Wes hands me his baseball cap. “Cover those mad curls.”
I pull on the cap. “Thanks.”
“Can I give Swifty a kiss?” I nod. Wes crawls over to the calf, kisses her forehead. “Stay strong, little warrior.” He locks eyes with me when he climbs out of the van. “You, too, Tiger.”
Otis gives Wes the truck’s keys. “I don’t need to tell you how important it is that you put as much distance as possible between us.”
“I have a plan that includes the gnarliest back roads in the universe,” Wes says, grinning. “Took ’em to get here and only saw two other cars.”
He follows us down the narrow driveway. I glance back at Christine’s trailer, where, once we’re gone, she’ll be able to return and remain safely hidden from Uri. I can’t help thinking that she’s as trapped in there as the animals at Walker’s Circus. At the end of the road we take a left. Wes turns right. There’s a map in the glove compartment, and I plot the shortest route to Texas. Given the distance, it should take about eleven hours. I turn on the radio so we can listen for news updates, then reach for Otis’s hand. We drive into the darkness, toward the unknown, because there is still a chance for Swifty.
44
Violet sits on the edge of the roof, her bare feet dangling. Below are fire trucks, police cars with flashing blue lights, a TV crew with cameras trained upward. “‘There is a saying in the Neverland that, every time you breathe, a grown-up dies,’” Violet says.
“I don’t want you to die,” I say.
“Then come with me.”
My own bare feet, dangling beside Violet’s, are no longer a child’s. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
“I know.”
“But I’m like Wendy, not Peter.”
“Wendy Darling chose to grow up. But you don’t have to. Don’t you see?” Violet asks. “It’s up to you.” The wind picks up, blowing dark curls away from our nearly identical faces, though Violet has fine lines around her green eyes.
“Lily?”
“Call me Tiger. I get it now. The name was your hope.”
Violet smiles. “It was my gift. Tiger, can we talk about your father?”
“I guess.”
“He gave up his dreams for both of us.”
It’s true. “I don’t hate him.”
“Then don’t punish him for being flawed, for loving me most.”
I reach for Violet’s hand. “I’ll try not to.”
“Your father hung the stars for me even though he was terrified of heights.”
“You were brave, too.”
Violet blinks back tears. “I was always afraid.”
“That’s what made you brave.”
Violet shifts forward, so that she’s perched on the very edge of the rooftop. “I did love you.”
“I know.” I let go of her hand.
* * *
“Tiger?”
I open my eyes. The dome light above casts the back of the van in weak yellow light. It’s pitch-black outside. I’m resting beneath a foot of wool blankets, arms wrapped around Swifty. Fear makes my heart lurch. I check for the calf’s heartbeat. It thuds beneath my hand. She’s asleep. “What time is it?”
“After four in the morning.”
“Crap. Sorry. I slept through Swifty’s last feeding.” I sit up. Flea is stretched in his usual spot by Swifty’s head.
“Didn’t want to wake you,” Otis says. “I took care of it.”
“How much did she drink?”
“A quarter bottle of diluted Pedialyte.”
“Has she peed at all?”
“No.”
“Gotten up?”
“No.”
Otis has parked on a deserted country road. Water heats on the camp stove Wes supplied. I open the back of the van, dump out the now-cool water bottles then help Otis fill them. We place them along Swifty’s back and belly. “She’s not shaking. That has to be good, right?” Otis nods. “How much farther?”
“A little over three hours.” Otis pulls chips out of the junk-food bag Wes left for us. The smell of barbecue fills the van. My mouth is beyond dry, eyes gritty. I slug down a bottle of orange Gatorade from the cooler, eat a few chips then give the rest to Flea. In our rush to leave Walker’s, we forgot his food so he’s been getting people food, which might upset another dog’s stomach, but Otis’s mutt appears to have an iron gut.
“You were talking in your sleep. What were you dreaming about?”
“My mom.”
“Was it a nightmare?”
“Psst.”
