“Excuse me?”
Clem tugs the black fibers. “They’re good luck. Lots of circus folks think so. Make great ear or nipple rings. Next ones I find? I’ll braid them for you.”
I don’t have a nipple ring. “My ears aren’t pierced.”
“Bracelet then.”
“Cool. So. Do you like working for Walker’s?”
Clem smiles. Three gold teeth, one on top, two on the bottom, catch the light. “My choices were limited, but it’s good.”
He sits down on the end of my sleeping bag. I don’t want to be rude, so I sit a few feet away and pull out a pen and notebook. “What do you do for the circus, exactly?” Clem reaches over, gives a curl of my hair that’s escaped a gentle tug. His hands smell like earth, oil and animals. His touch, when we’re already confined to Swifty’s small pen, is claustrophobic.
“You have really great hair.”
I do my best not to obviously recoil, because I don’t want to insult Clem, but I lean back a little so my curl slides free. “Um. Thanks. So, your job?”
“I’m a worker. Means I shovel shit.” He laughs. “Excuse me. I put up the big tent when we’re on the road. Clean cages, ready the show rings. Drive cargo trucks to transport the animals. Load ’em and unload ’em. Pretty much do any heavy lifting that’s needed.”
“Sounds like you, um, work really hard.”
“Yeah. But, see, guys like me? Hardworking guys? Get screwed by the system—”
“That’s what they all say.” Otis opens the pen’s door.
“Otis,” Clem says, frowning.
“Why don’t you pack it in for the night?” Otis says.
Clem shakes his head. “Boss man won’t like it. I’m supposed to help Lily care for her baby elephant ’til he shows up.”
Otis smiles, but if he had a superpower it’d be the ability to both freeze and thaw with his voice. “First, it’s our elephant now. Second, I’m your boss, too. I’m telling you to pack it in for the night.”
I look from Clem to Otis. The charged air between them makes the hairs on my arms stand. Why don’t they like each other? Flea growls. Clem stands up and sidles out of the pen. He makes sure he doesn’t bump Otis, hands held up in the air like he’s backing off from a fight. He strides away, and his footsteps fade. A door slams in the distance.
Otis leans against the wall by my sleeping bag. If I stand up he’ll be too close. I’d have to back away, which would make it look like I’m uncomfortable, which I am, but I don’t want him to know that. I stay seated, which is also uncomfortable, because I have to tip my head back to look at him. A bead of sweat trickles down my back. “Clem was supposed to help me.” I make myself meet Otis’s eyes. They remind me of the Pacific Ocean. It’s impossible to see the sharks swimming beneath the dark surface, but they’re there.
Otis reaches down and tucks my loose curl behind one ear. “It’s best to keep a more appropriate distance from the workers.”
My face gets hot, because he thought I was flirting with Clem and because when Otis’s fingers skimmed along the edge of my ear, my insides twisted. Otis taps a cigarette out of the pack he pulls from his pocket. I say, “No smoking—”
“Around Swift Jones,” Otis finishes. He flips the cigarette over his knuckles.
I change tacks, because everything I say to this guy comes out totally awkward. “As long as you’re here, maybe I can ask you some questions about Walker’s?”
“Sorry I’m late,” Howard says, stepping into the pen. “Hey, little brother. Don’t you have a press release to write?”
“Sure,” Otis says.
He takes off without looking back, which shouldn’t bother me. I mean, I’m glad to be rid of him. But I feel...a little disappointed, which makes zero sense.
“Clem do okay?” Howard asks.
“Yeah. Why doesn’t Otis like him?”
Howard sighs. “It’s not personal. Otis doesn’t like any of the workers. Thinks he’s better than them, I guess, but this circus couldn’t run without their hard work.”
Again, he’s throwing Otis under the bus. I shouldn’t mind, but it makes me uncomfortable. I grab a blanket to tuck in Swifty just the way she likes. When Howard leans down to tuck the end of the blanket around her back, the calf jumps up and scoots away from him.
