I’d invited Marcie for dinner because Cheyenne told me she and Pete were going out to try a new restaurant. I put a chicken in the oven to pot-roast and laid out sweet potatoes as a reminder to stick them in the oven later. A salad, carrots to microwave for Robby, a bag of organic cookies, and dinner was checked off.
Robby roared around the living room on the red train engine my parents had gotten him for Christmas until I drafted him to help set the table. He trotted back and forth from where I stood at the silverware drawer to the dining room table, toting one fork or spoon or knife at a time. After I released him back to his train engine, I arranged the flatware in the conventional pattern. The dogs announced Marcie’s arrival.
“Mar, come pay wit me!” Robby scooted past at an alarming velocity.
“Coming, honey.” To me, “You swore you were going to deep-six that thing.”
“But he loves it. I took the batteries out so now it’s mute, and I don’t have to hate it. Ask him about his drawings.”
Marcie toiled in a clean, warm corporate cubicle writing technical things. She liked her job and it paid well, but she never risked a talon in the eye or a hoof in the mouth, and she seemed to feel she was missing out. We’d been best buds since my unsuccessful attempt at college, discontinued after my second year. She’d gone on to graduate, but we’d stayed close. A few months ago, she’d urged me to work toward a promotion. “You need the income and someday you’ll get bored with routine and being second-fiddle.”
She was sane and calm when I wasn’t and had seen me through a lot of rough weather. I wanted to do the same for her, even if my skill set didn’t skew that way.
She looked better than she had the week before, not as grim and weary. She had come straight from work dressed in white pants and pink blouse with a little silvery jacket. Robby abandoned the train to show her his art work. I was slow, and he clipped her knee with a felt-tip pen, a peppermint-scented green slash. “It’s washable,” I assured her, hoping that was true.
During dinner, the macaws started vocalizing, which I used to introduce my misadventures at the Tipton farm. Drama was one of my important contributions to our friendship. I soft-pedaled the scarier parts as well as Denny’s role to avoid stirring up negative emotions.
Marcie was horrified anyway. “Finding that poor girl sounds awful. Who would shoot her? Her brothers wouldn’t, and they were in prison anyway.”
“They could have done it. They were out of prison the day before I found her.”
“They wouldn’t kill their sister.”
Who knew what the Tipton family dynamics were all about? Marcie and I were both only children. We had zip experience with sibling rivalry. “The cops are focused on the death and the drugs. They’ll find them and figure out which one killed her and why. I want them to trace the smuggling pipeline, too, but I don’t see any way to make sure that happens. It bugs me. After days of having those animals in my face, it’s back to routine.”
I helped Robby out of his highchair. I started to sit down, but he climbed up the back of the sofa, the better to help a plastic sheep fly. I hauled him off and explained once again that the back of the sofa was forbidden territory—too tippy. He crawled under a chair to track down his sheep. Winnie joined him and almost knocked over the floor lamp. I caught it in time and scolded her. The macaws screamed.
Marcie said, “Routine, huh?”
I gave her a look.
“The chicken was great,” she said, changing the subject. “Dill and thyme.”
I shrugged modestly as I stroked Winnie to console her for being scolded. I couldn’t remember for the life of me which jars of leafy stuff I’d used. “An old family recipe.”
“Is not. I showed you that method, only with tarragon.”
Whatever. It was good to have her all to myself again, after two years of accommodating Denny. The realization incited a throb of guilt. Heartbreak therapy was my role, not taking advantage.
Marcie looked thoughtful. “So those awful men are in California. Maybe they’ll try for a fresh start. Maybe that’s what I should do, try another state.”
My heart constricted. “I thought maybe…things were better.”
She gave a dismissive hand wave. “I’m fine. Let’s watch a movie. I brought three—you choose.”
“I tried to talk to him when we were driving back from the Tiptons the last time. I told him he was making a big mistake.”
“Iris, I appreciate the thought, but you’d better stay out of it.” She held her hands up to show she meant it.
“I just want you to have someone who makes you happy. He’s so goofy and unpredictable…”
“Enough!”
