EARLY THE NEXT morning Truman received a call over his security radio.
“Ah, sir, we seem to have someone sneaking around the whale facility. Over.” Truman had been trying to get the security officers to stop calling him “sir” for three months, but so far, no luck. On the other hand, they’d been trying equally unsuccessfully to get Truman to say, “Roger” and “Over,” so Truman guessed they were even.
“Is this Toby?” he asked over the radio.
“Yes, sir, this is Security One. Over.”
Truman sighed. “What do you mean, ‘sneaking’?”
“Well, sir, we have a woman walking the fence line. She appears to be looking for a way in. Over.”
“Is she heavyset?”
“No, sir, more like an elf sort of a person. Small like that. She doesn’t look dangerous, but she’s walking back and forth a lot like she’s maybe looking for something. Over.”
Truman sighed again. “All right, why don’t you introduce yourself and bring her to my office?”
“Roger that. Over and out.”
Truman couldn’t help smiling as he set down the radio. Most of his security employees had wanted to be in the military or the police force, but were unfit in some way: Toby was severely asthmatic; another was an aging Vietnam veteran with lingering PTSD; a third had epilepsy; and the fourth had suffered a serious head injury which, while he adhered absolutely to the zoo’s security rules and procedures, made him somewhat lacking when it came to assessing complex situations. Truman believed strongly in giving people chances, and he was very proud of his motley team, which he’d originally assembled six years ago, when, as the zoo’s business manager, he’d supervised the security department. They were among the zoo’s most dedicated employees, tenacious in their loyalty to the zoo and to Truman himself. This year, for the first time in what he intended to make an annual practice, he’d invited them to undertake the facility-wide security audit he’d originally proposed to former director Harriet Saul way back when and which she’d flatly rejected as busywork.
He cleared his desk of sensitive papers, pulled two teacups from his credenza, and turned on the electric teapot just as a knock on his door announced that Toby and Libertine Adagio had arrived. Truman indicated to Libertine that they’d sit at a small round table by the window, and said to Toby, “Would you find Miss Levy and ask her to come see me? I’d like her to join us.”
Toby self-consciously removed and reseated his Biedelman Zoo ball cap—briefly exposing hair as sparse and fine as duck down—and then hitched up his radio holster in a pair of tandem tics. “Roger that.”
Once he’d left, Truman stepped to the doorway and asked Brenda to keep an eye out for Ivy. Then he joined Libertine Adagio across the table. She smiled at him nicely. He was surprised to find her slight and messy; her small hands flew around her like birds, checking the lay of her hair and clothes. He’d remembered her being larger and more assertive. He offered her tea and she accepted.
“I’ve asked Ivy to join us,” he said, stalling for time. “I gather you met her at the Oat Maiden.”
Libertine nodded. “She’s been very nice to me. I don’t always get that.”
“Really?”
“It’s a hazard of my profession.”
“Oh?”
“You think I’m crazy.”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
She nodded sadly. “Most people do.”
From the reception area Truman heard a small yip and then Ivy swept into the room and summarily tossed Julio Iglesias into Libertine’s lap. “You may turn out to be the only person on earth he really likes,” Ivy told her.
“Well, he certainly doesn’t like me,” Truman said wryly, watching Julio Iglesias hop down, walk smartly to his desk, and pee on the leg.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Ivy said. “Julio. Really?”
“He has puppy issues,” Libertine said while Ivy cleaned up the floor and desk with a baby wipe from her enormous tote.
“You’d better be careful, or I’ll send him home with you,” Ivy told her.
“No, no, we can help him work through them. He’s very smart, you know.”
“Well, he’s certainly smarter than me,” said Ivy. “I’m pretty sure we can all agree on which of us is winning.”
Truman gently cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” Ivy said, dropping the dirty baby wipes in Truman’s wastebasket, which in his eyes was only marginally better than having dog pee on his desk leg. Julio Iglesias hopped back into Libertine’s lap and looked at Ivy smugly.
“So what’s the deal here?” Ivy said.
“I’m not sure,” said Truman, addressing himself to Libertine. “Zoo security thought you might be trying to gain access to the pool without permission. The word skulking comes to mind.”
The woman blushed. “No, I would never skulk. I was just trying to check on him—you saw me there yourself when we met. It’s so crowded on the other side it’s hard to hear.”
“So I gather our whale talks to you,” Truman said, steepling his fingers over the tabletop.
“Something like that. I feel his feelings.”
“And how is he feeling?”
“I don’t know—he hasn’t been communicating since he got here.”
