Did Not Survive

by Ann Littlewood

  In the driveway of the teal bungalow with cream trim, 3 bds, 1 bath, new rf. and elec., I wondered if I’d ever quit thinking I should park on the street like a visitor. Everyone said my new house was cute and perfect, and I liked it myself. It was only that I felt I was house-sitting for the real owners, probably an older couple or maybe a family with a dad and mom and twin eighth-graders. I invented occupants whom this house would wrap around and shelter. None of them were single mothers still mourning their husbands or zoo keepers with vague ambitions to find out why their boss was dead.

  The dogs flopped on the living room rug, licked themselves tidy, and fell asleep. Energized by sunshine, I started on the home version of what I did at work—cleaning. The household version required a lot less brain power. I focused my unused cognition and started loading the dishwasher, stopping occasionally to make a note on scrap paper.

  After the pans were washed, the counters wiped and the kitchen floor swept, I reviewed the water-spotted piece of paper. Under the heading “Scenarios” I’d listed the following:

  1. W argued with X, X lost temper and killed W

  2. W found X doing something wrong, X killed him to hide it

  3. X found W doing something wrong, W attacked X and lost the fight. X afraid to admit it.

  4. X plotted to kill W and blame it on the elephant, lured him to barn.

  5. W plotted to kill X, lured him/her to barn. W lost the fight. X afraid to admit it.

  6. Mistaken identity, W killed in error. Who was it supposed to be?

  7. X, Y, and Z ganged up on W. Who are they?

  8. Killed elsewhere and dragged to barn, stuffed through bars into stall

  9. One of elephants really did kill W with ankus

  I fixed a cheese sandwich and stuck it in the toaster oven. While that was heating, I crossed out everything after number five as unlikely. That left way too many possibilities. It was also distasteful. I’d been optimistic that Wallace’s killer was someone from outside the zoo, but that was wishful thinking. I had no idea.

  I switched from chewing on the pencil to chewing on the sandwich, pulled another piece of paper out of the recycling bin, and wrote: “Who is X?”

  Male or female?

  Known to Wallace—zoo staff or from somewhere else?

  Stranger—how in barn? Why in barn?

  Stalled out, I mopped the kitchen and vacuumed.

  Time for a cookie break. I shared cookies with the dogs. Re-read my notes. Zero inspiration. What to do next?

  Giving up sounded good. My left brain was tired and so was the rest of me. Time for the subconscious to pick up the slack. I gave it every chance by crashing on the sofa. I slept like the dead, catching up from a week of troubled dreams and clouded leopard watches.

  Barking dogs woke me up hours later. I blundered to the front door and my mother bustled in, bright in a yellow sweatshirt. She set a bushel of pink peonies on the dining room table. “Hello, dear. Color isn’t right for this room, but aren’t they lovely? The lilacs are already gone and the dahlias aren’t open yet.”

  “Mom? Was I expecting you? Did I forget?” I’d have to plead mental disability due to pregnancy if I’d forgotten they were coming to dinner, a humiliating prospect. I buried the papers with my notes under a stack of mail. A neat stack.

  “No, no, sorry. Your dad said we should call, but I forgot. I took off work an hour early so we could shop for a new washing machine, and we decided to drop by.”

  My mother developed supplemental math units for elementary schools, floating from school to school, sprinkling pre-algebra everywhere she went. I had not inherited her short stature, double-dose of energy, or math gene. In fact, my school performance had caused her many years of self-doubt about her parenting skills and profession.

  My father wandered in like the calm after the storm, carrying a big shopping bag in each hand. I blamed his genes for my dark hair, height, and lack of academic ambition. A self-employed sign painter, he lived for gold leaf and up-scale designer jobs.

  The dogs greeted both visitors politely, and the parents settled in the dining room. Ducking into the kitchen gave me a few minutes to collect myself and to put water on for tea. Splashing water on my face dispelled some of the grogginess. I checked in with my subconscious and found it had declined to do any heavy lifting. No inspiration about Wallace. On the plus side, I’d slept without nightmares.

