A tiger snarls when I approach its cage. My heart skips a beat. Addie was right—this cage is too small, more like a big dog kennel, and each tiger is kept separate from the others. Their buckets are filled with water, though, and their floors are clean. Bones lie scattered on the concrete. I make sure not to get too close, but manage a few shots of their amber eyes.
At the next intersection, the elephants are at the end of the hall to my left. Bathrooms are to the right. Chains jingle; a low voice carries on the air. I sneak forward, pressing against the wall so that whoever is with the elephants can’t see me.
“Shhh, big guy,” Otis says. “Let’s go.”
I hold my breath as Otis leads Tambor out the sliding barn door of the building. The air is electric and I’m drawn forward like a magnet. A half-moon illuminates a winding dirt road leading into dense foliage. The two walk side by side, like they both know where they’re going. Once the mangroves swallow them, I follow. Weak moonbeams filter through gnarled roots and branches. It’s slow going, because if I take the trail Otis and Tambor walk and they turn, they’ll see me. Roots twist then turn, arcing in stiff tangles. The ground is moist, spongy, the air a miasma of rotting, wet earth. When the maze of roots bars my way, I climb them to keep Otis in my sight. I reach for a handhold, and a thousand tickles race up my arm. There’s a massive, gray termite nest in the shape of a beehive a few inches from my fingers. Termites skitter down my back. I stifle a scream. Spastically, I shake out my shirt then look for the small opening still visible far behind me, because I’m about to hightail it to safety.
Our greatest weakness lies in giving up, Ms. Frey whispers.
Unless you, too, have termites crawling in your private places, shut up, I tell my counselor. But I don’t turn back. Otis is well ahead of me now. I snag my foot then topple forward. A horizontal root catches me in the ribs, suspending me about a foot above the ground. I don’t cry out from the sharp pain, but the air escaping my lungs makes an oomph sound. Otis’s and Tambor’s footsteps stop. Dangling head down over the ground, I hold my breath. I hear them shuffle off again. By the time I’ve untangled myself their footsteps are gone.
I’m not afraid of the dark. Still, it’s eerie being in the mangroves, surrounded by weird noises. I creep forward, trying to keep myself from looking for wild animals, monsters and the devil’s face, because, let’s face it—this situation is just about the perfect recipe for my first hallucination.
The mangroves lighten up ahead and then I’m out of the root system, standing on the edge of a beach. About twenty-five yards away, Otis and Tambor are knee-deep in the surf. Moonlight paints their skin silver. Otis is naked, his T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops discarded in the sand. My insides melt and twist. I should look away, but I don’t. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a naked guy. I mean, I’ve seen Sawyer plenty of times. We skinny-dip in his pool late at night when his parents are away or asleep. But it’s the first time I’ve seen a naked guy who doesn’t know I’m watching him. Technically, that’s uncool. But my eyes still travel from his broad shoulders to his lean waist, pretty much perfect butt and muscular legs.
Otis splashes the elephant. Tambor sucks water into his trunk and sprays him back. The sound of waves crashing mingles with laughter. I turn on my camera. The shutter’s clicks are drowned out by the waves. Tambor follows Otis through the foam like a puppy, dodging, weaving, stomping. When Otis does a somersault into the ocean, Tambor waits for him to surface, then fishes him out with his trunk. They stand in the waves, staring at the ocean’s endless expanse, Otis’s hand on the elephant’s shoulder like they’re best friends. Looking up at the stars, I make a wish. Please take me back, Sawyer.
Blinking back the grit in my eyes, I focus the camera’s lens on Otis and Tambor. The bull bends a massive leg. Otis uses it to hop onto the elephant’s back. They wander down the beach. My skin tingles like it’s covered in fairy dust. The two of them, together, are magic. I zoom in, trying to capture the feeling. When Otis leaps off Tambor’s back to catch a wave and bodysurf to the shore, the elephant stamps his feet, like he wishes he could do it, too. Otis holds out his arms. Tambor walks over, lowering his head. They rest their foreheads together, Otis’s hands on the sides of the bull’s face. My heart squeezes. Their silhouette is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I crouch, trying hard to get the right focus, because this moment is lightning in a bottle. Unfortunately, I can’t risk using a flash, so I repeatedly change the settings in the hopes one of the photos will come out.