“Does that mean anything?”
“Just that he doesn’t need me to advocate for him right now. That’s good. Really good.”
“And you?” Truman asked her, not unkindly. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, too,” Libertine said, blushing. “He’s safe.”
“Really? I was under the impression you thought we were jailers.”
“He must sense that you’re good people.”
“So good jailers,” Truman said.
“I think that’s a little harsh, don’t you?” Ivy objected.
“Is it?”
“I told you this before: remember two little words,” Ivy said. “Martin. Choi.”
“Did he at least get the basics right?” Truman asked Libertine. “Because he doesn’t always.”
“More or less,” said Libertine. “Not really.”
“That all captivity is bad?”
“Absolutely not. I believe captivity is a blessing for animals who are captive-born, as long as they’re treated well. It’s animals who’ve come from the wild that have a harder time.”
“And that includes our whale?”
“I don’t know—I haven’t gotten to know him that well,” Libertine said, blushing deeply. “But he was wild-born.”
“Has he said anything to you about wanting to go home?” Ivy asked. “You know I worry.”
“No,” Libertine said. “The reporter played a little fast and loose with what I told him. Again, I haven’t heard anything from him since he arrived.”
“Martin Choi’s an idiot,” Ivy told her. “Just so you know.”
“I gathered,” said Libertine. “But thank you for telling me.”
“So what exactly did Friday tell you when he was still, ah, communicating?” Truman asked. “If it didn’t have to do with going back to the wild.”
“Stop,” Ivy warned him. “You’re being rude.”
Truman sighed. To Libertine he said, “I apologize—I have been rude. It’s just, you can probably understand our skepticism. Especially at a time like this and with an animal like this. For all we know, you’re trying to get access to him to sabotage us in some way.”
Libertine put her small hand on his wrist and said, “I would never do that—never ever. I probably can’t prove that to you, though.”
“No,” said Truman. “Probably not. But if I have your word, that means something.”
“You do,” Libertine said fervently. “You have my word.”
“Plus he’s being treated like a king,” Ivy told her reassuringly. “You should see his digs.”
“Oh!” said Libertine. “Oh, can I? I’d so love that! You can’t see anything from my car, and it’s hopeless in the visitors’ gallery.”
Truman sent Ivy death rays from his eyes. She smiled sweetly.
“I need to run it by Gabriel first,” Truman said. “I owe him that.”
“Well, of course you do!” said Ivy, grabbing the security radio from Truman’s desk and transmitting, “Ivy to Gabriel. Are you there?”
“Go for Gabriel,” responded a crackling voice.
“Can you come over here to Truman’s office?”
“Now?”
“Yes, please.”
“On my way.” Gabriel said. “Gabriel out.”
Truman dropped his head. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“I know, dear, but we both know you have a tendency to dither when you’re left to your own devices. It’s one of your less attractive qualities.”
“Clear and measured thought is not the same as—”
Ivy reached across the table and patted his hand. “Don’t fuss—we don’t choose the faults we come with.”
Ivy proceeded to engage Libertine in mindless chatter until Gabriel arrived, in boots, rubber overalls, and a rain slicker. The strong smell of fish instantly filled the room.
“Ah,” Ivy breathed. “Eau de poisson.”
Feeling that he had no choice but to press ahead, Truman called out the door to his receptionist, “Brenda would you bring in an extra chair, please? One of the plastic ones, not the upholstered.” Once a chair had been secured, he said to Gabriel, “Ms. Adagio would like to see the pool and Friday.”
Gabriel looked at Truman, appalled. “Is this the animal psychic?”
“Communicator,” said Libertine in a small voice.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Gabriel.
Truman said, “I’m not, actually.”
Gabriel shook his head, looked out the window for a minute before saying, “I’ve met a lot of so-called animal psychics—”
“Communicators,” said Ivy.
“—communicators,” Gabriel granted, “and all they’ve ever done was stir the pot. Things are hard enough with these animals. They’re usually very sick, scared, and alone, and they have no idea that without us they’d be dead. And then you bring in the media and propaganda and emotion that has nothing to do with these guys and everything to do with you. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but if you’ve heard voices, I guarantee you they weren’t his.”
Libertine held her ground. “I didn’t say anything about bringing in the media.”
“No? I read a newspaper article this morning with your name all over it.”
Truman, watching, saw the faintest flicker in her eyes. It could have been guilt, or it could have been something else. Gabriel had seen it, too. He said to Truman and Ivy, “You haven’t been through this before, so you don’t know, but that’s the way it’s done. The activists get an inside look and then they go straight to the media with allegations. From there, there’s no way to get the toothpaste back in the tube.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?” said Ivy.
