The Elephant's Girl

by Celesta Rimington

  I take the sports drink from his outstretched hand.

  “The passenger car from the Fenn Circus,” I say, getting right to the point because Mr. Bixly is heading this way. “When you restored it, did you find anything…unusual behind any loose boards?”

  Roger swallows and lowers the bottle from his mouth. He tilts his head and looks at me like I’ve just grown antlers. “Why?” he asks, holding out the word a little longer than normal. Then he notices Mr. Bixly lumbering across the grass toward us.

  Roger narrows his eyes at Mr. Bixly. I think I’ve started something I didn’t mean to start. Roger tromps off in his work boots, straight for Mr. Bixly. He stands in front of Mr. Bixly like a wall. “It’s not enough that you hound me about that box, Frank—you’ve taken to harassing my girl about it? I told you yesterday that I put the box in the shed a long time ago and forgot about it. Now the box is missing. What else do you want?”

  I duck behind a large tandem stroller.

  “I haven’t said anything to Lexington about the box,” Mr. Bixly answers. “No one but you and me and whoever got your letter to the Fenn Circus knows about that. How does she know about it?”

  “He knows, she knows, who knows the wind blows,” the wind chants.

  “Stop trying to distract me.”

  Mr. Bixly and Roger turn to look in my direction, but I’m well hidden behind the stroller. I stay perfectly still. I hope the stroller’s owners won’t return with their kids from the train at this precise moment. My brain whirls with questions about Roger writing to the Fenn Circus. Did he find the money and try to return it? The idea that Roger could have done anything other than the right thing is absurd. But why is the box missing? Why is he angry at Mr. Bixly about it?

  I want to ask Roger all these things. He’ll give me a straight answer. At least…I think he will. But I’m not telling Frank Bixly, General Manager, how I know about the box hidden in the old train car. And Mr. Bixly knows I’m here somewhere.

  I slide in between some teenagers walking away from the station and hide in the crowd, feeling like a fugitive again. When there’s enough crowd between me and where Roger and Mr. Bixly are talking, I head into the trees behind the Old County Bank. I can see the engineer’s residence from here, but only because I know where to look. It’s far from the public paths, and its earthy brown brick and the surrounding trees hide it well.

  Why would Roger get so upset about this?

  “Finders keepers,” the wind says.

  “No,” I say out loud—to myself and the wind. If Roger found that treasure, he wouldn’t keep it. He’d try to return it, just as I’m going to do.

  “But he did have it,” says the wind.

  “He wouldn’t keep it!” I shout in my head. “No way!”

  Sometimes, I really hate the wind.

  But the nagging feeling is too hard to ignore, and I’ve reached the Old County Bank. It’s so easy to go inside and have a look around in Roger’s room—someplace, unlike the train shed, where no one else in the zoo would look.

  I climb the porch steps and turn the doorknob as the wind gets in one last sneaky comment: “Find his secrets.”

  My heart pounds heavy and fast. I feel like a thief invading the Old County Bank. Everything looks a little different inside, as though I haven’t been here in a long time, or I’ve been wrong about something. I run straight up the stairs and into Roger’s room. Maybe Roger found the box, told Mr. Bixly he put it in the shed, but secretly kept it in the house. I don’t want to know why he would do that, if he did. I only want to find it. I’ve got that tingling, stinging rain feeling on my skin again that tells me this is very important.

  Roger keeps his room very tidy, with the bedspread smoothed over the top of the bed and no clutter anywhere. The room smells like a clean version of the woods—it’s Roger’s lingering aftershave mixed with the wood furniture as the sun warms it through the window.

  I open the closet doors and find his clothes neatly hung, and a few folded blankets stuffed on the shelf near the ceiling. I can use the chair from the corner to see what’s behind those blankets, but it’s an armchair and not easy to move. I press my shoulder into the chair and lift it from the bottom, wriggling it from side to side to move it over the carpet. I’m sweating by the time I get the chair in front of the closet.

