Friday's Harbor

by Diane Hammond

  She thought she probably looked a whole lot worse than that, but she just said, “I’m okay. I wasn’t, a little while ago, but now I am.”

  Johnson Johnson was evidently satisfied with that. Grateful beyond words, Libertine grabbed a spray bottle of diluted bleach and a wet rag and went out into the café, wiping down all the tabletops. She set out fresh flatware and napkins, filled the salt and pepper shakers, straightened up the shaker jars of oregano and Parmesan, and aligned the sugar and artificial sweetener packets in their baskets. Then she went back to the kitchen and Johnson Johnson said without preamble, “Let’s make dough.” She couldn’t have asked for a more cathartic task. She’d never made it from scratch before so she had to focus, following him step by step, measuring, mixing, punching, and kneading until they’d made enough dough for seventy-five pizzas and her heart rate had finally returned to normal.

  And through it all, Friday, gone for so long, now keened in her head. She implored him, like a mantra: hang on, hang on, oh, please, just hang on.

  IT WAS AN in-service afternoon at school, so Reginald walked home at noon in the rain. He was a block from the house when a car pulled up beside him, soaking his pants to the knee.

  “S’up?” called Martin Choi.

  Reginald slapped at his pants. “What’s wrong with you, man? Now I’m going to catch pneumonia and it’ll be your fault.”

  “Sorry, dude. Got any interesting stories for me?”

  “No. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You ratted me out the last time.”

  Reginald kept walking and Martin crept along beside him in his car. “No way.”

  “Well, someone did.”

  “Hey, if someone tells me something, I’ll take their name with me to the grave. That’s what journalists do.”

  “Yeah, well, I got nothing to say to you anyways.”

  “Then let me tell you something. The whale’s sick. Like, really sick. Really really sick.”

  “He is?” Reginald said with surprise.

  “Yep. They closed the gallery again, and this time they admitted there’s something wrong, they just won’t say what. I’ve left, like, a dozen messages, but so far, nothing. Did Sam mention anything when he went into work this morning, maybe?”

  “No, man, he’s not gonna tell me secret stuff. He’s the one who busted me last time.”

  “Okay. But hey, if you find out anything, you let me know, huh?”

  “Yeah, right,” said Reginald, thinking he wouldn’t call Martin Choi if he saw someone grow wings and fly.

  Martin’s cell phone went off on the passenger seat. “Okay, guy, gotta take this call. See you.”

  “Hey!” Reginald called after him.

  The reporter leaned out the car window. “Yeah?”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Winston. You think I’d forget a funny name like that?”

  “Just checking,” said Reginald.

  THE LAB RESULTS came in at eleven twenty-four: sometime in the last ten days or so, someone had given Friday rat poison. Most likely, the delivery system had been fish into which poison had been stuffed or injected. Friday’s best hope was that the massive doses of vitamin K would restore the clotting agents destroyed by the poison, stopping the hemorrhaging. If that didn’t work, the bleeding into his chest would suffocate him. Unfortunately the zoo only kept its security videotapes for forty-eight to seventy-two hours, and while Truman asked his team to go over what they had with a fine-tooth comb, the chances were excellent that they’d never find out who had done it.

  IN A VACANT cubicle in Havenside’s administrative offices, Ivy and Truman spent the afternoon sitting back-to-back like cornered gunfighters, except each wielded a telephone. As soon as the lab results came in, they had split up a master media list and e-mailed a statement confirming that Friday had been poisoned, was in critical condition, and would be off-exhibit until further notice. Once the story was on the wire services, calls streamed in from everywhere.

  Both Ivy and Truman were blunt in reporting the likelihood that Friday would die. From his blood work, Monty Jergensen had told Gabriel that Friday should already be dead; how he was continuing to hang on was anybody’s guess, but it wasn’t likely to last. As he continued to bleed out, his blood volume was dropping below critical levels, and there was no practical way to transfuse him, even if they’d had the blood on hand, which they didn’t.

