An Inconvenient Elephant

by Judy Reene Singer

  He deftly ran his hands across the deformed limb. “Must have been broken some time ago and never treated,” he pronounced softly. “It feels healed over.” His face registered disgust as he stood up again. “I won’t bother x-raying it until we’re sure she’s going to survive. Save Elisabeth some money. Besides, I don’t think I can fix it anyway.”

  “Will she live?” Diamond asked, moving next to him. “I’ve seen horses die in Kenya all the time because we couldn’t get them to a vet.”

  “Well, this one’s as bad as they come,” Dr. Harry said. “There’s not much more we can do except give her supportive therapy and hope she starts healing. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she loses her battle before tomorrow morning.”

  Diamond threw her arms around the mare’s bony head. “You leave it to me,” she declared. “We’re not going to let her die.” She looked up at Dr. Harry, her face full of determination.

  He smiled at her. “I appreciate your dedication, Jackie. But you have to know the odds are against her.”

  Diamond laughed and gave her red hair a little toss. “Actually, I’m Diamond-Rose.”

  “Oh.” He looked confused and turned to me. “Then you must be Jackie.”

  “No, I’m Neelie Sterling.”

  “I thought I heard a Jackie,” he said.

  “Jackie’s in Alabama,” I said.

  “I thought Elisabeth mentioned over the phone that Margo was in Alabama,” he said.

  “Margo is supposed to go to Alabama, but we want her to stay here,” I tried to explain.

  The confusion in his face cleared. “Right,” he said. “Margo is going to stay and help run things.”

  “Margo’s the elephant,” I said. “Diamond and I are going to run things.”

  Dr. Harry gave up. “Well, I’m glad to meet you all again.” He bent over to pack up his equipment. “I’ll drop in tomorrow, but let me know right away if she worsens.”

  “And what should we call you?” Diamond asked.

  “Oh, you can still call me Harry.” He smiled back at her. “I’m Dr. Harry Maybern.”

  “The new horse’s name is Black Silk Undies,” I read, staring at the computer screen. It was late in the afternoon, and Richie, Diamond, and I were sitting in Elisabeth’s office, where I had logged onto a Web site for racehorses to research the bay mare’s tattoo. The computer was old, and it practically creaked as it downloaded the information. “And she’s still a baby. She’s only four years old.”

  I had gently opened the mare’s mouth after Dr. Harry left and copied down the numbers tattooed inside her upper lip. The numbers meant she was a registered racehorse. I tapped a few keys to hunt through the site for more information. A race record came on the screen. “She’s a daughter of War Dress out of a Black Kite mare,” I read. “Very well bred. She’s won more than seventy thousand dollars.”

  “Seventy thousand dollars!” Diamond gasped behind me. “How could someone let her wind up like this? She’s more than paid for her retirement.”

  Richie leaned forward to study the information. “This happens a lot,” he commented. “Some trainers run them until they break down and then just throw them away.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “She’s going to need her IV changed soon and some more hand feeding.”

  “Do you mind feeding her, Neelie?” Diamond asked. “I want to pop off to the store and get a camera. We’re going to need pictures of this girl.”

  I looked up, puzzled. “What good are pictures going to do?”

  “For the fund-raiser,” Diamond replied. “Tusker’s going to be our poster boy, and now we’ve got ourselves a mascot.”

  Silky was trembling under her blanket, even though the afternoon was fairly temperate. I took a fresh bag of Ringer’s lactate solution and microwaved it in the barn kitchen before hooking it up to her IV. Though she was still shivering, I didn’t want to load her up with too many blankets because I was afraid they might irritate her thin, hypersensitive skin and break it down even more. It was probably better to warm her up from the inside out with the most tempting mash I could put together, with grated carrots and a large dollop of honey. After I brought it to her, I held a handful against her lips, but she only dropped her head and looked away. I’d never seen horses refuse food like this before, so starved that they were beyond thirst or hunger, so shut down that they were beyond self-preservation.

