When Elephants Fly

by Nancy Richardson Fischer

  “Accountants,” Howard explains. “This is a family-run business and no one works harder or wears more hats than my folks. But if they were here, they’d tell you that they’re very proud of their part in the conservation of Bengals.”

  “How are they conserving them?” Addie asks.

  Howard smiles. “The same way a zoo does, Dr. Tinibu.”

  Addie takes off her glasses. Methodically, she cleans them. “Do you have a breeding program?”

  “Animal activists don’t believe anyone has the right to breed endangered species,” a voice behind us says. “Unless their offspring are released back into the wild.”

  Howard grins. “Ah, my little brother finally arrives.”

  I turn and my mouth falls open a little bit. Otis Walker is at least six-foot-two with jaw-length, light brown hair tucked behind his ears. I flash to a TV show Sawyer was obsessed with, Friday Night Lights. This guy looks like Tim Riggins, the bad-boy football player. His skin is lightly tanned and he’s wearing a green T-shirt, faded Levis and flip-flops. His eyes are dark blue. He introduces himself, shakes Addie’s hand, then mine. The tips of his long fingers rest along the soft skin on the inside of my wrist. Can he feel my pulse? It’s racing because, well, he’s the hottest guy who has ever touched me. I remind myself how terse he was on the phone. The memory gets my heartbeat under control.

  A dog brushes against my leg. It’s the size of a terrier with ratty brown-and-white fur, a crooked snout, one ragged ear flopped over its left eye like it’s paralyzed. The thing sniffs my jeans. “Um.” I nibble my lower lip. “Is he going to pee on me?”

  “Maybe.” Howard laughs.

  “Flea is just being friendly,” Otis says.

  “Flea?” I take a step back. When I was six a miniature collie bit me. Since then dogs make me nervous. “I don’t like dogs.”

  Otis half smiles. “Elephants, but not dogs.”

  I stare at my flip-flops, because I’m pretty sure he’s making fun of me and I don’t have a snappy retort.

  “Dr. Tinibu, you were curious about our Bengals,” Otis continues. “Walker’s didn’t get ours from their native environments. They came from roadside safaris, private owners who couldn’t handle them, zoos that kill their surplus animals.”

  “Zoos that kill surplus animals are extremely rare,” Addie says.

  “Well, we both know that the media overreacts to sad but sometimes necessary measures,” Otis says smoothly. “Regardless, the Bengals Wild Walker’s owns are well fed, intellectually challenged and live in humane environments.”

  Addie looks at the cages. “Humane?”

  Otis is unruffled. “My parents use this train car to transfer their tigers into the ring where they will play and learn for hours before returning to their enclosure for dinner.”

  I kneel slightly behind Swifty, taking shots of her standing in front of Benny. The lead tiger is mid-yawn, his massive fangs glinting as the shutter clicks.

  Otis puts a hand in front of the lens. “If you’d like to take photographs of any animal besides Swift Jones, call my office.”

  “This is just for the readers at the Pennington Times.”

  Otis smiles but his hand doesn’t move. “T. Lillian Decker. Lily. Intern. I know.”

  “My baby bro takes his job seriously,” Howard says. “Let her take a few pics, O.”

  I watch the brothers. They sound friendly; their voices are light and Howard is still smiling, but there’s tension, electricity beneath the surface. Howard doesn’t seem like he has a lot of respect for his little brother or Otis’s job.

  “Public perception of how animals are treated at a circus tends toward the negative,” Otis says. “I’m sure Lily wouldn’t want to mislead her readers by showing our Bengals being transferred to the ring.” He takes his hand away, meets my gaze. “Call. We’ll set up a more appropriate time.”

  “You’re not exactly helpful when you return phone calls.” This time I keep my chin up. Addie twists the ring on her thumb. I’m probably embarrassing her.

  “I had a great conversation with your boss, Mr. Matthews,” Otis says, leafing through the folder he’s carrying. “This is what we agreed on. I just need your signature.”

  He hands me a printed document, a map of the Walkers’ property and a pen. A few buildings and areas on the map have been circled in green, but not the massive tent where the performers must practice their acts. Also listed are approved interview subjects. “You have me interviewing a costume designer and a clown?”

