When Elephants Fly

by Nancy Richardson Fischer

  “I’ll get the hose,” he says.

  We work together. When we’re done and Swifty has been cleaned up using some baby shampoo Christine had in her shower, we help the calf back into the truck and cover her with a blanket. Flea jumps into the truck, lying down at her head like some sort of mutant guard dog.

  I sit down on the lowest stair of the trailer. Otis sits, too, taps out a cigarette and spins it over his knuckles. “Do you even smoke?”

  “Nope. Disgusting habit.”

  “So why carry around cigarettes?”

  Otis spins the cigarette forward then back. “The motion calms me. They’re like worry beads.”

  I look over my shoulder. Christine is moving around the kitchen, cleaning even though it’s already spotless. Suddenly I realize where I’ve heard her accent. It’s the same as Uri’s, the bear guy. A chill slithers down my spine. When I asked Uri if a bear clawed out his eye, he’d said no...that it was a woman he thought he’d tamed. “Christine was married to Uri,” I say.

  Otis nods.

  “The burns on her arms?”

  “He did that and worse.”

  “You helped her get away?”

  “He would’ve killed her eventually,” Otis says. “So I researched how to make her disappear, create untraceable accounts. Unfortunately my paltry savings weren’t enough to get her very far or set her up in style.”

  “You saved her life.” Otis shrugs like it’s no big deal. But it’s a huge deal. I’m seeing deeper into the real him, and it only makes him more attractive. “I promised Christine that if things go wrong you’d be long gone.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Shut up.” Surprisingly, he does. “No one knows you’re helping me. You’re not in the video or my articles, other than as Walker’s PR guy. I doubt your family will tell the media you’re missing.”

  “You may be overestimating my family.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not saying they’d do it for you. It’d look bad for them if the media finds out that their publicist—their own son—has joined forces with the kidnapper.”

  “You sound like a B-movie villain.”

  I laugh, then snort, then blush. “It’s my first crime. I’m learning as I go.” I hold out my hand. “Promise me you’ll let me take responsibility.”

  Otis reaches up, brushes a curl from my cheek. Instead of promising, he kisses me. It’s my first real kiss. There’s a furious Romanian woman living under an assumed name taking her anger out on kitchen pots. I just stuck a hose up an elephant’s butt. Swifty’s drool has dried in splotches on my T-shirt. It’s still the best kiss of my life. Otis pulls back, runs his thumb over my lower lip. My skin is alive for the first time in my life. It’s like being woken up after eighteen years of trying to feel nothing.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  I believe him.

  We each take a quick shower, then meet at the truck. Together, we pull the dirty straw out then put fresh straw down from one of the bales Otis threw on the back seat. The four of us sleep in the back—Flea in the curve of Swifty’s neck, the calf’s trunk resting on my arm; Otis behind me, his body curled into mine, arm wrapped around my waist with just enough pressure to let me know he likes me.

  “Good night, Tiger,” Otis whispers in my ear.

  “Good night.” But I stay awake long after his breathing settles into a rhythm, because despite everything, this is the greatest night of my life.

  38

  I wake up to Otis’s breath tickling my ear. It makes me want to freeze time even though Swifty’s drool is dried in streaks on my arms, the wool blanket is itchy, and Flea, despite his small size, is an extreme bed hog.

  “Hey,” Otis says.

  He kisses me good morning. My teeth are furry, my breath must be horrendous, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Me neither. We get Swifty down from the truck. It’s a relief to see that Christine’s car is gone. Swifty presses against my leg. I check the skin beneath her eyes; it’s still tenting. The inside of her mouth is sticky. Plus, she only peed a tiny bit on the straw last night. This morning her urine is dark yellow. No poop at all. She must not be drinking enough formula to make any. Flea pees by Swifty, then together they wander the yard, Swifty trailing behind the dog.

  “I’m starving,” Otis says.

  “You think she’s okay out here?”

  “Yeah.”

