undeveloped land. This will be a first for me, if I go into the woods alone. “Maybe.”

  We’ve reached the bus stop, and the growl of the city bus approaches from the other end of Wild Kingdom Avenue.

  Fisher pulls a Kansas City Royals baseball hat from his backpack and settles it over his spiky hair to shield his face from the sun. He scans the wild woods for a moment and then points at the blue metal roof that towers higher than the other buildings inside the zoo fences.

  “If you lose your way, use the Giraffe Encounter roof to get back and then follow the fences to the parking lot.”

  I nod. I wish Fisher could go with me, but I also don’t want to wait. Nyah’s message felt urgent, and the longer I think about it, the more urgent it seems.

  “Okay,” I say, swallowing a lump. “I will.”

  The bus creaks and groans as it pulls up to the curb. This feels just like the school year, not like summer vacation. The day is just getting started, and Fisher is leaving.

  “Thanks for the banana…and the brain freeze,” he says.

  I watch him climb the bus steps and wave at him until I can no longer see his baseball cap through the windows.

  Frank Bixly wasn’t too thrilled when I showed up inside the African Grasslands the morning after Lexington’s EF5 tornado.

  According to Roger, Frank Bixly was especially not thrilled when the Channel 5 News arrived to do a story on my appearance and my missing family following the storm. The reporters called it “a human-interest piece.” They said it had “a lot of heart.” Frank Bixly didn’t want bad publicity for the zoo. He said people already protest keeping animals, especially elephants, in captivity. Mr. Bixly didn’t want anyone getting ideas that the animals were unsafe or that the zoo didn’t have a good handle on the cleanup and repairs after the storm.

  Roger didn’t want the news station to do the story either. Not the way the reporters planned it. He wanted them to make the story about my missing family, because he promised me he’d do everything he could to find them. But the reporters were much more interested in the sensational stuff—that I survived a tornado, that I tamed an African elephant. Which is ridiculous.

  But as General Manager, Mr. Bixly agreed to let them film the story inside the zoo if they included information that would sell more tickets. He announced a short-term closure while they assessed the damage and assured animal health and safety. Then he announced that the reopening would include a free day at the zoo for all children with paying adults. The reopening would feature limited tickets to view elephant training and a chance to see Nyah, the heroic elephant who saved the little girl.

  It seems like he would’ve sold tickets to see me if someone had let him.

  I’m much older now, so I know that Mr. Bixly and the reporters never meant for what happened next. But it did. Somehow, people and the other reporters heard “the elephant who saved the girl” and turned it into “the elephant girl.”

  And that didn’t go well when I got to school.

  Despite the publicity, no one claimed to be my family.

  But I’m fairly certain, after all these years, that they would’ve come if they could have.

  I stride through the weed grass, some of it thorny and flowering, and my steps send up little clouds of plant dust mixed with bug swarms. Some of the bugs are light green like the grass, smaller than a seed, and they settle on my clothes and in my hair. I swat them off, but they’re replaced by more. I finally give up swatting and aim for the denser part of the trees where the branches shade the earth. The trees are far apart at first, and the sun beats on my head in the rising humidity until my curly hair is thicker than a wool blanket. Sharp dead branches litter the ground from past storms.

  No one ever goes in here. At least I don’t think they do. Maybe I should go back to the Old County Bank, put on some boots, and change my shorts for long pants before wading any farther. Suddenly, though, the tangle of bushes and dead wood is replaced by softer dirt and an easier path. The thick weeds don’t grow in the shade.

  I’ve reached a spot where the trees are more dense, where the long-reaching branches nearly touch each other and only scattered sunlight makes it all the way to the ground. I’ve stayed close enough to the zoo’s west fence that I can still see part of it beyond the trees. The gray roof of the Ape House and the chimps’ tall climbing poles are barely visible here, but I can easily see the Giraffe Encounter’s blue roof.

  Exploring this side of the zoo fence by myself wasn’t what I thought I’d be doing today. But I also didn’t think I’d hear Nyah’s low rumble and see her thoughts again. I was so young when I wandered into Nyah’s enclosure, looked into her eyes, and saw the image of a mama elephant and her baby that I’ve sometimes wondered whether it really happened. But now I know it did.

  I wish I could’ve talked it over more with Fisher. And suddenly I picture myself standing on the sidewalk as Fisher rode away in that city bus, and I feel like Karana from Island of the Blue Dolphins as she watched her people sail away from her island. The zoo is like my island. I stay here because it feels safer than leaving. My family is gone, but the zoo is my home. This tangled wood outside the fences is a weird middle place between my island and the outside, a waiting zone where nothing good or bad happens.