“It’s all right,” said Libertine, and then, to Gabriel, “Most of what I communicate on behalf of my animals is very straightforward, mainly concerning food and safety.”
Gabriel shook his head. “Not this time—from what I read, you scored a political bull’s eye for the anticaptivity community.”
“I hear you talking to that whale constantly,” Ivy pointed out. “Constantly. How is that any different?”
“I don’t claim to know his inner thoughts, or expect him to know mine.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room.
“Do you believe in God?” Libertine finally asked Gabriel.
“What?”
“Do you believe there’s such a thing as God.”
“I don’t know. Yes, sure.”
“And yet, you haven’t seen Him.”
“What does that have to do with your ability to communicate with animals? You can’t possibly mean you’re working for God?”
“Of course not. What I’m saying is, sometimes you have to take things on faith. I feel Friday. I can no more explain it than you can; all I know is, he’s chosen to confide in me. Maybe I can explain what you’re doing. If he’ll let me.”
“Which I’m totally in favor of,” said Ivy. “By the way.”
“If he’s even open to it,” Libertine said. “The fact is, he hasn’t been reaching out to me, which means right now he doesn’t need me. That’s to your credit.”
Gabriel turned to Truman. “Look, the decision’s obviously not mine, but we have too much work to do and too few people doing it to have someone I don’t trust in the first place taking up space or time.”
Truman took a long moment, looking out the window for a beat before turning back. “I appreciate your frankness,” he said. “All of you. Here’s what I’d like to do.” To Libertine he said, “Are you planning on staying in Bladenham for long?”
She nodded. “I feel I should, at least for now.”
“Are you willing to work while you’re here?”
She looked at him, confused. “Of course.”
“Then I’d like you to be a volunteer at Friday’s pool.”
Gabriel stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not,” said Truman evenly. “If she wants to be near Friday, then she shouldn’t mind working for the privilege.” He turned back to Libertine. “But let’s be very clear. If you get argumentative, or if you try to influence anything about our rehabilitation program as Gabriel lays it out, no matter how minor, I’ll revoke your access immediately and permanently. I’m also going to ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement acknowledging that you are in no way authorized to speak to the media or to represent the zoo. No blogs, no Twitter, no Facebook, no anonymous tip-offs, no unattributed quotes, nada. If I so much as suspect you’ve been talking to the media or trying to manipulate public opinion, you’re gone. Does that seem fair?”
“Yes,” said Libertine.
Gabriel stood and walked out of the room without another word, emitting wave after wave of pissed-offness. Truman watched him leave and then said to Libertine and Ivy both, “Don’t give me any reason to regret this.”
He took down Libertine’s cell phone number and told her Gabriel would be in touch. Libertine thanked him profusely as she left. Ivy stayed on, crowing, “So you are your father’s son!”
Truman smiled sheepishly. “It seemed like a good idea. Now I just have to convince Gabriel to see it that way.”
“Let me help,” Ivy said, gathering up Julio Iglesias and stuffing him, flat-eared, into her tote.
“Gladly,” said Truman.
WEAVING THROUGH THE throngs of visitors heading to Friday’s viewing gallery and through two security gates, Ivy found Gabriel in the walk-in freezer, slamming around boxes of frozen herring.
“He’s either insane or he’s an idiot,” he fumed when he saw her.
“Actually, I think he’s brilliant. Haven’t you ever heard the old saying, ‘Hold your friends close and your enemies closer’?”
“Sure, but she’s a nut job. She’s going to be a pipeline straight from here into the activist camp. You don’t know what these people are capable of.”
“You know, I don’t think so. She may be misguided, but she’s very earnest. What she needs is a teacher, someone to interpret what you’re doing—and who’s better than you?”
Gabriel just shook his head. “I have to tell you, I’m strongly considering walking away.”
“What do you mean, walking away?”
Gabriel made two fingers walk along the food prep counter. “I’ve been in this business for a long time, longer than anyone except a handful of other old guys. We’re understaffed as it is. I don’t need the headache of having to babysit a lunatic who’s under my feet all day.”
Ivy regarded him blandly. “I assume you believe in what you’re doing here.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then for god’s sake stop pouting and take the high ground. She may be a nutcase, but she has Friday’s best interests in mind. So do you. That gives you common ground. Educate her about what you’re doing, and then put her to work helping to make it happen. It’s a strategy called co-opting, by the way. My brother, Truman’s father, does it better than anyone I’ve ever met.”
