The Nature of Jade

by Deb Caletti

  We say good night outside the store, hug briefly. He'll be coming by the zoo soon, he says. I head to my car. The fir tree I parked under is decorated with raindrops. They glisten white and magical under the streetlight, cling to the needles of the tree, and then slide off. I tilt my chin to the sky, to that treetop. I take in the night, Sebastian-style. I let the drops dot my face. I feel that hand on my stockinged foot again. I breathe the night air. I drink in its cold, wet happiness.

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  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A rhesus monkey mother will sometimes do a "double-hold." She will grab her own baby, along with the baby of a high-status monkey, when its mother is not looking. She will hold them both together in her arms, thereby encouraging a bond between her child and the high-status offspring . . .

  --Dr. Jerome R. Clade, The Fundamentals of Animal Behavior

  When I get home that night, I see that Mom's been waiting up, reading. I tell her I'm too tired to talk, that the party had been great. She's obviously pleased. She tightens the tie around her robe, puts her arm around my shoulders, and kisses my cheek.

  The next morning before breakfast, I switch on the elephant cam and watch for a while. I won't be going in to work--I've got so much homework, I'll need a shovel and one of those hats with the lights that miners wear just to get out from under it-- so I want to see how everyone is.

  Watching the elephants also makes me feel closer to Sebastian. I replay our night in my head--

  restocking the books, drinking hot chocolate, hearing about Tess and Bo's mother.

  It was such a perfect night, but when I play it back, my brain keeps snagging on something.

  Maybe it's a sabotaging snag. Maybe it's an important listen-to-me-now snag. How can you tell the difference? My body sometimes told me I was

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  in mortal clanger when I was taking a calculus test, so, you know, how can you trust your instinct? I want to tell my thoughts to shut the hell up, but I still keep going over what Sebastian had said about Tiffany. Dying in childbirth. The way he'd told me she was dead. The way it had almost sounded like it was a surprise to him, too.

  It's stupid, I know, to think like I'm thinking, because what did I know about any of this? I couldn't have any idea how someone might feel or act if something so awful had happened.

  Maybe you'd feel distanced from it. And he did seem a little distanced. He had sounded sad about his grandmother's friend, Max Weaver, dying. When I'd said I was sorry, he'd said that he was sorry too. But not so with Tiffany. Had he said "I'm sorry too" about her? I didn't think so, but maybe I was remembering wrong. Maybe this was more of the psycho revisionist editing my brain was so fond of. Maybe he just couldn't bear to think about it because the pain was too much. Maybe he didn't want to overwhelm me. Maybe my backstage mind just likes to screw things up whenever something feels okay. Whenever something feels great.

  I am watching Chai and Bamboo hanging out near the water when an instant message pops up.

  YOU MISSED OUT, Michael types in these huge letters. So sad, I write back.

  More booze than a liquor store convention

  I smile. Tap the keys. You drink?

  Had half a beer and I could barely talk

  Moron

  No answer yet. I wait. Felt like one of those foreign films where the soundtrack doesn't match the moving lips

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  Lost all respect for you. Not that I ever had any Stupid party. Should've done homework. Alex's dad came home early and ...

  My door opens. Shit, my door opens, and Mom stands there in her robe.

  "Hi, honey," she says.

  No knock, nothing. My heart pummels my insides, fueled by this panicked surge of guilt, and I reach around for the mouse to click off Michael's messages. Getting that little arrow into that little X is tough to do with shaking hands, suddenly as tricky as those pathetic vending machines where you have to pick up a stuffed toy with a mechanical claw.

  "What was that?" she asks.

  "What was what?" God, I'm guilty. I sound so guilty. I'm so guilty, my hands are trembling with double-shot espresso shakes. Man, I'd make the worst criminal.

  "Up on the screen."

  "Just Michael, messing around." She saw. I knew it. She saw, Goddamn it.

  "It says, 'You missed out.'"

  "Oh, yeah. He went with Akello to a party for Akello's dad."

  "I thought you said he was going to Alex Orlando's last night."

