by Barry Rachin
They were environmental indicators. Once a stream became polluted with noxious waste, the animals, who were a part of the ferret and weasel family, quickly abandoned the area in search of clean habitat. Cheryl’s father was a philanderer, an inveterate liar and heartbreaker - a toxic waste dump of emotional pollution. He soiled his nest.
The hand on the chest – that was a big deal.
Not quite as big as a kiss or hug but right up there. When I gave her the second slice of apricot bread, Cheryl rewarded me with another unearthly beatific smile. I unzipped the front flap on my lunch bag and transferred the treat to the girl’s backpack. “I’ll save it for later.” Something had definitely changed. She seemed more relaxed. “My father moved out over the weekend.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be,” Cheryl protested. “It’s so much nicer with him gone.”
Monday the Zoofari class was introduced to the South African meerkats, relatives of the mongoose family. They reminded me of miniature squirrels strung out on amphetamines. The meerkats lived underground in burrows, housing about twenty animals with each member having a specific job that benefited the community as a whole. There were babysitters, sentries, hunters and teachers. Sentries stood on a log or bush and watched for predators and other threats. When one was seen, the sentry let loose with a warning call that allowed the others to reach the safety of the burrow in plenty of time. The animal spent much of the day above ground playing. When not engaged in play, they were usually busy digging or turning over stones in search of food.
Next, we got to meet the lions, white ruffed lemurs, a fennec fox and silver-cheeked hornbill before progressing on to the diadem snake, binturong, snow leopard and Madagascar fody. By Wednesday of the second week, we were learning about speckled mousebirds, Japanese macaques, a Visyan warty pig and red-crowned crane. Thursday there was a summing up of the camp experience, and Friday the parents were treated to a formal presentation before collecting their children for the last time.
“Jack London was an autodidact.” Cheryl waved the dog-eared paperback in front of my nose. On this our last day together, she was still obsessing over the author who wrote multiple endings to the same story.
“What’s that?” As an endless stream of visitors, parents and rowdy siblings paraded past, I wanted to kiss her something awful – right there in front of the mesh wire cage housing the gold-crested mynah birds.
“An autodidact is a self-taught person, someone who never got a proper education.”
Everything was falling apart and all she could manage was more inane banter. “To hell with Jack London!” I sputtered and, leaning forward, kissed her full on the lips.
Somewhere in the distance the sloth bears let out a cacophony of bizarre polytonal grunts and squeals. “Do it again,” she demanded, and I kissed her impetuously a second time but had to make it brief because a couple of bratty preschoolers came skipping around the bend singing the idiotic theme song from SpongeBob SquarePants.
“I’ll call you later tonight after supper.” I could hardly catch my breath. “Let’s meet somewhere tomorrow.”
“There’s a playground with toddler swings and a jungle gym off Reese Avenue.” Cheryl’s eyes were glazed over.
“It’s not that far from where we live. I’ll hop on my ten-speed and see you there around one. We can spend Saturday afternoon together.”
That’s when I sort of went bonkers—snuffling, gagging and bawling my eyes out like some emotionally labile lunatic. My brain shut down—went on sabbatical. The kiss, the sloth bears howling freakishly in the distance and a certain self-taught adventurer who never benefited from formal education—they all congealed together, converting my cerebellum into a slurry of vapid mush.
“What’s the matter?” Cheryl pressed.
“A person traveling alone in the wilderness falls through the ice and his legs go numb, freeze solid …” I couldn’t continue. I just didn’t know what else to say, because the main thrust of the argument was running so far ahead of my putrid brain cells that I couldn’t keep pace much less catch up to the scattering of evanescent thoughts. Now I understood how my father felt at the Tim Horton’s coffee shop when he got all balled up in his grandiose palaver.
Cheryl Oliphant sidled up to me. Her compact hand slid into mine, a perfect fit, and held the fingers tight. Lifting up on her toes, she nuzzled my wet cheek. “Make it twelve-thirty, and, before we visit the playground, come by the house to meet my mother.”