Gabriel stacked two boxes of frozen herring in Ivy’s arms. “Come on,” she wheedled, putting the boxes on the food prep counter. “She’s too socially awkward to be working on behalf of any group. Teach her what you know. If you can turn her around—and I know you can—think what an asset she could be later, if we need someone to run interference with the real crazies.”
Gabriel stared at her. Shaking his head, he said, “My God, you’re a wily old thing.”
“That I am,” she crowed, clapping him on the back. “That I am.”
GABRIEL WAS NOT a vitriolic man. He had opinions on many things, but he didn’t feel obligated to impart them. He readily accepted that other people had other viewpoints, and believed that for the most part the world was the better for it—except when it came to animal rights advocacy. On that topic he had waged and would wage war against those who believed that all captivity was bad. That was a load-of-crap opinion, held by the ignorant and anthropomorphically confused. More and more, the wild was not a safe place. Animals were regularly slaughtered in African sanctuaries, habitats were shrinking, and zoos were the last safe havens for dozens of species that would otherwise have disappeared already. The wild, in short, could be a place of wholesale peril and death.
As far as he was concerned, Libertine Adagio was embedded firmly in the traditions of wingnutism and lunacy. He’d met scores of people like her, been picketed by them, fought with them, even been threatened with bodily harm by them. In the 1970s—the Wild West of marine park development—when he’d been collecting animals for first-time exhibits, he’d traveled the world on behalf of a half-dozen marine parks, using false identities and passports because someone had put out a contract on him.
And now, thanks to Truman and Ivy tag-teaming him, one of the most objectionable weirdos he’d met in years was being welcomed into the bosom of the family. He drank through the evening, and by his fifth beer, he’d decided, for Friday’s sake, to stay. Before he could change his mind he called the number Libertine had given him, connecting to what he recognized as an even worse motel than his own. He had a sudden vision of her sitting all alone on a stove-in, spring-shot bed or bad upholstered chair marinated in years of cigarette smoke. She answered the phone on the first ring.
“Hey, this is Gabriel Jump.”
“Oh!”
“You know this is going to be really hard work, right? Hard physical work.”
“Yes. I do.”
“And you know you can’t slack off and blame it on the whale, saying he’s told you he’s tired or whatever.”
“Mr. Jump, you may not approve of what I do, but please give me some credit. I put myself through college waiting tables at a truck stop near Bellingham. I’m not afraid of hard work. Nor am I an idiot.”
“Fair enough,” he said, giving her that much credit. Waitresses were among the most hardworking people he knew.
The line fell silent for several beats. “Hello?” said Gabriel.
“Hello,” she said.
“All right, listen. You’re going to need to go to Seattle Marine and Fishing Supply and pick up commercial grade, waterproof bib overalls and a rain slicker, and a pair of XtraTufs. Get the steel-toe ones. What size shoes do you wear?”
“Five and a half. Call it six, because no one ever has five and a halfs.”
“You could have trouble finding them that small, but don’t get kids’ ones even if they fit—they’re not going to have steel toes, and you’re going to want them, trust me. Get the smallest adult pair you can find and then buy a ton of socks.”
“Do you know how much this will cost?” she asked, and he could hear her voice falter.
“About three hundred bucks should cover it, three-fifty.”
The line went quiet.
“Is that a problem?” he said. He could be such a dick when he drank.
She answered quietly but with surprising dignity. “I don’t have three hundred dollars.”
He wasn’t a total dick, though; not even when he was drunk. “All you have to do is pick up what you need and tell them it goes on Ivy’s account. Ivy Levy.”
Her relief was palpable, even over the phone.
“And let’s have you start on Monday.”
“What time do you get in?”
“I pretty much live there. Let’s have you work eight to five, unless we have something special going on. Doable?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right then. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, and in her voice he heard the full-throated emotion most people reserved for lovers. “I’ll be there. You won’t regret this—taking me on, I mean.”
“We’ll see,” said Gabriel.
LIBERTINE’S FIRST ASSIGNMENT on Monday morning was to scrub every inch and tread of three used tires in graduated sizes—car, tractor, truck—that a local tire store had donated to the zoo and Gabriel intended to introduce into the pool as toys. “They need to be clean,” he’d told her. “Completely. He’s immune-suppressed, so we can’t afford to introduce any foreign pathogens into the pool.” He handed her a pack of twenty sponges, an industrial-sized can of scouring powder, and a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves. Then he helped her haul the things to the pool top. There, three hours later, she knelt in a foul-smelling puddle of cleanser and rubber residue and reconstituted mud. She had only finished half the truck tire and thought her arms might break if her knees didn’t go first. She was not and never had been a physically strong person; men and even women usually sized her up and sprang to help her lift suitcases from airplane overhead compartments and baggage carousels.
