The Mourning Parade

by Dawn Reno Langley

  “Take your hands off me,” Hatcher said through gritted teeth.

  Seth didn’t move. A standoff. Between two strong dogs.

  One more breath, and Hatcher erupted. His fist caught Seth’s jaw with a resounding thwack. Seth stumbled, then rose halfway to stumble once again, this time against Hatcher.

  Hatcher swung again, his fist coming from his knees, landed another thudding punch against Seth’s cheek, then another. Seth brought up his knee, and the two men fell to the ground in a tangle of fists and angry shouts.

  From out of the night, the sanctuary’s dogs stormed the platform, barking and snarling, and surrounded the men scuffling on the floor. Andrew shouted.

  Natalie grabbed the dogs’ collars, yelling for everyone to stop. Somehow Andrew got between the two men and separated them, standing like a granite statue, each of his hands holding a man. Still, they fought and clawed at each other. They grunted and spat blood. The sound of the fight brought out the kitchen help and the mahouts. The lady cooks stood near the wall, a safe distance away. Their hands over their mouths, their eyes wide, they watched with a mixture of fear and excitement.

  Finally, Andrew’s considerable bulk prevailed, and he released Seth, forcing him to sit on a bench. Andrew held both of Hatcher’s hands in one of his against the small of Hatcher’s back, as tightly as if he’d just clapped on a pair of handcuffs.

  “You’re done now,” Andrew wheezed. “This is finished. I won’t have any of this at my place. Sit. Both of you.”

  Natalie’s heart pounded as she, too, took a seat, still holding two dogs by their collars. Someone ran for cloths and ice. A small group of women surrounded each man, debating the wounds and how to care for them.

  Hatcher seemed oddly relieved and quiet, as if happy to have released his anger. Blood trickled down his face. Seth and Andrew breathed hard and watched Hatcher closely, as if afraid he’d erupt again.

  “We could’ve talked about this, you know. Reasonably. It didn’t have to turn into a fight,” Natalie said. She released the dogs and watched them leapfrog over each other before running into the night.

  Hatcher stared at her. “No, we couldn’t. You wouldn’t have understood. Probably still don’t.”

  Her adrenaline still pumping, Natalie spun on him. “I understand more—much more—about your selfishness and idiocy than I want to, Dr. Hatcher! From the moment you accused me of ruining your life because I critiqued your damn dissertation, you’ve acted like a bratty two-year-old who hasn’t gotten his way, and I, personally, am damn tired of your barbed and often incorrect comments.”

  She took a breath, aware that Andrew and Seth had frozen, but she kept staring at Hatcher’s shocked face, and she couldn’t stop. “I worked three jobs with two little kids who needed me when I was reading dissertations like yours. I devoted all my nights and weekends to reading seven-hundred-page manuscripts about cat hernias and gestational cancer in camels, and whatever yours was. I gave up my kids’ childhoods to help people like you, to give you my honest critiques, and to help shape some of the best research I’ve ever read. And I fucking hate you for punishing me for giving you what I thought was positive feedback. For God’s sake, grow a pair of balls and get over it! There are far more important things that we need to take care of.”

  She leaned against the table and pointed a shaking finger at him. “I don’t give a good goddamn if you don’t like me, but if you’re going to continue this battle, I will no longer lie down and play dead like some apologetic, weak sissy. Bring it on, Peter Hatcher. Bring it on.”

  Hatcher lunged. His face, brilliant red. His eyes, iceberg blue. His hand reached for her as he clattered across the top of the table. Andrew thrust out a beefy arm like an iron gate, stopping Hatcher from going further.

  “Seriously, Hatcher? You’d hit a woman?” She thrust her face closer to his. Taunting him, angrier than she’d been in years. “Why does it not surprise me that you’re a bully?”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Andrew shouted as Hatcher struggled to get past him.

  Behind her, Seth grabbed her arm. “This isn’t making anything any better,” he said in her ear.