  Truman insisted on giving the media even the grimmest details of Friday’s condition; against Gabriel’s advice, he even invited the AP stringer and his cameraman to come to the pool and take two minutes of starkly graphic footage with the understanding that they would distribute it as B-roll to any television station requesting it. “I want whoever did this to know just what a poisoned animal looks like when it’s dying,” he’d said grimly. “We owe Friday that much.” No, no one had stepped forward to claim credit for the crime, and no, neither Truman nor Ivy would speculate. They only hoped the culprit was watching the news.

  More than one reporter was in tears by the time he hung up. In all his years Truman had never spoken with the force he’d discovered now, fueled by rage and helplessness.

  THOUGH THE KILLER whale viewing gallery was closed, the zoo itself was not. As word spread, a steady stream of people, hundreds and then thousands of them, came to the gallery doors to leave roses, wreaths, stuffed killer whales, balloons, photographs, and homemade cards. In the late afternoon Brenda interrupted Truman’s telephone marathon, forcibly pulling him from his chair and to his office window. As they looked across the zoo grounds, he saw nearly seven thousand people keeping silent vigil outside the gallery. “I overheard someone say a Native American shaman is here,” said Brenda. “Can you believe all those people?”

  “Yes,” Truman said simply. “I can.”

  Once every hour he continued to get a call from either Gabriel or Neva, and every hour it was the same: not yet.

  GABRIEL HAD CARED for thousands of dying animals. It went with the business. He’d learned a long time ago to guard his emotions, to appreciate the animals he worked with while keeping them at a professional distance. And yet here he was, keeping watch over a dying animal that, more than any other he’d rehabilitated, deserved better. He’d survived some of the worst living conditions Gabriel had ever seen; he’d made it through a long transport and adapted to a completely new way of life with enthusiasm, courage, and a sense of humor. He’d grown, healed, and hurt no one, and now he would die at the hands of the very people who claimed to love him most. Better dead than captive.

  So he sat beside Friday all day, giving him massive doses of vitamin K every two hours, monitoring the rapid, shallow breathing, and sluicing him with water so his skin didn’t dry out and crack.

  By evening, against all odds, the killer whale was still alive.

  Gabriel tried to send everyone home for some rest, but they insisted on staying, and he conceded. This animal had touched every one of them. So they stayed on, even Corinna, Reginald, and Winslow stayed, bound together by the determination that if Friday died, at least he wouldn’t die alone.

  At first light Gabriel startled awake. He hadn’t even realized he’d dozed off, but the sun was fully up—and Friday was gone. He immediately and heavyheartedly assumed the worst: that Friday had died and his body had been dragged into the medical pool to await necropsy.

  And then he heard the familiar poooooo-siiiiip of a killer whale breathing.

  Seeing him awake, Neva came around the pool, smiling. “He swam into the med pool about ten minutes ago, and he brought his ball with him.”

  Gabriel chafed his face hard to wake up. “Have you tried to feed him anything?”

  “I gave him half a bucket. I didn’t want to give him any more without checking with you. He was hungry, though.”

  “Okay, bring up a bucket of fish, but we’re also going to have to intubate him. He’s got to be mondo dehydrated, plus we want to flush whatever’s left of that crap out of his system.”
>
  While Neva was downstairs rounding up five gallons of fresh water, a funnel, flexible tubing, and lubricant, Gabriel went to the med pool and squatted beside Friday. “Hey, kiddo,” he said softly. “Some day we had yesterday, huh? Can you open?” He gave the whale the signal and Friday opened wide. Gabriel winced: the inside of his mouth was florid with petechial hemorrhages.

  Neva trotted over with the bucket of fish and other supplies, and Sam hauled up the freshwater, warmed to body temperature. Gabriel fed about four feet of tubing down the killer whale’s throat and into his stomach. Friday jerked once as the tube went down, but that was all. Once it was in place Gabriel told Neva to insert the funnel into the other end and begin pouring in the water. When they were finished, Friday swallowed his next vitamin K dose and ate three fish, but couldn’t be persuaded to eat more.

  “It’s okay,” Gabriel told him, giving the whale’s head the barest caress. “It’s a start.”

