At the time this article was written, Swift Jones was refusing to drink enough of the formula that is imperative for her proper nutrition. A veterinarian will visit tomorrow to assess her condition.
I attach photos of Maximus and Tina Walker driving their cart, Esmerelda in the food truck, Swifty and Flea curled together beneath a blanket and the calf sucking the tip of her trunk. With the push of a button, article number two goes to Shannon.
When I dial Sawyer, I know he’s not going to answer. But I still need to talk to my best friend, even if he’s not my best friend anymore. “Fine,” I say. “You don’t have to talk to me, but just so you know? Otis Walker, who looks like Tim Riggins from your favorite show, is a total dirtbag. Total.” I stop, because talking about myself is exactly what I shouldn’t be doing. “How’s your new apartment? Have you had a blowout party yet? Anyway. I have to head for my shift with Swifty. She’s not doing great, by the way—” His voice mail cuts me off again. Which doesn’t really matter, because Sawyer is probably erasing my messages without listening to them.
A mosquito lands on my hand. I watch it suck away, bloating from my blood, then smash it. When my phone rings, it’s Calvin. I pick up. “Tell me again, did I almost ‘fall off’ the rooftop of our building?” Silence. “Tell me again how you were certain that Violet would never hurt me, even after you brought me my coat on a freezing day at the zoo, even after you saw the bruises, even after she scraped a dead skunk off the road and cooked it for dinner, even after she screamed at me until she vomited. You were afraid to come home, but it was okay to leave your seven-year-old child with a woman you’d stopped recognizing?” Silence. “That’s what I thought.”
I hang up, mouth bone-dry, and wait until my pulse slows, then walk toward the building where Swifty waits, hoping I don’t fail her like my father failed me.
28
Flea and Swifty lie on their bellies. The calf’s trunk is twined around Nibs’s neck. The mutt has one furry, gray ear in his mouth. When I step into the pen, Swifty gets to her feet. “Hey there.” I scratch behind her ears. Her trunk wraps around my leg like a little kid. Pulling out the camera, I take a few shots.
“I tried to take her for a walk, but she won’t leave the pen,” Addie says.
“Well, there are tigers and bears out there.”
Addie doesn’t smile. “Text to let me know how much she drinks.”
I want to say that this isn’t a disaster, but the word yet pops up at the end of my unspoken sentence and I know that anything I say is going to sound hollow, because neither of us will totally believe it. Swifty returns to Flea and Nibs. She’s moving a bit slower. “The vet comes tomorrow?”
Addie nods. “Lily, just so you know? These things can happen quickly.”
My stomach burns, a combination of acidic coffee and a sense of impending doom that I push away. But it’s like trying to get rid of my own shadow. When Addie leaves I take a few more pictures of the calf then pull out a bottle. Swifty shuffles next to me, her trunk wrapping around the back of my neck like we’re old friends. I guess in her short life, we are. Each time she takes a sip she gets a kiss. The hairs running along her chin tickle my lips. “Good girl,” I whisper then offer the bottle to Flea. The mutt’s tail wiggles. Swifty takes another sip. We manage to get through half a bottle before she refuses more.
“Fine, just remember you forced me to do this.” I clear my throat. “‘Even when I’m alone, you’re always there, we’re 2-strong, 2-deep, 2-loved, 4-ever can never take you away...’” I’m butchering the real SJ’s song, but maybe Swifty will drink just to stop my singing. The calf’s trunk moves spastically toward my mouth like she’s actually trying to shut me up. “Oh no you don’t,” I laugh. “‘4-ever is our happily-ever—’”
Flea barks at the barred door then jumps up, tail thwacking. Otis leans against the doorway, the picture of casual cool, effortlessly good-looking, fully amused. My face burns. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know that you are not a good singer.”
Total mortification. TOTAL. “I wasn’t—I know—it helps Swifty sometimes.”
“Swifty?”
I hold the bottle out. The calf takes a half-hearted swallow. “She’s fast. Why are you here?”
“It’s my shift.”
Could this day get any worse? “Fantastic.”