“Hey!”
Otis gets bigger and bigger in my lens as he runs toward me. Adrenaline floods my body, sending sharp pinpricks over every inch of skin. I consider running, but it’s clearly too late to escape.
“What the hell?” Otis grabs his shorts and pulls them on fast.
His look makes me feel like I’m the one who’s naked. A flood of supreme embarrassment threatens to drown me. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, eyes glued to the sand. I know what it’s like to be spied on, scrutinized for signs of fracture. There’s no excuse for making someone else feel violated. “I’m really, really sorry.” My voice is shaking.
“Forget it,” Otis says gruffly.
I venture a look up. Tambor’s ears slowly flap as he studies me. “Hi, Tambor.” I hold out my hand. He lightly touches my palm with his trunk. “Sorry, no apple this time.”
“Do you always spy on people?” Otis asks.
“I wasn’t. Okay, I was. Spying, I guess. Not at first. At first I was going to the bathroom. But then I heard you. And—”
“You followed us.”
Otis runs a hand through wet hair. His shirt is still off. Even though it’s totally inappropriate of me to notice, his stomach is ripped, shorts hanging below the indentation of his hips. I’ve just horribly violated this guy’s privacy. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Are you going to tell Howard?”
“What? No. Not if you don’t want me to. But he takes the elephants swimming all the time, right? I mean, he wouldn’t mind—”
“Just. Don’t.”
“I won’t.” Otis is staring at me like I’m a huge loser. I shouldn’t care what he thinks about me, but for some reason I do and I’m dangerously close to crying, which is horrifying. “None of this is what I expected, what I wanted to happen,” I blurt. “I came here to help, write a few articles and get away from home.”
Otis’s body slowly relaxes. He traces a circle in the sand with his bare foot. “Why do you want to get away so bad?”
I sink to the ground, grains of sand sliding through my fingers. “It’s complicated. Why do you hide how much you love elephants?”
“It’s complicated,” Otis says, sitting down beside me.
I can feel the heat of his body only inches away. “Tell me one thing and I’ll tell you one,” I finally say. “Off the record.”
“This isn’t a game of truth or dare.”
“If it was, I’d dare you to run naked into the water. But you’ve already done that.”
Otis actually laughs. He lies back on the sand and stares at the stars. “I remember when Tambor was brought to Walker’s. He was angry. Rebellious. Dangerous, even though he was still young.” He glances at Tambor. The elephant is nibbling mangrove leaves. “I was six. Every single night I snuck out of our house, went to see him. I read him my favorite stories.”
I lie down beside Otis. “Peter Pan?”
“Yeah. That was one of them. I also liked The Giving Tree, and Horton Hears a Who!”
When Otis moves his hand in the sand, his pinkie brushes mine. We stay like that, barely touching.
“Anyway, one day Tambor reached through the bars of his pen with his trunk, ran it over my face like he wanted to know me. I opened the door, went inside. My parents found me sleeping next to him in the morning. We’ve been friends ever since.” Otis looks at me. “Your turn.”
&nb
sp; “My mom died when I was seven. Ever since then, Calvin, my father, has been afraid.”
“That you’ll die, too?”
“No,” I say, my voice snagging. “That I’ll turn into my mother.” Otis’s hand finds mine. That simple act of kindness puts a little lump in my throat.
“Was she that bad?”
“Sometimes.” Otis licks his lower lip and I can’t help imagining how it tastes, can’t help noticing there’s a tiny chip on the edge of one of his lower teeth. I breathe in the air between us. “Um. Anyway, since then there hasn’t been a whole lot that has made my life worthwhile. I had my best friend, my father, but there was nothing...nothing purely my own.” I’m afraid Otis is going to make a joke, but he doesn’t.