It’s okay, I tell the voice inside my brain. I understand my dream. “It wasn’t a nightmare,” I say. “It was a chance to say goodbye.” The words Glade Panthers come over the radio. Otis dives to turn up the volume.
“...and in another strange twist, eight members of Florida’s Glade Panthers, a high school football team that has won State the past two years, were stopped an hour outside Haven, Florida, by police. They were driving the truck stolen from Wild Walker’s Circus by Tiger Decker. Police believe the vehicle was used to kidnap Swift Jones, now the most famous elephant calf in the world. The police questioned the football players separately, but all of their stories were identical. They found the circus truck six hours east of Haven and decided to return it to Wild Walker’s Circus. Spray-painted in red and gold on the truck’s side were the hashtags: Save Swifty, Free Swifty and Go Tiger Go.
“Currently the Panthers team members are outside Wild Walker’s Circus’s front gate, where they’re participating in what the police are calling a peaceful sit-in. Several hundred protesters have joined the young men, all with posters that read Go Tiger Go and Free Swifty. The Save Swifty petition on Facebook now has over fifteen million names on it. You heard right. Fifteen million thanks, in large part, to the support of singer Swift Jones and her fans. We’ll keep you posted as this story plays out.”
An advertisement for miniature golf comes on. Otis turns the radio off. “Holy shit.”
“Fifteen million names?” I repeat, stunned. “You did it, Otis. You turned the focus back to Swifty.”
Otis shakes his head. “It wasn’t me. It was you, Tiger.”
I pinch the skin beneath Swifty’s eyes. It’s still tenting. “Come here, little one,” I say, pulling out a bottle of Pedialyte. Swifty nuzzles me, half slumping onto my lap like a giant puppy. She gets her trunk over my shoulder but doesn’t wrap it around my neck. She manages to swallow a third of the bottle then starts mouthing my curls with her sticky lips. “Are you trying to make me look even worse?” I ask. There’s a twinkle in her eyes that reminds me of shooting stars. “You are naughty.” The calf coughs, the sound rattling in her throat.
Otis repositions the straw and Swifty slumps onto it. We place hot water bottles around her body then cover her with the remaining blankets. Flea crawls under them, snuggling against Swifty’s chest despite the sweltering heat. As Otis packs the camp stove into the back, I get into the driver’s seat. “Teach me to drive.”
“Slide forward.”
Otis climbs behind me, his legs straddling mine, worn jeans soft on the bare skin beyond my shorts. He shows me how to push the clutch down with my left foot, shift into first. His hand covers the top of mine as we move the stick.
“Now ease up on the clutch as you press down slowly on the accelerator,” Otis says.
I do, and we lurch but don’t stall, slowly rolling forward.
“Now press the clutch down again with your left foot.” Otis guides my hand from first, to second. “A little gas then clutch again.”
We shift into third, then fourth gear. I’ve watched other people drive my entire life, so it’s not hard. It’s more of a timing thing.
“Now shift down.”
I do.
“Again.”
I ma
nage it without lurching. The van slows.
“You’re a natural,” Otis says.
He drops his hand, moves his feet to the side, and I’m driving. A small smile lifts the corners of my mouth. “Swifty? Can you see me? I’m driving. I’m driving you to the Sanctuary. More than fifteen million people want us to get there because they love you.” I glance over my shoulder. The calf is watching me.
“Why didn’t you ever learn to drive?” Otis asks.
“I told people it was because I couldn’t afford insurance, let alone a car.”
“But?”
“When she was off her meds, my mom’s driving was...erratic. I was scared she would hit a pedestrian. Then, when it was my turn, I decided it was too stressful having to worry that I might hurt someone, eventually.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Today this is something I can do.”
Otis starts to slide away. “Wait,” I say. For a few seconds I lean back, his chest warm, his arms holding me just tight enough. “Okay. I’ve got this.” Otis goes back with Swifty, and I drive us toward Galton, Texas.
