I head into my closet and dig beneath a pile of dirty clothes to find a pair of flip-flops. My fingers brush the edge of a book. It was in the suitcase with Nibs. I haven’t looked at my mom’s copy of Peter Pan for years. It’s ninety-four pages but it feels heavier. The paper is worn soft, dog-eared, stained with tears, food and specks of brownish blood. That’s from when Violet and I pricked our fingers. I vaguely remember that the reason we drew blood had to do with the Lost Boys and Captain Hook.
The pages flutter against my fingertips. During our last few weeks together, if I asked Violet a question she’d frantically leaf through this book looking for answers. I’m not sure whether she couldn’t find her own words, or if she thought J. M. Barrie’s were better. The book falls open to a page. This was one of Violet’s favorite games, even before she went off her meds. She’d ask a question and then let the book fall open to reveal the answer. I close the book. “Am I giving up all I’ve achieved?” I whisper. The book falls open to page ninety. Violet underlined one sentence on this page: “Years rolled on again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought not to be written in ink but in a golden splash.” I close the book. There’s no truth in Peter Pan.
“Lily?”
My father comes into my bedroom without knocking. He looks down at me in the closet, swaying slightly on his feet. I throw the book into my duffel. Not because I want to bring it, but because he’s seen it. If I leave Violet’s copy, it won’t be here when I return. “I need to get some sleep. Early start.”
“What can I say to stop you?” The ice cubes in his glass clink with each word.
“Nothing.”
“I could call your editor or the zoo woman and tell them this situation is a threat to your health.”
“I’d never forgive you.”
He moves unsteadily to my bed, drops down on the corner. “I wanted to be a furniture maker. Not the simplistic stuff I have the kids make in the shop class the administration makes me teach. I wanted to create with every type of wood, live-edge, exotics, have a huge studio to work in and openings, like artists have.” He takes a gulp of Scotch. “Violet was going to do all my advertising and sales. She’d work out front, with the customers. I’d be in the back, creating, crafting. It was going to be perfect, because why wouldn’t it be? She was smart, beautiful and I was driven, talented. That’s the stuff fairy tales are made of, right?”
He’s slurring. “Right,” I say, because telling him that life is not a fairy tale seems redundant.
“We were going to have at least two more kids because both Violet and I were only children. My parents died young and hers...” He looks at me with bloodshot eyes. “Well, you know about her parents.”
“Yeah.”
My father hangs his head. “I wish I hadn’t kept that letter.”
“Why did you?”
He shrugs. “As a reminder.”
“That I’m related to her?”
“I could’ve forgotten,” he continues like he didn’t hear me, “because you were such a bright light. Even after. You were precocious without being obnoxious, imaginative, and you had a way of seeing the world with fresh eyes.” He stares at the amber liquid in his glass. “But I had to remember, because I’m your father. It’s my job to protect you.”
It feels like the world has stopped spinning. I’m afraid to move, to start it up again, because this is the most honest conversation we’ve ever had about how he sees me. What he said about protecting me is like a piece of the bigger puzzle sliding into place. “I think...I think that’s what Violet tried to do, too,” I say. “Protect me.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not—”
“Listen, okay? I’ve hated her for that day, for what she said, did, and all the stuff that came after. But maybe it’s simple. She was mentally ill. Her way of protecting me was to throw me off the roof before I grew up, because she didn’t want me to grow up to be like her.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not. And your way of protecting me is to keep me inside a box. But you’re trying to protect me from me.” I get up and sit beside him. “Neither way works.”
“It will work if we stay the course.”
I take his hand. “You believed in me enough to have me, even after you read that letter. I need you to believe in me now.”
My father starts to cry. His shoulders shake. “I didn’t know,” he sobs. “I didn’t know.”
The world begins to spin again. I’m just along for the ride. “What do you mean?”
“Violet had moved into my apartment at Cornell. She intercepted her father’s letter.”
