Did Not Survive

by Ann Littlewood

  Crease in his ear lobe? “I don’t know. He was passed out face down. I saw blood on his head. He lost a bunch of weight lately so maybe not a heart attack.”

  “Maybe he had a stroke. Maybe he paid too much attention to Nakri and Damrey got jealous. Could be she’s got a brain tumor, and we’ll have to euthanize her.”

  “Denny, we don’t know.” As if anything I could say would stop Denny’s ceaseless, off-kilter rummaging for explanations. I relaxed a little. The jitters could not survive the mystification and annoyance that Denny aroused. We weren’t quite friends, more like herd members that would fight off the lions together, then kick one another at the water hole.

  Keepers clustered near us as they trickled in, the office staff segregating themselves on the other side of the room. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Sam sitting behind us looking haggard. I was surprised he left the barn under Ian’s supervision. Civilians in animal areas required constant vigilance, and police would be especially challenging. Ian was hired as the new elephant keeper three months ago. Would Sam already trust him? Perhaps the officers had finished and left.

  Dr. Jean Reynolds, the zoo’s veterinarian, sat in our group, with Kayla Leadon, the veterinary technician. “Poor Kevin. This totally freaks me out,” Kayla said to the vet. “Elephants are supposed to be wise and gentle. I didn’t think they killed people, at least not the tame ones.”

  None of us chose to enlighten her. Elephants in captivity kill a keeper every year or two in the United States or Europe. In India, where more people have contact with the animals, the toll is two hundred people a year or more. When you weigh four tons, a moment’s irritation or panic is easily fatal for any human in the way.

  With all the on-duty staff present except for Jackie Margulis, the office secretary, the little room was full. Jackie was stuck in the office to deal with the press and public, not to mention the phones. She would expect me to brief her afterward.

  Mr. Crandall waited at the podium in front while stragglers seated themselves. The director was tall and silver-haired, erect of posture, usually benign and confident, a white beard confirming his silverback status. His age was a closely held secret, and the word “retirement” was not to be spoken in his hearing. Today he looked grim and preoccupied. I had a brief flare of hope that he would know something I didn’t, something to make sense of this dreadful morning.

  Only last week, Wallace stood at that same podium to run the keeper meeting, reporting the zoo’s slow progress toward accreditation by the National Association of Zoos, urging us to chat nicely with visitors at every opportunity, announcing that he had tentatively found a pair of orangutans available for breeding loan.

  Mr. Crandall stiffened to attention and muted conversation ceased. “We’ve had a serious accident here at the zoo today, and I want you all to have the facts, to the extent they are known. Kevin Wallace was found early this morning unconscious in the front elephant stall with Damrey. We do not know his medical condition at this time except to say that it seems serious. It appears that Damrey attacked him. He is receiving the best medical care, and I will keep you apprised of his condition to the extent possible.”

  By the muttered exclamations, I gathered that Wallace’s calamity was news to some.

  Mr. Crandall waited for the murmurs to die down. “We will take all precautions to prevent any additional accidents. From now on, our elephant management is changed to protected-contact. No one will go in with either elephant under any circumstances. They will be managed entirely by remote procedures. Under the circumstances, Damrey must be considered an extremely dangerous animal.”

  This was greeted with silence. I half-expected Sam to protest and glanced back at him. He sat with his back stiff and said nothing.

  Mr. Crandall had more. “Please understand the seriousness of this incident. If it weren’t for fast action by Iris Oakley, who happened to be on the grounds, Kevin Wallace could well have been killed outright, and certainly Damrey would have been shot to allow emergency personnel to reach him.”

  “Sam did it,” I protested. “He walked me through it on the phone. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Mr. Crandall’s gaze shifted to me, but his expression did not flicker. “I appreciate that you worked well together. It is what I expect of our staff and what you always deliver. I could not ask for more.” This was a stock compliment, worn thin. He looked over his audience. “I will be acting foreman at least until we understand the situation better. I will request that the National Association of Zoos send a professional committee to investigate. Occupational Safety and Health Administration will no doubt participate, and the police may also, at least until the nature of the accident is clear. I ask that you not discuss this event with the press, but instead refer all inquiries to me. Your assignments remain as before. I will keep you informed. The zoo will be closed today. Thank you.”