45
Massive steel posts strung with thick wire appear long before we get to a sign for the Sanctuary. The fences border rolling hills, some thickly covered with stands of pines, others filled with tall, golden grasses. I roll down my window. The air smells like freshly tilled dirt. Flea, perched on Otis’s lap, sticks his head out the window, sniffing, then hops back to Swifty, like he wants to tell her about all the sights and smells. Her eyes open, but she doesn’t move. I slow the van by a silver sign. It’s set to the right of twenty-foot-tall gates made from twisted steel that forms the bodies of elephants, their trunks holding the tails in front of them. Through their outlines, I can see blue sky, the sun and white clouds. That’s what elephants are made of—sunshine, endless sky, the strength of steel.
THE SANCTUARY
#1 ELEPHANT WAY
NO VISITORS
“THE QUESTION IS, ARE WE HAPPY TO SUPPOSE
THAT OUR GRANDCHILDREN MAY NEVER BE ABLE TO
SEE AN ELEPHANT EXCEPT IN A PICTURE BOOK?”
I turn the engine off. Neither Otis nor I move. The road on the other side of the gate climbs a large hill until it disappears. Somewhere in the distance is help for Swifty. Somewhere in the distance is her new home. “The Sanctuary has over three thousand acres. Plus a twenty-five-acre lake, heated barns, separate habitats for Asian and African elephants.”
“Lily?”
“They believe that abused elephants can help each other heal if they have the freedom to move like they do in the wild, and if they can live without the fear of being hurt by humans.”
“Tiger?”
“What if they won’t take her?”
“It’s time to find out.”
I get out of the van, walk to the call box to the left of the gate, press zero. The box rings twice before being answered.
“Viv Hemming’s Elephant Sanctuary,” a man’s voice says.
I haven’t thought about what to say. I don’t know what to say. My knees buckle. I kneel, my hands flat on the dirt, like I can stop the earth from spinning, freeze time. Because right now Swifty is still alive and there’s a future for her. Right now I recognize the difference between reality and schizophrenia. Otis gets out of the van. He crouches beside me. “I’m afraid,” I whisper. “What if I say the wrong thing? What if they turn us away?”
“What if they don’t?” Otis asks. He puts his hands on my cheeks, presses our foreheads together.
I try to breathe. Otis waits. “Okay,” I finally say, standing. I press zero.
“Hello?” the same man says.
“Tiger Decker to see Viv Hemming.” There’s no response. “Hello?” Nothing. I press zero again. No answer. They don’t want to talk to me. They don’t want Swifty. They’re calling the police. This is over.
Squeezing my shoulder, Otis points toward a speck at the top of the hill. We watch it wind down the road until we make out a white pickup truck. There are racks on top and the road crunches beneath its tires. Otis reaches for my hand. I can’t even feel his touch. The truck gets closer and closer. It stops five feet from the gate. We can’t see through the darkly tinted windows. The engine is cut. Silence punctuates our Hail Mary pass. Both front doors open in unison. The driver walks toward the gate. He’s wearing a knit hat with the Sanctuary logo of intertwined elephant trunks over short, black hair, jeans and a gray, thermal long-sleeved shirt. My guess is he’s in his forties, but his fair skin is unlined.
“Tiger?” the man asks.
“Yes.”
“James Chi. I’m one of the veterinarians that work for Viv.” He extends his hand through the gate’s bars.
We shake, but he doesn’t open the gate. Why isn’t he opening the gate? The truck’s other passenger joins James. She’s in jeans, a plaid flannel shirt and worn cowboy boots. “Viv Hemming,” she says. Her dark blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. I’d peg her at close to sixty, but her deeply tanned face has that forever-young look where all the wrinkles are just character lines.
“And you are?” Viv asks Otis.
“Otis Walker.”
“I wasn’t expecting that.” Viv shakes Otis’s hand then mine. “You two have caused quite a stir.”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be about me,” I blurt.
