Hey, baby,” Rayette greeted Sam at Dunkin’ Donuts. “This is the fifth morning in a row you been in here—you’re going to ruin that elephant’s appetite.”
“It’d take more than six donuts a day to do that,” Sam said.
“Yeah, for me, too,” Rayette said, patting her hips. “I should’ve gone to work for a vegetable stand.”
“Now, you’ve got nothing to worry about, Rayette. You’re a fine-looking woman.”
A customer pulled in behind Sam as Rayette handed him his coffee. “There you go, baby. You be careful with that,” she said. “I’ll see you.”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “I expect you will.”
He pulled out behind a big slat-sided truck full of garlic, headed to market from Spokane. It brought back memories. The summer he and his twin brother Jimmy were twelve years old, their daddy let them stay out in the fields on fine nights—just them and a few old blankets and the stars. There was no money for a tent, but Sam didn’t care, wouldn’t have stayed in one even if they’d had it, not when he could lie under the stars and see for himself what God would see if He was looking upside down.
Jimmy, though, had been a nervous camper, always going on about how coyotes were going to get them while they slept. They’d go way out into the farthest field, bed down in the hay, and Sam would just be rising up into the stars when Jimmy would punch his arm and say, What’s that? You hear that creepy kind of sneaky sound? That’s coyotes. They know we’re here, they’re just waiting for us to drift off and then they’ll come out and do their business. They’re gonna teach the little ones to eat using us; a finger, maybe, or maybe your nose.
Sam would laugh and Jimmy would yell at him, You just shut up. We’re lying down here in the grass, and that’s the perfect height for a coyote snack.
They’d never seen a single coyote, but right up until the end, all Sam had to do was look at Jimmy and give a little yip and that boy would shiver like God had stepped on his soul—and maybe He had. One day Jimmy didn’t come home from a trip to town that he’d taken for no particular reason except he was twelve years old and he could. He’d wanted Sam to go with him, but Sam had promised to help hay one of the fields.
Jimmy didn’t come home that night and still wasn’t in his bed by morning. Sam’s father went driving all through town, taking Sam into every store on Main Street and Fuller, pushing Sam ahead of him and saying, You seen a boy lately looks just like him? We’re looking for his twin, boy never came home last night. Sure appreciate hearing it if you know anything.
No one did know anything, though. After a while there was nobody left to ask, so they headed back home. About a half-mile before they got there, Sam spotted a bunch of turkey vultures circling overhead, and he said what he always said when he saw turkey vultures rising: Looks like something out there must have died.
His daddy pulled off the road, and when he shut down the engine it was quieter than church, quieter even than Heaven, maybe; there was no sound whatsoever, not even when cars went by, not even trucks. Sam’s father looked first and said, Jesus God.
Jimmy was on his back in the ditch, looking like he’d just gone in there for a nap except that his shirt was covered with blood, more blood than one skinny little kid was supposed to have, at least it looked that way to Sam. He and his father lifted Jimmy into the bed of their old pickup, and his skin was as cool as a snake’s. But the way Sam really knew Jimmy was dead was, he had his eyes closed. Jimmy would have to have been dead to lie out there in a ditch all night with his eyes closed, because if he’d been anything short of dead he’d have had them wide open and swiveling in his head like searchlights, looking out for coyotes until morning.
Late that day the sheriff came out to the farm. He told them that a trucker long-hauling garlic from eastern Washington had pulled into a diner and told a state trooper he’d been rocketing through a small town outside Yakima when he felt a little something hit his front end, figured he’d clipped a deer or maybe an antelope, and kept right on going. It wasn’t until he’d pulled off the road for coffee that he noticed a scrap of plaid flannel cloth stuck in the grille.
Boy wasn’t nothing more than roadkill, Sam overheard his father tell his mother that night, spitting out words as hard as BBs. Child was no more than a skunk by the side of the road. Sam had heard his mother weep. His father just slammed out the porch door calling to the dogs to come on now, just come on.
He had never been the same after that, or Sam, either.
Now he and the garlic truck went their separate ways just outside the gates to the Biedelman Zoo, returning Sam to his senses. He’d been having visions of the past more and more lately. He wondered if it was something to do with the diabetes, but he didn’t know how that could be, unless diabetes could make you crazy. Half the time he didn’t know if he was coming or going anymore, what with dreaming the same damn dream almost every night. Every morning when he woke up, he felt like he’d climbed a mountain, or been worked over with a meat tenderizer like his mother used for tough old farm animals that had been butchered late in life.
Corinna was right: he was going to have to do something—talk to Neva Wilson, maybe, or get hypnotized like people did to quit smoking, so he could get some rest.
He parked out back of the barn, and saw that Hannah was already outside, taking in the thin November sun. When he got inside, he found that Neva had mucked out the barn, squeegeed and disinfected the floors, and was cutting up fruit.
