The Mourning Parade

by Dawn Reno Langley

  Finally, the woman catches the mahout’s shirt and swings him around to face her.

  “Stop! Put the ankus down. Now!” she screams.

  The mahout stares beyond the woman to Sophie, his eyes still as black as a rock, but he lowers the ankus even while he ripples with anger like the currents of the river.

  Sophie rocks forward and back, then side to side on her back legs, her nerves still unsettled. She feels trapped. She smells the other men behind her. They are not mahouts. They don’t smell like mahouts, don’t sound like mahouts. Still, they are men.

  “Leave. Now.” The woman points to the road, and nods at the mahout, expecting him to respond to her command.

  The mahout seems to know what Sophie does, that there will be a great price to pay if he rouses her once again: his life. He scurries up the road like a spider, as if afraid Sophie might follow him.

  But the other men do not leave. They speak quietly with the woman, holding their giant cameras on their shoulders, sometimes pointing them at the elephant, sometimes at the woman, but never coming any closer to Sophie than the enclosure’s gate.

  They finally move away, and woman comes into the enclosure, touches Sophie’s trunk, speaks quietly, and when she softly sings into Sophie’s right ear, the elephant begins to relax.

  Thirty-Three

  Grief can take care of itself,

  but to get the full value of joy,

  you must have somebody

  to divide it with.

  -Mark Twain

  Chanchai was gone, but nothing helped Sophie to quiet down.

  Seth, Rob, and Sidecar were the only people left around the enclosure, so Natalie quietly said, “Please back away from the elephant.”

  She waited for them to move themselves and their camera equipment, then she slipped in closer to Sophie, put her hand on Sophie’s ear and felt for her pulse. It wasn’t as rapid as she thought it would be. Only then did she place her hands on Sophie’s head and take some deep breaths, deliberately calming herself.

  Breathe in, breathe out. When she felt Sophie begin to emulate the rhythm of the breath, she began softly singing “My Funny Valentine,” the only song she could think of at the moment. Andrew had been whistling it all day yesterday, making her complain to him that he’d provided an ear worm she couldn’t shut off. He’d laughed. Little did he know that the song that had bothered Natalie so much yesterday was the exact balm Sophie needed today.

  Within ten minutes—and four repetitions of the song—Sophie’s pupils returned to normal, she’d accepted some food, and she rumbled gently. She’d made great strides, Natalie felt, but there were still some triggers that aroused Sophie’s PTSD. Natalie would never be able to make those triggers disappear, but she could help Sophie learn that her own actions made the bone-crushing fear worse. It surprised her sometimes that she often applied what had worked for her own PTSD when dealing with Sophie’s. Sometimes the remedy worked, sometimes it didn’t.

  She was lucky this time.

  Convinced Sophie was fine, Natalie began to move to the gate, still humming under her breath, planning to walk to her cabin and take as hot a shower as she could manage. She was completely drained.

  Behind her, Seth coughed.

  She stopped mid-step. “I’m sorry,” she said, turning to him. She had forgotten all about him and his cameramen throughout the time she’d sung to Sophie, so engrossed in getting the elephant calm.

  “Mind if I walk with you?” He matched his steps to hers before she had a chance to say yes. His white, cotton shirtsleeves were rolled up to his biceps. A set of sunglasses hung out of the breast pocket.

  Behind him, his two-man camera crew continued filming. They’d never stopped, she figured. Her shoulders tensed with the memory of other camera crews that filmed her every move. Their endless questions. Their demands for her time. Their intense curiosity about how she was handling her grief. Now she would be on film with Sophie. She still wasn’t sure she was comfortable with that.

  With a superhuman effort, she shut down the memory that threatened to overtake her. She was getting good at doing that.

  “That was amazing.” Seth’s eyes were wide open, excited. “You were like a hypnotist back there. The damn elephant whisperer. Whatever made you sing to her? It was magical. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.” He swung his arms, walking sideways to talk to her, his lips curved in a smile so wide, every one of his white teeth were displayed.