  I joined my parents in the dining room and, after fielding inquiries about my health and that of my unfinished offspring, undertook the now-customary opening of packages. This batch included another crib sheet, diaper covers, a musical mobile, and maternity pajamas. The jammies consisted of a pink top and pink plaid bottoms, totaling enough fabric to outfit a clipper ship. “This is great. Thanks so much,” I ritually responded. Baby gear was piling up in the second bedroom while I still had no idea what I needed. It was daunting and premature. The baby wasn’t due until August, after all, and it was only June.

  “Tell her, Jim,” my mother nudged.

  “I maybe found a car for you,” he said. “A Honda CRV, lot of miles, but runs good. Friend of a friend is getting divorced and needs to sell it fast.”

  What was the rush? I had months yet. I tossed out the first objection I could think of. “So I wouldn’t get a trade-in on the pickup. I’d have to sell it myself.”

  “Got that covered. Aaron, the guy from Fresno who’s been helping me in the shop, wants the truck. He’ll pay the low end of Blue Book, which is pretty fair for that thing.”

  “Dad, it runs great. That truck has never failed me.”

  “This is a good deal, Iris. I don’t think you’re going to get any more for that truck.”

  “Maybe.” My obstetrician and any number of free baby magazines assured me that riding in the front of a vehicle is lethal for an infant. Only back seats are suitable and only if equipped with an infant carrier incorporating space-age technology. My parents had provided the car seat within hours of learning I was pregnant, but I still lacked a back seat. My truck had to go, and I was struggling with an inappropriate attachment to a mechanical object, or so my mother told me.

  My dad seemed mildly puzzled by my lack of enthusiasm. “Tomorrow you can come by the shop and show Aaron the truck. Then I’ll go with you to look over the Honda. If you like it, you’ll be ready.”

  “Ready,” as in for a baby not safely housed out of sight, a baby requiring a skill set other than eating for two and wearing a face mask at work? No way would I be “ready.” “We’ll see. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

  My mother looked pleased, confident that I’d been nudged another step toward responsible parenthood. “Have you gotten a crib yet?”

  “I checked prices on Craigslist,” I lied.

  Apparently that was sufficient because she moved on. “The circus is coming to town.”

  “How about that,” I said cautiously, thinking this might be a metaphor.

  “Next week, I’m taking a classroom of fifth graders. I want you to come, too. You can tell them about the animals. The kids will love it. It’s a week from today. Two o’clock. I’ll get you a free ticket.”

  Not a metaphor. “Um, I might have other plans?” Plans that didn’t involve rowdy ten year olds. “Tigers jumping through hoops makes me queasy. It’s undignified. People shouldn’t get their kicks watching tigers being bossed around.”

  “I thought you’d love the idea. They have elephants and horses, too. Not enough parents signed up to help, and I’ll have to cancel.”

  She wasn’t the sort to overact with a sad face, but I could tell she didn’t want to cancel. She didn’t often ask my help. Usually she was helping me. Had I always been so vulnerable to arm-twisting? “Okay, fine. Sure. You do remember that the clowns terrified me the last time you took me to the circus?”

  “You were six years old. You ate popcorn and licorice until you threw up.”

  “No way. I’ve always hated lic
orice.”

  “Loved it until then, but don’t blame the circus. We’ll have a good time. You’ll see. Oh, that reminds me. I’ve been saving this clipping for you for months.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping. It showed a picture of Damrey with the little girl who’d won the art contest.

  I glanced at it, thanked her, and set it on top of the stack of bills.

  She said, “I read in the paper that the foreman died. What was his name?”

  On to the next item on her agenda. I was barely keeping up. “Kevin Wallace.”

  “What a horrible thing. I wonder if they’ll be able to figure out what happened.”

  “The police? Sure they will. They do it in an hour on TV,” I said, unsure where she was going but hoping to deflect her. I didn’t want to share the details of finding Wallace yet again or, worse, explore the fact that a killer might be loose in my workplace.

  “I should think you would want a desk job at this point. You have two to think about, and your job is risky in your condition.”