“Swifty?”
I shake my head. “She’s a means to an end, a way to have the articles I write noticed so I can get into USC, move away from my father, study journalism and create a career I’ll fight for if—”
“That’s why you wrote the article about Raki rejecting her?”
Otis withdraws his hand. The empty space where his fingers were woven through mine feels like a loss. There’s an edge to his question, an implied judgment that puts me on guard. “Baby elephants sell tickets. You should be thrilled about my article.”
“Yeah. You can see what a great life Tambor has,” Otis says.
His sarcasm throws me off balance. I thought everyone at Wild Walker’s wanted the calf. “I didn’t write that article.”
Otis frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“I wrote an article about how happy Swifty was, because I didn’t want to ruin her chance to reunite with Raki. But there was a photographer with me during the attack. He’d taken these great shots—”
“And convinced you to write about the attack.”
I raise my hands. “Let me finish?”
“Sure. Fine.”
“The photographer wrote the article. He switched it behind my back. By the time I found out, it’d already been published.”
Otis sits up. He claps his hands. “Congratulations. You’re off the hook.”
I sit up, too, his scorn making my temper flare. “What the hell is your problem?”
When Otis smiles, his eyes remain flat. “Don’t worry, Lily. In a few days you’ll be out of here. You can forget all about Swift Jones and Wild Walker’s. You’ll be free to get on with your big college plans.”
“That’ll be great.” But my stomach hurts all the time now, and it’s not because of the sucky coffee. I doubt I’ll ever be able to forget Swifty—the way she looks at me through the bars of her pen, how it feels when her trunk wraps around my leg, her hugs, earthy smell, chocolate-colored eyes. She’s smart, sweet and loving despite my repeated efforts to push her away. But there’s nothing I can do for her. Nothing.
Tambor twists his trunk around Otis’s wrist, pulling him up. They leave me on the beach. The sound of their feet in the sand, the brush of branches as they enter the mangroves, slowly fades. Waves crumble on the sand, recede, strike and crumble again. The night sky is filled with stars. One falls, trailing an ephemeral orange blaze.
“Psst.”
I don’t bother looking away from the pinpricks of light.
“‘If you love a flower that lives on a star, then it’s good, at night, to look up at the sky. All the stars are blossoming.’”
Again, it’s a quote from The Little Prince in my own voice, though I sound a bit more...innocent. That’s wishful thinking on my subconscious’s part. Giggle. The laughter is as light as wind chimes, a young girl’s. Mine from a time before Violet tried to kill me, before I read my grandfather’s letter, before my father admitted he would’ve erased me because I’m damaged goods, before I turned eighteen and the world opened its maw like a monster ready to devour my brain. “I didn’t want to grow up,” I tell that girl. “But it happened anyway.”
By the time I get back to the animal building, Tambor’s front foot is cuffed in iron and chained to the cement floor. Otis is gone. A new worker waits for me outside Swifty’s pen. His name is Mark. Addie has already taught him what to do. My shift is over, but I still stay for the midnight feeding. Mark and I try for several hours, but Swifty refuses to drink any of her formula.
30
“She’s not getting enough nutrition,” Dr. Robertson says, running a hand along Swifty’s face. “We shouldn’t be able to see the shadows around her cheeks or this much depth in her eye sockets.” She pinches the skin under Swifty’s eyes. When she releases it the skin stays pinched. “She’s also dehydrated.” The vet runs a finger inside Swifty’s mouth. “Dry and sticky. Another sign of dehydration.”
SJ stands beside Addie, toying with the nipple of her bottle. Addie coaxes her to drink. “Did she drink anything at her morning feedings?” I ask.
“Not much,” Addie says. “It wasn’t Mark’s fault. He’s a good guy, gentle. He was up all night trying.”
“I should’ve stayed longer. She drinks more with me.”
Addie shakes her head. “I need to rotate in as many new caretakers as possible before we leave. This calf has had enough loss.”