“It’s okay, girl,” Howard says, walking toward the corner where Swifty stands, his arms held wide. Flea, Nibs in his mouth, trots over to the calf. The patchy fur on the mutt’s back is up. He growls.
“Told Otis not to take in a stray,” Howard says. “Kid can’t even train a mutt.”
Swifty gives me a sideways look. “Um. I think if you just hang out for a bit, she’ll get more comfortable?”
Howard shakes his head like he’s getting his thoughts in order, or getting rid of the ones that aren’t useful. “Of course. She’s been through a helluva day.”
Swifty settles in the corner. I cover her again. “Once she’s settled, I usually set my alarm for three hours and try to get some sleep, too.”
“First, can I show you something?” Howard asks with a smile that looks like he has a secret. I hesitate, but Swifty’s eyes have already closed. Flea lies down by the curve of the calf’s trunk, his one visible eye fixed on me. “Um. Okay.” Howard leads me out of the pen, down the hall.
“I want you to meet my boys,” he says as we pass by a cage with two sand-colored, sleeping llamas.
We round the corner. The ceiling lifts to a story and a half. A line of huge elephants stands side by side on a thick rubber pad that stretches from wall to wall. Each elephant has a thick, dark gray iron cuff around its front right foot. A chain connects the cuff to bolts on the floor. The zoo used restraints to keep Raki from hurting Swifty. These elephants, though, are chained for the entire night. Most have their eyes open but a few are asleep.
The sight makes my throat constrict. “Why are they chained?”
“To keep them safe when I’m not around,” Howard says.
I watch the elephants sway in unison, like they’re hearing music in their heads. I’ve never seen this kind of behavior at the zoo. “Why are they swaying?”
“They do it a lot,” Howard says. “Sometimes I think they’re communicating with each other. Other times I imagine that there’s an ancient song embedded in their bones. It stays with them for their entire life’s journey, comforting them when they need it, reminding them of their true home.” He looks away. “Sounds stupid, I know.”
“It doesn’t.” It sounds like he really cares about his elephants...but they’re in chains.
“I know you’re used to the way your zoo does things, but it’s important you understand that just because we do things differently here, it’s not necessarily the wrong way. My guys spend the night like this, but unlike the zoo, they also get plenty of time outside this building, playing in the ring, learning and gaining a sense of accomplishment. That’s really important for animals this smart.”
“I’m keeping an open mind,” I say, reminding myself that’s what reporters are supposed to do. I’m here to follow the Code, write some articles, give myself options. And what Howard is saying does make some sense.
“You have a pretty smile.”
Blood floods my face, but Howard is picking up a box of apples so he doesn’t see. I follow him over to the first elephant. He’s the tallest one, his skin a gunmetal gray that looks like it was washed until it faded. His eyes, ringed in long lashes, track Howard’s every move.
“This is Bolo.” Howard holds up an apple. Bolo wraps his trunk around it and puts it in his mouth, squirting juice with each crunch. “He came from a zoo in Connecticut. He was there for twenty years. The concrete floor in his pen gave him pretty bad arthritis.” Howard taps the rubber floor with the heel of his boot. “Changed it to rubber when Bolo got here.” He pats the elephant’s chest. “Took a yea
r to turn things around for him, but with our veterinarian’s help, we did it.”
“That’s great. I mean, not the arthritis, but Addie, Dr. Tinibu, was worried you don’t have a vet working here.”
“We don’t,” Howard says. “But that’s because our animals are rarely sick. Still, Dr. Robertson is only a phone call away.”
“What about when the show travels?”
“We have vets on call in every city.”
Bolo reaches his trunk toward me. I let him snuffle my hair, because it couldn’t look much worse. The tip of his trunk tickles my neck.
“He likes you,” Howard says.
I blush again. This time I’m pretty sure Howard notices. We move on to the next elephant.
“This is Jake. I got him from an animal safari in Tennessee. Some safari. They had a half-dead alligator, one mangy lion, plus Jake.”
Pink scars crisscross Jake’s right side. “What happened?”