  “I don’t give a shit!” she hissed. “This bastard isn’t going to get the best of me.”

  “As long as you’re as upset as you are, no one wins.” Seth’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. “You need to give yourself some breathing space. Talk to him when you’re both calm.”

  “That’ll be never.”

  Andrew pulled Hatcher away, talking to him the whole while. Natalie stood and watched until they were out of sight, then sunk to a squatting position. A wave of anxiety spread over her. She shook. The back of her neck soaked her shirt. Prickles went up the sides of her head. She forced herself to count. Breathe. Breathe.

  Thirty-Five

  Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swamps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let

  the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration

  for the life you deserved and have never been

  able to reach. The world you desire can be won.

  It exists . . . it is real . . . it is possible . . . it’s yours.

  -Ayn Rand

  She tried not to look into the audience. It felt like thousands of people had crammed into the meeting room where she was to deliver her paper, but in reality, she knew it was more like a hundred. Still, that was at least ninety-five people more than she was used to speaking to at any point in time.

  She swallowed, tapped the microphone, and said, “I’m Dr. Natalie DeAngelo, and currently, I’m volunteering at The Lotus Animal Sanctuary, about five hours north of here. We rehabilitate elephants, dogs, and other small animals, with more than one hundred and fifty to two hundred animals on the compound at any point in time. Currently, we have more than a dozen elephants, most of whom came to us from the logging or tourist industries.” She took a breath. The hand holding her notes still shook, but it would stop. Once she got started, she’d be fine. “Most of them have been abused and also have serious physical conditions. What I’d like to talk about today is the use of the protected contact technique with a violent elephant plagued with both PTSD and a traumatic captivity wound.”

  The room quieted, the lights lowered, and her video of Sophie’s treatment history began in the background, sound off. Like Andrew’s presentation had done to her many months ago, her audience was immediately drawn in. And like Andrew’s presentation, the audience stood and honored her with a long ovation afterwards, and people lined up to speak to her about her work. To Natalie, the whole event felt like a blur.

  She floated through the rest of the day, barely listening to the other presentations she attended. Fragmented thoughts and plans for future research kept her off balance, inattentive. It had been a long time since her research had been vetted by her peers, and the recognition gave her a high that was almost tactile.

  Though she was proud to claim some success with Sophie, the number of other abused elephants she’d heard about from the audience rose into the hundreds. And all of them could use the same treatment or some iteration of it. I have to help, she kept thinking. But how? Exhausted, she pushed the thought out of the way toward the end of the day when she caught up with Andrew and Seth.

  “You’re the rockstar of the conference.” Andrew looped an arm around her and pulled her in for a bear hug. He’d already loosened his tie. “You’ll be plenty busy offering advice to the colleagues who’ll be pounding at your door.”

  “It might not work for everyone,” she said, holding the door for Seth, who came behind her with his arms full of photo equipment. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that every elephant responds to treatment differently. Like us.”

  “Yeah, but an aspirin is an aspirin is an aspirin. They work on pain and inflammation, not cuts and burns. Know w
hat I mean?”

  “So many others need our help.” She dropped her shoulder satchel on the table. They’d rented a suite of rooms that included a small sitting area where they had gathered last night for a glass of wine after arriving at the hotel. During their time at the conference, it had become the spot where they checked in with each other. Natalie slid into one of the chairs at the table, not intending to stay long.

  “And you can start by helping the ones we have right at the sanctuary,” Andrew said as he poured himself a scotch. “Or better yet, you can come with me to Kenya the next time I go and spread the word there, too. Plenty of vets and trainers and behaviorists would want to know about the technique.”

  The thought of traveling right now made her tired. In fact, she realized she’d been tired for months, but this air conditioning was accentuating it. Andrew continued talking, excited about the possibilities, until her head started to droop.

  “Hey, love, you need a quick nap before tonight?” He touched her elbow gently.

  She didn’t need to be asked twice. “Just a half hour?”