  "I did say that. But he changed his mind at the last minute. Akello's dad had this thing and his parents made him go and he was just begging Michael to go, so, you know, he wouldn't be the only one under forty, and so, you know, Michael went, because that's the kind of guy he is. ..."

  "So how was the party?"

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  "Michael said it was boring. His dad had a lot of alcohol there and the adults got embarrassing."

  "No, your party. Alex's."

  "Oh, it was great. Yeah. I had a really great time."

  "What'd you do?" She sits on my bed. Crosses her feet at the ankles. Folds the flap of her robe closed so I don't see unshaven legs. She's all comfy. I feel an ungenerous, inward groan.

  Sometimes living with Mom is like trying to walk in those new shoes you buy at the drugstore, the ones connected by plastic string.

  "Oh, you know--talked, listened to music, ate. Some people danced."

  "What did you eat?"

  If you want any further evidence that my brain is a vicious and cruel traitor, then here you go.

  Eat? My thoughts zip crazily. What did we eat? I rack my mind, try to come up with some food, and for some reason, the question feels like something off of Jeopardy1. Food, food! All that's coming to me is this vision of Titus from Total Vid. Why Titus? Why right then? I have no idea, but that's what's there. Titus, giving me the "hang loose" sign.

  "Pineapple," I say. "Pineapple?"

  Oh, my God. Oh, for God's sake! Who had pineapple at a party? Pineapple? Jesus!

  "It was Hawaiian themed," I say. "Pineapple. And pork." "Pork."

  "Yeah. You know, that barbequed kind they have in Hawaii."

  She thinks about this. "Oh."

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  "Tiki lamps outside." Shit!

  "Wow. Were there costumes? Were you supposed to wear a costume? If we would have known ..."

  "Yeah, I could've worn my coconut bra if I hadn't grown out of it. No! There weren't any costumes ..."

  "I'm sorry. How am I supposed to know?"

  "Alex in a hula skirt. Whoa."

  "So, do you think it went well? I mean, do you think you'll get asked again?"

  I want her off my bed, then. With that question, I just want her away. This anger boils up inside, spills over in sarcasm. "Well, you could slip him a couple of twenties to invite me next time."

  "Jade! Come on."

  "Or maybe you can try out for cheerleader. Then you could be invited to the parties yourself."

  Mom's face falls. "That is so mean. Jeez, Jade. I was only wondering if you had a good time. If you'd be going again." Her mouth turns down. She looks like she might cry.

  "Okay. I'm sorry." Mom stares down at her hands. Studies her fingernails. Shit. I shouldn't have said what I did. "Yeah, I'll be going again. Maybe next weekend."

  "God, Jade. After everything I do for you. You didn't have to say those things."

  Guilt creeps around, plucks at my insides. I feel like I have stolen something. Maybe her dignity.

  "I'm sorry. I'm just. . . tired. It was a late night and I didn't sleep well, and now I've got all this homework ..."

  Mom smoothes her robe against her knees.

  "I didn't mean to be mean," I say, even though I did.

  She is quiet, and then finally she says, "Okay." And then: 162

  "I'm still glad you had a good time. I think it's important to try new things, mix with new people."

  I think of all the beaches she won't go to and boats she won't ride and trips she won't take, and I
keep my mouth shut. Blue ribbon in self-control.

  "I'm going to get dressed," she says.

  I remember, then, something Damian had told me. About an elephant that had been part of a circus for fifteen years, who had suddenly broken loose and gored one of the trainers. I don't know why I think about it right then. All I know is that I do. This thought, it makes me sad. I feel like a traitor, but more than that, I just feel the weighty, fullness of loss. For the times we used to talk. For that time we were in the bathroom at the mall, and she was being silly, thinking we were the only ones there. Shouldn't have had that Slurpee. Get it? Slur-PEE? Ah! Ah! Ah! She fake-laughed, real loud. It was only after we'd washed our hands that we saw a pair of clogs underneath the far stall, causing us to laugh our heads off for a good ten minutes as soon as the door closed behind us.