“Right. Sorry. Sit tight while I put Robby down.”
Half an hour later, I returned to find her staring at the TV, her face blank. I chose New Moon from the Twilight saga. I’d missed it when it came out and knew Marcie wanted to see it again. I got it set up and found the remote.
Marcie said, “So…what did he say?” Her voice was casual, her hands folded tight in her lap.
“When I told Denny he was making a big mistake? Um, that you were too different from each other and were both trying too hard. Aren’t there any nice guys where you work or at your gym? Normal people?”
“Iris. You are locked into an out-of-date understanding of Denny. You never got why we…I…” Her eyes filled up. “He dumped …left …because …never mind. Just let it alone and watch the damned movie with me.”
So we did. Marcie was rapt, but I couldn’t get into the doomed romance between Edward, the youthful-but-ancient vampire, and high school girl Bella. I snorted when Bella half-drowned herself so that he would have to show up and save her and she could see him again. When the fuzzy werewolves galloped in, I laughed out loud. Too late, I saw Marcie flinch.
She stood up, said, “Thanks very much for the dinner. I have to go now,” grabbed her coat, and walked out.
Chapter Ten
I felt like banging my head against the wall when Marcie was gone. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She wanted to see that movie again because she loved it, and she loved it because of the doomed romance, and I had laughed and ruined it. I waited until she had time to drive home, then called. She didn’t pick up. I left a message to please, please call me.
I was wrestling Robby out of his clothes for a bath when the phone rang. I grabbed it as he ran around the living room in just a diaper, giggling hysterically. It wasn’t Marcie. “Oh. Ken,” I said. “You’re working late.”
“Nope. I’m at home. You called about that little black-and-tan. She surrendered yesterday. Safe and warm at the humane society.”
His voice was not sluggish—easy. That was the word. Easy.
“Oh, good. Thanks for letting me know. She’s pretty—somebody will adopt her, right?” Please let something good come out of the Tipton disasters.
Robby climbed on his engine and scooted around the living room. Winnie took a notion to frisk alongside, barking. I tried to focus on the call.
“Oh, she’ll find a home. Which reminds me…You live in Portland? There’s a barbeque place I’ve been wanting to try. Podners. Texas-style smoked ribs. Care to join me Friday night?”
I was the one who paused this time. A date? Yes, he was talking about a date. “Ahhh…Um…Sure. I think so. I have a kid, did I mention that? A two-year-old.”
“So. Married?”
“Widowed.”
“You could bring the kid.”
“No, no. I think I can find a sitter…But I need to make it an early evening, ‘cause I work weekends.”
“No problem. Should I pick you up or do you want to meet there?”
Meeting there sounded good. He gave me the address and hung up.
Why did I tell him about Robby as if my child were a case of herpes? Why
did Ken hang in there while I sputtered? Why had I said yes? This was Hap’s fault.
And maybe it was a mistake. Ken had a great voice and that chipped front tooth was cute and he seemed smart and pleasant, but...
But what? I was just nervous. Out of practice. Chicken-livered.
I snagged a squealing Robby off the engine and lugged him upstairs to the bathtub.
When he was asleep, I let go of first-date jitters, fired up my laptop, and poked around on the Internet looking for information about wildlife trafficking. This had been on my to-do list since visiting the Tipton farm. The volume of animals and the dollars the conservation sites reported made me want to weep. Tortoises were especially hard-hit. I confirmed that the United States is a huge importer of wildlife, much of it for pets. Some of the animals shipped here left their home country with permits obtained by bribes or just plain faked. I logged on to Multnomah County Library and reserved a couple of recent books on the subject.
Winnie and Range pushed outside through the doggy door and started barking as if a cougar lurked in the back yard. The outside light revealed the dogs yelling by the back fence. I stuck my head out and called them, which they ignored. The front door opened, and I jumped, but it was Pete and Cheyenne. The dogs blustered inside with the hair along their spines bristling. Probably a raccoon on the prowl. Still, it was strange to see them so aroused.