Otis chuckles. “Sorry to disappoint. I was Howard’s last choice, too. No one else was free.”
“Why were you his last choice?”
Otis enters the pen and gives his dog a scratch. “So.”
“So?” Otis’s light brown hair has streaks of blond from the relentless Florida sun. He runs a hand through it and for a second, I imagine what his hair feels like. Then, worse, I picture his fingers running along my scalp and shiver. This is not the way to adhere to the Journalist’s Code.
“So you’re supposed to tell me what to do,” Otis says.
“Sure,” I say, getting down to business, because this is about what Swifty needs. “One bottle every three hours.”
“What else?”
“Play with her. Cover her when she sleeps. Give her lots of hugs—”
“Hugs?”
“She needs to feel loved.” I meet his eyes even though it’s really hard. “If you can’t handle that, please find someone who can. We’re out of here in four days,” I say, my voice a little unsteady. “Then Swift Jones’s health is Walker’s responsibility.”
Otis sits down a few feet from Swifty. She doesn’t run from him like she did Howard. “Has she been drinking all of her bottles?”
“She was. In Oregon.” It’s mostly true.
“And here?”
“On average, half of each one at best.”
“Is Dr. Tinibu worried?”
“Yes.”
Flea lies with his head on Otis’s lap and again my mind crosses the PG line. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I actually one of those girls who are attracted to dark, moody guys?
“Two years ago he showed up covered in bites that were infected, hardly any hair from mange.” Otis runs a hand along the mutt’s ratty fur. “He moved from porch to porch, hoping for scraps, some water. He was all bones, more flea than dog. My house is the last in the line. When I opened the door he shot inside, hid under the couch, growled when I tried to pull him out. We spent a few weeks that way. I’d put out food and water every night. He’d creep out, eat, sneak through the side door I left ajar to do his business, then race back inside and hide again. I think he was afraid that once I got my hands on him, he’d get tossed.”
As Otis talks, it’s like he’s opening a window, giving me a peek at what’s really inside. He’s nicer than I thought, at least to stray dogs, which makes him even more attractive. Quit it, I tell myself. Nowhere in the Journalist’s Code does it say a reporter should think about how hot one of the subjects of her story is. “Would you have kicked Flea out of your house if you’d caught him?”
“Probably,” Otis says then chuckles. “Nah.”
Swifty is watching Otis, her head tipped like she’s listening to the cadence of his words. I’m once again trying not to focus on his lips. “How’d you finally get Flea to trust you?”
“He came when he was ready.”
Otis picks up the bottle, toys with it. Swifty shuffles toward him. Her trunk swings until it touches his hand then retreats. He extends the bottle, but she doesn’t go for it.
“Hold it up higher, by your shoulder,” I suggest, adjusting his arm. My hand remains on his bicep for a split second too long. When our eyes meet, my cheeks get warm. I’m an idiot. Looking away, all I can hope is that Swifty’s swinging of her trunk a few times before flopping it over Otis’s shoulder drew his attention from my stupid blush. She takes a sip from her bottle.
Otis slowly smiles. “There you go.” She takes ano
ther sip. He gently runs fingers along her side. “Anything else I need to know?”
It’s beginner’s luck, but also impressive. For a second I actually feel jealous that Otis is tracing circles along Swifty’s skin with his long fingers. “Keep the straw clean—” As if on cue, an explosion of gas comes out of Swifty. I know what’s coming next. Runnels of diarrhea course down her back legs. Otis calmly walks out of the pen. Just a second ago I thought he wasn’t a total jerk, but obviously, I was wrong. “It’s okay, Swifty.” The smell is disgusting but I give her a hug anyway. “These things happen, girlfriend. I’ll find something to clean you up.”
Otis comes back in with a bucket of soapy water. I try not to let my surprise show as we clean the muck off Swifty’s backside. A few times I gag but keep working. At one point, our hands touch. I don’t pull away, because contact with his skin feels...almost magnetic. Then I remind myself that I’m cleaning diarrhea off an elephant’s butt and that nowhere in my Twelve-Year Plan does attraction to a guy with a major chip on his shoulder fit in. When we’re done, Otis takes the soiled straw out of the pen. He returns with fresh straw and spreads it along the floor. Swifty wanders over. When he sits on the canvas pad, she plops down beside him, rests her head on his thigh.