  I’ve never looked through Roger’s things, and it nags at me a little, but I know there’s something to find here, and that feeling is stronger than the nagging. The blankets are definitely hiding something behind them. I pull the blankets down, and they fall to the floor in a heap. My breath catches when I see a brown box. But it’s only a cardboard box full of random items—a pocket watch on a long silver chain, a worn-out pair of dress shoes, a soft old cardigan, some dice, a deck of cards, and a wooden cigar box with a few rings and old jewelry inside it. I wonder why Roger has these things. They look too old to be his, but they definitely aren’t the things Miss Amanda hid in the antique passenger car. I put the box back and jump down from the chair.

  Then I notice Roger’s bed is high enough off the floor to store things beneath it. I flatten myself onto the carpet and look under the bed, finding a half-empty roll of blue wrapping paper and another box. The wrapping paper is from my “arrival day” last year. Roger gives me presents on June 9 every year, since we don’t know my birthday. A scratchy lump in my throat adds to the niggling thought that I should wait and ask Roger about Angus Fenn’s box. But I swallow it down, because that box under the bed is bigger than the one in the closet, and it has a lid, and that makes it seem important. I slide it out, hold my breath, and lift the lid off.

  This box isn’t full of money, or anything that seems related to the Fenn Circus, but it seems entirely related to me.

  It’s a lot of papers covered with long typed paragraphs and big words. But I’m there at the top of all of them. Not my picture, but some name that refers to me. Some of the papers have the name Lexington Willow. Some say Jane Doe at the top, the name they call a girl when they don’t know who she is. Some of them say Minor. But they all refer to me. I’ve overheard Mr. and Mrs. Leigh discussing the AZA and the zoo board of directors enough to recognize some legal words, but I don’t really know what these papers mean.

  I pick up the one that is paper clipped to a big stack. This one has Roger James Marsh and Lexington Willow at the top.

  A sudden thump from downstairs startles me, and I drop the paper back into the box. The front door is opening, and voices travel up the Old County Bank stairs and down the hall. I shove the box under the bed. There’s no time to move the chair back to the corner. I dart across the hall to my bedroom and push the door almost closed.

  I try to calm my breathing and stare at my world map on the wall as I listen for the voices below. Although Roger and I have labeled the zoo animals’ homes on the map, I’ve never asked Roger where his sticker should go. I don’t even know if he grew up in Nebraska or not. I’ve always been focused on not knowing where my sticker should go.

  And then I notice something new in my room. Roger must’ve placed it here. On the nightstand next to my bed is a small frame with a picture of me and Roger. I’m young in the photo, and I’m sitting with Roger inside the engine cab. Roger is showing me the engine controls. I have my hand on his and, together, we’re pushing on the throttle. I’ve never seen this picture before. Roger is smiling at me, and I look so safe with him. I think maybe it looks like a family, and it doesn’t matter that we came from different families and different places.

  Frank Bixly’s blustery voice sails up the stairs from the high-ceilinged entry. “I’m telling you, Roger, she’s been out at Amanda’s old trailer.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve been out at Amanda’s old trailer yourself, Frank,” Roger says calmly. “See any ghosts lately?”

  Mr. Bixly snorts.

  “Why didn’t you have
all of Amanda’s things cleaned up years ago?” Roger asks.

  “I have a lot of responsibilities at the zoo,” Mr. Bixly says, clearing his throat. “Much to think about. I thought I’d assigned it to the grounds crew, and it got forgotten.”

  “Are you sure it doesn’t have something to do with your sudden interest in that box I found all those years ago? I forgot about it when I found Lex and began caring for her. But you…you’ve had all these years to ask me about it. Why now, huh? And why, after I told you where I left it, did my shed get broken into?”

  “That’s beside the point. You need to keep Lex from venturing out where you can’t keep an eye on her. I’m seriously reconsidering this arrangement of having her live here.”

  “What are you talking about?” Roger says. “Fisher lives here, and he and Lex are the same age.”