“How was the new restaurant?” I asked. “You stayed late.”
Pete gave Cheyenne a quick glance.
“It wasn’t that good,” she said. “We went shopping afterward. I’m off to bed.”
I shut down the computer, checked that all the doors were locked, and grabbed the first shower. I lay in bed and sought calming thoughts to encourage sleep, something to override smuggled animals. I revisited Birds for the new aviary. Would Demoiselle cranes need to be kept separate from visitors? I’d read that they could be aggressive…The date with Ken rose to the surface. Why was I so skittish about a dinner date? Not just loyalty to Rick—worry about how dating would affect Robby, concern about finding the time and energy. I fell asleep wondering whatever happened to the Iris who leapt into relationships without a thought.
I was off work the next day as well. Marcie did not call. In the afternoon, Hap showed up in a huge black pickup that he’d borrowed. He lugged wire panels into the basement and banged around installing them. When he presented the results with a beer-bottle flourish, I found that I had a passage to the washing machine and dryer and access to the basement door. The rest of the basement was a ginormous macaw palace, as long and wide as the foundation walls permitted. The birds still had their old cage, with one door wired open for access to the new structure. They stuck tight to their familiar perch, looking alarmed and outraged.
Hap inserted branches strategically to encourage them to move around. “When they get used to it, pull out some of these so that they have to fly to get from one end to the other.”
I hung a nice fruit kabob in the new space. “Come on, guys,” I said to the birds. “Be happy. It’s new and a little scary, but it’s better. Truly.” We left them to adjust.
I considered telling Hap about my date and decided I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I did give him a six-pack of his favorite beer, and he had another wild romp with Robby.
***
When I clocked in on Wednesday, my Monday, I found out I was scheduled for Primates instead of Birds. That was unexpected, but not unprecedented. Kip Harrison, the senior primate keeper, was already chopping fruit in the primate kitchen. Small, skinny, and tough, built like a strip of jerky and just as salty, she grunted a greeting and cut to the news. “Violet popped last night.” Violet was a female mandrill monkey who had been bulging as if she were gestating a litter.
“All good?” I asked. “Just one?” Mandrill twins are rare, but they do happen.
“Just one, a big boy, but not so good. When I came in, it was on the floor. She sat next to it, but she didn’t hold it.”
Bad sign. Humans are unusual among primate species because we put our newborns down. As a rule, ape and monkey mothers carry their babies twenty-four/seven for months, until the baby is ambitious enough to let go and try moving around on its own. “And now?”
“She’s still in her own night den. Dr. Reynolds is coming by to check her out.”
“This is her first, right? Has she ever been around a baby?”
Kip shrugged. “Maybe when she was little, before she came here. Maybe not.”
I didn’t say what we were both thinking, that Violet had better pull this together or we’d be hand-raising a baby monkey. Or mourning one. Motherhood isn’t as instinctual as we’d like to think. Experience matters.
I fed the new father, Sky, and Carmine, the troop’s other female. The mandrill mom had already received her breakfast. With Kip’s permission, I dropped by to pay my respects. Violet looked exhausted. Never as vivid as her mate’s, her blue muzzle with a pink stripe seemed even more faded today. She sat with the baby draped face-down over her thigh, the infant making an effort to hang on. He was doing his part in the tricky interplay of mother and infant, where if one doesn’t follow the script of normal behavior, the other won’t either. Violet glanced at him now and then without touching him. I offered a bite of cantaloupe through the mesh. She took it in her dark, delicate fingers and sucked on it, watching me with distant brown eyes. “I know how you feel,” I told her. “Trust me, it gets better. It’s never easy, but it gets better. Put him on your chest, girl, that’s where he belongs.” She looked away, and I left her to rest.
Kip set me to work cleaning the Diana monkey exhibit while the animals ate breakfast in their night quarters. I swept and bagged straw bedding in the tall, narrow exhibit, doing a careful job because I’d learned the hard way that little bits of straw would gang up and clog the drain when I hosed. The work was peaceful in a mindless way.