  She laughed wearily. “Right.” A stray thought about how dirty she was ran through her mind. Too late for that, she figured and wondered why it had ever been important to her that her hair and makeup were perfect.

  “Have you sung to her before? Does it always have that effect?”

  “I used to sing to my—” She caught herself, almost gave herself away. She had sung to the boys all the time. When nothing else worked, an old Beatles standard would calm them down. They had their favorites, and most times, she sang the wrong words. They didn’t care. Neither did Sophie.

  “It’s nothing,” she told Seth. “Just some white noise to calm her down.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s the singing, but it’s much more than that. Your connection with that elephant is like you’re communicating without speaking. It’s amazing,” Seth said. “We shot the best raw footage with you right now, better than anything else we’ve done since we started here. So glad that happened.”

  “Listen, this might be my exhaustion talking,” she said, her words tumbling out before she thought about them being caught on camera, “but I’m not setting up moments like that one with Sophie so that you can get a few sound bites. I’ve been working long and hard with her, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t be so delighted when she backslides like that. Jesus, she could have done some damage today! Would you have liked that? Would it be exciting to get a rampaging elephant on tape?” She glanced behind her, and Rob and Sidecar, caught in the act of filming her, looked sheepishly away. “Turn the damn cameras off,” she said. “Can you give me a break, for God’s sake?”

  “Wow, I’m sorry. I—I . . . you know, we’re . . . I mean, we really didn’t do anything except to film.” Seth threw his hands out to the side, palms up. “I’m not in this business to create drama. I just want to report it. There’s enough natural tragedies and excitement in the animal world without inventing more. Besides,” he laughed a little sarcastically, “I want to live a while longer. Not interested in getting trampled by a rampaging two-ton gray beast.”

  She let out a breath, realizing she had taken out her frustrations on the wrong person. That’s what happened when she was stressed. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m wiped out. I need a shower and some sleep. It’s not your fault about what happened. I’m protective about Sophie. She’s come so far.”

  “I understand.” He touched her gently on the shoulder, so lightly that it felt as if he was afraid to touch her at all. Then he took a step backward and shrugged his shoulders, as if caught doing something he’d be ashamed of later. “You’ve had a long day. I’ll let you go and rest.”

  With a half-hearted wave, he turned and followed Rob and Sidecar up the road.

  She watched after them for a moment, a bit stunned that his simple touch on her shoulder had made her stomach flip. She hadn’t expected that. Yes, he was attractive and dynamic and personable, but that stomach flip meant she was physically attracted. When was the last time that had happened?

  They disappeared around the corner, and she let her shoulders slump. Suddenly the adrenaline left her body and her exhaustion rooted her to the ground as if her legs had turned to granite.

  When she finally could lift her legs to walk, she made it to her cabin, but never to the shower. Hours later, she woke up, still fully-dressed atop the bed, and simply rolled over.

  The last thing she thought before going straight back
to sleep was: Why would Chanchai be trying to handle Sophie with an ankus?

  Thirty-Four

  A mother’s hardest to forgive,

  Life is the fruit she longs to hand you,

  Ripe on a plate. And while you live,

  Relentlessly, she understands you.

  -Phyllis McGinley

  A warm whisper of a breeze wiggled the leaves above Natalie and rustled the bushes next to her, bringing her attention back to the road beneath her feet. She was on her way to the administration building to try to convince Andrew to help her, though she wasn’t sure he would. She sighed. Knowing Hatcher, he had already gone to Andrew and convinced him to get rid of Sophie after yesterday’s interaction, yet when she ran the scene through her mind, she remembered Hatcher had appeared angry enough to hit Chanchai. She couldn’t figure him out anymore. If she’d ever had even the slightest clue what kind of a human he really was, she had absolutely none now.

