16
Tuesday night comes way too fast. Sawyer drops me at the zoo with words of encouragement I can hardly hear over the hum of my fears. Addie is waiting outside the elephant exhibit. In silence, I follow her down the hall and into an enclosure the size of a small garage with bars instead of walls. The calf stands in the far corner looking very small. There are large canvas cushions plus several straw bales placed throughout the pen. Four red plastic garbage pails, a pile of wool blankets, a refrigerator and a shovel rest against the bars. The smell of wood shavings, straw and urine rises with each step I take. Flip-flops were not a good choice of footwear. In the distance, elephants wander a gymnasium-sized indoor hall that’s filled with dirt piles that they climb, descend and then climb again. A floor-to-ceiling window frames sheets of rain. The empty enclosure to the left of Swift Jones’s pen has five-foot-tall chain-link fencing fastened at the base of the bars.
I pull out a notebook and pen. “What’s the chain-link for?”
“So that we can place Raki close by her calf without risking a negative interaction.”
I swallow. “Raki doesn’t want to be touched by her own calf?”
“It’s still important for Swift Jones to be close to her; to hear, see, smell her. We’ve also been bringing the other adult female elephants into the nursery for visits, so that Swift Jones feels loved by her extended family. Right now we have to tread lightly, but given time, Raki’s maternal instincts will kick in.”
“Why did Raki reject Swift Jones?”
“Elephant births in zoos are rare. Raki had never witnessed one before.”
“But she did fine with the birth and it’s been three weeks. What changed?”
“I don’t know.” Addie walks over to the refrigerator. “Raki won’t tolerate being milked, so that means Swift Jones isn’t receiving the nutrition she needs. We have to provide her with a very specific replacement milk formula that’s vital for her health.” Addie opens the fridge. It’s lined top to bottom with giant baby bottles.
“How many should Swift Jones drink each feeding?”
“One bottle—that’s three pints, every feeding, for a total of up to twenty-four pints a day.”
“Seems like a lot.”
Addie sighs like it’s taking a huge effort to educate stupid little me. “Calves can dehydrate very quickly. If a calf drinks little or no fluid, she won’t survive more than a week. We’ve managed an average of nineteen pints with Swift Jones, which can sustain her, but we’re hoping to up that number. So far we’ve been most successful with feeding her every three hours. But if she wants a bottle more often, give it to her. Calves can’t be overfed.”
“How long do calves drink their mother’s milk?”
“They’re not fully weaned until they’re at least three years old.”
“If the reintroduction doesn’t work, that’s a long time for hand-feeding.”
Addie’s lips compress. “Yes. It is.”
I flip to a new page in my notebook. “So how does the caretaking process work?”
Addie takes off her glasses, rubs red-rimmed eyes. “In a perfect world, we’d have six caretakers each day rotating shifts. But we’re sorely understaffed. I worked the last two shifts alone. Which is a problem.”
“Why?”
“When a calf loses her mother, that mother must be replaced by both elephant and human caretakers who are the new family. But human caretakers need to be rotated so no strong attachment forms.”
“But you’re creating a new family. Don’t you want the calf to bond with you?”
“If Swift Jones bonds too much then loses us, she’ll plunge from sadness to depression. Refuse her formula.”
Bullcrap! I shake my head. If I survived, a baby elephant can live, too. It’s not a choice. It’s just an instinct. “I’m sorry, but aren’t you being kind of melodramatic?”
Addie shakes her head. “Life-threatening problems can be triggered by psychological grief. I’ve told you that elephants are more complex than humans. What people say about them never forgetting is true. Decades after a loss in their herd, they’ll return to the exact spot where their loved one died to mourn.”
“How do you know that they’re mourning?”
“They cry,” Addie replies.
Bullshit. “Raki isn’t dead.”
“For Swift Jones, she might as well be. That’s why a successful reintroduction is so vital for the calf’s survival.”
Holy condescension. “If you’re telling me these things so that I’ll write that Swift Jones needs to stay put, at the zoo, I can’t promise that. My job is to write a factual article, not an opinion piece.”
“I’d expect nothing more from you,” Addie says.
We stare at each other for a few seconds. “Is there a trick to getting her to drink?”
“Swift Jones is uncertain, so it’s not easy.”