After lunch, I found Kip and asked if I could check on Violet and her baby again before I started fixing the afternoon diets.
“Leave her alone for now. Dr. Reynolds wants her separated in the night den for tonight. I saw the baby try to nurse, but she doesn’t like it. She better get with the program soon—we can’t keep her separated for very long.”
“You’re worried Sky will beat her up when she goes back in.”
“Or Carmine. Carmine was a real bitch to her when they were first together.”
Kip had to attend a senior keeper meeting at 2:30, so she was forced to ask me to do what she clearly would rather have done herself. She handed me a little deli container of blueberries. “When you’re done with the diets, go sit by Violet and give her one of these when she lets the baby nurse.”
Fresh blueberries in January? Kip must have spent her lunch hour at a grocery store, not to mention five or six bucks.
The baby was hanging on to Violet’s belly—progress. I didn’t mind spending an hour sitting on cold concrete with my butt going to sleep, handing her a treat whenever he managed to suckle a little. She seemed too out of it to notice why she was being rewarded—tolerating suckling—but the fruit did distract her from pulling the baby off. Poor mom. I felt her pain. Her rear end hurt, she hadn’t gotten any sleep, and this weird little creature was messing with her. The baby sported a dark cap, a wrinkled little muzzle, and big, dark, liquid eyes. His pink skin shone through a thin fuzz of gray hair. When he gave up trying to nurse and fell asleep, Violet’s head sagged and her eyelids drooped. The baby woke up and started suckling again while his mother slept sitting up. I sat still, afraid to move.
If she wouldn’t let the baby nurse enough, we’d have to remove him. Bottle-raising would produce a monkey that knew more about humans than about mandrills, a monkey that would be the rejected loser in the troop.
When Kip returned, Violet woke up and pulled the baby off her teat. “Honey, do not do that,”
I said, creaking to my feet.
“She’ll get the hang of it,” Kip said without conviction. “I’ll drop by tonight to check on them.”
I expected this—that was the sort of thing she did. That was the sort of thing I did, before Robby.
Kip said she had to catch up on animal records, and I should scrub out the rest of the night dens. That’s what I get paid the big bucks for.
Chapter Eleven
Thursday I was assigned to Birds, but I dropped by Primates to visit the mandrills and see how Violet was doing. She looked a little perkier. She was back with her troop, Sky and Carmine. Kip gave the new mom a passing grade. The baby was nursing and being carried properly. Kip didn’t say anything about naming the baby. Usually the director, Mr. Crandall, made a big hullabaloo over that. He liked naming baby animals after big donors or city councilmen or letting one of them choose the name. This wasn’t happening yet, which might imply that he and Neal and Kip weren’t all that confident about the baby surviving.
On morning break, I watched the group from the visitor area, staying quiet and a little back so that the animals wouldn’t worry about my uniform. They know that regular visitors are irrelevant to their lives and treat them like television or ignore them. Keepers are a different matter, especially if they aren’t behaving normally, which to them means the daily routine.
The inside exhibit was fairly roomy, with lots of rocks and a concrete tree. Their outside yard was closed off due to the weather. Violet huddled in a corner with her baby. Carmine puttered around foraging in the straw bedding. Sky, over twice the size of the females, sat above them on a tree limb. He yawned at me, displaying his huge canine teeth, and closed his mouth with care, fitting those choppers into his gums just right. Kip said that his yawn was a threat or sometimes just a sign he was feeling tense.
After a few minutes, he climbed down and approached Violet, moving slowly. She didn’t notice him until he was about ten feet away. The instant she saw him, she pulled the baby off her nipple, held him to her belly with one hand, and scooted away on three legs. I could hear the baby’s eh-eh-eh of protest. Sky stared hard at Violet and slapped the ground with a hand, a clear threat. He backed it up with a head bob. Violet crammed herself into a high corner as far away from him as she could get and shot nervous glances his way. Sky walked to where she’d been sitting, lowered his massive muzzle, and sniffed at the spot. He climbed with hands and feet back up the artificial tree to his perch on a broad limb. Violet scrambled down and tried another corner.
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