But she scrubbed on. If this was Gabriel’s way of breaking her, she refused to give him the satisfaction. Nevertheless, it was a welcome distraction when, at lunchtime, a small Chihuahua muzzle inserted itself under her rubber-jacketed arm. “Julio!” she said, slipping off a rubber glove to give him gentle noogies between the ears. “How’s my favorite dog?” She rose—with difficulty—and scooped him up so he wouldn’t wade through the mess she was making on the concrete deck. Ivy waved as Libertine came around the pool toward her.
“I think you lost something,” Libertine said, holding out Julio Iglesias.
“Wishful thinking,” said Ivy. “Are you hungry? I’m starving. Come on, let’s get out of here—my treat.”
“I’d love to, but I can pay my way.”
“By what, eating saltines and ketchup soup?” Libertine could feel herself flush. Ivy looked stricken. “I’m sorry—that was insensitive.”
“That’s all right.” Libertine climbed out of her bumblebee-yellow slicker and bib overalls, her XtraTufs and rubber gloves, and hung them all neatly on a series of pegs on the loading dock. “Let me just clean up. Do I reek? I feel like I do.”
“Dunno,” said Ivy cheerfully. “I have a sinus infection and Julio Iglesias eats poop, so clearly he’s no judge.”
As they walked to Ivy’s car, Libertine noticed that when the two of them walked together, she always let Ivy lead the way, walking a half-step behind and to her right, like a Chinese wife. In animal terms, Ivy was clearly the alpha female.
Near the parking lot they heard one of the zoo’s dozen free-roaming peacocks scream. “God,” said Ivy, shuddering. “It’s like hearing someone’s death.”
Ivy unlocked Libertine’s car door and then went around to her own. Julio Iglesias hopped in as soon as Ivy opened her door, springing into Libertine’s lap.
“He’s a suck-up,” said Ivy, miffed. “I give him the best of the best for nine years, and he’s thrown me over without a second look, the little bastard.”
“He’s just trying his wings,” Libertine soothed. “It’s good for him.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, basic animal behavior told me that.”
“I guess,” Ivy said grudgingly, pulling out of the zoo. “So listen, now that you’re going to stick around down here, you can’t commute from Orcas Island, so do you have any ideas about where you might live?”
“Actually,” said Libertine in a rare moment of frankness, “I may stay in my car. I’ll manage.”
“No, listen,” Ivy said. “I have an idea.”
As Libertine had learned from her previous encounters with Ivy, she belted herself in, gave herself over, and held on for the ride.
AS USUAL THE air inside the Oat Maiden was rich with delicious smells. For a moment after they’d ducked in, Ivy closed her eyes to breathe it in, thinking that homes should smell like this, even though they almost never did, any more than they harbored perfect safety, love, and respect. Still, it was a nice thought, like praying for world peace, and it warmed her a little just to have had it.
Even on this gloomy, rainy day, most of the tables were filled. Ivy recognized several associates from Matthew’s law firm, and several zoo employees. She steered Libertine to a small round table just outside the kitchen. Around the tabletop trotted cats, lots of cats, each one holding the very tip of the tail of a small but unalarmed-looking mouse. There were no predators or prey here; Johnson Johnson lived in a kinder world.
The man himself approached them swaddled in several layers of flannel shirts—despite the heat in the kitchen, he was impossibly thin and always cold—and a cotton apron that tied in the back and was so blotchy with tomato sauce it looked like he’d been repeatedly stabbed.
Ivy beamed at him and said, “Johnson Johnson, meet Libertine Adagio. Libertine is an animal psychic.”
“Communicator,” said Libertine.
Johnson Johnson mumbled a greeting, blushing. Ivy saw Libertine’s face color, too. She looked from one to the other and said with delight, “You’ve met before, haven’t you!” To Johnson Johnson she said, “Has she told you she’s going to work with our killer whale at the zoo? Well, she is, and she needs a place to stay. Do you have a tenant in your apartment right now?” Neva Wilson had lived in a converted garage behind Johnson Johnson’s house for nearly a year when she first came to the zoo to work with Sam and Hannah.
“No,” said Johnson Johnson. “Lots of people are allergic.”