Addie says it like she’s positive I won’t succeed. “Okay, what do I need to do?”
“Do you have a phone?”
“Yeah.” I pull it out of my backpack.
“Set the alarm for midnight, three and six in the morning. Feedings take between one and two hours.”
Clearly, I won’t be sleeping tonight. There’s no bed in here, not even a chair. The straw on the floor smells foul. I set my alarm. “Done.”
An alarm on Addie’s watch pings. It’s 9:00 p.m. She takes out a bottle then sinks to the straw, leaning against one of the canvas pillows. Swift Jones peers at her like a shy kid on the playground, taking five minutes to shuffle over, her trunk wriggling around like it has a mind of its own. SJ nuzzles Addie’s neck. “They know your heart,” she says.
What she doesn’t say but means is that my heart is a lump of coal. I’m the Grinch and Swift Jones will figure out that I’m not worthy.
“Calves have a nursing position that’s most comfortable. Swift Jones usually rests her trunk on our necks.”
It takes three tries for SJ to get her trunk onto Addie’s shoulder then another few to curl it around the back of her neck.
“It will be months before she figures out how to precisely work her trunk.”
The calf drinks from the bottle. Formula soaks Addie’s sleeve. Gross. It dribbles down the calf’s chest, her gray skin resembling a wet piece of paper that has been folded too many times. “More,” Addie coaxes. The calf slowly makes her way through half the bottle then wanders back to the far corner. As she walks she dribbles urine, the smell permeating the pen. Addie hands me the half-empty bottle. It’s sticky, but I resist the urge to wipe my hand. “Don’t give up until she empties her bottle. Use the blankets to cover her when she sleeps.”
This is getting ridiculous. “Seriously? She needs a blanket?”
“In the wild a baby shelters beneath her mother for protection from the sun and to feel safe and warm. Make sure her ears are covered; that just the front of her face is visible.”
I point to the far wall. “What are all the buckets for?”
“Fresh water to clean Swift Jones after feeding, soapy water to clean off urine or diarrhea. The empty bucket is for soiled straw.”
Urine? Diarrhea? Soiled straw? “The last can is for?”
“Calves can be playful. They have bursts of energy but they’re hard to redirect, so this pen is childproofed so that Swift Jones can’t hurt herself. The empty plastic can is basically a toy that can be used to redirect Swift Jones’s energy until she learns the meaning of telling her no when her excitement gets the best of her.” Addie walks toward the door. “You have my cell number. Call if there’s a problem.”
“What? Addie, you’re leaving me? Alone? In here with her?”
Addie frowns. “Please call me Dr. Tinibu. And yes, I’m leaving you alone but I’m five minutes away in my office, trying to catch up on work. I sleep there now.”
I get the implica
tion. Dr. Tinibu sleeps at the zoo because of the article she thinks I wrote. I consider telling her I didn’t write it; that I wrote a crappy article to protect her stupid program. But it wouldn’t matter. I’m the enemy now. That’s fine. You can’t be logical, emotionless, responsible and balanced if being liked is a priority. I’m a journalist, not her friend. Dr. Tinibu steps through the door. It clangs shut behind her.
“One night,” I whisper. “Anyone can do one night.”
17
I listen to Dr. Tinibu’s footsteps fade, then turn to face SJ. “Hey,” I call. The calf turns her back, wedging her head into the corner like if she can’t see me I’ll disappear. Holding up the bottle, I shake it so that she can hear the formula swishing. Nothing. I walk toward the calf then stop. I forgot to ask Addie—Dr. Tinibu—if Swift Jones can hurt me. Does she have teeth? Will she try to charge me? Maybe that’s Dr. Tinibu’s plan to punish me.
“Hi,” I say from where I stand three feet away. From here the calf smells like freshly turned earth with the sour note of urine. “You need to drink your bottle.” She doesn’t turn around. I approach her from the right then the left side but she turns her head away, like a kid refusing to eat peas.
It’s time for a new strategy. “How about the real Swift Jones?” I sing a few lines of a new song I’ve memorized for Sawyer. It’s from Elbows & Knees. “‘You’re made of sharp edges, elbows and knees, there’s no soft space, no love lace, no good way to please because your every move cuts me.’” The calf doesn’t budge. “Sawyer will be very disappointed.”