“When did you find it?”
“A few days before the roof.”
It takes all my strength not to pull away my hand. “If you had known about Violet’s family, about her history?” We live in a house of cards. I’m trying to place the final one, the Queen of Hearts, without everything collapsing. “If you’d known?”
My father opens his mouth then hesitates. Our eyes lock, and I hear the words he can’t bring himself to say aloud. Yes, I would’ve aborted you. He looks left and right, like he’s trying to find a place to hide, but I’ve already seen him.
Something inside me breaks. The pieces are so sharp that they draw blood. A line from the article that ran when Violet was found guilty of attempted murder bobs to the surface. “‘As previously reported,’” I quote, “‘Gomez grabbed the child’s ankles as she fell. Decker caught his wife.’”
“Lily?”
“Just for the record? You never protected me from her.” I let go of his hand.
22
“We’re almost there,” Howard Walker says. His muscular arm hangs outside the truck’s open window, calloused hand tapping against the side. He picked us up from the small airport in Haven, Florida, wearing a white T-shirt tucked into worn green cargo pants, looking like the kind of guy who’d appear in a backcountry outfitter’s advertisements. Late twenties, olive-toned skin that’s seen a lot of sun, square strong jaw, rugged vibe. Not that it matters to me, but a girl can notice.
Swifty’s trunk drops onto my shoulder. When I run a hand over her soft skin she leans into me. I let her for a few seconds then pull away, because she’s not supposed to bond too much with us. She has a new family now. Humid salt air mingles with the gummy reek of hot tarmac as we drive along a two-lane road, passing only a handful of other cars, most of them pickup trucks. Dead grass and sickly palms border both sides of the road. It’s the opposite of our evergreen, rain-soaked Pacific Northwest. To me, it radiates abandonment, desolation. In the near distance a narrow band of blue is the only real color in the landscape. I take a few photos, trying to capture the heat mirage floating above the asphalt. The tip of Swifty’s trunk invades the shot.
“Walker’s winter home is less than a mile from the beach,” Howard says. “On hot days, I take all my elephants to the ocean to play.”
“So you take them every day?” Addie asks.
Howard laughs. Addie hates him for claiming her calf, but if he gets that, he’s not showing it. I’m not on Team Circus or Team Zoo. Raki might’ve killed her calf. Wild Walker’s Circus won’t be perfect, but it might be okay. Okay is better than dead. Howard looks at me in his rearview mirror. I smile because Addie has been super passive-aggressive since we landed but he’s being nice anyway.
Your smile is made from barbed wire and nails, the real Swift Jones sings in my head. Sawyer would love that SJ has joined forces with Ms. Frey in my brain so that together they can comment on my life. I wish I could tell him, but I texted a tentative hi? when we landed, and he didn’t text back. Our first fight is an ugly snarl in my brain. I don’t know how to untangle or fix it, because we both said things that can’t be taken back. Swifty’s trunk flops onto my head, making more of a mess of my already drool-stiffened, straw-invaded hair.
Swifty was
not a well-behaved flier. The only way to stop her pacing her small travel pen and repetitively trumpeting was to climb in with her. Addie never offered to help me during the six-hour flight. She wanted me to “fully experience the consequences of my actions.” But she did say I could call her Addie again. That’s something.
Addie took a photo when I did a handstand to entertain Swifty and the calf put her head down on the straw, trying unsuccessfully to copy me. We both toppled. Addie actually laughed. The calf lay beside me, gazing into my eyes. I had the urge to tell her that there’s a relief when you no longer have to prove to the most important person in your life that you’re worthy. But Swifty is an elephant, not a little girl, so it’s like comparing apples with sneakers.
Four hours into the flight, I asked Addie if she was single. She looked at me like I was nuts. “Sorry, Mr. Matthews wanted to know. Just FYI.”
“FYI? If he wants to know, he should fucking ask me himself.”