“You’re good with her.”
One side of Otis’s mouth tugs upward. “Your singing wasn’t that horrible.”
I laugh. “Sawyer says it’s an insult to the real Swift Jones.” I tuck a blanket around Swifty then sit down on her other side.
“Sawyer your boyfriend?”
“No. My best friend.” He was, anyway.
Picking up a piece of straw, Otis twists it into knots. “I’m sorry...about before...in the tent. It’s my job to protect Walker’s.”
His apology catches me off guard. “I’m not trying to hurt your circus. Honest.”
“What’s the T for?”
“What?”
“T. Lillian. Your byline.”
“It’s stupid.”
“I heard you sing,” Otis points out. “How much worse could it be?”
My cheeks heat up again, which is beyond annoying. “The T is for Tiger.” I’m not sure why I tell him. Maybe I just miss having a friend to talk to.
Otis’s eyes widen. Beneath the harsh light, flecks of sky blue are visible in his cobalt-colored irises. “You’re kidding.”
This conversation was a mistake. “Forget it.”
Otis grins. “Like the character Tiger Lily in Peter Pan?”
I shake my head. “My dad never would’ve gone for that.”
“So who came up with Tiger?”
“My mom thought tigers were cool.” Holy understatement. When Violet wasn’t making me practice my tiger roars at the zoo, we’d play a game in our loft of trying, on all fours, to move like the massive cats...for hours. “Anyway, my dad didn’t like the name so it was relegated to a T.”
“And Lillian?”
“My dad’s mom was Lillian. I didn’t know her, but he said she was great at math, easygoing and an amazing cook. He hoped I’d take after her.”
My phone rings. I look at the caller ID. It’s Sawyer. A wave of actual terror rolls over me. I’m beyond afraid of what he’ll say.
“Do you need to get that?” Otis asks.
“Um... I’ll call him back. Who are you named after?”
“Maximus.”
“But everyone calls you Otis?”
“Yeah.” He pulls my glasses from his shirt pocket.
My fingers fly to my face. I’m so used to wearing my glasses that I assumed they were still on. “Where’d you find them?”
“You left them in the tent.”
I quickly put them on. There’s a smudge across the right eye but I don’t wipe it clean.
“Why do you wear them?”
“To see.”
“They’re fake.”
I blush yet again. It’s getting really, really old. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“They make me feel...safe.” Otis doesn’t say anything, so my stupid rationalization just hangs in the air. “I met Uri, the bear guy?”
Otis’s eyes narrow. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” I run light fingers along the gentle humps on the top of Swifty’s head. “He has so many scars.”
“A bear is the only wild animal that doesn’t always signal before it attacks.”
“Good to know. Is that why you didn’t want to work with them?”
Otis looks up from the piece of straw he has twisted into a dozen knots. “Who said I ever wanted to?”
My skin prickles like a warning. “Uri said... He said that when you were a kid, you were really gifted with animals. That you loved elephants.”
Otis shrugs. “All little kids love elephants.” He picks up Nibs, fingers toying with the rabbit’s ears. “Was this yours?”
“Yeah. Nibs.”
“Ha! Named after one of the Lost Boys?”
I can’t help smiling. Otis smiles back at me. It’s like a ray of sunlight on my face. “You really read Peter Pan?”
“Yeah. I used to read it to...it doesn’t matter. Every kid wants to fly away,” he says.
Not every kid. Some want to keep their feet firmly planted on the ground. Some want their mom to stop pinching, slapping and punching them, because without any warning it hurts twice as much. Some wish their only fear was missing a new trapeze move, because that’s an achievable goal. It’s impossible to bend crazy to your will. It wins, hands down.
“Howard said something about you having a messed-up childhood. Is that why you aren’t the elephant trainer?” Is that why I sense we have more in common than what’s floating on the surface?