The band around my chest is back. It cinches tight. I want to scream that Swifty is an elephant, not a human. But that argument has been lost. The way the calf looks at Addie? The way she looks at me? We matter to her. She matters. “How’d she do for her early-morning feedings?” I ask Addie.
“Less than half a bottle.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “What about intravenous fluid therapy?”
The vet gets to her feet. She’s broad shouldered with short gray hair that matches her complexion. “SJ’s been through the ringer. I’d rather not stress her out more by putting her in restraints.”
I take a step closer to Swifty. “Why would she need restraints?”
“So I can get a butterfly catheter into the vein behind her ear then secure it with sutures. The catheter is the conduit for us to deliver fluid therapy. For now, let’s watch and wait. But if this continues, we’ll need to do something. My preference is hydration with a rectal enema before taking more extreme measures.”
“An enema?”
“The colon’s function is to process waste from the body and to reabsorb fluids. When we want to rehydrate animals, fluids delivered rectally can be very effective.”
“So if you can keep Swifty hydrated, then she’ll survive this transition?”
Dr. Robertson’s mouth twists to the side. “Not exactly. Even if Swifty is hydrated, if she doesn’t drink enough formula, get enough nutrition, she may not survive because as she gets weaker, she’ll also be more susceptible to illness.”
My eyes are gritty. I’m so tired I can taste it. I didn’t get back to the motel until two thirty in the morning, then I set my alarm so I could be here when the vet came. I am playing with fire. “Okay. How can you tell if she’s getting sick?”
“We look for certain things,” Dr. Robertson says, ticking them off on calloused fingers. “Slow-moving ears, lethargy, no or slow trunk movement, lack of appetite, abnormal temperature, sleeping too much, weight loss, eye discharge, pale pink mucous membranes.”
“And?”
Dr. Robertson takes off her red-framed glasses, cleans them with the edge of her shirt. “SJ’s membranes look okay, not great, no temp, but she’s lethargic, has slow ear movement, little appetite and is disinterested in her surroundings. She is, at the least, very depressed.”
I tighten the elastic holding my hair. “Okay. That’s sort of good. I mean, we can deal with depression, right?”
Addie sighs. “Lily, I’ve told you that elephant calves are fragile—”
“I know. But depression is something Swifty can get over.” Addie and the vet share a look, which pisses me off because no one knows more about what a daughter can survive than I do.
“I’d actually
prefer Swift Jones had a virus,” the vet admits. “At least there’s medicine. Depression is tougher. A calf, especially one this young, needs female elephants around her or other calves who can call to her, caress her, let her know she’s not alone. Sadly, it’s not uncommon for calves to die from a broken spirit.”
The doctor turns to Addie. “Can you talk to the Walker family?”
“I spoke with Howard an hour ago. He believes that SJ will settle in, be fine. He’s planning to introduce her to the male elephants, has high hopes that will help her. Then I called Tina and Maximus, but they deferred to their son’s opinion.”
The vet sighs. “I’ve worked with the Walker family for fifteen years. They’re a stubborn lot.”
“Any advice for getting through to them?” Addie asks.
“We’ll just have to take it day by day. If the calf doesn’t drink at least half of her bottles today, go ahead and give her an enema. Use a hose in her rectum, about a foot-and-a-half deep. Just make sure the water is warm. Body temp is optimal. Fill her until the water comes back out. That should take ten to fifteen minutes. Do it one or two times a day. See if it helps.”
“Hang on,” I say. “Will that hurt her?”
“Actually, calves don’t seem to mind it.” Dr. Robertson hands a business card to Addie then another to me. “Call if you need me. Anytime.”
Addie shakes the vet’s hand. “Thank you for coming. Lily, you have the 6:00 p.m. to midnight shift.”
I leave the pen without saying goodbye. At the motel, I don’t bother taking off my clothes, just close my eyes, fall onto the bed and dive straight into sleep...
* * *
Otis Walker sits on the edge of my bed. He looks around the motel room. “This place is a dump.”
“It’s only for a few more days. I just need to write one last article.”
When Elephants Fly Page 18