  LIBERTINE HAD GOTTEN exactly two hours and fourteen minutes of sleep since yesterday morning. She hadn’t communicated with anyone at the zoo since leaving it, not even Ivy. For now, it was just as well. She knew Friday was still alive, and that was all that mattered. By midafternoon she dug a scrap of paper and her cell phone from the bottom of her purse and punched in the numbers.

  Trina Beemer answered her call on the first ring, as though on high alert. When Libertine identified herself, the activist said, “Libby! God, I was hoping you’d call. Is he gone?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t be coy—Friday. Has he died yet?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Well, it can’t be long now,” Trina said. “The important thing is, he’s going to be free. No more walls, no more jailers. What are they saying over there? I bet it’s a real cluster-fuck.”

  “They’re frantic, of course,” Libertine said. “I’m trying to keep pretty much to myself, though. I figure I can be more help that way.”

  “Help?” said Trina.

  “You know. Help,” Libertine said. “Yay, team.”

  She could hear Trina hesitate for a minute before she said, “Really? Because I was pretty sure you weren’t on our side anymore.”

  “Oh, no,” said Libertine quickly. “I’m definitely on your side. I just didn’t want them to know.”

  “Well, if you’re serious, here’s the thing that would help us the most. Let me know when he’s dead. A lot of people are waiting to hear, plus that way we can release a statement to the media. Anonymously, of course.”

  “So it was FAS?”

  “Did I say that?” Trina said. “I don’t think I said that.”

  “There aren’t that many people courageous enough to have done what you did. I assume you know that.”

  “I do. Listen, honey, I’ve got a call coming in, so I have to go. But you’ll let me know when he’s gone, right?”

  “Absolutely,” said Libertine. “Wait for my call.” As soon as she hung up she called ahead, jumped in her car, and headed to the zoo.

  TRUMAN AND IVY were waiting when Libertine arrived. Truman had briefed Ivy on what Libertine had shared with him when she called: that she had news about who’d poisoned Friday. When she knocked on the door to his office he thought she looked pale and tense, but then it occurred to him that he and Ivy probably looked just as bad. At his signal, Brenda closed the door behind her.

  Libertine sat in the visitors’ chair, across the desk from Truman. Next to her, Ivy sat stiffly upright; in her lap Julio Iglesias wrested himself free and climbed over the chair arms into Libertine’s lap. She embraced him. “They always know.” she said.

  “Know what?” said Truman.

  “When we’re stressed out.”

  “Well, we certainly are that.” He took in the dark circles under her eyes and said, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Not really.” Libertine cleared her throat and said formally, “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Oh, for god’s sake,” said Ivy. “I disagreed with Truman—you should never have been exiled. But it’s his zoo.”

  “No,” Libertine said quickly. “From your perspective, I think it was the right thing to do. You didn’t know what you were dealing with. Now we do. I just got off the phone with Trina Beemer—”

  “Who?” Ivy said.

  “Trina Beemer.”

  “What a terrible name.”

  “She’s a terrible person.”

  Truman leaned across his desk toward Libertine. “Talk to us.”

  “It was definitely Friends of Animals of the Sea who poisoned him,” she said. “Actually, I’m pretty sure it was Trina herself.”

  “But why?” Ivy asked.

  “Better dead than in captivity,” said Libertine.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Ivy blustered. “No one would do something that horrible.”

  “Oh, yes, they would,” said Libertine grimly. “They definitely would. They’re just waiting for him to die so they can declare victory.”

  Truman said to Libertine, “The question is, can you prove it?”

  “No.”

  “What if you meet her and, you know, wear a wire,” Ivy proposed.

  “I don’t think people really do that kind of thing,” said Truman.

  “Sure they do,” said Ivy.

  “Not people in Bladenham,” Truman amended.

  “Well, I’d love to figure out how to set her up,” said Libertine. “She’s not just misguided and horrible, she’s smug.”

  Truman mulled this over for a minute. “We’d need to take the right steps to make sure we get legally admissible evidence. It’s not quite as simple as it looks on TV.”