“His owner used a whip.” Howard holds out an apple, but the elephant doesn’t take it. “He’s been with me over a year. We’re still working on trust. Elephants have long memories.” Howard puts the apple on the floor. Jake picks it up, eats it in two bites. “Attaboy.”
We go down the line. Christopher Columbus sways with the rest of the line but remains asleep. His trunk is spotted like he has freckles—he came from a zoo in Alabama whose elephant exhibit was the size of a one-car garage. Vinnie’s eyes open as Howard talks about him. He came from another animal safari. Some guy living near the Florida Everglades owned Digger and Wyatt. He used them to give people rides. “The scars on Wyatt’s and Digger’s trunks?” I ask.
“The guy used a cattle prod to train them.” Howard rests his hand on Digger’s shoulder. “I’m just glad I could bring them here together. The majority of elephants in the US have been taken from the wild. They lose their families. I don’t have to tell you that family, for an elephant, is sacred. At least these two boys still have each other.”
“The Pennington Zoo doesn’t do that,” I blurt. “They get their elephants from other zoos or private owners, just like you did.”
“Maybe.”
“Isn’t taking an elephant from his family just what you did when you took Swift Jones from her mother?” Howard frowns. Crap. Does every thought in my head need to come out of my mouth?
“I think Raki made that decision.” Howard scuffs the toe of his boot against the floor like a little kid. “Lily, I’m sorry she rejected Swift Jones, but I’m just trying to do the next right thing. And maybe taking elephants from the wild isn’t your zoo’s policy, but it happens. A lot.”
“I guess,” I say. Howard smiles like we’ve just settled an argument and he’s won. He gives Wyatt an apple. The elephant eats it in one big chomp. He reaches his trunk into the box for another.
Howard laughs. “Nope, big guy. Don’t want you to get a stomachache.”
“Which one is Swift Jones’s father? Lorenzo?”
“His nickname is Romeo,” Howard says with a wink. “He’s been loaned to another zoo for their breeding program.”
Howard skips a sleeping elephant and offers the next one, a smaller elephant with pale gray skin, an apple. This one’s ear looks like a bite has been taken out of it. “Good boy, Chuck.” He glances at me. “Did you know that elephants in zoos die decades earlier than elephants in the wild?”
“But—” I swallow my next words.
“But?”
“Zoos do have breeding programs?”
Howard shrugs. “Nothing is black-and-white. But the infant mortality rate for elephants in zoos is 40 percent. That’s triple the rate in the wild.” He walks up to the last elephant in the line. “Hiya, Tambor.” Howard holds up an apple. The elephant turns his head away. There are a few red sores behind his ear. Howard frowns hard. “Freakin’ designers.”
“Pardon?”
He shakes his head. “Tambor’s new harness is rubbing. The designers have promised the next one will fit right.” Howard puts the apple at the bull’s feet but the elephant doesn’t reach for it.
“He doesn’t like apples?”
“It’s not that. He has some lingering behavioral issues because he came here as a four-month-old.”
“That’s pretty young.”
“Yeah. I know Dr. Tinibu doesn’t think we’re capable of taking care of a calf, but we’ve done it before. Successfully.”
“What happened to Tambor’s mother?”
“She died at a Pennsylvania zoo from tuberculosis.”
“TB?”
“It’s not uncommon for elephants. They die from the herpes virus, too. Losing his mom was hard on Tambor. He started acting out. The zoo couldn’t handle it. They were going to euthanize him when I stepped in.”
Howard pats the massive elephant’s leg. Tambor raises his foot. “Tambor can be a handful, but we’ve been together for decades. He’s part of the Walker family.” Howard steps back, but the elephant is still holding his foot in the air.
“When will he put his foot down?”
“When I tell him to. Down, boy.” Tambor puts his foot back on the ground. Howard’s face lights up. “Communicating with animals never gets old.”
He closes the distance between us in two strides, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Lily, what you write matters. That’s why we let you come with Dr. Tinibu. We can tell that you’re not interested in gossip, that you’re fair. That you have the calf’s best interest at heart.”
My headache has returned. “I’m just an intern at the newspaper.” I shrug, hoping his hands will fall from my shoulders, but they don’t. “As soon as a panda is born at some other zoo, people will forget about Swift Jones.”