After two hours I give up. The next feeding is only forty-five minutes away. Maybe she’ll be hungry enough by then. Maybe she won’t. When the new caretaker arrives tomorrow morning, he can pick up the slack because I can taste how tired I am. I abandon brushing my teeth, grab a blanket and spread it by the door. When I lie down straw prickles my back. Sawyer was right. I should’ve borrowed his sleeping bag. But who knew Addie wouldn’t even have a cot in here? There probably is one—she just hid it from horrible me.
The lights have switched to dim, I should be able to sleep, but I’m suddenly wide-awake. I pull out my iPad, click on a link about elephants. “Elephants have a highly convoluted neocortex, just like humans, apes, some dolphins. That’s why they’re so smart.” SJ turns. Head low, she watches me. “You’re not smart or you’d be drinking your milk.” The calf drags her trunk back and forth in the straw. “I’m not buying your act. You’re just not hungry enough yet.”
A bird lands a few feet away. Its head bobbles left then right as it looks for food. “I remember my first meal AV. That’s After Violet,” I tell the calf. “It was green Jell-O. A nurse tried to make me eat it, but I held out two days for macaroni and cheese. I couldn’t taste it, though. Nothing tasted for, like, a few months.” My alarm goes off. Groaning, I haul myself to my feet. Unfinished bottle in hand, I head toward Swift Jones. She spins, pressing her forehead back into the corner. I get on the ground, crawl beneath her head, but she won’t open her mouth for the nipple. Urine saturates the knees of my jeans. Runnels of sickly sweet–smelling formula soak my arm. “Screw this.”
I sit down a few feet away from the calf. “You’re going to make me look bad,” I tell her. “This situation? It’s not my fault. It’s Dr. Tinibu’s fault for having a breeding program. It’s your fault for doing whatever it is you did to flip a switch in your mom’s brain. It’s Raki’s fault for not flipping that switch back. Seriously, I’ve got problems that make yours look like peanuts. So give me a break. Drink from your freaking bottle, okay?”
S. Jones turns halfway toward me. “That’s it,” I say. “Come and get it.” Rapid-fire bursts that sound like gunshots cut through the quiet. I leap to my feet. Swift Jones races away. She’s bleeding from her backside, blood gushing down her legs. My phone is on the blanket. I lunge for it, dial Dr. Tinibu. But then a stench unlike anything I’ve ever smelled invades the air. “You have got to be kidding me!” It’s not blood. It’s diarrhea. The stink is so strong that I can actually taste it. I gag, but don’t make the call. I won’t give Dr. Tinibu the satisfaction of thinking I can’t take one night with a freaking elephant calf.
Swift Jones watches as I soak a towel in the soapy bucket. “We need to get you clean.” When I’m close to her, she bolts. We circle each other for the next forty-five minutes. I threaten, but eventually resort to begging. At some point SJ decides to stop being chased and to chase me instead. Her trumpet sounds like a weak bugle before she runs straight at me. She might be a baby, but that’s three-hundred-plus pounds of solid animal hurtling like a missile. When I try to use the plastic trash can to redirect her, it’s like I’m wearing red and she’s the bull. I end up in the corner where the worst of the diarrhea steams. It oozes over my flip-flops, warm on my skin. I throw up in my mouth.
The calf stops a few feet away, looking over her shoulder like she’s the one being chased. My heart pounds so hard that it’s going to leave a bruise. When SJ glances over her shoulder again, I bolt for the door, slam it shut behind me. The calf wanders to the center of the enclosure. She looks small, lost...too bad.
My feet are painted brown with feces. I leave vile prints as I walk down the hallway to the bathroom. There’s a low metal counter. Hopping up, I put my feet in the stainless-steel bowl. As the water hits, the smell actually notches up, making me gag repeatedly. It takes me a while to scrape the crap from beneath my toenails. I shiver, because the sink has only cold water. My jeans are clammy against my skin from the wet towel I carried while chasing the stupid calf.
“What now?” I stare into the hazy mirror—both eyes are tracking in the same direction. I check the lower half of my face to make sure it doesn’t look like a bear has mauled me. No blood, tatters of skin, missing teeth like Hannah’s hallucinations. My eyes are red, puffy. When I was yelling, did Swift Jones see fireworks in them? I lean closer to the mirror. Do I?