  “You’re the lawyer,” said Ivy, who Truman could see was in high dudgeon. “Let’s roll! Hop to it! These people deserve to burn.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Truman told her. “I’ll look into it if you’ll put together an e-mail update saying Friday may be over the worst, but he still has a long road ahead of him. Don’t send it yet, just write it.” To Libertine he said, “You do know he’s turned the corner, right?”

  “Yes—I sensed that.”

  “We’ve been getting literally thousands of calls and e-mails,” Truman told her. “Jergensen told me he thinks Friday may be over the worst of it, but it’ll be a few days before he’s completely out of the woods.” Turning to Ivy, he said, “So you’ll draft the e-mail. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Then he turned to Libertine. “Someone needs to go out and let people know Friday’s still alive. I’d like you to handle that. Can you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  From his window he watched her determined little figure cross the zoo grounds and approach the nearly ten thousand people now keeping vigil outside the gallery. As though she’d been born to it, she climbed onto one of the decorative planters so she could be seen, raised a finger—Attention!—and spoke.

  Even in his office he could hear the crowd cheer.

  HALF AN HOUR later Matthew and Truman were sitting at the elder Levy’s dining room table, where Matthew had been answering his e-mail on a laptop when Truman arrived. “Look,” Matthew said once Truman had brought him up to speed. “I know this has been quite an ordeal for all of you, never mind for the whale. But you know your aunt. She’s a generous, passionate woman, but she’s always had a tendency to go off the deep end.”

  Truman smiled. “And this would be one of those times. But is there any other way—and by other, I mean legal—to gather enough information to implicate these people?”

  Ruminatively, Matthew chewed the stem of his unlit pipe. Truman was used to these lengthy pauses; as a boy, he’d been astounded when, at friends’ houses, conversations unfolded at what seemed like warp speed. Finally Matthew said, “It’s all a matter of momentum. You don’t need to wire anybody—all you need is to dangle a carrot tasty enough to make them bite, and make sure there are witnesses present when they do.”

  “All right,” said Truman carefully. “Do you have so
me ideas about where I might find such a carrot?”

  “Here’s a hint: what’s black, white, and loved all over?”

  “Friday?”

  “Absolutely. Invite these people to come see him. And bring the media along.”

  “By which you mean Martin Choi.”

  Matthew nodded. “By which I mean Martin Choi. Though if you have anyone else, you can certainly use him or her.”

  “There can’t possibly be two reporters like Martin.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” said Matthew. “But I always try to keep an open mind.”

  “I could ask Libertine to invite them to the pool, I suppose,” Truman said, thinking out loud. “That wouldn’t arouse their suspicions.”

  “You might also show them what’s happened—or failed to happen—to the poor creature.”

  “He’s going to live.”

  “Exactly. Bad news, indeed.” Matthew smiled a little impish smile.

  Each was quiet for several minutes, thinking, until Truman said, “This has great possibilities.”

  “Of course it does. It’s a shame you won’t be doing any lawyering. You’re a quick study.”

  “On my best day, I couldn’t hold a candle to you,” Truman said.

  “Yes,” Matthew agreed, “but I’ve had the benefit of a good many more years on the job.”

  Truman stood up and pressed Matthew’s shoulder fondly. “I’m going to go to the Oat Maiden for a piece of pizza. I scheme better on a full stomach. Care to come along?”

  “Thank you, but in my experience, scheming is an activity best done in solitude. Of course the value of a good cookie isn’t to be sniffed at, either.”

  THREE O’CLOCK IN the afternoon was always a quiet time at the Oat Maiden. Truman chose the table that was his personal favorite, Johnson Johnson’s creation in honor of Hannah and Max Biedelman. High jungle grass ringed the outside of the tabletop, with Hannah walking through it, high on her feet, trunk extended in front of her, proudly reaching toward whatever lay in her future. Striding ahead of her was Max Biedelman in safari gear. Truman felt the table captured all that was good and admirable about the zoo’s eccentric founder and the animal she’d loved most.