“Maybe. But I want your readers to know we already love her. Also, that while zoos spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to expand exhibits and breeding programs, Wild Walker’s Circus gives 5 percent of our net earnings to conservation programs in the wild.”
I take a step back, because Howard’s breath is overpoweringly minty. His hands fall away. “I should get back,” I say.
Howard nods. “Sure. Just. Look, sorry if I came on too strong, but I’m passionate about what I do, how much I love my elephants. I hope some of that will come across in your articles?”
“Yeah, of course. Do you mind if I take some photos?”
“Why the hell not? I’ll grab some Zs in my office before joining you for the midnight feeding.”
When the clunk of Howard’s boots disappears, Tambor turns toward me. His brown eyes watch as I pick up the apple by his foot. Gently, Tambor takes it from my hand and eats it.
“Psst.”
I whirl, but there’s no one standing behind me. The hairs on my arms rise despite the still damp blanket of Florida heat. “Hello?” I call. The only answer is the swooshing of the elephants’ feet as they sway side to side and a slight buzzing in my ears, probably from the noisy flight. I take a few shots of the elephants then head back to Swifty’s pen to get some rest.
I manage to sleep for an hour before my alarm goes off. Howard doesn’t show up for the midnight feeding, which is disappointing. Swifty drinks less than half her bottle, which is more disappointing. No amount of bad singing can get her to take one more swallow. She plays half-heartedly with Flea for a few minutes then lies down. Flea burrows under the blanket beside her as I tuck the edges around Swifty’s face so that her ears are covered. She looks so...vulnerable. “It was a long day,” I remind us both. “Tomorrow will be a fresh start.”
I consider trying Sawyer again, but instead pull out my iPad. I Google Wild Walker’s Circus to find Howard’s bio on their website. He’s twenty-eight, loved elephants practically since he was born, apprenticed with Walker’s former elephant trainer before taking over the act on his eighteenth birthday.
There are blurry photos of Howard as a kid riding b
areback on an elephant, balancing on an animal’s outstretched leg, orchestrating as Walker’s elephants spin on pedestals. Howard looks so little, all skinny limbs, long hair blowing across his face, arms held wide, like he’s hugging the entire herd. In one shot he stands in front of an elephant, hands pressed on either side of its face, their foreheads touching. I lean in, trying to see the look in his eyes, but the shot is too far away.
The last childhood photo jumps to Howard’s eighteenth birthday celebration. He stands under Wild Walker’s red banner holding a cake with the number eighteen encircled by candles. His hair is brush cut, darker. He’s in shorts and a wrinkled, blue cotton shirt. It looks like he’s wearing an ankle brace. Behind him are clowns, gorgeous showgirls in feathered hats and performers in sparkly costumes. The line beneath the birthday photo labels the people in the front row. Tina and Maximus Walker stand beside their son. Tina’s blond hair is in a high bun. She wears a white sundress. Maximus towers over her. He’s in a collared short-sleeve shirt with black, wavy hair falling well past broad shoulders. He’s smiling hard, round eyes identical to Howard’s.
I peer at a kid on the far left of the picture...long dark blond hair, striped T-shirt, baggy shorts. It’s Otis. He’s the only one not smiling. I click on Otis’s bio. Unlike Howard’s, which is four pages, Otis’s has only two lines of copy. “Otis Walker, born November 7, is the youngest son of circus owners Tina and Maximus Walker. Currently Otis is in charge of Walker’s public relations department.”
The anxiety that’s been a constant companion since we arrived gathers into a dull headache. I start surfing the Web. Howard was right about the infant mortality rates for elephants in zoos, but there’s a ton of negative information about circuses, too, including that a lot of elephants get depressed because of cruel treatment and harsh conditions. I haven’t seen that here. Howard Walker clearly cares about his elephants. But...I’m sitting in a windowless cell. Howard’s elephants are chained. They’re swaying, which one of the articles says is a result of boredom, even mental illness, and not some internal song.
When Elephants Fly Page 14