“To what, mold?”
“Cats.”
“Are you allergic to cats?” Ivy asked Libertine.
“No, but—”
“Then it’ll be perfect. Can we look at it?”
“Yes,” said Johnson Johnson.
“Is there a key hidden someplace? We’d like to swing by today, if we can.”
“It’s under the mat.”
“Well, that’s not very original, is it,” Ivy chided. “Especially from a man with your creativity.”
Johnson Johnson clasped his hands together and looked at his shoes.
“Oh, honey, I’m just saying.” To Libertine she said, sotto voce, “I make him nervous. He told me once I remind him of his third grade teacher, which I gather is not a compliment.”
Johnson Johnson asked Libertine, “Do you like cats? Because you pretty much have to like cats.”
“I do,” Libertine assured him. “I communicate with them all the time.”
Johnson Johnson’s face lit up.
“She doesn’t mean her own cats, you understand,” Ivy couldn’t resist saying. “Random cats.”
“Not random,” Libertine corrected her. “They’ve looked for me.”
“I like cats,” Johnson Johnson said and then, apparently believing the subject to have been thoroughly exhausted, he walked away. The kitchen door swung open and shut behind him like a fit of indecision.
“One of God’s gentle people,” Ivy said, looking after him fondly.
“What do you know about him?”
“You mean besides the fact that he’s a sexual predator?”
Libertine paled.
Ivy poked her arm. “Honey, you have just got to lighten up. I’m teasing you—he’s a sweet man through and through. His parents had some money—not a lot, but more than enough to provide for him. He lived with them until they passed a few years ago, and they left him the house, plus some kind of a trust that my sister-in-law Lavinia administers. There was enough for him to buy the Oat Maiden when it came up for sale a couple of years ago.”
“And he runs it himself?”
“Yes and no. He came up with the menu and the recipes, plus he cooks. But Neva helps him with ordering supplies and taking care of the books. You could say it’s a collective effort.”
Libertine nodded, then cleared her throat. “What’s the monthly rent?” she finally asked.
“What do you care—I’ll be paying for it. You know, for someone who claims to be psychic you certainly misread a lot of signals.”
“I never claimed to be psychic when it comes to people,” Libertine said, coloring. “I don’t even get most people.”
“Frankly,” said Ivy, “neither one of you has the social sense God gave a goose.” She nodded in the direction of the kitchen.
Libertine looked at her water glass.
“And that,” Ivy declared, “is why the two of you are perfect.” A moment later Johnson Johnson placed their pizza in front of them as gravely as if he were delivering a religious relic. After they’d eaten they drove straight from the Oat Maiden to Johnson Johnson’s house, a beautifully maintained craftsman bungalow in Bladenham’s tiny historic district.
As promised, the key was under the mat. They circled the house to a detached garage in the back, which was also immaculately kept, with seasonal plantings and recently refreshed mulch.
“He’s a gardener,” Libertine said.
“That I didn’t know,” said Ivy, unlocking the front door. “Makes sense, though. As I said, he’s gentle. You don’t meet many men like that. Many people,” she amended. “At least not in my experience.”
“Oh! How pretty!” Libertine slipped past Ivy, who was holding the apartment door open. The walls were painted a deep, sunny gold, the ceiling the lightest blue, with puffy, fair-weather clouds drifting across the ceiling.
“Pretty Spartan,” Ivy said, looking critically at the room’s simple convertible sofa bed, coffee table, antique washstand, and highboy.
“Do you think?”
Ivy shrugged. “I don’t know—I’ve always been a cluttermonger. It comes from growing up in the ancestral home.”
“Well, I think it’s just fine,” Libertine said emphatically.
IVY DROPPED HER off at the pool, where Libertine resumed her assault on the tires, scrubbing with a nylon pad, sponge, and even her fingernails when necessary. Two hours later, Gabriel came up to the pool top, dressed in his ubiquitous wet suit and steering a fiberglass cart full of dive gear. She waved at him cheerily. When he saw her hands—bleeding from a network of cracks—he hurried over and said, “Good god!”
“I’m allergic to the gloves.”
“Well, for god’s sake, why didn’t you say something?”
Buoyed by her lunch and the prospect of getting out of her terrible motel, she leaned into him and whispered, “I’m also wearing a hair shirt.”
He peered at her with alarm, until the slightest twitch in one corner of her mouth gave her away.
“So you do have a sense of humor.”
