I love the Alligator Boy. I’ve known him since he was born, since he and his twin were sweet-smelling babies in a double wooden cradle. I liked Henry Jack the best. He cried the least. (He looked up at me and he cooed and he reached out his tiny hands.)
Some people might say that an elephant should not be allowed near newborn babies, but those who live in Gibtown know me. They know that I’m safe to be around babies. I can be trusted with people of any age.
I pretended that Henry Jack was my baby, that he was Little Gray, and that I had my baby every day. His skin looked like my skin. Sometimes if you try hard enough, you can substitute one love for another. I didn’t even have to try. I just loved the Alligator Boy.
I follow Henry Jack and Lily. I move toward home.
“Here we are, girl,” says Henry Jack. “Home, sweet home.”
I hope and pray that there will be no more chains. I pray without getting down on my knees.
No chains, I pray, again, as Lily goes inside to get Violet and Trullia.
Violet comes outside, eyes wild, hair in a frizz, pale skin.
“Queenie Grace!” she calls. “What are we going to do with you?”
I hang my head low, and I moan. The Alligator Boy and the girl Lily both say, “Awww.” They understand me.
“I know,” says Violet. “I’m sad, too, and when we’re sad, sometimes we do things we wouldn’t normally consider. I forgive you, Queenie Grace, but please . . . no more breaking windows or running away. Okay? Deal?”
I raise my head, look Violet in the eye, and try to smile. I do my best.
Violet does the same: tries to smile. But in her eyes, I see the same thing that is inside of me: grief. She looks like grief and she smells of grief, and we are bound together by this one terrible thing: missing Bill.
Grief is even worse than chains. It holds you to one place.
And maybe that is why I ran away.