  Neither of us says what we’re thinking. The calf doesn’t have the energy to go far. Christine left us coffee, fresh bread and a few muffins and left her computer on, waiting. I grab Swifty’s next bottle, a cup of coffee and two muffins. Otis pours himself a mug, slathers jam on bread and brings the computer outside. He sits on the lift gate while I feed Swifty. It’s a totally preposterous situation, us, together, taking care of an elephant calf whose guardian is the ugliest dog in the universe, yet it’s strangely right.

  Swifty gives up after a quarter of her bottle. “No way. You need to drink more.” She refuses. We give her another enema while Flea distracts her with play bows and spins. The circus’s fancy standard poodles have nothing on Otis’s mutt. “You’re a really good dog,” I tell Flea. I swear he nods. When we’re done, I scatter kisses all over the calf’s face while Otis cleans her hind end. Then we sit on the tailgate, Otis searching for my article while Flea draws Swifty into a walk around the yard.

  My article is on the digital version of the Pennington Times, front page with the link. Mr. Matthews is going to get in trouble. Big trouble. The article has also been reprinted in the digital New York Times, Wall Street Journal, LA Press, Chicago Tribune and eleven other major papers across the country. I should be elated but relief is the prevalent emotion—that, and concern. “It’s not in their physical newspapers.”

  “Tiger, there wasn’t time. Don’t worry, way more people read the news online.”

  He called me Tiger again. I smile. That name no longer makes me cringe. “Um. Any comments from Walker’s?”

  Otis searches. “It’s in the NY Post. ‘Wild Walker’s Circus’s elephant trainer, Howard Walker, stated, “I am devastated by the kidnapping of Swift Jones. She is already a part of Walker’s family, loved by many, including her fellow elephants. The video taken by Lily Decker is a malicious fabrication. Our family plans to sue Decker. For now, we’re working with law enforcement to find Decker before Swift Jones suffers any more harm.”’

  There it is. “They can have the few hundred dollars in my savings account,” I say. “The more important question is, who will people believe? Howard or me?” What I don’t say is that Calvin is going to freak. I’m sure there’s a stack of voice mails on my exploded cell phone. Part of me feels guilty, but even if I could go back, I wouldn’t.

  Otis returns to surfing the Web. “The Save Swift Jones Facebook page has been renamed Save Swifty. There are 122,417 signatures.” He wraps his arm around my waist, kisses my cheek. “‘Wendy, one girl is more use than twenty boys.’”

  I laugh. Snort. Peter Pan said that to Wendy Darling. This time I’m the one who leans in to kiss him. No one ever told me that the touch of another person’s lips could send ripples of heat through my skin. “What now?” I ask.

  “We wait.”

  Swifty wanders over. Flea drops Nibs right next to her, but she doesn’t even reach out her trunk to touch the stuffed bunny. We guide Swifty onto the lift. She lies down in the back of the van. Flea gets under the blanket with her, snuggled tight against her chest. “It’s going to get better,” I again promise the calf. After seeing my article, hearing how many people have signed the Save Swifty petition on Facebook, I believe it’s true. We head inside the trailer to charge Christine’s computer. Otis flips on the TV, running through the channels. He stops on the big cable news channel, CNC. Charlie Hamilton is doing a special report. The banner on the bottom of the screen reads: Save Swifty?

  “Damn.” Otis
turns up the volume.

  “...is riveted by the real-life drama of T. Lillian Decker and Swift Jones, nicknamed Swifty, an Asian elephant calf whose mother rejected her, triggering a clause in her contract that led to Wild Walker’s Circus legally claiming ownership,” Charlie Hamilton says.

  Hamilton’s sky blue eyes stare into me. His superpower is making every single person feel like he’s talking directly to them. He adjusts rectangular glasses.

  “The video you’re about to see is graphic, disturbing,” Hamilton says. “Our experts have made certain that it has not been tampered with in any way. Decker, age eighteen, an intern for the Pennington Times and the only reporter who has had access to Swift Jones, took this video yesterday.”

  The video runs, cutting off just before Otis races into the ring although I can hear the first two letters of him shouting, Stop!