“This night is not worth the risk.” My reflection nods at me. I need to call Dr. Tinibu. Bail. I tried to modify my Twelve-Year Plan for one night, but being here, with Swift Jones, is not within reason. If I do a bit more research, there’s enough information to write my article. “I’m outta here.” Unfortunately, my backpack is still in the pen.
When I get back, Swift Jones is standing beside the formula bottle I dropped after World War Diarrhea. She’s trying to pick it up with the little finger at the end of her trunk, but can’t pull it off. She circles the bottle, stepping on her trunk, lets out a thin, high-pitched wail. I sit down in the hallway, resting my head against the bars. I should walk to Dr. Tinibu’s office right now, but... The calf makes tiny noises. It’s the sound little kids make when they’re ramping up for a cry. But she’s not a little kid. And if she cries, it doesn’t mean the same thing as a real person. I throw her a last bone anyway. “It’s not like I don’t know how you feel,” I say softly. “My mother tried to kill me, too. It’s awful. It’ll always be awful.” The calf can’t possibly understand what I’m saying, because she’s three weeks old. And she’s an animal. I’m eighteen, human and I still don’t totally get it.
I rest my forehead against the cold steel and stare at a piece of straw on the floor. “I won’t tell you that you don’t need your mom. But you can survive...if you let people help you.” Something brushes my hand. I jump. Swift Jones stands on the other side of the bars. She’s managed to swing her trunk onto my open palm. It’s soft as a pencil’s eraser, tiny hairs tickling my skin. This close the calf’s eyes are the color of dark chocolate, ringed by impossibly long lashes. “You’re advanced for your age,” I tell her with a nod at her trunk.
When I reenter the pen to get my backpack, Swift Jones doesn’t run. Instead, she watches, her head slightly tipped to one side, as my iPad, phone and homework get packed. “So,” I say, heading to the door, “it’s been an experience. Good luck. I hope everything works out for you.”
The calf follows me b
ack to the door. I look at her. She glances back at her bottle. “One last try, but if you’re just teasing me then I’m outta here.” I get the bottle. Sit down in the straw. The calf sidles right next to me, her lined face looking impossibly young, old and fragile. When I run my hand along her side, I can feel her heartbeat thumping against skin that reminds me of worn jeans. My heartbeat slows to match her rhythm. “It’s going to be okay,” I say. “Either way.” I’m not lying, because I’m not promising her the world—just okay.
SJ manages to flop her trunk over my shoulder, squiggling it until it’s around the back of my neck. Her trunk feels soft, warm against my bare skin. It’s kinda like being hugged by a little kid. She drinks from the bottle, tentatively at first, then in big gulps. Formula drips down my arm. “Holy messy eater.” But I don’t really mind. She finishes the bottle. I grab another because she’s still trying to suck milk from the empty one. She tries to get closer to me while she’s feeding, until she’s pushing hard against me, almost on my lap. “You are too heavy for that, you little porker,” I say. My shirt is now soaked.
When the bottle is drained, I soap a towel and Swift Jones lets me clean the dried crap off her butt, and then follows me around as I use the pitchfork to put all the soiled hay in a pail. It’s 2:00 a.m. by the time I’m done. “We should get some sleep.” I lay a blanket down for the calf ten feet from my own. She seems to know what to do, because she lies on her side. When I cover her with another blanket, I make sure to tuck it around her neck. After a few quick photos with my phone, I fall onto my own blanket. “Go to sleep,” I tell Swift Jones.
My eyes slide closed... Something plops onto my face. It’s the calf’s trunk. I sit up fast. Swift Jones lurches back. “Sorry,” I say, “but you scared me.” I reach out my hand, wait for the calf to come forward. One. Two. Three steps. She crumples onto my blanket. “No way,” I say, trying to shove her off. “You have your own very nice bed over there.” I can’t budge a three-hundred-pound elephant, so I curl up on the little bit of blanket left then cover us both. “Sleep,” I command. Swift Jones manages to get the tip of her trunk into her mouth. She looks like a little kid sucking her thumb. I breathe in the smell of fresh soap, sweet straw, and the calf’s earthy musk. We both drift off.
When Elephants Fly Page 9