“Did you think I didn’t?” Before he could respond, she said, “Anyway, this one’s about done,” gesturing to the soapy truck tire she was working on. “I just have to hose it off one last time.”
“How do you feel about thawing, measuring, and bucketing fish?” Gabriel asked, clearly impressed.
“Just fine.”
“Then plan on doing fish house tomorrow morning. Five A.M.”
“Fish house?”
“Zookeeper-speak for preparing marine mammal diets. Neva will start thawing fish tonight, and tomorrow you’ll work with her to weigh and bucket it. But be forewarned—it’s messy. And smelly.”
“Sounds great,” she said, and meant it.
IN ALL, IT took Libertine only until the end of the day to get the three tires nearly surgically clean, and the work was never better than backbreaking. When it was finally time to introduce them into the pool she could hardly wait to see the whale’s reaction.
When they were certain Friday was watching, Libertine and Neva pushed the truck tire into the water. It immediately filled, wobbled, and sank straight to the bottom of the pool. Friday did nothing, barely even watched it go.
They pushed the tractor tire into the water next. It filled, too, and sank. Friday hurried to the opposite end of the pool.
They decided to leave the car tire sitting in the shallow water of the slide-out. Maybe the tires had been a bad idea.
Libertine straightened the things in her locker and tried to keep her disappointment in check. The tips of her fingers were raw; her arms and hands hurt. She didn’t know what reaction she’d expected from Friday, but she’d expected something. She reminded herself that this was a killer whale, not a dog. She reminded herself that he had rejected the gift, not her. This wasn’t personal. Still, it felt personal.
Her purse and car keys in hand, she went upstairs one last time to make sure she’d put away all her supplies. There was an unfamiliar, dark shape in the slide-out area of the wet walk, and as she approached, her heart began to pound.
All three tires were sitting in the shallow water, one stacked on top of the other in a perfect pyramid.
“Never underestimate a killer whale,” Gabriel had told her earlier that day, and she could see why.
THAT SAME NIGHT, Libertine moved into her new apartment. She loved its snugness, its bright walls and pretty little white kitchen. The furnishings were clean and cheerful, and with a few things on the wall and a plant or two, she’d be happy to come back here at the end of the day.
Chocolate was her first feline visitor, emerging almost immediately from a tube that ran from Johnson Johnson’s house to her kitchen. The cat seemed perfectly at home, and strangely incurious about Libertine. His fur was fine, sleek, and ticked—she suspected an Abyssinian ancestor or two. She sensed that he was by nature a prodigious purrer with an even temper and a sunny disposition.
Next out of the cat-tube was Chip, a stout male who wore an elegant white bib and whiskers, gleaming black morning coat and trousers. He hopped up on the end table, strode over to Libertine on the sofa, switched on a purr like a chainsaw, and turned upside down beside her to buff his coat against the couch’s nubby fabric.
She was just about to get up when she heard a little bell ring, signaling the arrival of the third and last cat, a battle-scarred orange tabby with one milky eye and a considerable gut. This, then, must be the fearsome Kitty, whom Ivy had described to her. He had the brio of an aging mobster, giving off an aura of latent power that bespoke a violent past stretching all the way back to kittenhood. He strode straight over to her. She smoothed the lay of his fur.
Suddenly all three cats’ ears came up. Libertine heard a greeting so distant it might have been coming from the ocean floor, and then all three, led by the redoubtable Kitty, disappeared into the tube.
Johnson Johnson had come home.
NEVA ARRIVED THE next morning at five to help Libertine with her first fish-house shift. It wasn’t that Neva doubted the other woman, but on principle she felt she hadn’t yet proved herself enough to be left alone in the building. Neva knew plenty of anticaptivity activists who would take this opportunity to sabotage a captive program without a hint of self-doubt or remorse. Even if Libertine was trustworthy, Neva wasn’t sure she could stand up to a stronger personality with nefarious intentions.
Now she handed Libertine one of two to-go cups of strong coffee and cranked up the volume on a Coldplay CD, cheerfully telling Libertine that fish houses the world over ran on strong coffee and musical assault.
“Gabriel told me about the glove allergy,” she said, pulling on a pair of heavy blue industrial-quality rubber gloves with traction palms and fingers, then turning off the water that had been running all night over a frozen, solid block of herring to thaw it. “But let me tell you, you don’t want to handle fish with bare hands any more often than you have to. You don’t know what pain is until you get fish scales under your fingernails. Plus they can cut. There have to be gloves out there that you can tolerate, and I’m sure the zoo will reimburse you. So okay.”