  I go downstairs to have some breakfast. Milo appears, sits at my feet, and looks up with pleading hope. "You, with the fur. Quit staring," I say. I pour the last bit of Cheerios in my bowl.

  "Eyuw," I say to Oliver, who has come downstairs wearing the pajamas that make him look like a husband in a fifties TV show.

  "What?"

  I show him the bowl. "Cereal dust," he says.

  "I'm not eating it. Don't tell." I empty my bowl into the garbage.

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  Oliver checks the freezer. "Waffles," he suggests. "Okay."

  Oliver reaches into the waffle box and pulls out a couple that had seen better days. If we had an ice pick and a few hours, we could probably chip away and eventually find them.

  "'Always winter and never Christmas,'" Oliver says.

  "Think if Asian comes, he'll bring some Eggos?"

  "Sis, if you're wishing, you can wish for anything. Not just waffles. How about a whole breakfast?

  Bacon and pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream."

  "I'm always too practical in my wishing," I say. I use my inhuman strength to break off a waffle.

  I put it in the toaster and push the lever down, and that's when we hear this shout.

  Dad. Yelling. Man, is he angry.

  "Tell me!" he says.

  Then Mom's voice. Too quiet to hear.

  "Why hide it? Huh? What are you trying to hide?"

  His voice shoots down the stairs, bounces and crashes against all the regular parts of our kitchen-

  -the coffeepot and the fridge, the pot holder hanging by its loop on the stove. Oliver looks at me with wide eyes. See, our parents never fight. Well, they fight, but disagreement is the word that comes more to mind. Someone would say something a bit sharply and the other would stare off or leave the room. And then the issue would just fade away, like invisible ink after the lemon juice has dried. No one ever yelled.

  Oliver and I just stand really still, looking at each other. Milo is still too, but he's just waiting for a waffle.

  I gesture for Oliver to follow me. We tiptoe over to the stairwell, like a couple of burglars. Listen.

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  "Since when are you so interested in this stuff? That's what I'd really like to know."

  "You're making a big deal out of nothing," Mom says. "Roger just thought I'd like these. He's trying to be helpful. I am interested. ..."

  Roger. Mr. Dutton? Dad was jealous of my librarian? Giving Mom boofes?

  "And they're under the bed--why?"

  Nothing.

  "Goddamn it, Nancy, answer me." Silence.

  Answer, I plead. Books, for God's sake. Big deal! Answer!

  "Well, that tells me what I need to know. Fuck, this is great." Oliver practically gasps. Fuck is not part of Dad's usual vocabulary, at least that we know. It was the kind of thing he'd say when he was fixing the kitchen sink, or as part of a joke to the car mechanic when they both looked under the hood of Dad's car--Carburetor is French for Don't fuck with me, is what I believe. But it was nothing he would say to Mom. Nothing he'd yell at her in anger.

  "No!" Mom says. "Stop it! I don't know why I hid them ... There's no real reason to hide them ..."

  "And what about our household, huh? It's a mess. There's no food in the house. The laundry--"

  "I never get to the laundry. Okay? I'm a criminal."

  "It's overflowing. There's no coffee. The kitchen's a mess----"

  He might have been a little right.

  "I noticed that too," Oliver whispers.

  "You don't even care about this house anymore!" Dad shouts. "Us. Me."

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  "That's all I do. Care about everyone else. Do everything for everyone else! You are all capable people who can clean the kitchen and do your own laundry. Who does my laundry? Who cares for me?"

  "I don't even know you anymore," Dad says.

  Mom starts to cry. Shit, she starts to cry. I hear her voice break down. A lump starts in my own throat.

  Oliver whispers, "Are they going to get a divorce?"

  The word is huge, catastrophic. A word like earthquake, or tidal wave, or plane crash.

  "Of course not," I tell him. "Not in a million years."

  We listen to Mom cry. Then I feel Oliver's hand slip into mine. We sit like that for a while.

  Oliver seems small in his husband pajamas. I can't take it anymore. My heart hurts. First, Mom in my room; now this. I feel all hollow with grief.