  “Also Esmerelda—she’s a trapeze artist—Tina and Maximus, and Howard,” Otis says. “That will give you some background on our performers and the show.” He takes the paper back, prints another line then hands it back to me.

  “No videos?”

  Otis smiles. “That’s right. Or photos without my approval. That includes the one you just took of our Bengals. Correct me if I’m wrong, but your job is to help Dr. Tinubu and write a few articles on Swift Jones, not post photos of tigers on Instagram for your friends.”

  I open my mouth then close it when no words come out. The video thing is actually no big deal. The P-Times wants photos. But this guy is beyond condescending. It ticks me off enough to untie my tongue. “Some of these interviews aren’t pertinent for my articles.”

  Otis shrugs. “They’ll give you perspective, but you’re the intern.”

  My face burns. “What if I want to wander around?” Otis raises one brow like he’s surprised I’m pushing back. Irritatingly, I again can’t help noticing he’s very good-looking. I don’t allow myself to be drawn to any guy. So why am I focused on the dimple in Otis’s cheek that briefly flashes when he talks?

  “I’m sure you can understand that putting together a new show requires secrecy,” Otis explains with a half shrug to convey it can’t be helped. “Plus, there are wild animals here. We need to ensure you don’t get hurt. If you’d feel more comfortable having an escort, I can assign one of our staff.”

  Otis’s attitude, like I’m an enemy, ticks me off. “I think I can manage it.”

  “Terrific,” Otis says, smiling. “This is a busy place and all of our staff have real jobs. If you want to interview anyone else, just ask and I’ll try to arrange it.”

  “If you have some time, I’d like to interview you,” I say.

  Otis reaches down to pet Flea. “I’m pretty sure I’d bore you.”

  “My brother’s right. He’s just a pencil pusher,” Howard says with a wink.

  “It seems like he doesn’t want a reporter here,” I say before I can stop myself.

  Howard laughs. “Tina and Maximus run the show, right, Otis? While my brother is paid to be the worrier of the family.”

  “Pragmatist,” Otis interjects. “Speaking of which.” He nods at the pen.

  I look to Addie. She shrugs. Still, I hesitate. Signing away my autonomy isn’t part of the Code.

  Otis smiles. “No hard feelings if you’re not comfortable with this.” He pulls out his phone. “I can have someone escort you off Walker’s campus.”

  Mr. Matthews already agreed and he’s my boss. I start to scribble my name at the bottom of the paper then stop. “What about your circus’s veterinarian?”

  “Dr. Robertson?” Otis asks. “What about her?”

  I square my shoulders, trying to look confident. “The Pennington Times’ readers want to know that Swifty is being well taken care of, that she’s healthy.” Otis takes the paper, prints Dr. Robertson’s name on the approved list. I finish signing and hand it to him with the sweetest smile I can muster.

  “As I was saying,” Howard continues, “Otis is a pragmatist, but our folks are very proud of how we run our circus, the animals we caretake and all the joy we bring to people. Sometimes my brother forgets that, so apologies. You’re here as our guest, Lily. And I, for one, am thrilled at the chance to sho
w off my elephants.”

  I watch Otis’s face to see how he’s going to react to Howard’s criticism, but it remains an impassive mask.

  Flea prances over to Swifty like he’s some kind of show dog instead of a mutt with patchy fur. The calf has dropped Nibs. Flea mouths the rabbit. He stands on his hind legs, offering it back. Swifty’s first attempt to grab it with her trunk topples the mutt. He tries again. Swifty manages to get her trunk around the bunny. My heart lightens as they playfully tug the stuffed animal between them. Flea lets the calf have it. He winds through Swifty’s legs like a cat then sits down beside her.

  “I think your dog likes Swift Jones.”

  “Who chose that interesting name?” Otis asks.

  “There are kids around the country who love that name and aren’t thrilled that your circus has taken Swift Jones from the zoo,” I say. It’s the least I can do for Sawyer. A hundred grand should buy him more than a crappy friend.

  “So it’d be a bad idea to rename the calf?” Otis asks, like he’s trying to understand.

  My cheeks are blazing hot. “Yes.”