Otis’s eyes frost over. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m...I’m just trying to know you better.”
“Why?” he asks.
Reasons pop into my head. I miss my best friend. I need to talk. Swifty won’t let Howard touch her. “I need to know that the one person at Walker’s that Swifty seems to like actually cares.”
Otis tosses Nibs to me. “Swift Jones is an elephant, not a little girl. You’re not doing her any favors treating her like one.”
I watch him leave. Flea watches, too, but stays with the calf. I guess when you’re a Walker your shift can end anytime you please. I squash my totally inappropriate disappointment. I’m not here to have any kind of feelings about Otis. I’m here to scratch out some kind of future. Glancing at my phone, I see that Sawyer has left a voice mail. I’m afraid to listen to it. Afraid he’ll tell me that he no longer wants to be my friend. I’m unworthy, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to hear those words. My fingers tremble a little as I dial for my messages.
“Did it ever occur to you,” Sawyer says, “that I invited you to all those parties because I needed you there? Most of the time I go to parties for, like, fifteen minutes, just so everyone sees me there, then leave before Truth or Dare or worse. And you weren’t a pity date for homecoming. I wanted you there because you’re my best friend. And because then I wouldn’t have to get a hotel room with my date like all the other senior guys determined to get laid. Did you ever think that if I did get a hotel room, my date would tell her BFFs and everyone at school that I couldn’t get it up? And you act like I can’t wait to throw ragers at my new apartment but—”
My voice mail cuts off the rest of the message but I can guess what it said. I’m beyond a shitty friend—the scum at the bottom of the shitty-friend bucket. I don’t bother wiping my tears or the snot running from my nose as I listen to Sawyer’s message again, because I deserve it. But the fourth time through, I hear something new... Sawyer called me his best friend.
Without giving myself time to chicken out, I call his phone. When voice mail kicks in, I do the one thing I’v
e never done before. I tell him the truth. “You’re right,” I say, talking fast. “I’m a horrible friend. But I do care. Immensely. I’ve never pushed you outside your comfort zone. Part of that is being super self-involved. No excuses, my life sometimes overwhelms me. I’m going to work on that. But another part is that I don’t want to make you feel dissected. And the third part is because the idea of you getting hurt by anyone—Cushing, the kids at school, anyone—makes me unbearably sad and horribly uncomfortable. So instead of forcing you to talk to me, I sang you stupid songs...well, not stupid, because you love SJ. I get that this can’t be fixed with a simple sorry and I hope I’m not too late. But. How are you, really? And why did you leave porn in Cushing’s office? Was it a big fuck you, or something else—” The system beeps: If you are satisfied with your message... I think about calling again, saying more, but it’s a start.
29
The alarm for Swifty’s 9:00 p.m. feeding goes off. At first she doesn’t want to get up. I pull off her blanket and she grudgingly stands. She drinks only a third of her bottle before lying back down, closing her eyes. My insides slump. Flea, who I haven’t seen leave this pen since our arrival, fixes his one eye on me. “What?” I demand. “I’m trying.” I hold out the bottle to the mutt. “You think you can do better?” In response, he picks up Nibs then burrows beneath Swifty’s blanket until only the tip of his ratty tail is visible.
“Fine.” I lie down on my blanket, close my eyes. Two cups of bad coffee, Swifty’s diminished appetite and my conversation with Otis make sleep impossible. I give it a totally frustrating hour before sneaking out of the pen to find the bathroom. At the last second I grab the camera, slinging it over my shoulder like I’m some kind of rebel journalist in a war zone instead of a girl who just wants to take some decent photos and get the next few days over with.
There’s no one around. The air vibrates with the snorts of horses, a low growl and some gruff barks. It’s like the building is alive, more animal than cinderblock. As I wander down the one hallway I’d yet to travel, black eyes gleam behind the crisscrossed bars of the bear cage. Otis said they don’t signal before they attack. He’s just like them. I take a few photographs in the dark that probably won’t turn out, then move on.
When Elephants Fly Page 17