  I should have seen that coming. This campaign had started long ago. “Mom, I’m a bird keeper now. I might get pecked. On the finger.”

  “You always make light of it, even when you were working with lions. Is there an office job maybe available? You should think about it. You shouldn’t be doing heavy work.”

  “Nope. No office jobs. How’s your work going? How did you get roped into this circus thing?”

  “I love circuses. Who’s your boss now?”

  “Mr. Crandall is acting foreman.”

  “That dinosaur. I can’t imagine why he doesn’t retire. If he’s your boss now, you could ask him about another sort of job, couldn’t you? I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

  I wasn’t that much of a wimp. “Mom, it would hurt. I’m an animal keeper. It’s what I do. You shouldn’t worry. It’s perfectly safe. The doctor told me to exercise.”

  “Gloria, it’s getting close to dinner time,” my dad said.

  My mother jumped up. “Right. Come to dinner with us. We’re going to that new café on Division.”

  I wasn’t hard to convince since sleep had won out over shopping for groceries. Maybe the café would be noisy enough to minimize conversation. Six months hadn’t been near enough time for my mother to adjust to the idea of a pregnant daughter. I was exhausted by her worries and suggestions, and the real action hadn’t started yet.

  As we got into the car, she said, “Honey, I just want everything to go well. You’ve had such a hard time of it. Tell me to back off if I’m too, too…”

  “Bossy?”

  “Involved.”

  An opportunity to lower my stress level that I should not pass up, but this was the tricky interpersonal stuff I was terrible at. What would Dear Abby or Amy or Carolyn advise me to say? I silently rehearsed the phrasing. Stilted, but the best I could do. “Mom, I know you feel that I’m not able to handle this, and I appreciate everything…”

  She snatched up the bait before it landed. “No, no, that’s not it at all! I—we—have complete confidence in you. You are extremely capable. We only want to help!”

  Feeling wildly successful and a little guilty, I said, “It’s good to hear you think I can handle being pregnant and getting ready for the baby. So, Mom, there’s no need to try to think of everything and push me to do it.”

  “I know, I know. I’m over-doing it. It’s just that I’m, we’re, excited about our first grandchild. It’s so brave of you to tackle this alone.”

  “Bravery hasn’t anything to do with it. I really do appreciate the support, but—“

  “I promise to lighten up. I won’t press you anymore.”

  “That would be great.” I sat in the back of the car, totally pleased with myself, and silently counted seconds. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi…”

  At “fifteen Mississippi,” “You will get a crib tomorrow, won’t you? Make sure the bars are close together. You don’t want the baby to get his head stuck.”

  Chapter Ten

  My Monday, that is, Saturday, came around all too soon. My father had succeeded in pulling off the Great Vehicle Swap and I drove to work in a “new” green Honda CRV, fully equipped with tires, roof rack, and, crucially, a back seat. The cargo area was tight for two biggish dogs, and the car had been detailed with odiferous petrochemicals, but it drove fine, and I could breathe perfectly well if I kept the windows rolled down. I’d handed off my truck to Aaron and hoped he would love it. My Country Chick persona was evicted, Suburban Mommy had the wheel. At least it wasn’t a minivan with a “Baby on Board” sign dangling from a window. Dad promised a custom painting on the cover of the spare tire bolted to the rear. A clouded leopard portrait would de-bland the Honda and—maybe—make it mine.

  The Honda had a certain zip to it, I couldn’t deny, or perhaps commuting in daylight put the zip into me. Mornings and evenings of the longest days of the year are often wasted under clouds in the Northwest, but today was clear. Approaching the old Interstate 5 bridge, I glimpsed the blunt, snow-streaked top of Mount St. Helens. Pictures taken before I was born showed a perfect cone. That peak was now scattered over a lot of acreage, and the mountain was a thousand feet shorter. Geology isn’t theoretical in these parts, it’s to be taken seriously.

  Mount Hood loomed severe and snowcapped to my right as I crossed the bridge against the rush hour traffic migrating into Portland. The Columbia River gleamed below. My father had taught me the old names of the mountains, from the people who were here before our kind. Lewit for St. Helens, Wy’East for Mount Hood. It’s a gracious thing to see a mountain or two on the way to work.