  “There is currently a petition on Facebook with—” Hamilton glances down at the flat screen in front of him “—125,027 signatures demanding that Wild Walker’s Circus give up their claim to the baby calf, which is suffering from both depression and malnutrition as a result of refusing to drink her formula. The Pennington Times has declined to comment at this time about how and when they received Decker’s article or whether they are still in touch or know her whereabouts. We will keep you posted as developments unfold.”

  Otis turns off the TV and pulls me toward the couch. This time the kiss isn’t tentative. This time our bodies are drawn together like magnets. He takes off my glasses, unknots my hair so that curls tumble free. His hands travel along my skin, leaving a trail of warmth as he traces my curves. He cups my breasts, his thumbs instantly making my nipples insanely sensitive. He draws me onto his lap so that I’m straddling him, and I can feel how much he wants me. Me.

  A week ago I was afraid to drink coffee. And now? I’ve thrown away my Twelve-Year Plan. Jettisoned the Journalist’s Code. Confronted Calvin. Kidnapped a baby elephant. I’ve broken the freaking law. Me. Everything is happening so fast. And right now my body is reacting while my brain struggles to catch up, assess and make rational choices.

  * * *

  Do you think I’m going to have schizophrenia?

  I don’t know... Probably.

  * * *

  Where has rational ever gotten me? I run fingers through Otis’s hair, lean in, lose myself. I’m more alive than I’ve ever felt, on fire. But. When I pull away it’s like stepping out of the sun.

  “Lily?”

  I take a few breaths and let my mind catch up to my body, stare into the depths of Otis’s eyes for answers. Clarity comes in a rush of adrenaline, fear and desire. This moment is the only thing in my life, in anyone’s life, that’s guaranteed. I refuse to squander it. I’ve wasted enough time.

  Otis searches my face for clues. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have assumed you wanted—”

  “This is all new,” I say, blushing.

  “Then we’ll take things slow.”

  I kiss him, losing myself in his taste, touch. He peels off my T-shirt and bra so gradually that it’s hard not to help. I’ve never wanted to be touched by another person this badly. He slides me beneath him then bends, lips tasting the curve of my breasts, tongue teasing my nipples until I shiver from the sensation. My insides twist, ache with the thought of all the things I’ve never done and want to do.

  “How’d you get this bruise?” Otis asks, outlining the purplish stain on my ribs with a light fingertip.

  “I fell.”

  “On what?”

  I half smile. “A mangrove root, um, when I was following you and Tambor. Sorry about the whole spying and seeing you naked thing.”

  “Really?”

  “Really what?”

  “You’re sorry?”

  I’m lying beneath Otis in only shorts. The instinct to cover myself comes then goes. This is overwhelming, scary, but in a good way. For the first time in my life, I want to be seen. “I’m not sorry.”

  “Me neither.”

  I pull off Otis’s T-shirt, his skin butter-smooth beneath my hands. My fingers trace his muscled abdomen. There’s a small scar beneath his belly button. “What’s this?”

  “Appendicitis when I was eleven.”

  I slide down, kiss the scar; flick my tongue over the slightly raised line. Otis shudders. Instantly my fragile confidence crumbles. “Did I do something wrong? I don’t—I’m sorry—”

  Otis softly laughs, drawing me back up. “Tiger, you may be new at this, but you definitely aren’t doing anything wrong.” We kiss, bodies coming together, the heat from our skin radiating. I press my hands against Otis’s chest, not to push him away, but to anchor myself, because my body is so light I need to hold on to something solid or float away...

  The cell phone rings. We ignore it. It stops then rings again. Stops. A third round of rings slices the air. Otis grabs it from the table. “Hello...okay...yeah...okay.” He kisses me one more time. “To be continued, hopefully really, really soon. That was Christine. Turn the TV on.”

  We dress quickly. It doesn’t take long to find what Christine called about. It’s on Hivox News. A perky blonde interviews Addie outside the motel in Haven, Florida. My school photograph is in the corner of the screen. Round glasses, curls trapped in a twist, green eyes wary.