  "Come on," I say.

  "What?"

  "Get dressed as fast as you can and meet me downstairs."

  I step to my room quietly, knock three times softly. I throw on some clothes and pull a few bills from the wad of money I have in my sock drawer. Every time Mom or Dad gives me any, or I get a birthday card with money tucked inside from one of my relatives, I stash it. I'm not much of a spender. I prefer the comfort of those bills in a fat lump to anything I might think I want for a moment.

  I feed Milo some of his food, which looks like a brown version of Capn' Crunch with Crunch Berries. Oliver hunts in the closet for his shoes. The waffle has popped up, and I know how it will taste anyway, that stale, frozen taste of things in one place too long. I leave it there. It will be a waffle statement. I

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  grab Mom's keys from the kitchen counter and we leave out the front door.

  "Where we going, Sis? Are we coming back?"

  "Of course we're coming back." I swat his leg. "Okay-- clue. If you're wishing, you can wish for anything.'"

  He still hasn't guessed by the time we turn into Yvonne's House of Pancakes parking lot (or YHOP, for the acronym minded). Yvonne's had been there forever, or at least from the seventies.

  Big, ugly brass flower sculptures decorate one wall. The menus have thirty years' worth of stickiness, and the waitress still has a crush on Tony Danza, but the pancakes are big and buttery.

  Strawberry pancakes, bacon. Large orange juice with pulp clinging to the empty glass. We go from starving to stuffed in twenty minutes.

  Then I suggest we go to Total Vid. "I don't want to see the surfing movie again," Oliver says, but that's not what I have in mind. Titus in his pineapple shirt apparently has the day off, but this other girl wearing pigtails and a leopard-print shirt helps us find the nature videos. They don't have the spycam-in-crap one that Oliver wanted me to see, but we get another one about elephants. Back at home, there are only the usual sounds. Dad is downstairs; I can hear him hammering. Mom has the television on in her room. I guess the fight is over, but it seems like Oliver and I are still recovering. Something feels bruised.

  I have so much homework that I'm bound to be up all night for the next few days, but this is more important. Oliver puts in the movie and we sit on the couch together. We watch a herd, followed over several years. We watch babies being born, elder members dying. We watch as the family struggles through a

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  drought, through a flood, through a long voyage in search for food. We watch as they stay together, through mourning, through celebration, through all things. Depending on each other for their very survival. Family, always.

  I find Damian in his office the next ti
me I go to the elephant house. He is leaning back in his chair, his hands folded across his stomach.

  "You look sad," I say.

  "Jade," he says. "Good afternoon. I've posted a new list of jobs this morning." "Are you okay?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "But why do you look like that? No smile." Damian never looks this serious.

  He sighs. "It's Onyx. They want to transfer her."

  "They've said it before," I say. "They can't get rid of her." I love Onyx. Onyx is troubled and sometimes mean, but she looks like she knows things, the way people who've seen pain know things.

  "No, this time Victor Iverly is preparing. I need a plan," Damian says. "What?"

  "I don't know. But I don't have much time. Victor has given her three weeks. He's making her travel arrangements. He's worried about 'public safety.'"

  "I'm sorry, Damian."

  "I'm not giving up yet. There's got to be something that will help. An idea that will work without banishing her. I don't think she can take another move, another break."

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  "You're like a father to them."

  "Some fathers aren't driven from the herd, I guess. Some stay.

  I work with Elaine on enrichment, hanging up the big chain wrapped in a fire hose, which gets put up after January so that tires and barrels and treats can be strung from it. We also help drag over a huge pine tree that had formerly been with the Siberian tigers, and we dump it in the fields.

  The elephants love anything with a new, strong scent, and before we even get out of there, tails are up and ears, too, and the elephants start vocalizing and Tombi and Bamboo sway on over. It makes you happy to give them something new and interesting to check out, same as giving Milo a new rawhide.

  Sebastian comes alone that day, right as I am finishing up. I'd been trying not to obsess over the would/wouldn't, and I am rewarded, because there he is--an appearance that is expected and unexpected at the same time.