  “Well,” Mr. Bixly answers, “Fisher is here because Fern and Gordon are his parents. You’re not actually Lex’s—”

  “Stop right there,” Roger says, his voice deep and commanding. “That is none of your business. I’m her guardian, and that should be enough for you.”

  Sometimes I hate Frank Bixly. Who Roger and I are to each other is not something we talk about. And I think maybe we should talk about it, but I don’t know if Roger wants to talk about it anymore.

  “Well, anyway,” Mr. Bixly continues, “the mess is getting cleaned up as we speak, so there won’t be anything luring Lex out there anymore. We won’t have the entire zoo staff searching for her and congesting the radio transmissions.”

  Mr. Bixly’s words are like scissors cutting the string of a balloon, and I can almost feel Miss Amanda sailing away from me, losing her memories and her past and her place to find answers.

  I need to get to the woods. I need to get to Miss Amanda’s trailer before someone takes it all away. And that’s when I climb out the second-story window of the Old County Bank.

  My shorts snag on the drainpipe when I climb off the roof and onto the overhanging tree branch. I’ve climbed up this tree before, but never to this height. The ground far below seems to rise and fall, going in and out of focus. So I stare at the branches, taking one at a time.

  I finally reach the last branch, hang suspended for a moment, and jump down. My feet hit the ground, and I fall to my knees on the soft, shaded earth. Hearing Mr. Bixly’s words over and over in my head, The mess is getting cleaned up as we speak, I sprint for the main gates.

  As I pass Bear Country, a man’s voice calls after me.

  “Lex! Where are you headed in such a hurry?” Mr. Leigh is wearing a suit today, but he still looks like he belongs on safari with his hat on. He finishes a quick order to one of the keepers through his radio and returns the radio to his belt.

  “I…” I don’t know what to tell him about Miss Amanda or her things in the woods. “Mr. Leigh, do you know where Fisher is?”

  Another message comes in through his radio, but he lets it go for the moment. “I believe he went to a movie with some baseball friends—someone’s birthday, I think. Fern knows the details if you want to ask her.”

  I nod. First Fisher wants to go to the Birds of Prey Amphitheater alone. Now he’s off with some other friends. It’s not like he’s never done that before. I know he has friends who don’t live in the zoo. It’s just that he’s never left with them when I felt like he didn’t want to be my friend anymore.

  I take a deep breath, but the air is especially humid, or zoolike, and I choke on it a little. The zoo is choking me.

  “Are you okay?” Mr. Leigh asks.

  I wait for the wind to comment, but it says nothing. Maybe it stays quiet to make me nervous. It’s working. Maybe something terrible is coming.

  I force a smile and nod. I’m reminded of my book, and the assignment Mrs. Leigh gave me. “It’s not normal to live alone on an island,” I mumble to myself, not really meaning for Mr. Leigh to hear.

  But he hears me, and he bends a little closer. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  Another call comes in on Mr. Leigh’s radio, and he reaches for his belt, still giving me a side-eyed look. “You sure?”

  “Yes.” I start up the hill away from him. “But will you tell Fisher I’m looking for him?”

  I run from Mr. Leigh and his radio and from Roger’s secrets and from Mr. Bixly’s mean words. I run out of the main gates, through the parking lot, and into the woods.

  Something unfamiliar is crashing about in the trees. At first I think it might be an animal. A very big animal. Perhaps an elephant.

  I wish it were an elephant.

  But the closer I get to the thumping and crashing, the less it sounds like an animal and the more it sounds like equipment. Large equipment with levers and moving metal hinges. I reach the small clearing with the fallen log.

  And I see it.

  A tow truck.

  They’ve hitched up Miss Amanda’s trailer. A flatbed attached to another large pickup holds all of Miss Amanda’s patio furniture—her outdoor table and chairs, large pots that once had plants in them, the broken awning.

  They are taking it all away.

  “No!” I scream, running at the tow truck and the men securing Miss Amanda’s trailer. “You can’t!”