“We’re here,” Howard says, one arm outside the window to point up. The truck rolls beneath a red banner stretched between two stone columns. Winter Home of Wild Walker’s Circus is written in white block letters. The reality that Swifty will never return to Oregon hits. An invisible band tightens around my chest. Swifty’s trunk reaches out the window toward the sign. I take some shots with her trunk cutting across the frame, like I’m seeing everything through her eyes.
The road becomes a wide, single lane. We roll by white houses of varying sizes with green-trimmed windows set above covered porches. The grass around them is burned brown, but the window boxes are filled with yellow, red and white flowers. Some of the houses have swing sets. A ponytailed, rosy-cheeked woman in running shorts and a jog bra pushes a giggling little boy high into the air.
“That’s Heather. She does an act with standard poodles.” Howard nods at the homes. “They’re for family members and featured performers—trapeze artists, teeterboard athletes, acrobats, contortionists, bear guy. Tiger trainers, too—that’s my folks, Tina and Maximus, who’s also ringmaster—and the horse-and dog-act gals.” He points to the fourth house from the end. “That one is mine.”
“It’s big,” I say.
“Not to brag,” Howard says, blushing a little, “but my elephant act is a huge draw. It brings in as many people as the tigers.”
We pass the final house. It’s by far the smallest. “That one?”
“My little brother, Otis. He’s our public relations guy,” Howard says. “He’s not a big act, but he’s family.”
The way Howard says his brother isn’t a big act makes it sound like he doesn’t think Otis should have a house at all. “Where does everyone else live?”
“About a mile down the road we have an apartment building for the clowns, showgirls and workers.”
Swifty nuzzles my neck. “Workers?”
“They do all the heavy lifting,” Howard explains.
“How many people live on your campus?” Addie asks.
“About one hundred and fifty, give or take a few clowns. We hire additional help at each venue. No need to feed and house them here.”
“I notice you don’t have gates, security,” Addie says.
“There’s a very small town, just one street, about ten miles from here. You’ve seen the airstrip, and there’s nothing else around. We know just about everyone in these parts.”
I scratch behind the calf’s ear as we roll by several low, brick buildings with numbers on them. She tilts her head, gives a snuffle of appreciation, then tips her head the other way. “Bossy,” I say, but scratch behind the other ear. “Where do the kids whose parents work for you go to school?”
“They’re homeschooled. We live in Florida three months a year so we can put together a new show each season. Joe Public demands change. The rest of the time we’re on the road. Wouldn’t want to break up families, so it’s the best option.”
“That’s hard on them,” Addie notes.
Howard shrugs. “Most of the kids get their GEDs by the time they’re sixteen. My little brother got his at fourteen.”
“Impressive,” Addie says.
Howard hitches one shoulder. “I guess. But there’s a difference between being book smart and life smart.”
His comment is tossed so lightly that it sounds like a simple observation, but there’s an undercurrent, a tug, that makes me think it might be a dig.
“And you?” Addie asks.
“Embarrassed to say I never got mine. Sometimes the world has other plans.” An enormous yellow-and-white circus tent looms to the right.
A group of young women wearing matching bikinis made more of sparkles than material run by. They have the kind of bodies I thought were the result of photoshopping in magazines; the kind that make mere mortals want to cover up in baggy clothes.
“Those are a few of our showgirls.”
Addie grimaces. “Small costumes.”
Howard laughs. “You’re right, Dr. Tinibu, to think they’re eye candy. But they’re also talented athletes.” He turns right at the next corner, away from a cluster of low stucco buildings. “Those are filled with props, construction materials, veterinary supplies, food,” Howard explains. “You can check them out later if you want, but right now we’re heading to the animal building to get Swift Jones settled.”
Addie raises one brow. “All of your animals are in one building?”