“You must have gotten here hours before daylight,” he said. “You trying to hurt yourself?”
Neva smiled and waved him off. “It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep.”
“You got something on your mind? Harriet Saul, maybe?” Sam said wickedly.
Neva gave him a look.
“She’s a nasty thing, isn’t she?” Sam grinned, pulling on his zoo sweatshirt.
Neva tried to suppress a smile. “So I didn’t do too well with her yesterday, huh?”
“Nope. Seems like she especially doesn’t like women, though, so it’s not you, exactly. That’s one tough old sheep who doesn’t have much use for the rest of the flock. Even Truman Levy’s been rubbing her the wrong way lately, and she’s always been partial to him. Might be The Change coming on,” Sam said doubtfully. “More likely, it’s just her ornery nature.”
Neva just kept on chopping vegetables.
“Let me just give these to my girl, then I’ll come in and give you a hand with that,” Sam said, holding up the Dunkin’ Donuts bag. “Be right back.”
“Take your time,” Neva said, waving him on. “If I didn’t have this to do, I’d have to think, and I don’t want to think.”
Hannah heard the paper bag. Long before Sam was within range she’d headed for him with her trunk already reaching. He held the top of the bag open and let her choose for herself from a maple bar, an apple fritter, or a glazed donut filled with Bavarian cream. She started with the cream. “I could sure use a donut myself,” Sam told her. “I feel like I got sand for brains this morning. Neva, too. So you keep an eye on us, shug. Might be one day we’ll need you to keep us out of trouble.”
When Truman woke Winslow, he found the boy running a low-grade fever all over again. Rather than leave him home with Miles, Truman rounded up two boxes of apple juice, a fresh box of Kleenex, a couple of decongestants, and a few good books and brought him to work. Harriet was uncharacteristically tolerant when it came to bringing Winslow into the office, and this morning was no exception. When she saw the boy’s school backpack sticking out of Truman’s cubicle, she came right over. Winslow was crammed into a corner, drawing a picture of Hannah.
“Hey, sweetie, are you sick?” Harriet asked him.
Winslow shrugged. “Kind of. I’m not throwing up or anything.”
To Truman Harriet said, “There’s not much going on today. Why don’t you just take him home?”
“Thank you, Harriet—”
“Maxine.”
“—Maxine. I’ll just finish payroll and then we’ll go.”
“Paychecks aren’t due until tomorrow.”
“Yes, I know, but this way if Winslow’s worse tomorrow I won’t have to come in. Half the kids in his class are out with whatever this thing is. Back into the germ pool after a long healthy summer. It’s like this every year.”
“Well, don’t stay longer than you have to.” Harriet gave her pith helmet a smart rap to seat it more firmly on her head and then she was gone.
Winslow waited a beat and then whispered, “How come we’re calling her Maxine?”
Truman shook his head and whispered back, “She plays the role of Max Biedelman when she’s here.”
“But I thought Max Biedelman was a man.”
“Yes, I know,” Truman said impatiently. “But she wasn’t.”
“Isn’t she dead?”
Truman sighed. “Yes, Winnie. Look, it’s impossible for me to explain. You’ll just have to go along with it.”
Winslow asked if he could go outside. It was a cool morning, but the sun was bright. Truman laid his cheek against Winslow’s cheek, and they felt the same—the aspirin had kicked in. He let the boy go.
Winslow liked going to work with Truman, even if he was sick—a little sick, not sick-sick. It was a lot more fun than when his father had worked for Allstate Insurance, where the best thing about it was a coffee mug full of free Allstate pens that skipped when you wrote with them. Whenever Winslow cleaned his room another pen or two still appeared along with the lint balls, though he didn’t know why that was—it was like they had legs and wandered freely through the halls and closets when no one was home. The zoo didn’t have free pens, but Harriet Saul was nice to him even though she wore a helmet and pretended to be somebody dead.
They’d had Miles for a couple of weeks now. He was a nice pig, even if he liked Truman better than him. Winslow figured that was because Truman felt sorry for him and tried to make up for it. Truman had only begun to sleep in his own room again a couple of nights ago. As far as Winslow could tell, the pig didn’t miss his mom much, though Winslow had worried about that when they first brought him home, because he was so small.