Neva pulled over a rolling Gorilla Rack with five empty stainless steel buckets that would hold Friday’s food rations for the day. With practiced speed, she set the first bucket on the stainless steel counter beside the sink, hauled over the soggy fish box, and brought up a double handful of now-thawed fish—capelin, each the size of a lady’s shoe—which she weighed before dumping it into the bucket.
“The idea is to put about forty-five pounds in each of these buckets—two hundred and twenty-five pounds a day, to start with,” she explained to Libertine. “Normally an adult killer whale would eat as much as four hundred and fifty pounds a day, but he hasn’t had anywhere near that much. We’re in major fatten-up mode, but we’ll increase the amount he eats gradually. Okay—now you.” She pushed the soggy box toward Libertine, who closed her eyes momentarily before digging her bare hands into the icy, slippery, stinging mass of fish. Neva knew from past experience that all the abrasions and cuts Libertine had gotten while scouring the tires had lit up like they were on fire. She gasped but stuck with it, piling four or five fish on the scale and then adding one more.
“You’re tough,” Neva said, watching her.
“Not that tough,” admitted Libertine. “Hand me those gloves. My allergy can’t be as bad as this is.”
Neva took a pair of inside-out blue gloves like her own from a Peg-Board drying rack and gave them to Libertine. “Make sure you write down the exact weight of each bucket in the log, plus the combined total. Gabriel or I will enter it into the food records on the computer when we have time. And if you find a fish that’s burst or seems gushy, throw it out. We don’t get bad ones that often, but it happens.”
“It’s all just so disgusting,” Libertine marveled.
Neva considered this. “Oh, I don’t know. One summer I did raptor diets at a rehab center and that was worse. You cut up thawed mice with scissors.”
The color drained from Libertine’s face.
Neva grinned wickedly. “Snip, snip.”
FRIDAY WAS WAITING when they arrived on the pool top, his chin on the edge of the pool, mouth open and ready for breakfast.
“He’s such a goofball,” Neva said fondly. “Do you want to pet him? Actually we shouldn’t say things like ‘pet’. He’s not a golden retriever. But you know what I mean. Do you want to?”
“Oh, can I?” Libertine clasped her hands.
“You mean you were here all day yesterday and you didn’t touch him at least once?”
“No—I didn’t want to presume.”
“Some animal terrorist you are.”
Libertine looked at her, crestfallen.
“Nah, I’m just teasing you,” Neva said. “Okay, first of all take off the gloves, and then come on over. Are you, like, talking to him right now?”
“No—it doesn’t really work like that. I feel him, and he feels me, but it’s not all the time—and in his case, not in days. Sometimes that means they don’t need me anymore, and sometimes it means they’ve given up.”
“The time to have given up would have been all those years in that awful place.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Libertine. “But even the strongest spirit can only take so much.”
Libertine pitched the bulky blue rubber gloves onto the dry concrete and squatted, elbowing her too-big bib overalls and slicker out of the way, and touched Friday’s cheek. She could feel her pulse racing with excitement—she’d only ever laid hands on a few of the animals she worked with. His skin was warm, smooth, and firm, and he watched her evenly while she scratched him. She suddenly felt him in her head as a lovely hum, almost catlike, and then he was gone. Black skin cells floated away and collected under her fingernails as he continued to slough off the topmost layer of skin that had come in contact with the freshwater in his transport box. She scratched what she could reach of him underwater as well as above—the cold water quickly made her hands ache—and gradually his eyes got heavy and then closed altogether.
Neva stayed nearby, beaming. “Isn’t he just fabulous?”
Hoping her knees weren’t beginning to lock as she continued to squat, Libertine looked closely at the clumps of warty skin above his pectoral flipper. “Do these hurt, do you think?”
“No—they look worse than they are. According to Gabriel, they’re only important because they’re a sign that he has a crappy immune system. Why don’t you go ahead and feed him?”
Libertine staggered a little as she stood up. Neva shuffled a bucket of herring to her through the wet walk. Libertine placed fish after fish in Friday’s open mouth and watched him swallow. “It’s kind of like feeding a slot machine or putting dollars into a vending machine or something. He doesn’t chew.”
“No molars.”
Once Friday had finished every fish in the bucket, the women stood side by side in the shallow water, arms folded, watching him contemplatively. The morning was upon them—another gray day with swollen clouds.
“Do you ever wish you couldn’t sense them?” Neva asked—the first time she’d ever indicated to Libertine that she believed she was capable of psychically sensing any animal.
“All the time,” said Libertine. “All the time.”