Viv’s gray eyes sweep toward the van. “Swifty in there?”
“Yes,” I say. “She’s really sick. She had hypothermia. We’ve used blankets and hot water bottles for the past thirteen hours. She’s stopped shaking, but she’s still dehydrated and has colic.”
James frowns. “Symptoms?”
“Sticky mouth, skin tenting, very little urine, stomach rumblings, coughing, twisting her trunk. We’ve given her warm water enemas and half-strength Pedialyte, but she’s lethargic, weak. Please,” I say, “can you help her?”
“Viv, they’ve been doing the right things so far,” James says. “If we step in now, she has a real chance.”
She frowns, shakes her head. “Our Sanctuary is supported by private donors. A board of directors governs us. This entire facility is built on federal land and the government granted us our tenure. If we open the gates, let Swifty through, we would put our tenure at serious risk. We could also lose most of our grant money and donors who don’t believe in breaking the law or that the end justifies the means. Plus, we, personally, would be accessories to a crime.”
I have to say the words. “Swifty is dying.”
Two deep grooves appear between Viv’s brows. “What about all the elephants we’ve saved? The ones we’re still trying to save? Are their lives less valuable than your one calf?”
“Is Daisy still alive and producing milk?” I ask.
“You’re the one who called?”
“Yes.”
“Daisy is alive and still has milk,” James says. He turns to Viv. “We’ve got to.”
Viv shakes her head. “You know that I’m right about this.”
“Since when did saving a struggling calf become a crime?” James asks.
“Since she was stolen,” Viv snaps.
“If you’re still giving her formula, stop,” James says to me. “Until she’s rehydrated it’ll just continue to ferment in her belly. Push the Pedialyte. Continue the enemas.” James hesitates, watching Viv. She says nothing. He stalks back to the truck, gets in, slams the door.
“He’s a great doctor with a soft heart for the calves.” Viv tucks a strand of hair back into her ponytail. “My best advice is to call your family, Otis. Ask them to give up their claim. If they do, we’ll gladly open the gates.” She meets my eyes. “Tiger, we want to let Swift Jones in. But if the Walker family won’t release her, ask them to send a vet and plane transport so you can try to save her life.”
“You k
now that won’t save her life,” I say.
Viv kicks at a stone. “I’m truly sorry.”
“Are you going to call the police?” I ask.
“No. Believe it or not, I was rooting for you like the rest of the world,” Viv says. “I’m sorry, Tiger. What you tried to do? It was for the right reasons. But some battles can’t be won.”
“Life isn’t a fairy tale,” I say.
Viv shoves her hands into jean pockets. “I know it doesn’t matter to you right now, but the level of awareness you created on behalf of elephants was unbelievable, powerful. Last I checked, twenty-one million people from around the world had signed the Save Swifty petition. Powerful people, politicians, celebrities, even major news anchors like Charlie Hamilton are talking about the plight of elephants. Swifty may die, but other elephants will be saved. They’ll gain freedom because of you.” Viv walks back to the truck. James does a U-turn and the two people who might’ve saved Swifty’s life drive away.
Otis and I sit in the dirt, leaning our backs against a gate that will never open for Swifty.
46
We open the back doors of the van. Swifty lifts her head but doesn’t try to stand. At least she can see the clear, blue sky. We sit next to her, our hands running over her skin like Raki’s trunk did when she welcomed her baby into the world. I try to memorize the feeling beneath my fingertip, the way the wrinkles connect like an ancient map.
Otis gets Swifty to drink ten sips of Pedialyte before she kind of crumbles onto her bed of straw and blankets. My chest hurts like a deep wound. The tip of Swifty’s trunk wriggles. She’s trying to make me smile. I do, for her, then sprinkle kisses along her hollowed-out cheeks. Flea watches me. He hasn’t moved from Swifty’s side in hours. He knows I broke my promise to her. “I’m sorry,” I tell them both.
When Elephants Fly Page 28