  He smirks. “Well, thanks then for helping me do my job.”

  Howard stares at his brother like he’s a total ass. But maybe I’m the idiot. Now the circus’s PR guy hates me.

  “Let’s move on,” Howard suggests. He glances at Otis. “We can take it from here, O.”

  “Come on, Flea,” Otis says over his shoulder. But his ugly mutt stays by Swifty’s side.

  We follow Howard down the left corridor. Dozens of dogs, mostly standard poodles and little terriers, are in wire pens. There are two men in tank tops shoveling soiled straw out of empty cages. Their arms are slick with sweat.

  “Sorry about Otis,” Howard says. “Off the record?”

  I nod.

  “The kid had a rough childhood. Sad stuff our family doesn’t talk about. Bottom line is that he wanted to be the elephant trainer but didn’t have the ability to emotionally connect with the animals. He tried bears. That was even worse because they could smell his fear. Makes him kinda bitter, you know?”

  I don’t feel particularly sorry for Otis, but at the same time his brother throwing him under the bus seems pretty disloyal. I let it go. I’m not here to figure out why there’s friction between the Walker boys. “Is it always so hot?”

  “Sometimes it’s even hotter,” Howard says with a laugh.

  Swifty’s ears flap hard against her head, but she’s watching Flea prance beside her with bright eyes. The dog is a good distraction. She needs only one friend.

  My camera hangs at my waist from a shoulder strap. I try a few shots just as an F-you to Otis. They’ll probably be too dark or frame my flip-flop. Addie notices what I’m doing, but she doesn’t say anything. Maybe she feels the same way about Walker’s PR guy.

  “How do you train your elephants?” Addie asks.

  “Free contact, but I never use an ankus. Don’t need one. I work right next to my guys so we can accomplish a lot. They respond to my touch because we have mutual respect. I don’t have to tell you how smart elephants are. They know when someone really cares. And it doesn’t hurt to carry high-value treats,” he adds. “My guys deserve a reward when they learn a new trick.”

  Addie grimaces. “Some would say that teaching animals to do unnatural tricks creates a high level of stress.”

  Howard smiles. “Some would say that putting them on display in zoos creates both stress and boredom. I think we’ll have to agree to disagree.” He stops at the end of the hall. “Here we are.”

  We’re in front of a twelve-by-twelve-foot interior pen with a door made of steel bars. A fluorescent bulb hangs overhead, because there’s no window to let in light. Fresh straw lines the floor. There’s a bucket of water, two straw bales, a canvas pad, a plastic pail, a pile of wool blankets and a fridge. The walls are gray cinderblock. Howard opens the door. He ushers Flea inside the enclosure. Swifty follows the dog. She turns to watch Howard shut the door with a metallic clang. The calf looks through the bars at me. My stomach clenches at the idea that this is Swifty’s new normal.

  Addie’s nostrils flare hard. “This is her new home?”

  “Only until she’s old enough to join the rest of the elephants,” Howard says. “Then she’ll spend time socializing, learning in the ring and swimming in the ocean with her new friends. Don’t worry. Swift Jones won’t be alone. She’ll have caretakers day and night, just as you requested, although it’ll probably be just one person per shift. We’ve already prepared the exact formula you specified, plus the plastic can for play, blankets, and I even had a canvas pad made.” He puts his hand on Addie’s shoulder. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure our calf is healthy and happy. By the way,” he says, glancing at me, “I love the name.”

  The band around my chest has tightened again, making it hard to get enough oxygen. “Um. Thanks.” I look away from Swifty’s upturned face.

  Addie steps sideways, so that Howard’s hand falls from her shoulder. “Lily is going to take the first night shift. I’ll expect one of the circus’s caretakers to join her, though, so she can show them how to take care of the calf at night. I will instruct more of your staff during the day.”

  “Of course,” Howard says. “The first caretaker will be me.”

  My skin prickles as I think about spending the night in a small pen with a man. I mean, the only guy I’ve ever slept beside is Sawyer. That doesn’t count because it’s not like he looks at me that way. My scalp itches. I pull a piece of straw out of my dirty hair. It’s hard not to laugh. Of course Howard isn’t going to look at me that way either. He’s a grown man and good-looking. Duh. Focus. I have a job to do. I have a goal. Three articles. I’ll be back home in seven days.