Winslow didn’t miss his own mother exactly. It was more like he missed a woman who looked like his mother but didn’t act like her. His real mom snapped at him a lot, mostly about his habits of folding his own laundry and getting his homework done ahead of time. His Other Mom smiled at him and said things like, I love you more than anything else in the world, did you know that? and Why don’t we just say to hell with it and go out for ice cream? It helped a little that his real mom didn’t seem to like Truman very much, either, although he did everything for her like washing the dishes and cooking. In fact, Winslow had noticed that the more Truman had tried to do for her, the less she seemed to like either one of them. When she’d moved out last spring her last words to him had been, Well, god knows I don’t have to ask you to behave, because you always do. She’d said it like that was bad, and when she’d bent to kiss his forehead, she didn’t quite touch him—all he’d felt was her departing breath. She hadn’t even done that with Truman, just walked out with a backwards wave as she walked down the sidewalk to the car. To keep Winslow’s spirits up, Truman had pretended it was okay, but a few days after his mom left for good, Winslow had seen his father staring at an old pair of moccasins she used to wear around the house and had apparently abandoned. He’d been crying. Winslow had gone to him and awkwardly patted his back, saying, I’m pretty sure this will be better, and it was, even in times like this, when he was sick. His mother had always acted like he got sick on purpose, just to mess up her schedule. Truman made him macaroni and cheese and felt his forehead a lot.
Winslow had gotten as far as the dik-dik exhibit when a boy about his own age fell into step with him.
“You work here?” he asked Winslow, seeing Truman’s sweatshirt.
“Nah. I’m sick, so my dad brought me to work for a while.”
The boy looked him over. “You don’t look sick.”
“Well, that’s because I’m not sick-sick. Just sick. How come you’re here? Isn’t it school?”
The boy shrugged. “I faked a note saying I was supposed to go to the dentist.”
“Aren’t you going to get in trouble?”
“Nah. I’ll just hold my face when I get back to school, you know, like my tooth is hurting. I have a friend here I come see sometimes.” He puffed up a little. “His name’s Samson Brown. He’s in charge of Hannah. She’s the elephant here.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah? Well, me and Mr. Brown, we take her for walks sometimes. You want to come?”
“Sure.” They headed off down the hill together toward the barn.
“What’s your name?” Winslow asked.
“Reginald Poole. What’s yours?”
“Winslow Levy.”
“Hey.” Reginald held out his hand and Winslow shook it. “You’re not going to throw up, are you? Because I don’t want to be around if you start throwing up and stuff.”
“Nah, I’m okay,” Winslow said.
They trotted down to the elephant barn and found Sam in the yard with Neva, lashing a garden hose to a tree.
“Hey, mister!” Reginald called from outside the fence.
Sam turned around. “Well, what are you doing here, boy?”
“I got excused from school this morning.”
“How come?”
Reginald shrugged. “I’m ahead of everybody else, so my aunt, she wrote an excuse for me, said I didn’t have to go until this afternoon.”
Sam frowned at him. “I don’t much like to be lied to. You know what I’m saying? Hannah doesn’t lie, and Miss Wilson here doesn’t lie, either. I can’t respect somebody who lies, much as I’d like to.”
Reginald looked down at his feet.
“Who’s your friend?” Sam said.
Reginald jerked his head toward Winslow. “His name’s Winfred, Winbad, Winberg, something like that.”
“Winslow,” said Winslow. “My dad’s Truman Levy.”
“I know who you are, son. So what’s your excuse for being here? You too smart to be in school, too?”
“No, sir. I’m sick.”
“Don’t look sick to me.”
Winslow groaned. “Not sick sick. Just a little sick.”
“Hey, mister, what are you going to do with that hose?” Reginald asked Sam. “You going to give Hannah a bath?”
“Did you hear something, maybe a little bug buzzing around my ear?” Sam asked Neva.
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Neva said, poker-faced. “Must have been the wind.”
“Aw, you ask him,” Reginald said, poking Winslow in the side.
“What’s the hose for?” Winslow said.
“Watch.” Sam walked back to the barn and turned on the outside spigot. A perfect arc of water bloomed and fell fifteen feet away. Hannah had been watching the preparations with great interest. She lifted her head and trumpeted nervously.
“Go on, baby girl, you show that water who’s boss.” Sam encouraged her as Neva adjusted the hose to make the arc land farther away, closer to Hannah. “You go, sugar, put your back under there now, you know you’re going to love it,” he said.
Hannah watched him, watched Neva, watched the boys, watched the water.
“Why don’t you get the brush,” Neva suggested.
Sam got a push broom, soaked it under the hose, and then brought it over to where Hannah was shifting her feet in an anxious little dance. Sam touched her side with the wet bristles until, little by little and with the added enticement of peppermints, Sam coaxed her toward the arcing water until she was finally standing directly under the stream.
“Baby’s got it now!” Sam crowed, watching her turn every which way under the hose and then scoop up a big gob of mud with her trunk and toss it onto her back. “Shug looks like a pig in heaven.”
“We have a pig,” Winslow said through the fence. “Me and my dad.”
“That right?” Sam said.
“His name is Miles.”
“That’s a fine name for a pig.”
“You going to walk Hannah today, mister?” Reginald asked.