  Sophie hadn’t been that riled up in a long time, and the way she had reacted to the mahout made Natalie rethink her training techniques. What would happen when she left the sanctuary? Sophie would need to work with another mahout, and Siriporn probably wasn’t an option. She’d hardly seen him during the past couple of days and suspected he and his group of Red Shirts might be planning a demonstration or rally. During the last one, twelve people were injured or killed in political rallies in Bangkok. If he didn’t get himself hurt, she would be willing to bet he’d be moving into the city to take a more active role in politics. No. He wouldn’t be around to take care of Sophie.

  What were the options? Chanchai? Hell, no.

  Chanchai was pretty typical of most mahouts who relied on brute strength and the ankus to control his feisty female, Mai. He’d told Natalie early on that he didn’t think protected contact would work.

  In his broken English, he’d said, “Elephant too big for woman. Ankus, Dr. Natalie! Ankus!”

  The ankus set Sophie on fire, but without it, most mahouts or elephant handlers would not take the chance working with her.

  Natalie wanted to tear her hair out. Somehow, in some way, she needed to get it across to everyone at the sanctuary that Sophie only needed the soft pole she used in protected contact. A slight touch on the leg and Sophie would move. She knew the commands for walking and turning and backing up and bending. She was smart. Responsive. Nothing else was necessary but the commands and the pole. Unfortunately, the mahouts didn’t understand.

  Even before Natalie approached the stairs to the administration building’s platform, she heard arguing. At the back of the building near the kitchen entrance, the camera crew sat, talking to Mali. Rob and Sidecar glanced over at Natalie but continued their conversation. Mali waved and smiled at Natalie. She raised her eyebrows, an unspoken question about the raised voices coming from the other side of the platform. Mali shook her head. Unsure what that meant, Natalie stood at the base of the stairs for a moment, debating about whether to enter the lion’s den.

  The men who were arguing sat on the platform. She couldn’t see the three of them clearly, but one of them sounded like Hatcher. He had a full head of steam. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be anywhere near him. The other two: Andrew was one; the third hadn’t said anything, but she would bet her last buck it was Seth. Yes, she was about to enter the lion’s den and began questioning her own sanity for doing so.

  As she mounted the stairs, the voices became clearer. She heard her name and froze.

  “And I can’t be everywhere on the compound, but damned if I haven’t been accused of bugging you folks when the truth of the matter is that certain people are ruining it for the rest of us,” Hatcher said, his voice rushed and uneven.

  “Peter, that’s enough.” Andrew’s strong baritone struggled to maintain control.

  Natalie wondered how long he would be able to remain that way. The thought flew through her mind that she should leave, but curiosity kept her feet planted on the stairs.

  “Why? Why do I need to stay quiet? What have I done wrong?” Peter said. “Andrew, tell me. What in God’s name have I done wrong?”

  A hot breeze swept along the tree line and stole Andrew’s response. The banana fronds rattled.

  “And if his people don’t stay out of my way, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Andrew boomed.

  She moved a few feet, stood in full view of them now, but nobody noticed her.

  Hatcher stood at one end of the center table, his shoulders pushed forward, fists clenched by his sides, his normally-pale cheeks flushed. At the opposite end of the table, Andrew leaned forward, his beefy hands balanced on the table as if ready to launch himself. And Seth stood in the middle, one foot propped up on the seat, elbow on his knee and his face leaning against his hand. A casual stance but Natalie could tell, even from where she stood, that the conversation was far from casual.

  “Andrew, listen to me,” Hatcher said.

  His voice had that soft, even-pitched tone she remembered hearing in her own voice the night Parker announced he wanted to leave. Quiet desperation. A plea. She had tried to appear reasonable but rapidly lost control. She remembered the cold tightening of her own larynx the night she fought the urge to plead with her husband. It was the sound of someone who’d become terrified about what they might lose.

  “I’m sorry,” Parker had told her that night. He leaned against the kitchen counter, caught in the corner, trapped. By her.

  She stood in front of him, a dish towel in her hands, snapping it. Her stance was wide, unmoving.