  Sam stood up, tall, lanky, graying, a senior keeper with thirty-five years at this zoo. “If I could say something.”

  Mr. Crandall nodded warily.

  “I’d like to thank Iris for her good work this morning. She got the girls shifted, and it would have been hell to pay if she hadn’t. And my personal appreciation to Hap for holding fire and giving it an extra minute.” He paused, either to let that sink in or to regain control of his voice. “I’d like to add that Damrey would never have hurt Wallace in a thousand years. I don’t know what happened, but she didn’t attack him.” He sat down.

  I understood now why he’d left Ian at the barn and come to the meeting. Damrey would not take the rap if he could help it. He hadn’t seen her mauling Wallace, and he wasn’t ready to believe it.

  Mr. Crandall nodded impassively, said “Thank you,” and left us.

  We moved out of the room, little wiser than when we entered, and some of us paused outside under the roof overhang. Not Sam—he headed for the elephant barn with his long stride, no word to anyone. This was a terrible situation for him, and it wouldn’t end any time soon.

  Hap biffed me on the shoulder and took off for the Commissary.

  Dr. Reynolds stood a little apart in her white lab coat, staring into space. She was tall, almost my height, slender without looking frail, attractive in an understated, sober way. Long, loose brown hair framed a narrow, serious face. Her “uniform” consisted of brown twill pants, a gray turtleneck sweater, and a short white lab coat. Never any makeup or jewelry. She’d had a few years of experience, including working with wildlife in Africa, but this was her first job as the sole veterinarian at a zoo. She’d been with Finley Memorial only a few months. Today her customary professionalism was out of focus. She looked as though she’d lost track of what to do next.

  Kayla, the vet technician, waited pale and patient beside her. When Dr. Reynolds was hired, somehow the deal included hiring Kayla as well. Kayla had worked in small-animal clinics, but she was new to the zoo world. The gossip machine claimed they had been college roommates. Nobody cared much about the favoritism because, on a normal day, Kayla was a kick to have around. Shiny brown hair bouncing down her back, brown eyes enhanced with careful makeup, a tattooed garland around each wrist. Today she wore a pink, v-necked little shirt over tight jeans and earrings of pink gems. Her white lab coat was slung over an arm. The vitality and good humor had gone missing this morning.

  Linda, feline keeper and good friend, stood with me. Linda’s face was pale beneath the freckles. “Iris, are you all right? What happened?”

  Dr. Reynolds came out of her trance and listened. So did Denny, next to us.

  I said, “I have no idea. The cows were bellowing, and I walked in to see Wallace face down in Damrey’s stall. She was all over him with her feet and her trunk. There was blood. That’s it, that’s the lot. Except for me having a stroke trying to get those elephants shut away from him. It took forever. They were really messing with him. He might die because I don’t know crapola about elephants.”

  “The docs will know,” said
Denny, ever helpful. “They can tell when internal injuries and broken bones occurred.”

  “Stop it,” Linda said. “Iris got the job done.”

  Dr. Reynolds lost interest and walked away, Kayla at heel.

  Linda said, “The question is, now what? What if he…doesn’t come back as foreman? I mean, it could be months.”

  “Or never,” Denny said. “Crandall can’t run the entire zoo. He’ll have to hire someone. Maybe get one of the senior keepers to take over temporarily. Who knows—it could end up better.”

  “Shit, Denny,” I said. “You battled with him, and now you’re glad he’s dying or crippled? And Damrey may have to be euthanized. Congratulations on making lemonade out of that.”

  “I was just saying! I don’t want anybody to die.” Denny looked misunderstood and aggrieved.

  Linda curled her lip at him. She grabbed my arm and tugged me away. “Really, are you okay? You need to be careful.”