  Two hours later, she was roused by a knock on her door. She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep, but she knew one thing for sure as she opened the door to Andrew: she could have used a dozen more hours in the comfy and luxurious hotel bed.

  Andrew bustled in and deposited a big box on her bed. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  The white box was edged with gold and lettered with the tailor’s name in Thai, a gorgeous curlicue of a name that looked elegant even though Natalie had no idea what it meant. Inside, a confection of crepe and chiffon, layers of dove gray silk and pale pink chiffon, coupled with a pair of silk gray sandals embellished with sequins embroidering the toe strap.

  “I feel like ‘Pretty Woman,’” she said, lifting the dress up to her shoulders. “When I packed to come the sanctuary, I never thought I’d need evening wear.”

  “And I wouldn’t have suggested it.” Andrew wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Outside, the humidity made the ninety-three degree weather feel like the thermometer had shot over one hundred. Even though the hotel’s air conditioning kept the rooms much cooler, Andrew still dripped with moisture. “But we couldn’t have you enjoying a formal dance in your T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, now could we, love?”

  Normally, the International Society of Veterinarians didn’t host a gala on the last evening of the conference, but then again, there had not been a fiftieth anniversary of the Society up to this point. And the gala attracted the philanthropists interested in adding more to the sanctuary’s coffers. Others would be pitching their own projects, and Natalie supposed she wasn’t the only vet uncomfortable in evening clothes, but she might be one of the only ones who had an evening dress specially tailored by one of Bangkok’s famed tailors. Andrew had pulled a couple of strings to have the dress made overnight after discovering that Natalie was at least two inches too tall for anything off the rack.

  Amidst a flurry of thank yous and fumbled hugs, Andrew left her alone with the dove grey and sunset pink gown. She’d chosen the colors on a whim, thinking that they mimicked Sophie’s skin colors—and that would be good luck. After all, if it wasn’t for the paper Natalie had written about the old girl, she wouldn’t have been invited to speak at this conference to begin with. She lifted the dress, resisting the impulse to sigh when the cool silkiness of the gown slipped over her head and slid like water down her body.

  It had been a long time since she’d worn a gown, and she had to admit it instantly made her stand up straighter as she checked herself in the floor-length mirror. She hadn’t realized it, but now that she could see her full body, she knew she’d lost some weight. Her arms were strong, muscled from months of hauling giant, heavy buckets of food for the elephants and from the days in the clinic where she lifted dogs who needed vaccinations and treatments. She often spent afternoons helping the volunteers cut sugar cane in the hot sun, so her skin had darkened, and constant walking had toned up her long legs.

  And her hair had grown. Every morning, she’d simply slapped it atop her head with a couple of clips, but now that she had loosened it, it hung down to her waist in a mahogany cape, contrasting sharply with the pale grey gown. She already coated her lashes with some black mascara and applied a swipe of dark pink lipstick. For the past seven months, she’d been lucky if she could get a warm shower at night. Today, she’d spent more than an hour under a sizzling spray, luxuriating in the billows of steam and hoping that the good soaking would get the last vestiges of dirt from under her fingernails. Though she hated to give in, she let Andrew talk her into getting a mani-pedi in the hotel’s beauty salon, and felt totally decadent sitting in the chair doing so, especially since she knew the polish wouldn’t last long once she returned to the sanctuary.

  Slipping her feet into the pair of silver sandals, she checked her reflection one last time and gave herself a pleased smile. The pedicure had been worth it, because the simple pink polish actually made her look polished and more than a little glamorous. It had been a long time since she felt . . . well, pretty.

  Seth and Andrew were waiting near the lobby’s elevator, and when she stepped out, Seth gave her a long low whistle. Behind him, the camera crew paused for a moment, glancing at each other in a moment of shock before focusing the camera and going back to work. Tonight was supposed to be their final night of filming, and Natalie couldn’t be happier. She was tired of tripping over the cameramen, Rob and Sidecar, every day. They were good guys, but they were in the way on a regular basis.