  Swifty stands in the center of the pen, her trunk slightly swinging. Nibs rests in the straw by her left foot. Otis’s ugly dog sniffs around the enclosure. I take a deep, cleansing breath then crouch to Swifty’s eye level, snapping a few photos through the bars. Hopefully, the light sensor is right. Howard doesn’t stop me.

  “All set?” Addie asks.

  “Yes.” I glance at my watch. It’s 7:15 p.m. “Swifty ate on the plane so she doesn’t get fed again until nine,” I tell Howard. “Could you come back then so I can get my math homework done? Sorry, it’s just...I have to email it to my teacher in the morning.”

  “No problem. You a junior?” Howard asks.

  “Senior.”

  “Going to college?”

  My cheeks get warm because he’s looking at me like I matter. “I hope so.”

  Howard smiles. “Maybe we’ll convince you to join the circus instead.”

  24

  “Good girl. A little bit more, okay?” Swifty refuses to drink the second half of her bottle. “A plane, a truck, showgirls, tigers, horses, a new home. It’s a lot.” She tilts her head like she’s trying to understand, then bats long lashes. “You’re not as cute as you think,” I say. “What you are is trouble.” Drool has soaked the front of my T-shirt. I wring it out. “Trouble and a very messy eater.” But I don’t really mind. Addie kind of unnerved me, talking about the fragility of calves.

  Swifty squeals. Flea has grabbed Nibs. The calf races after him. The mutt drops the stuffed rabbit. Swifty picks it up. They race in the other direction, running in circles. Worries fade like the sunset as I watch them play. The calf drops the bunny. The game reverses once again. Laughing, I scramble to the corner of the pen, take at least fifty photos. Hopefully Jack can work his magic on them, because it’d be cool for the newspaper’s readers to see that even though Swifty’s new home is dreary, she’s already made a friend.

  There’s no sign of Howard yet. My thoughts swirl. A lot has happened in the past twenty-four hours. Sinking cross-legged, I dial Sawyer. One ring and then direct to voice mail.

  “This is Sawyer. You know what to
do.”

  “It’s me. I’m at Walker’s...it’s pretty dismal... Swifty’s pen, I mean... How are you? I’m sorry...” It’s a disjointed message. I should erase it and start again—

  “What a cutie-pie!”

  I jump to my feet and rock back from the looming shadow in the hall’s murky light. Swifty runs to the corner and presses her butt into the cinderblocks. A guy opens the metal door. He’s so muscular that his T-shirt stretches to the point of ripping around his biceps. The acrid scent of nicotine wafts off him.

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. Name’s Clem. I’m supposed to help with Jones.”

  “Swift Jones,” I correct. I put my phone away.

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “Lily,” I say as we shake. Swifty’s eyes dart from him to me.

  “Howard apologizes,” Clem says. “Work. He asked me to take the first bottle.”

  “She’s already had it.”

  “Oh. Damn. Howard’ll be here for the next bottle, sure thing. Anyway. I’m one of the guys who’ll be the elephant’s caretaker. So maybe you can show me the ropes?”

  Clem runs a hand over his head, a gleaming white dome shining with sweat. Both his sunburned arms are covered in half-finished tattoo sleeves that look messy enough to be homemade. Gauges have stretched his earlobes into quarter-sized holes. A woven, black-wire hoop earring hangs from one of them. Apprehension needles me. Clem seems kind of tough to be a caretaker, but Sawyer looks like every girl’s dream, and I don’t look like my brain is going to implode, so clearly appearances can be deceiving. Clem pulls a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of stained jeans. “Okay. Um. First? No smoking around the calf.”

  “Oh. Shit. Oh. Sorry for my French.”

  “No worries. Just. So. Swift Jones needs to drink one bottle of formula every three hours. Set an alarm, okay?”

  “Sure.” He fiddles with his plastic watch. “And...wait for it...done.”

  I go through everything Addie taught me. When I’m done, Clem takes a few steps closer. I fight the urge to back away. His fingers twist his earring. “Tiger whiskers.”