  “I’m fine,” I said reflexively, then caught her meaning. “I won’t tune out like I did…before. I’m good.” For weeks after my husband’s death six months ago, I’d stumbled through my life and my job. I had been lucky to survive. Elephants aren’t the only danger in a zoo.

  “Call me and I’ll come to Birds whenever you want to talk. Everything’s good there?” Linda glanced at my belly.

  “Running was not so good, but it feels fine now.” I massaged it lightly to be sure.

  She gave my arm a little shake. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “And I’ve got to talk to Jackie,” I said, and abandoned Denny while he was still explaining what he’d really meant.

  Jackie would be afire with curiosity about the meeting. We kept a balanced information flow: I told her the happenings on the animal side and she leaked as much as she dared about the administration side. I’d have to keep it short today.

  In the office, Mr. Crandall’s door was closed, as was Wallace’s. Jackie was on the phone saying that all she could do was take a message. She hung up and made a face. “I’ve got to get out of here before I kill someone.” She did something complicated to the phone system, rummaged for her smokes, yelled “I’m on break” toward the closed doors, and charged outside. I followed, and we ducked around the corner of the Administration building to a spot under an overhang and out of most lines of sight.

  Jackie reminded me of crows—black hair, bold features, and thin bones. She was somewhere beyond forty and had been Mr. Crandall’s secretary and the office manager for years. Bored by her job and a solitary home life, she had cultivated a talent for infusing drama into any event, and she loved to share the results. Today she looked like she’d already overdosed.

  The cigarette wobbled between her lips. “How crazy can this place get? The press is all over us like stink on…well, you know. What did Our Glorious Leader say?” she mumbled as she activated her lighter.

  “What could he say? Apparently Damrey really flipped out. Wallace is down and out, we don’t know how bad. Mr. Crandall’s acting foreman. From now on, no keepers going in with elephants.”

  “Wallace loved those elephants. Half the time he had that smell on his clothes from hanging out there. Ironic, right?” She took a deep drag and blew noxious vapors toward me.

  “Kind of like cigarettes,” I said. “Reeks and can be fatal.”

  After the required dirty look, she said, “Junior’s okay?”

  “No problem.” I automatically wrapped a hand around my bulge.

  “I guess you must have been the worst person to find him, right?”

  Smoke curled up and around her face as she glanced at me with a delicate intensity, and I recalled the price of being her friend. Never show weakness, never say anything you didn’t want circulated. “Just another day at the office,” I said. “Sam talked me through it over my cell.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She blew more smoke, aiming it off to the side. “Sorry it had to be you. Must of brought up bad memories.”

  Still not going there. “I’ve got to get to work. I’m way behind. Let me know when you hear how Wallace is doing.”

  “Read the paper instead. The press gets everything before we do. And those picketers are going nuts. They’ve got bullhorns now.”

  I’d forgotten about the picketers. Of course they were stirred up. They showed up in front of the zoo a couple times a week, starting a month ago, when a rumor got loose that the zoo was about to start construction on the new elephant exhibit. The good citizens of Vancouver had passed a bond measure almost a year ago to finally, finally bring Finley Memorial Zoo up to modern standards. The Asian Experience complex for orangutans, clouded leopards, and a few birds and reptiles was well under way. Better, bigger elephant housing was expected to be among the improvements.

  No such construction was happening, to Sam’s considerable ire, but the rumor lived on. Generally three or four protesters walked in a loose circle outside the front gate carrying signs. I was familiar with the messages: “Zoos are no place for elephants,” “Elephants deserve better,” “Sanctuaries, not prisons.” I’d read enough in the papers and online to know that certain animal rights groups were convinced that no zoo could provide a decent home for elephants.

  “They already heard about the accident?” I asked.

  “See for yourself.”