  “You have to eat,” I urged her. “Please.” The mare’s eyes fluttered closed. I ran my finger inside her bottom lip and made a pocket where the bars of her jaws made a natural space, then pressed the mash in and pushed it onto her tongue. She let it stay there, too indifferent to even swallow. I reached in with two fingers and worked the food back toward her throat, but she didn’t swallow. I tried to figure out what to do next.

  What was the point, I wondered, to force her to eat like this? She was crippled. A racehorse bred for running, every muscle, every bone bred for the purpose of galloping along the ground in great, driving strides. She had given it all away, the gift of her speed and her hot blood and her generous, honest horse heart, all given over for her owner’s pleasure and profit, and in return, he had peremptorily discarded her without a shred of regard. If she did survive, what kind of future could we give her? Would her heart break over and over again with each painful, shattered step she took? Would she end up able only to stand and stare across the green fields, knowing that she would never, could never run them again? What would she think about, realizing that her very essence of being a horse had been taken from her? I wiped away my tears with dried-mash fingers.

  Suddenly the mare’s throat and lips moved, and she swallowed. Joyfully, I pressed in another small mound, and she swallowed again. After a few feeding attempts the animal was exhausted.

  “You’re such a good girl,” I murmured, pressing my face against her bony frame, but I had to look away from the blank eyes and wonder if I was doing her any favors.

  “Bollocks! That old gal needs a lot of supervision,” Diamond-Rose declared as she came into the barn. I was still in front of Silky’s stall, talking softly to her and stroking her muzzle.

  “I know,” I agreed. “Feeding her takes forever, and Dr. Harry said she could even colic just from finally getting food.”

  “I mean Mum. You know—Elisabeth,” Diamond said. “I would have come out sooner, but she set a small fire in the living room. Wanted to cook up some special mixture. I stopped her, but she insisted I bring this out with me.” She held up a bottle of expensive brandy.

  “No snifters?” I asked, amused. “Are we supposed to take turns swigging from it?”

  “Not for us. This is her special horse medicine,” Diamond explained. “She was going to mix it in a mash. Mum said she never lost an animal after pouring in a bottle of good brandy.”

  “‘Mum’? I’ve known her ten years, and I never got past Mrs. Wycliff.”

  Diamond threw her head back and laughed. “I think after you spend an hour fighting a couch fire in someone’s living room while getting drunk on alcohol fumes with her, you deserve to be on a more intimate basis. I’m sort of her surrogate daughter now, so you can have your mum back. She’ll probably be relieved to get rid of me.”

  “I think she was getting very fond of you,” I protested.

  “Thank you,” Diamond said, “but I have a new mum. It would get too confusing.” She opened the brandy and inhaled its aroma.

  “Wonderful! Saint-Rémy Napoleon! Top drawer!” she exclaimed, then looked thoughtful. “Listen, would you mind taking the first shift with the mare tonight? I want to get working on that poster.”

  I shrugged. “I suppose not,” I said. “I want to stay with Mousi anyway. He and I have a lot to talk about. I’ll sleep on the cot in the barn kitchen. Just bring me food.”

  “I’ll ask Richie to pick up some pizza,” Diamond agreed. “And we’ll have a go at this brandy. I’m not about to waste it on a horse.”

  It was a long, sleepless night. I changed Silky’s IV
, fed her every two hours, tossed restlessly on the canvas cot, only to jump up again to check on all the rescue horses. Mousi was eating well, but it would take some time to put weight back on him. The others gratefully ate the mash and hay put in front of them. I went from horse to horse, checking water buckets, fluffing hay, and watching for signs of colic.

  The barn doors rolled open with the first light of dawn, and Diamond carried in a mug of hot cowboy coffee for me.

  “Why don’t you take a break?” she said. “I can handle things from here.” She picked up the bucket of mash and began feeding tiny amounts to the mare.

  “Thanks,” I said, stretching my arms and arching my back to get the kinks out. “I just refilled her IV and mixed a new mash.”

  A car pulled up outside.

