I slow to a jog when the treehouse comes into view. My legs are rubber and don’t seem attached to my body. Somehow, they hold me up enough for me to make it to the ladder at the base of the cottonwood tree. I’m breathing so hard that my throat crackles like a dusty riverbed when I try to swallow. I reach for the ladder and step onto the first rung. My foot doesn’t feel solid, and I slide off, dropping Isabel’s feather duster. I land in the grass beside the tree, still holding my shirt tight in my fist and laughing.
Fisher laughs, too. He laughs so hard, his legs seem to give out. He rolls onto the ground, landing like one of the penguins when they slip on the ice.
“Why…why are…we laughing?” I gasp between aching breaths.
Fisher shakes his head. “That…was…awesome.”
I sit up, the unknown objects balled together at the bottom of my shirt. I can’t believe I ran that fast and that far and didn’t lose my grip on any of it.
Fisher holds out the screwdriver. “I’m kind of surprised I didn’t hurt myself running with this.”
“How are your fingers?” I ask.
He holds them out and wiggles them. “A little sore, but fine.”
It’s too dark in this part of the zoo, away from all the lampposts and security lights, for us to investigate the objects we found. And I don’t want to dump it all out here in the grass and risk losing something. I must move my legs. They feel less like rubber now but tremble as I put weight on them.
“Let’s get up there and radio Roger,” I say, still a little out of breath. “If he gets a message from us soon, maybe they won’t think we could have been inside the gift shop when the alarm went off.”
“Good idea,” Fisher says.
This treehouse is my private space inside this very public zoo. When Roger built it, he said it was good for me to have a place I could go where I could see the animals and enjoy the zoo without all the crowds. Mostly, he wanted me to be able to be close to Nyah in the Grasslands without breaking rules.
Fisher and I climb the ladder to the platform. We each grab one of the solar-charged lanterns hanging on the nails by the front door and take them with us. Inside my treehouse, Roger put an old table and chairs from the Wild Eats Café. When the café went through a remodel, Mr. Bixly sold off the old tables and chairs, and Roger bought a set for $10. Fisher and I set the lanterns on the table and switch them on. The small space is filled with LED brilliance. I grab the radio and turn it on.
“Willow to Hostler,” I say into the radio, using our code names. Roger likes to use railroad terms. A hostler is someone who services train engines.
My hand is in a stiff, sweaty grip around the clump inside my T-shirt. Everything I pulled out from the gift shop floor feels heavier with the weight of not knowing. I don’t dare drop any of it out until Fisher and I can really examine it.
“Hostler here,” says Roger’s voice over the radio. “Go ahead.”
“Slugger and I are in the nest,” I say.
The radio is silent for a moment.
I lift my finger off the radio talk button and ask Fisher, “Do you think they’ve heard about the gift shop alarm going off?”
“I don’t know. If Bixly doesn’t notice what we did to the floor, and he doesn’t think anything is missing, maybe he won’t notify everyone.”
“Yeah, but he’s going to know someone went out that side door,” I say.
“Hostler to Willow,” Roger’s voice says.
I give Fisher a worried look. “Willow here.”
“Slugger needs to be home in ten minutes.”
“Got it. Willow out.” I set down the radio. “Okay.” I breathe out a long sigh. Away from Mr. Bixly and the screaming alarm, and having created what I hope will be an alibi to keep us out of trouble, we can now focus on what we found.
“Let’s see it, Lex,” Fisher says eagerly.
Carefully, I unclench my fist from around my T-shirt. By the LED lanterns, I notice how dirty I am. My left arm is streaked with dirt and the rest is even paler than usual from a coating of dust. My shirt and pants are muddy from falling in the damp clearing. I hold my shirt over the café table, gently let go of the fabric, and shake out the contents.
A button
A hairpin
A few pennies
A quarter, three dimes, and an arcade token
Two polished rocks
An old ticket to the zoo train
Some pebbles—unpolished
We’ve messed up part of the gift shop floor, risked getting caught doing it, set off an alarm that likely caused a visit from the police…all for some garbage.
Either we had the wrong loose board, someone got the treasure already, or Miss Amanda is forgetting an important detail. Considering what I now know about ghosts, I think the last thing is pretty likely.
Luckily, Roger assumed my dirty clothes were from being out in the clearing after a rainstorm, which is partly true. He didn’t want to talk about Miss Amanda when we got back to the Old County Bank. Maybe he had his fill of talking after dinner with the Leighs. The only thing he said to me about it was “Just keep this between me and you. She’s the reason we have each other, but it’s really no one else’s business.”
Now that Roger is asleep upstairs, and I think about the look in his eyes when I mentioned Miss Amanda, I realize he may have known her non-ghost version. If she died the night of the tornado, and she worked at the zoo, they should have known each other. Maybe he’s sad she died. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to talk about it.
When I was little, I asked Roger what he thought happened to my parents if they died. He didn’t seem to want to talk about that either. But he wrapped his strong arms around me and said they probably went to live in the sky right over the zoo, where they could watch over me all the time. It made me feel even more that the zoo was a safe place.