  “Sally Quince for Hivox News standing a few miles away from Wild Walker’s Circus in Haven, Florida. Dr. Tinibu, you’re the director of the Pennington Zoo?”

  Addie nods. “Yes.”

  “So you hired T. Lillian Decker to accompany you to Florida?”

  “Lily is not an employee. She’s a volunteer. I brought her because of her connection with Swift Jones. The calf loves her.”

  The reporter shifts her microphone closer. “Did you have any idea what Decker was planning?”

  “No.”

  “Any truth to her allegations? Animal abuse? Horrible conditions? Is the video real or doctored?”

  Addie’s nostrils flare. “No comment.”

  “Any signs that Decker was prone to rash behavior?”

  “Not until now.”

  Otis rolls his eyes. “Rash behavior because you want to save Swifty’s life?”

  Despite the heat, I’m suddenly chilled.

  “Do you have anything you want to say to Lily if she’s watching?” the reporter asks.

  Addie looks directly into the camera. “Make sure you keep Swift Jones hydrated. Call someone who can help if anything seems wrong.”

  “It sounds like you’re supporting Decker.”

  “No comment.” Addie walks away from the reporter.

  “Sally Quince for Hivox News,” Quince says. “Back to you, Eric.”

  Eric, the concerned-looking anchor, thanks Sally then cues another reporter who’s standing beneath a red umbrella because it’s pouring. I recognize the dull lead color of an Oregon sky as well as the building behind him.

  “Chip Paley for Hivox News. I’m standing outside the Grable, a private high school in Pennington, Oregon. Until a week ago, T. Lillian Decker was a senior here.” Paley walks toward a group of students wearing the type of rain shells everyone in the Pacific Northwest owns. “These three students are some of Decker’s friends.”

  It’s Carla, Dawn and Jonah. Sawyer isn’t there. His absence is like an open wound.

  “Can any of you tell me about T. Lillian Decker?” Paley asks.

  “We were friends,” Carla says, “when we were little kids.”

  “Are you surprised that she’s kidnapped Swift Jones?”

  Carla sighs as if talking to the reporter is a burden. “Lily has always been...off. But who wouldn’t be with her past?”

  “Her past?” Paley prods.

  Dawn nudges Carla. Clearly Carla thought the reporter already knew about my mother, because for a second surprise widens her big brown eyes.
I guess Paley didn’t have time to dig up my past when he was racing to get the first “friend” interview. I can’t feel my hands or feet. “Otis, I need to—”

  “Lily has always been really nice to me,” Dawn says. “I don’t think she’s that weird.”

  Jonah enthusiastically nods. “She’s not. Weird. And she was willing to be my friend when no one else would talk to me.”

  That’s kind of Jonah. Not true, but kind.

  The reporter looks at Carla like she’s dinner. “If you know anything that will help the police find Lily, you need to tell me,” he says. “There’s an innocent elephant calf out there that desperately needs medical attention.”

  Carla twists the class ring on her pinkie. “I’m not sure I should say anything.”

  “If you don’t, you’ll be telling the police,” Paley warns.

  “Carla,” Dawn says, “leave it alone.”

  Carla glares at Dawn. Her shiny dark ponytail swings from side to side, like plastic gears that form her brain are powering it. “It’s not really a secret. I mean, anyone could do a little research. Lily’s mother tried to kill her when we were, like, seven years old? It was a super big scandal in Pennington.”

  Otis takes my hand. “It’s okay.”

  But it’s not. I know what’s coming next.

  “Why did her mother try to kill her?” Paley asks.

  “Her mom had schizophrenia. One time, she showed up at our elementary school naked. It was December. No joke. And Lily’s school lunches, sometimes they were all candy, other times her mom would fill Lily’s brown bag with slips of paper covered in drawings or weird quotes. Do you remember the roadkill lunch?” she asks Dawn, who shakes her head. “Liar. It was a dead squirrel.”