  “Dr. Harry,” we said together.

  “She’s still alive?” Dr. Harry called out as he strode through the barn doors a moment later.

  “Yes, she is,” Diamond said. “She ate a little, got her IV changed. She’s really trying.” She stepped away so that he could examine the horse.

  “You did a good job,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and gave me a meaningful look. I got the hint.

  “I have some work to do,” I said. “I want to look through Mrs. Wycliff’s files to see what kind of records she kept on the horses.”

  “Great idea,” said Diamond. “There’s probably enough stuff to keep you busy all morning.” I gave her a grin and left them alone in the barn, wondering if Diamond was ready to take her heart to a crossroad again.

  The sun felt warm against my face, although there was an insistent breeze that came up from the fields and penetrated my jacket. Winter would soon be taking its bitter turn, a hostile season that brought its own harvest. I thought with sadness of the weakened, starving animals that wouldn’t survive the cold weather, and of Tusker, whose life was shortening with each passing day.

  “Hey!” Richie was walking toward me carrying several large bags of apples and carrots. “I plan to look in on the horses after I finish with the other animals,” he said. “How’s that mare doing?”

  I shrugged. “I guess we won’t know for a while.” We walked silently together until we reached the elephant barn. “I have to talk to Tom again,” I said to Richie. He only nodded.

  Richie rolled open the doors to the barn, and we were greeted with a happy duet of trumpeting from Margo and Abbie. We stepped inside, and Margo lifted her trunk expectantly. Richie tossed a bunch of carrots into her open mouth, then caressed her face as she ate them.

  “She’s a lucky girl,” he said.

  “I’m thinking of all the ones we can’t save,” I said miserably. “Please help me convince Tom to save Tusker.”

  Richie’s mouth tilted into a sad line. “You may have to accept that you can’t,” he said. “And the terrible thing is, after Tusker, there will be more. It’s something Tom knows but you haven’t learned yet. There are always more elephants.”

  Chapter 29

  “HE WHO WANTS WHAT IS UNDER THE BED, MUST bend over to get it,” Diamond announced over dinner.

  I was about to drop a slice of pizza onto a paper plate, which we were using now that I was down to one real dinner plate. “The only things under my bed are dust bunnies,” I said.

  “What I mean is, you have to work hard to get what you want.”

  “So?”

  “So, we made the money to hold the fund-raiser. Now our job is to get people to come to it.” She stabbed a slice with her safari knife and ate it as it dangled from the tip.

  “I don’t know any people,” I said.

  “Yes, you do,” Diamond said between bites, “and stop staring at me. You’d think you’d never seen anyone eat pizza before. You promised you would call Tom when we finished raising the money.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I can’t stop staring, and I can’t make the call. And besides, we don’t have enough money for a big party.”

  “No, not one of those fancy things that you see given by the queen of England. We’ll have a barbecue.”

  “No barbecues!” I jumped from my chair in protest, dropping my pizza. “I hate barbecues! They’re smoky and smelly, and I always had to clean the grill.”

  “It’s the most practical way to do things.”

  “No barbecue and no Tom,” I insisted, then sat down again. “Besides, Tom hates me.”

  “You have to call him,” Diamond said. “He’s the key to our success.”

  “You’re wrongly assuming he wants us to succeed.” I reached for more pizza.

  Diamond flipped her knife across the table, pinning my slice to the cardboard box, then reached behind her head, grabbed the kitchen phone, and tossed it to me. “Call Tom.”

  I shook my head. “The last time I spoke to him we were in his car and were barely civil to each other, and I’m positive he hates me now.”

  “Call him and tell him that you’re sorry and that you love him,” she said, “and that you need him. And maybe his mother, too.”

  “Are you crazy?” I eyed the knife. It had penetrated the pizza and the box, pinning both to my wooden kitchen table underneath. “I don’t love him, I don’t love his mother, and I don’t want to talk to either one of them.”

  Diamond folded her arms and gave me a disgusted look. “You know,” she said, “he is a fool whose sheep get away twice.”