  The wind kicks up the leaves around my feet. Unlike Nyah’s low rumble that passes through me like invisible waves, the wind speaks in ticklish whispers.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” the wind says.

  “What do you care?” I answer in my head. Whether I speak out loud or in my head, the wind never directly answers my questions. If it did, I would’ve had the answer about my family a long time ago.

  “You should listen to me.” For something that owes me big, the wind sure tells me what to do a lot.

  “I’d rather listen to Nyah,” I answer. It’s true. Although I’m not sure yet what Nyah was trying to tell me, exactly, I prefer her rumblings and pictures to the wind’s words.

  I think Nyah hopes I will find something out
here where the wind doesn’t want me to be, and I’m too curious not to keep trying. Besides, Fisher left on the nine-forty bus, so I’m pretty sure I have a little more than two hours before I need to be at Wild Eats to meet Roger for lunch.

  I’ve never been outside the zoo entirely alone and without a way to tell time. I don’t have a watch, because I’ve never needed one inside the zoo. Clocks in every building and train whistles at the station keep everything inside the zoo on schedule. I suppose I could listen for the train whistle out here, too, but it won’t tell me which hour or half hour we’re on. I look up through the canopy of branches overhead and try to notice where the sun is. Who am I kidding? I have no idea how to tell time by the sun. I’m not much like Karana with that outdoor survival kind of thing.

  Well, I figure I can head back when my water runs out and I get thirsty. That won’t take too long in this heat. I continue deeper into the shade, angling slightly away from the fence.

  A breeze rustles the branches, and at the exact same time, my skin prickles all over my arms and on the back of my neck like something just snuck up behind me. I turn around, but everything looks the same as it did before. I turn again and see something long and blue fluttering between two trees. The blue something is thin and wispy and lets the sunlight through it. With goose bumps still rising on my skin, I move closer to the fluttering thing.

  It’s fabric.

  It’s some kind of a fancy scarf.

  And it’s attached to a lady.

  I’m pretty sure it’s the lady I saw in Nyah’s images.

  She’s sitting at a patio table beneath the awning of what looks like a giant silver can of ham—an old-fashioned trailer. She’s wearing a light blue business suit and a tilted hat that makes her look like one of those movie stars from the black-and-white films Roger likes to watch. She sips something from a teacup, sees me, and sets the teacup gently on a saucer. It makes a satisfying clinking sound.

  “Well now,” she calls out, “don’t you look worn-out.” She speaks Southern. Big-time. “Why don’t you come and set a spell?”

  I’m used to meeting new people inside the zoo, but outside the zoo, it’s different. I feel…exposed. I’m not attached to the ground enough. I might blow away like my family. The wind rustles the branches, and my skin prickles into goose bumps again, even though it is so hot that my forearms are sweating.

  The lady waves me over, like she’s telling me it’s normal for me to visit her at this tin can trailer that probably has no business being parked on this property. I don’t mind about her trailer—it’s just that if Mr. Bixly learns someone is camping out here, he’ll have her out before she can pack up her patio furniture.

  “Who are you?” I call to her as I step over another fallen log toward the lady and her trailer. It’s not the politest way to greet someone, I realize after I’ve said it.

  “I’m Miss Amanda Holtz,” the lady answers. “But you may call me Miss Amanda, darlin’.”

  I’m near her table now, but I don’t step close enough to be under the striped pink awning just yet. “Hello, Miss Amanda. What are you doing here?” Again, not very polite, but people can’t just decide they live in the woods outside the zoo fence.

  “Oh, come set down, child. I don’t bite.” Miss Amanda taps the chair next to her at the table. She has some biscuits set out on a plate. A fat little teapot in the center of the table drips with condensation. It smells like cranberries and mint. It might be the tea, or it might be the biscuits, or it might be Miss Amanda. Perhaps all three.

  I sit, but not beside her. She has four chairs at this picnic table, and I choose the one across from her.

  “I’m here because I have some business at the zoo,” Miss Amanda says once I’ve sat down.

  “Oh?” Immediately, I imagine this small, skinny woman pulling off her long scarf and tossing it over a branch, hoisting herself above the zoo fence, and climbing inside under cover of darkness.

  “What sort of business?” I ask.

  “None of your business,” the wind says, tossing one of my frizzy curls into my face.

  “I need to speak with Frank Bixly,” answers Miss Amanda. She moves her hands and arms a lot when she speaks. It’s like her movements need to make up for how small she is.

  “Does Mr. Bixly know you have this trailer set up out here?”

  Miss Amanda Holtz laughs. “My heavens,” she says finally. “You sure know how to make one feel welcome. Tea?”

  She lifts the teapot and holds it over an empty cup, waiting for my answer. The thing is, I’m not sure she’s actually holding the teapot. It’s almost like the pot moved a millisecond before she touched it. I think I can see a tiny space between the handle and her fingers. Or maybe it’s the weird shadows in the woods.