  One of the men turns to look at me. “What’s the matter, little miss?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I snap. “Why are you taking her stuff? Where are you taking this?”

  The man removes his hat and rolls his eyes. “Look, we were hired to do a job. Clear all this away. If you have a problem with it, you’ll have to take it up with the zoo.”

  “Please,” I say. “Please just…wait.”

  This can’t happen. How will I find Miss Amanda? How will I know if she gets where she needs to go…after I find the Fenn fortune…after I return it?

  I knew I’d have to say goodbye to her, but it can’t be now. We aren’t finished. What about her stories? This is her life they’re towing away. What will happen to her memories?

  “Please wait,” I say again, much softer this time. The wind blows through the trees, but it says nothing to me, like someone quietly listening in on a conversation that is none of their business.

  A hand touches my shoulder, and I startle around.

  Mrs. Leigh is here. She holds her hand up at the men with the tow truck.

  “Give us a moment, please,” she says to them. Then she turns to me with a look in her eyes that says she’s just realized something. “Lexington, have you been spending a lot of time here—with these things? Have you seen Amanda Holtz out here?”

  I swallow hard, thinking of the story Fisher told me about Fern Leigh as a little girl and her friend who was a ghost. But as I stand here, not answering, Mrs. Leigh seems to have figured out the truth.

  “This…,” Mrs. Leigh says, gesturing to Miss Amanda’s old home and her belongings heaped on the flatbed trailer, “this can be a dangerous way to spend your time. It will take too much and give nothing back. It will keep you isolated from the people who care about you.”

  I open my mouth to argue. I’ve been helping Miss Amanda…or Nyah. I thought I was helping them both. How can that be a bad thing? But now I can’t put it all into words, and I don’t know where to begin.

  “You cannot hold on to a ghost.”

  My breath catches, and I whisper, “Did you tell them to get rid of her things?”

  Mrs. Leigh sighs and puts one hand to her forehead, like she’s thinking hard. “No, I didn’t. But I heard Frank had called this crew, and I came to check on things. To check on you. It’s really unacceptable that Frank didn’t take care of this before now. I suspect this is the reason you’ve gone missing so much lately.”

  My eyes suddenly burn, like my tears have turned to acid. Mrs. Leigh and the tow truck and the trailer becom
e a blur of brown and silver and gray, as though everyone is behind a curtain of murky water.

  “I didn’t know she was still here, Lexington. I’m so sorry this has affected you, but the only way I know to get out of the time-consuming life with a ghost is to stop visiting them.”

  “Don’t let them take it away,” I say, my voice airy like the wind.

  “Why do you need it?” Mrs. Leigh’s voice is gentle and soft. “Tell me.”

  I don’t know why I need it. I just can’t bear to have all of this disappear.

  I haven’t told Miss Amanda what I learned about the passenger train car that used to be the circus gift shop. I haven’t told her that Roger may have found something that could be the Fenn fortune and that Mr. Bixly knows about it.

  If they tow Miss Amanda’s trailer away, will her misplaced spirit have to go with it?

  “I don’t know why I need it,” I say. “I just know that I do.”

  And I turn and run from Mrs. Leigh toward the tow truck. I push past the men and scramble up the ramp to the trailer door.

  “Hey!” yells one of them. “This is private property!”

  He obviously doesn’t know a single thing about this place. He doesn’t know me. Miss Amanda and her things were once part of this zoo, and the zoo is my home. And I’m taking Miss Amanda’s photo albums.

  I yank open the trailer door.

  “Lexington!” Mrs. Leigh calls.

  I climb inside, with one of the tow truck guys lumbering up the ramp behind me. The inside of Miss Amanda’s trailer looks nothing like it did when I visited before. The dishes have tumbled from the open cupboards, leaving broken ceramic shards on the floor. Among them, the fat little teapot is in pieces. The curtains that hung over the kitchen window now dangle off a partially unhooked curtain rod. Books are scattered everywhere from the bookshelf.