  I walked closer to the entrance’s locked turnstiles and metal mesh gate. A black van with TV station call letters on the side and a satellite dish on top was illegally parked in front of the entrance. A sleek man in a stripy tie and blue dress shirt held a mic up to a bushy-haired guy in denim coveralls, who was speaking with emphatic head movements. The interviewee had a picket sign slung over his back and a bullhorn dangling low from one hand. The other picketers, a mix of men and women, circulated slowly. Their professionally-printed signs were gone, replaced by ones hastily hand-lettered with colored pens. “Zoo life makes elephants crazy,” “Don’t blame the elephant,” “Already a prisoner—set her free.”

  Jackie spoke from behind me. “Try to improve the place and the hu-maniacs are all over us. They think we ought to pack up both elephants and send them off to some sanctuary paradise on their say-so instead of building a decent place here.” She stubbed out her cigarette and added, “Yesterday, I would have said they were wasting their time.”

  Chapter Three

  I left Jackie and finally showed up for work at the Penguinarium kitchen, the food preparation area for Birds. Calvin had gotten there first and started the daily routine. He was a quiet, stocky guy maybe sixty years old. I’d come to admire his honesty and hard work, his passion for anything in feathers, and he seemed comfortable working with me at last. As senior keeper of Birds, he directed the work, but he listened, and we made a good team. Calvin was a widower with a daughter and some grandkids. Now and then he pulled out pictures to show me a junior high school graduation or vacation shot. He was delighted by my pregnancy and insistent that I avoid many activities he perceived as risky.

  I filled him in on the morning’s disaster while he rinsed fish in a bucket at the left sink, and I stuffed vitamin pills into their gills at the right sink. The silvery smelt and herring were barely thawed, and yellow rubber gloves did little to protect our hands from the cold. I stacked the supplemented fish into a stainless steel pan on the counter. The rest went into a five gallon bucket.

  African penguins hung out by the keeper door that let us access their exhibit. They liked to stand on their island and watch us work. Some of them were willing to waddle into the kitchen and supervise us more closely, so we stretched a baby gate across the door in the morning. We shut the door when the zoo opened and visitors started showing up.

  When I’d finished my news bulletin, Calvin asked, “What were you doing here so early?”

  I’d skipped that part. “Linda has a night watch going on Losa, the clouded leopard. She’s due any day. I took a shift. The camera’s set up in the Education office since I’m not allowed
in Felines until my baby comes. I mean, I can visit, but I can’t hang out.”

  “I’m surprised you’re up to doing that night work, big as you are. Need your sleep.”

  I tried not to bristle. “I’m fine, and I really want to see those cubs.”

  Linda and I had watched when Losa was first introduced to Yuri. Clouded leopard boyfriends are prone to domestic violence, sometimes fatal, but Yuri had tolerated a stranger in his space, kept his focus on reproduction, and got the job done, albeit with teeth and claws and yowling, while two nerve-wracked keepers and a veterinarian stood by wondering whether to use the hose to separate them. Now Yuri was safely shut away from Losa for fear he was not up to parental responsibilities, although they stayed acquainted through wire mesh. She was showing a little belly, eating a little more, and pissing out urine that said, yes, yes, babies in progress. Linda and I were ecstatic and had shifted our worries to her mothering skills.

  Calvin stepped over the baby gate with the pan of supplemented fish. Penguins crowded around. “What is it, three-four months for them? Must sound like a breeze to you.”

  That it did. “Thirteen weeks gestation.” Whereas I had been gravid for six months and had three left to go.

  “Good thing you were here early,” he said as he handed out fish to eager beaks. “Be terrible to shoot Damrey. Sam would never get over it. Wallace would never get over it.”

  He seemed to be assuming Wallace would survive.

  Calvin shifted his attention to the penguins and chatted with them, calling each by name and admonishing them to be polite. When they were fed, we worked methodically to prepare food for the other birds, without a cross word from him about his beloved penguins breakfasting late or about having to work on his day off.

  The zoo was strange without visitors. I’d always thought that it would be wonderful to have the place all to myself without the noise and trash of the great American public, but the silence and empty paths emphasized the day’s tragedy.