  “You look like a bloody movie star,” Andrew boomed in his gravelly voice. He wore a black tux with a crisp white shirt with black buttons, his tie undone, the buttons on the shirt straining to stay fastened across his massive chest.

  Seth stood next to him and held out his arm for her, the epitome of gentlemanly manners. He held himself with the ease of a man quite used to wearing a tux, a slim James Bond in glasses. Unlike Andrew, Seth’s buttons were all properly fastened, his tie meticulously bowed, and his glossy black hair sexily mussed. Natalie noted several women checking him out as the three of them moved to the hotel’s ballroom.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying you’re the most dazzling vet I’ve ever seen,” Seth whispered to her when he pushed in her chair at their assigned table.

  He smelled warm and spicy. Hot. She felt a ripple in the base of her stomach, something she hadn’t experienced in quite a long time. It surprised her.

  They shared their table with a couple of vets from Zimbabwe who worked with large cats, and several others from India who also worked with elephants. Conversation moved along in a lively and interesting fashion, and Natalie felt complimented that several of them had attended her session the day before. They asked questions about how she’d fared while training to become a mahout. Had it been difficult to break into a traditionally male profession? Especially being a white female? Had she encountered prejudices? How did she manage to get the elephants to listen to her?

  She told them about Sophie’s bumpy road to success, how she had often back-peddled into unacceptable behavior and what had to be done to counteract it. She retold the stories of Sophie’s horrid interactions with dogs, about her love for submerging herself in the river so long that Natalie had to be sure she hadn’t drowned and how every time she waded in to check to see whether Sophie was still alive, the elephant would emerge long enough to spout a shower of water at Natalie, her personal elephant joke. She told the table full of rapt listeners about Sophie’s love for Beatles songs and listened as intently when the group from India shared their own stories about elephants who loved sitar music, and who were often lulled to sleep by an old mahout whose singing was so bad that everyone but his elephants wore earplugs.

  There were other stories, too, that she filed in her brain for future reference. Stories about the type of cream that worked best on an elephant’s open foot wound and what
foods were best for a lactating female. They talked about “protected contact,” a technique that most had heard of, yet Natalie appeared to be the only one at the table who’d used it successfully. And they shared contact information for the pharmaceutical industries who had recently developed new antibiotics designed to work almost overnight on the worst infections.

  The talk would have continued all night except the band struck up after everyone had finished eating, and Seth stood and reached out a hand to her.

  At first, she felt confused. The last time she had danced with a man was before Danny’s birth, so she’d forgotten the simple body language that indicated a man’s interest. But she realized that he was inviting her to dance and, abashedly, she accepted.

  In spite of the fact that she wore heels that added three inches to her five-foot-seven stature, he was still a bit taller than her, and she leaned into him, noting her chin could rest against his shoulder. She caught another whiff of his cologne and let herself drift into it as the orchestra played a jazzy version of “My Funny Valentine.” She found herself grinning against his shoulder at the memory of singing the same song to Sophie.

  They lasted another four songs on the dance floor, then she needed a break.

  Back at the table, Andrew had disappeared as had the group from India. The only people left were the folks from Zimbabwe, and they were clearly there for the duration. The two men, Dr. Mugame and Dr. Batope, bobbed their bald, black heads to the music and smiled at Natalie as if showing their approval of the orchestra.

  “It is so good to be kept abreast of the ways in which veterinary personnel in other countries are attending to their businesses, don’t you agree, Dr. DeAngelo?” Dr. Mugame asked her during a pause in the music. His English-educated voice boomed deep and rich as he folded his hands over his round belly. He wore a royal blue suit with a multicolored shawl around his shoulders like the ones people wore at graduation. His colleague, Dr. Batope, was as thin and tall as Mugame was short and fat, but both wore the same type of glasses: square rimmed, perched high on the bridge of their noses. And both were equally intense, immersed in their work and committed to learning about other vets who’d dealt with the same types of issues, no matter whether on the other side of the continent of Africa or the other side of the world.