  I nod, if only to watch her pour the tea and set the pot down. I don’t think I’d actually pick up a cup and drink something offered to me by a perfect stranger, alone in the woods, outside the zoo.

  Miss Amanda smiles and pours a purplish red tea from the pot. A sweet, cranberry spice smell rises into the air. “It’s not your usual sweet tea, but I’ve come to like teas with a little gumption. Don’t you worry about me or Mr. Bixly. It’ll all work out.”

  Something about the combination of Miss Amanda’s small body and big gestures, or her cheerful tone, or the cranberry spice and the lingering mint, is encouraging.

  Encouraging enough to trust her.

  A little.

  I came into the woods because Nyah’s rumblings and pictures showed me these trees and showed me a lady in a fancy dress. And I’m pretty sure that lady is Miss Amanda. So maybe that’s another reason I can trust her. Because I trust Nyah.

  Miss Amanda pushes the teacup and saucer across the table, and I set it in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “If you don’t want to drink it, that’s fine. You don’t know me, and you’re a smart girl to be cautious,” says Miss Amanda, adjusting the angle of her elegant gray hat and leaning back in her chair. A key on a small chain around her neck settles on the top button of her business suit. “It’s just a habit of mine to offer tea and biscuits to visitors. You can leave the South, but Southern hospitality follows.”

  “Um…where are you from?”

  The wind swirls my hair into my eyes. “Go home,” it nags.

  “Get off!” I tell the wind, wishing I had Nyah’s strength to shut it out.

  “Alabama. Beautiful place,” Miss Amanda says. “Ever been there?”

  “No. I…I’ve never been anywhere but here.” I really have no idea where I was before I showed up at the zoo. I bite my lip. I’m thinking of the last image I saw from Nyah, the one with the three elephants. The next question I want to ask is going to sound strange.

  I’m just going to go for it.

  “Miss Amanda, do you know any elephants? I mean, have you worked with elephants or been around them?”

  Miss Amanda, who’s been holding her teacup to her lips, sits perfectly still for a moment. Then she moves the cup from her mouth and slowly lowers it to the saucer with another tiny clink. She presses her berry-colored lips together in a line, which smooths out the wrinkles around her mouth. Her eyes, which I notice now are very blue, look like they’re trying to see through to the back of me.

  “When you say you’ve never been anywhere but here, do you mean this town, or…this zoo?”

  “Um…both.”

  “And what is your name?”

  Maybe she knows me. If she knows Mr. Bixly, then maybe she’s been to the Lexington Zoo before. Maybe she worked here when I was young, and I just don’t remember her.

  “I’m Lexington Willow. Many people just call me Lex.”

  Miss Amanda’s expression doesn’t change. My name doesn’t seem to mean anything to her.

  “I live with Roger Marsh.�
� Now I don’t know if I’ve said too much. I’m giving personal details to a stranger—a sort-of stranger who knows Frank Bixly.

  “Roger Marsh,” Miss Amanda repeats as though she’s trying to find a memory. “The train engineer?”

  “Yes.”

  “He lives in the old bank building at the corner near the aviary and the main station?”

  “Yes,” I say again. Somehow, Miss Amanda knows Roger. I feel a little better knowing this.

  Miss Amanda smiles. She picks up her teacup with a satisfied sigh, and again I think I see the cup move slightly independent of her fingers, almost like she coaxed it to her hand. The sun slants through the tree branches that shade this spot, but it’s blocked by the trailer’s striped pink awning. The light rays behind Miss Amanda, who sits in shadow, must be playing tricks with my eyes.

  “So you live with Roger Marsh.”

  “Yes.”

  “But he’s not your family?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, he sort of…found me.” It sounds like I was a lost puppy.

  Miss Amanda wrinkles up her forehead like she’s either confused or concentrating really hard. She stares at my face and then at my hair, which is surely even more wild and frizzy thanks to the humidity and the wind. Suddenly, her eyes go wide like she’s just realized something.

  “Did he happen to find you after a storm?”

  “A tornado,” I say.

  “I remember!” Miss Amanda exclaims, and I jump in my seat, nearly knocking over the teacup in front of me.

  “How can you remember that? Were you here at the zoo then?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was. My goodness, I’m a mess these days, and I can’t seem to remember anything better than my own name unless someone reminds me. But you reminded me of something, and now I remember!”

  “Do you remember me?”

  Miss Amanda leans closer, and her necklace clinks against the table. “You were such a little pint back then, and I didn’t get a good look at your face, but if Roger found you after a tornado, it has to be you. I was there that night. I was the one who showed Roger where you were.”