  I pulled into the zoo in a better mood than I’d left it two days before. Walking toward Elephants, I wondered if I’d be able to locate my new wheels after work, given the two other green Honda CRVs in the employee lot. My license plate started with W. Or maybe Y. It had a 9. Possibly.

  This was my third shot at collecting elephant samples. Knowing that Damrey hadn’t killed anybody took most of the anxiety out. I rounded up the broom stick and cups. Ian was working alone in back, hauling bales to the hay racks with an ease I envied. I watched by the front stall’s hay rack, musing that human strength means nothing against an elephant—hay bales are where the muscles count. “Sam’s day off?” I asked when he brought a bale over. “You and I must be on the same schedule.”

  He nodded as he clipped twine, broke up the bale, and shoved flakes into the rack. Mr. Sociable.

  Nakri and Damrey were slouching around the front stall. Damrey swiped at bits of hay on the floor. Some she put in her mouth, some she tossed onto her shoulders. What made one bit “food” and the other “adornment”? Nakri slurped from the giant trough, blowing gallons of water into her mouth and dribbling gallons more onto the floor. The stall was littered with droppings the size of tea kettles. I’d have to claim a few for my mother. A dedicated gardener, she regarded herbivore manure as a natural resource equivalent to silver or timber.

  Ian joined me and reminded Damrey what the deal was. She sniffed at the raisins, but was slow to offer up her liquid treasure. I could tell Ian was about to call a time out and usher me back to the work area when she wheeled around and presented her butt. I collected a half-cup of what she produced and tossed the clod of raisins into the hay rack. Nakri backed up to the bars, eager for her turn. I turned away to signal that I wasn’t ready, left to put Damrey’s sample in the work room fridge, and came back armed with a fresh cup. Ian stood silent and still by the bars. Nakri saw me returning, and I had to trot to catch the last of her premature contribution. She was really into dried mango and not into waiting around for sluggish research assistants.

  I put the lid on the cup. Ian and I stood for a moment watching the big animals go on about their business, idling around the stall, brushing against each other, blowing softly through their trunks. I pulled the newspaper article my mother had given me out of my pocket. “Ian, why are t
heir tails so bare? Nakri had that long tuft on the end two months ago when this picture was taken.”

  Ian took the picture and studied it for a few seconds. He shrugged. “Reported it. Vet took skin scrapings. Didn’t find anything. Growing back.”

  I stuffed the picture back into my pocket. “Weird. The male cougar lost hair on his back a couple years ago. We added fish oil to his diet. Cougars don’t eat fish in the wild, far as I’ve ever heard, but it seemed to work.”

  “Giving amino acid supplements. Might grow back anyway, no matter what we do.” Never relaxed, he did seem a little less tense than usual.

  “True enough. Sometimes you never know. Do you think we’ll ever know what happened to Wallace?” I asked not because legions of co-workers were lined up demanding that I pump him, but because I honestly wanted to know what he thought.

  “Hope so.” He looked at me sideways like a frightened horse.

  “Who could get into the barn?”

  He edged toward the work room. “Lots of people can get in.”

  I trailed behind him. “I guess the blindness explains why Damrey is so particular.”

  He stopped and turned toward me. “Also not well trained. Not aggressive, but doesn’t know the commands she should.”

  The door from the visitor area opened as he spoke, nearly bumping him.

  “Hey, Sam, thought it was your day off. What brings you in?” I said.

  “Had to. Wallace used to come in on the weekends and check on things. He’d call me if he found any problems. Everybody thinks this area’s out of control. I never know what’s going to happen when I’m gone.”

  Was he referring to shadowy skulkers or the attack on Wallace or Ian?

  It was clear how Ian took it. A flush rose from his neck up his face. The rims of his protruding ears slowly reddened. I tore my eyes away from him and took a step back. The two men faced each other with tight shoulders, tight focus.

  Sam stepped to the open door to the workroom and looked inside, both ways, then stepped back toward us and examined the barn like a health inspector at a suspect restaurant.