The clock in the Old County Bank ticks a rhythm that echoes through the main floor. I sit at the desk with the computer screen and my newspaper article in front of me. I’ve read the article so many times, I have it nearly memorized.
CATEGORY FIVE TORNADO DESTROYS FARMLAND, HAVEN HILLS, AND LEXINGTON NEIGHBORHOODS
Leaves Many Without Homes
Eight Reported Deaths
June 9, 2013
On Saturday, June 8, the dark skies above eastern Nebraska brewed a particularly rare kind of storm, the kind that hasn’t hit the state since 1964. A supercell thunderstorm first appeared over farmland 30 miles northwest of Lexington. It grew to an EF5-level funnel cloud—on the 1–5 Enhanced Fujita scale—and destroyed the small farming community of Haven Hills. The twister traveled 10 more miles and crossed the Lexington city limits behind Lilian Park at approximately 10:15 p.m., with winds estimated to have exceeded 220 miles per hour. The section of the city between Lexington Way and Telegraph Road was completely destroyed, with no structures remaining and much of the debris launched like missiles into other parts of the city. Only a few minutes after entering the city, the tornado dissipated one mile south of the Lexington Zoo. The zoo sustained damage to fences and structures; however, the zoo has reported that they’ve had no losses among the animals.
As emergency response teams joined the citizens of Haven Hills and Lexington in relief efforts, eight people have been found dead. Many have been left injured and homeless, and dozens have been reported missing. An unidentified young girl was found after the storm inside the elephant enclosure at the Lexington Zoo. She was alone and dirty but otherwise unharmed. Authorities are making every effort to locate her family. If you know of any possible leads, please contact the Lexington Police Department or Child Welfare Services.
I scan the article, and my eyes hover over the words “eight people have been found dead.” Was Miss Amanda among the eight?
I type in a search window: Amanda Holtz.
I add the words: Lexington Zoo.
The top of the results screen shows a row of images. Some of the pictures are of the Lexington Zoo—the advertising images Mrs. Leigh posts online. Some show the gift shop with the bronze lion pride statue, some show the African Grasslands’ grand opening, and others advertise educational programs at the Wild Kingdom Education Center. I scroll through the images, past all the zoo pictures, until I find people in the pictures.
Two pictures catch my eye. One is of a very thin, very elegant-looking woman shaking hands with what looks like a younger, less round Frank Bixly. The woman is in high heels, unusual for the zoo, and she’s wearing a red dress with a navy belt around her waist. She looks like she should be on the entertainment news, except that she’s wearing one of the old Lexington Zoo uniform hats—the wide-brimmed safari style. It’s Miss Amanda Holtz. I’m sure of it.
The second picture is even more striking. It’s a close-up of her face in black and white. She’s younger-looking than the ghost I saw in the woods—less wrinkles around the eyes and fuller lips. She’s absolutely beautiful. I click on the photo, and it takes me to a website about the Fenn Circus, a North American traveling circus that has gone out of business.
I know something about the Fenn Circus. It’s written on the plaques below the photographs on the elephant barn walls. Nyah and her mother, Tendai, came from the Fenn Circus. I scroll down the page and find the photograph of Amanda Holtz, finance manager for Angus Fenn. According to the website, Miss Amanda had worked for the circus for almost thirty years.
I return to my search results and click on the first photograph of Miss Amanda—the one with the younger Frank Bixly in front of the zoo gift shop. The photo links to a newspaper article printed by the Lexington Herald.
LEXINGTON ZOO WELCOMES NEW RETAIL MANAGER
September 24, 2009
Just after completing a successful protocol inspection with the Association of Zoos and Aquariums (AZA), the Lexington Zoo has acquired a new face. Amanda Holtz, experienced finance manager for the Fenn Circus, says she’s ready for a change from life on the road and has consented to join the ranks of Lexington Zoo employees. Ms. Holtz will oversee the zoo’s retail operations and assist in fundraising efforts. Frank Bixly, Lexington Zoo General Manager, says the zoo is still searching for the right candidate to train with Joe Tredwell, head keeper, with the aim of taking Tredwell’s post when he retires.
In smaller letters, the caption below the photograph says:
Frank Bixly, General Manager, with new retail manager Amanda Holtz in front of the Lexington Zoo gift shop.
So Miss Amanda did work for the zoo. She knew Mr. Bixly. She worked here before I came to the zoo, before Fisher’s dad got the head keeper job. And before that she worked at the very same circus that Nyah and her mother came from.
The wind picks up suddenly, something it often does late at night. It rattles the windows of the Old County Bank and clanks the metal cover over the chimney. I don’t hear its words unless it’s blowing in my ears, but suddenly I’m not interested in what it has to say. I have enough to think about for now.
I save the websites about Amanda Holtz in my Favorites tab and shut down the computer. Roger dislikes the whirring sound it makes when we leave it on. He says technology makes the whole house hum with an unnatural buzz. I switch off the downstairs lights and take my newspaper article upstairs to my bedroom.