  “Would those sheep be under my bed?” I asked sarcastically. “Owned by the man who’s bending over?”

  “It means you’ve already made one mistake letting Tom go,” Diamond snapped. “How many times do you think that you’re going to find true love? Do you know what I’d give—” She stopped herself and plucked her knife from my dinner. “So call him before we run out of time, or I will.” She flipped the knife into the air and caught it neatly by the handle. “And I can be very convincing.”

  “Neelie?” Tom’s voice was a mixture of surprise and icy curiosity. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Though it was a small victory that Tom even answered my call, I thought I detected a note of sarcasm in his last word.

  “I need to talk to you?” I said, trying to control my voice, though my nerves were getting the best of me. “I—that is, we—Diamond and I—are holding a fund-raiser? You know? To be able to save that elephant I told you about?” Why was I talking like a fourteen-year-old Valley girl and ending my sentences with interrogatives? “And we need people to attend?”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “I’m serious?” I had to stop, I had to stop—why was I talking like this? “It’s our only chance to save Tusker?”

  There was a long pause. “Tom?” I asked miserably.

  “I warned you about Tusker, and do you really think I would help you defeat my own plans?”

  I mounted my argument. “You didn’t have any plans, except to wait until he got shot? We want to save him, not stuff him.”

  “I’m not discussing that elephant with you again. I’m just advising, no, I’m demanding that you not get involved,” he said. “And if you weren’t so pigheaded, I would—”

  “‘Demanding’?” I shouted. “What makes you think you can demand anything? And how dare you call me pigheaded, when I’m trying to save—”

  “I’m not in the mood to argue with you.” His tone was that of a parent talking to a recalcitrant child. “In fact, I think you’d—”

  “I don’t need you!” I interrupted him angrily. “I’ll bet your mother would help. In fact, I know her name and her address, and I know she loves animals, and I’m going to call her. I just wanted to give you another chance. I was just hoping you’d have a change of heart.”

  “My heart never changes,” he said quietly.

  That caught me off guard. “Yes it does,” I said. “Because now you hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you,” he said. “I could never hate you.”

  “Maybe you don’t hate me now, but you will after I go ahead with my plans.” I stoppe
d myself. I didn’t want to bicker—it was so old stuff. “I wish things were different.”

  Suddenly he laughed. “I have to give you this, you are the most determined woman I have ever met. I forgot how single-minded you can be.”

  “Then you’ll attend? Or ask your mother if she’d be interested?”

  “No, I won’t,” he said firmly. “First of all, I have plans for the sanctuary, and someday, if you would let me finish a sentence, I’ll tell you about them. In the meantime, I am strongly advising you, no, ordering you to stay out of g the Tusker thing. It’s going to create a disaster in ways you can’t begin to imagine. Secondly, I don’t want my mother involved. She’s got too many charities on her plate already.”

  “Of course I remember you,” Mrs. Pennington said after I nervously introduced myself over the phone. “You’re the young woman who went to Africa with Tom.”

  “To rescue Margo,” I added. “You know, the elephant that shares her name with you.”

  “Actually, I share my name with her, dear,” she corrected me. “And didn’t you break things off with my son?”

  “I was saving more elephants,” I replied.

  “How perfectly thoughtful of you,” she said. “But I’m wondering why you called.”

  I took a deep breath to calm myself. “Well, I’m the president of ELLI. It’s the Elephant Liberation League Internationale, and we’re holding a fund-raiser so we can save another elephant,” I explained, helpfully leaving out the part that we were doing it even though her son had explicitly ordered me not to.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Pennington apologized. “I don’t think I can help. I don’t know anything about elephants. And besides, I’ve been donating my time and money to victims of the raging tornadoes they’ve had in the South.”

  “Raging tomatoes?”

  “Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Margo Pennington. “Who mentioned tomatoes?”

  “I thought you did. In any case, we’re both trying to save lives,” I said. “And it’s a good thing to save lives.”