“Not with you I’m not, no sir,” Sam said. “No way some child too sneaky to be in school is going anywhere with me and Hannah. Now if it was just me, we might talk it over. But I can’t have Hannah around someone who doesn’t believe school’s important. It might be a bad influence on her.”
“Aw, come on, mister.”
“Nope, I don’t even want to see your face. You promised me you wouldn’t cause your aunt grief, but I see you doing it anyway. You bring me some schoolwork with a good grade on it and then we’ll talk.”
Reginald shuffled off and Winslow followed. Hannah was still flinging mud.
“He’s pretty strict,” Winslow said.
“Yeah,” Reginald said with admiration.
They hiked up toward the zoo gates and administrative offices. “You don’t live with your folks?” Winslow asked.
“Nah.”
“We live with my dad, me and Miles, but my mom left.”
“Yeah?” Reginald said. “My mom, she got into some kind of trouble, so I live with my aunt.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“He doesn’t live with us. It gets kind of complicated.”
“Yeah,” Winslow said, and stopped outside the Biedelman house. “Well, I better go.”
“Okay, Windermere.”
“Winslow,” said Winslow. “Maybe if you come to see Mr. Brown this weekend, I could meet you here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll see you Saturday,” said Reginald.
“Okay,” said Winslow.
Neva had come outside and was leaning against the barn door with her arms folded, smiling at Hannah and Sam. “She sure is a good girl,” she said.
Sam beamed with pride. “See that? You’re already getting partial. I bet you talk to her, too, tell her stuff.”
“Yeah,” Neva said. “She got an earful from me this morning.”
“Baby’s always been good at listening to me, even after all these years.”
Neva looked at Sam closely. “What do you think of Harriet Saul’s pretending she’s Max Biedelman?”
“I think it’s a damn stupid idea. Disrespectful, too.”
“What do you think Max Biedelman would think?”
“She’d be cussing up a blue streak is what she’d be doing. Miss Biedelman sure could cuss, too, when she put her mind to it.”
Hannah bumped Sam with exquisite gentleness. “Hannah doesn’t think much of that Harriet Saul, either, do you, sugar?”
Hannah wrapped her trunk around Sam’s head. “You sure are in a lovey mood this morning,” Sam told her. “If you’re trying to get into my good graces, sugar, you’re wasting your time. Donuts are all gone, and I’m saving the rest of the peppermints for later.”
“Listen, if she’s in such a good mood, let’s take a closer look at her foot,” Neva said.
“Yeah?” Sam turned to Hannah. “Foot, shug.”
Hannah lifted her foot. Neva probed gently, and Hannah flinched. “Can you see?” she asked Sam. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “It’s worse. You got any ideas?”
“I do, actually,” Neva said, handing Hannah two yams and a gourd as positive reinforcement for her cooperation. “We’re all done, Hannah.” She patted Hannah’s knee and the elephant lowered her foot. To Sam she said, “Let me run something by you. Last night I talked to a friend who works at the Pachyderm Sanctuary outside Redding. She’s worked with elephants for twenty-seven years, and she’s seen more foot problems than anyone I know. I described Hannah’s problem and she told me to soak the foot in apple cider vinegar for at least ten minutes twice a day, three times if we can get Hannah to put up with it.”
“Apple cider vinegar?”
“Bacteria doesn’t like the acidity of vinegar. I know it sounds farfetched, but it certainly can’t do her any harm. Hell, I’d try soaking her foot in fine whiskey if I thought it might turn things around.”
Sam nodded. “What’s that sanctuary you were talking about, miss?”
“The Pachyderm Sanctuary. You’ve never heard of it? It’s a wonderful place, seven hundred fenced acres plus a barn that can house up to ten elephants. Alice McNeary started it with one old circus elephant about nine years ago—probably ten, now. Since then she’s taken three other circus elephants and a couple more that were in bad situations.”
“What’s it look like? The land and all.”
“I’ve only been there once, but it was beautiful. Mostly rolling fields and woods. Only about two acres have been developed for the barn and Alice’s house. The elephants can go wherever they want. The idea is to give them a place where they can stop working and just be elephants.”
“I think I’ve been there, miss,” Sam whispered.
Neva looked at him. “I don’t understand.”
“What kind of bad situations were those other elephants in?”
Neva frowned, trying to remember. “Well, one was at some tire dealership in Texas that was closing down, and no one wanted her because she was too old. The second one had been by herself for twenty-eight years at some godforsaken zoo in Alabama.”
“Was that why the place took her—because she was alone?”
Neva frowned. “How long has Hannah been alone here, again? It was forty years, wasn’t it?”
“Forty-one, miss,” Sam said softly.
Neva’s eyes locked onto Sam’s. “This might be a good time to start calling me Neva.”