Howard nods. “It’s easier that way. We have six bears, about twenty different types of dogs, a few llamas, a unicorn that’s really a goat with an off-kilter horn, two potbellied pigs for the clown acts, thirteen Bengal tigers, a dozen Arabian horses, and right now, ten elephants.” He grins. “Swift Jones makes it eleven.”
“All male,” Addie says.
“Yup. Trust me, they weren’t easy to come by and most were in bad situations. But together we’ve overcome their pasts. My guys are happy and really docile. They’re not mothers, but they’ll love this calf.”
Howard pulls the truck in front of a large, cinderblock building. The far corner is two stories. The rest is a single story with open squares where the windows should be. Howard parks then bounds out of the truck to let out the calf. His moss green eyes, so round that they remind me of pebbles in a creek, shine. He pushes one of three red buttons on the right side of the truck. The lift gate comes down. Hopping up, he raises the back door of the truck. Inside, Swifty pushes her bottom into the far corner.
“Come on, little lady,” Howard says. Swifty doesn’t budge.
Addie pinches the bridge of her nose. “Whistle.”
I do, but the calf glances at Howard, holds her ground. “Sometimes she’s kinda shy,” I say. “Maybe if you, um, move out of sight?”
Howard runs a hand through short, black hair then hops off the gate, goes to the side of the vehicle. I whistle. Swifty comes right toward me, stepping onto the lift gate. Addie pushes the bottom button and the calf is lowered to the ground, her trunk knotted around Nibs.
“You’re home,” Howard says, kneeling beside her.
Swift Jones hides behind me like she’s a little kid who just wants to go back to her mom. “Lead on,” I say to cover the uncomfortable moment. Howard walks toward the front of the animal building. Wariness plucks at my shirt. Swifty’s trunk wraps around my leg and I hesitate, but Ms. Frey pipes in, Don’t look back, you’re not going that way. So, Swifty beside me, I follow Howard into the building.
23
The smell hits me, so thick that I can taste it. Straw, bark chips, the tang of urine, fresh feces, the mingled, rich musk of different animals. It’s hard not to gag. The sounds come next—neighing horses, barking dogs, the scrape of shovels, an elephant’s trumpet, men’s low laughter, a throaty growl. It’s overwhelming, like too many animals, too much humanity, has been packed into a very small box.
Howard’s work boots clomp on bare concrete as we hea
d down the wide hallway to our right. It’s lined with horse stalls. Each stall has buckets of food, fresh water, super clean floors, and a horse with a glistening coat. The horses look really well cared for, which makes the band around my chest that tightened on our arrival loosen. Swifty’s eyes widen when she sees the animals. She’s seen only elephants and people, so the horses must look strange. Still, the calf reaches her wriggling trunk toward a bay hanging its head over a half door. I crouch beside Swifty, take a photo of her trunk touching the horse’s soft nose.
“She’s a curious one. That means she’s smart,” Howard says. He reaches to touch Swifty’s head but the calf shuffles back. “Take the next left,” Howard says.
We approach a four-way intersection. There’s a long train of steel cages connected together like giant wagons. Inside are tigers. Bengal tigers. The one in front is massive, its orange, black and white–striped fur bristling as it takes us in. Long whiskers frame gigantic canines. Violet would’ve wanted to reach through the bars to bury her fingers in the animal’s fur. All the tigers pace their rectangular cages. There’s just room for their length, enough width to turn around.
“The first one is Benny,” Howard says. “He’s a sweetheart as long as he’s eaten.”
I take a step forward to get an even better look.
“Stop,” Addie says. “He’ll spray you.”
“Sure enough. It’s how they mark their territory,” Howard explains. “Sorry I forgot to mention it. Tina and Maximus, my folks, own the circus and they’re the tiger trainers. They wanted to be here to greet you, but they’re in Cook City today with the bean counters.”
“Bean counters?” I pull out my phone and take a quick video of a Bengal. This close, he’s one of the most beautiful animals I’ve ever seen.
When Elephants Fly Page 12