It’s a tiny room—barely large enough for the bed, a smallish dresser, a nightstand, and a lamp. But Roger and I hung a mirror on one wall and a map of the world on another, and both are enough to make the room just right for me. Roger said that every time I look into the mirror and see my blue eyes looking back at me, I can remember that I’ll always have a piece of my family with me. He said that when I wonder where I came from and what my parents were like, I can look at my face, my rounded nose, my crazy curly hair, and know a little something about them.
I must resemble them in some way. I wonder if I do things they did, like how some people crack their knuckles and some people always drink the milk left in the bowl from their breakfast cereal. I don’t know if I’m left-handed because my dad was or if I chew on my lip when I’m concentrating because my mom did that.
I like to think so.
The map of the world on my other wall is covered with stickers Roger and I use to identify the original homes of the various animal species we have at the zoo. Stickers on the African continent say sand boa over Kenya and elephant over Tanzania and Swaziland. I don’t know where my sticker should go, since no one found evidence of a family for me in Lexington—or in Nebraska at all.
I’ve laid out the collection of junk I found from beneath the gift shop floorboard. I flop down on the bed and pick up the old, crinkled train ticket. The zoo train tickets aren’t small like carnival tickets. They’re more like the size of a skinny postcard. It doesn’t seem possible that this ticket slid into the space beneath the floor. Besides being fairly wrinkled, the ticket’s edges curl up like it was once rolled into a tight cylinder—like maybe someone rolled it up and pushed it through the half-moon knothole.
I smooth the ticket as best I can, feeling sorry that I didn’t find something valuable under that board, sorry I didn’t find Miss Amanda’s treasure. And as I unfold a creased corner on the ticket, I notice something I didn’t before. I’m not sure what it means, if anything, but it’s too weird not to mean something. This ticket was printed on June 8, 2013.
The day of the tornado.
The next morning, no one answers at the Leighs’ house. Fisher couldn’t have forgotten about elephant training, but maybe his chores took him longer than usual. I head to the maintenance shed at the African Grasslands and knock on the door. Thomas doesn’t come, so I knock again. A little louder this time.
Thomas finally opens the door, his hat on backward. He takes one glance at me and asks, “Where is Fisher?”
“I can’t find Fisher this morning, but I was hoping you’d let me help with training anyway?” I give Thomas a pleading look that shows I know the rules but I’m asking him to overlook this small detail. Mr. Leigh said Fisher and I could help with the elephants if we went together. But I don’t know where Fisher is, and I really need to see Nyah.
Thomas thinks for a minute. He rubs his hand over his mouth and chin like he’s working out long division. He sighs.
“I know elephants well enough to see that Nyah has a connection with you,” he says. He glances over my shoulder, toward the veterinary headquarters and Mr. Leigh’s office. His muscled arm holds the metal door open all the way, and he waves me inside. “Keep it quiet, okay?”
“Thanks, Thomas,” I say.
Nyah is waiting several feet from the training gate, her trunk bobbing and twisting in the air as though she’s searching for something invisible to grab. Her big feet look too soft to support something so large. She lets her ankle joint relax as she lifts her front foot, and it looks almost too flimsy to hold her, but then she steps on it, and the baggy skin stretches as the foot spreads under her weight. There’s a reason Thomas invites them to have their feet inspected every day. Their feet must stay healthy.
“She was here at sunrise,” Thomas says, a hint of a question in his voice as he unwinds the hose from its tether. He knows something is going on.
“She must’ve really liked her training session yesterday,” I say, picking up two target poles from the rack.
“Or something like that.” Thomas carries a pile of foot-care tools to the training area. “I’ve been working with elephants a long time, you know. I’ve observed them in the wild and in captivity. Sometimes, if you pay attention around elephants, you can notice a pulsing feeling—as though the air is thumping against your head. Have you noticed something like that?”
“I’ve noticed that,” I say eagerly. “It’s a rumb
ling with no sound.”
Thomas smiles and nods. “You noticed it in here yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, wondering what else Thomas knows.
Thomas joins me at the barrier fence and watches Nyah with a calmness in his eyes that tells me Thomas is one of those special people elephants can trust. Nyah walks toward him with her tail swishing from side to side. “Researchers have recorded the sounds of elephants for long periods of time,” he continues, his eyes still on Nyah, “and they’ve taken those recordings and sped them up. At a higher frequency, we can hear the elephants speak to each other with sounds we couldn’t hear before. Isn’t that something?”
“Yes,” I say softly, wondering what Thomas would think if I told him I could see images from those rumblings. But then Nyah takes a few steps closer, and I feel the thumping of invisible sound waves, just like Thomas described it. Except the thumping and rumbling come through the earth as well. Nyah bobs her head lower, and I look into her beautiful eyes.
Images flood my mind like those pictures that change as you move them in the light.
Elephants.
A large circus arena.
The elephants are in a line, rearing up on their hind legs, following the arm motions of a trainer.
Crowds of people.
A circus man with a brown beard and a long coat in the center of it all.
A blond woman in overalls, leading the elephants away from the show and the crowds. They follow her without ropes or prodding. They walk together like friends.
And just as I knew Nyah’s urgent feeling about the woods, I feel an emotion with this image, too.
She misses them—the elephants and the blond woman.
The Elephant's Girl Page 9