  “I’m not doing a good job at this.” He looked at the kitchen floor.

  “At what? Good job at what?” she’d said, though she knew exactly what he meant. “Doing a good job at being a father? A good husband? Good at being a man?” Ironically, in that moment, she had felt a rolling surge of pity for Parker. It must have been a heavy and painful burden to find you weren’t good at the very basic of basics. How could you not be good at being a person?

  Now, standing on the platform, she felt the same type of pity for Hatcher that she’d felt for her husband. The back of her neck prickled with sweat. She lifted her heavy braid and swung it over her shoulder. That movement caught Andrew’s eye, and he registered surprise at seeing her, an emotion Hatcher must have discerned because he turned, and all of his anger shot through his eyes and pierced her like a well-placed javelin.

  “If it wasn’t for you,” Hatcher began, directing his comment toward her.

  Andrew rose. “Peter, that’s enough. You’re not making sense anymore, old boy. She had nothing to do with any of this. Listen, why don’t you sleep it off, and we’ll talk about this tomorrow morning when we’re all rational? You’ve had a bit too much scotch. That’s all.”

  “No, damnit. I’ve kept my bloody mouth shut long enough.” He swung back to point a finger at Andrew. “I’ve given you years of my life, Andrew. Nine fucking years. I’ve been here when there was no damn electricity. I’ve held down this place when you were gallivanting across the ocean, and I’ve made sure the animals were cared for and that the people were fed. I did a good job. I know I did.”

  “Yes, you did, Peter. I never said you didn’t . . .”

  “We worked well together. Then all of a sudden, you go off on one of your trips and you come back with bright and shiny new ideas without even consulting me.” Hatcher’s mouth scrunched up. “Without talking to me about them! Without sharing anything at all . . . without giving me credit for what I’ve done. Without offering the respect of asking for my opinion, for God’s sake! I told you before you left that I needed an assistant, and I knew exactly who would fit the bill. Why the hell didn’t you listen to me? Christ, man, training her has made my life ten times more difficult!” He shot Natalie another scathing glance. “And to make matters worse, she focuses on one animal. One goddamn elephant! I could have gone without her . . . without her help.”
Hatcher curled his lip back like a comic book villain.

  She almost laughed, but he hadn’t finished.

  “For all the good she’s been to me, you could’ve saved yourself a bunch of money, Andrew, but no . . . not only does she concentrate solely on Sophie, but she concocts some hare-brained scheme for special training that brings the sanctuary to a standstill to do her bidding, and—I want to underline that word—and it costs us a cool sixty thousand dollars to build the enclosure and buy new equipment.”

  He paused for a breath, and in that two seconds, Natalie registered Seth’s discomfort and Andrew’s growing rage. She wished she had turned around and run when she’d first heard the men arguing, but she could no longer stand by dumbly. “I raised part of that money. I found several grants . . .” she said in a weak voice that made her hate herself.

  “Shut. The. Hell. Up.” Hatcher took a menacing step toward her.

  Both Andrew and Seth reached out to stop him, but he backed up, both hands in the air as if to say they needn’t worry, but he kept talking.

  “Then, as if more salt in the wound is necessary,” he continued. “She’s now the darling of Thailand and this damn TV crew is following her every move as if she’s a dyed-in-the-wool movie star.” He swished his hips, mocking her. “Now I can’t move more than two steps without a camera up my ass and Mr. Jungle Jim here parading around like he owns the bloody place.”

  “Hold on.” Natalie held up her hand.

  Before she could protest further, Seth rounded the table and grabbed Hatcher’s collar. “That’s enough,” he said, lifting Hatcher a little, as he would a misbehaving dog.

  “Andrew asked you nicely to quit a few moments ago,” Seth continued, his lips a mere inch from Hatcher’s ear. “I’m not going to be so nice. Shut up now or I’m going to make sure you don’t speak clearly for a couple of weeks.”