“How much does Tambor weigh and how tall is he?”
“Almost ten feet. Over eleven thousand pounds,” Otis says.
a ten-foot bull weighing more than eleven thousand pounds, to retreat in pain. Walker then turned the ankus on Swifty, puncturing the soft skin on the top of her foot.
I do a Google search for more information to substantiate what I want to say next and quickly find what I’m looking for.
“Does Walker’s have ZA accreditation?”
“No,” Otis replies.
I pull up the Pennington Zoo’s website, find what I’m looking for after a brief search.
The ZA (Zoo Association) published a guide for institutions to measure their success in caring for elephants. If zoos and circuses follow those guidelines, they receive ZA accreditation. The Pennington Zoo has ZA accreditation. Wild Walker’s Circus does not.
All the animals at Walker’s, including the elephants, are transported in trucks to arenas for shows. They travel forty weeks a year, covering an average of twenty-three thousand miles. According to a circus employee who asked to remain anonymous, “[The animals] stay in the trucks the whole time. It’s too much trouble taking them in and out. Especially the tigers and elephants.” While traveling, no trucks or cages are cleaned. When asked what happens when the temperatures gets too hot or too cold, Walker’s employee said, “Last year a few of the elephants got a little frostbite. A few years ago, I heard one of the llamas died from heatstroke.”
I read what I have about travel and Clem’s quotes to Otis. “True?”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “True.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“No.”
I glance over my shoulder. Flea and Swifty are playing a gentle game of tug of war with Nibs. Returning to Google, I dig deeper into the ZA guidelines to prove Walker’s isn’t in compliance and what that means for their animals.
What does this mean for Swifty? Elephants at Walker’s have no bathing water, or any type of mud or soil to aid in their temperature control. When not performing, they’re kept chained by one leg in a cinderblock building without heat or air-conditioning, which can result in dangerous issues, including severe depression, viruses and foot infections.
Wild Walker’s Circus has been apprised of the decline in Swifty’s health, but Howard Walker has refused to consider alternatives that might help the calf survive. Otis Walker, publicist for Wild Walker’s Circus and a member of the family that owns the show, declined to comment.
To save Swifty’s life, I’ve taken her somewhere safe. She’ll have as much formula as she’s willing to drink and fluids to keep her hydrated. My hope is that I can keep her alive until Wild Walker’s Circus gives up their claim. Then she can go to a new home that will give her all the support and love she needs to thrive.
Please share this article. On Facebook’s Save Swift Jones page, I’ve also posted a link to a video that I took of Howard Walker using an ankus on Tambor and Swifty. Please sign the petition on Facebook and copy the link and the video to as many other sites as you can.
Lawyers will get involved quickly. They’ll force Facebook to take down the link, and sites like YouTube to delete the video, but by sharing and copying it to other sites, you’ll keep it alive.
Write letters to the Pennington Times care of Shannon McDaniels, to your own newspapers, magazines, Facebook pages, Instagram, even your senators asking for Wild Walker’s to give up their claim to Swift Jones.
Thank you,
Lily Decker
I read the rest of my article to Otis. “What do you think?”
He meets my gaze. “That I had no idea how fierce you are. Now hold the wheel.”
“What? Did I mention I don’t know how to drive?” But his hands are already off it so I do my best to keep us in the same lane.
Otis takes my iPad, copies the article then sends it to an email address.
“Who’s Christine West?”
“My friend. We’ll send your article from her place.”
“Why not send it now?”
“Because your boss might alert my family or the cops. We need to be off the road when it goes out.”
“Note to self—good liar, bad at the clandestine stuff. I can improve.”
Otis actually grins. “Good to know.”
“Won’t the police use your friend’s email to figure out where we are?”
“It would be hard for them to track her. She kind of doesn’t exist.”
I turn sideways, facing Otis. “Then how does she have an email account?”
He doesn’t look at me. “There are ways.”
“Does Christine even know we’re coming?”
“Yes.”
Otis opens his window. He tosses out my iPad. It explodes on the asphalt. His phone is next, then mine. I watch them shatter. Irreparable damage, but I feel lighter. My subconscious has gone silent, which means that I’m finally doing the right thing for the right reasons. I’ve just stolen a baby elephant. I’m on the run with a guy I barely know. My father and probably Sawyer, too, are going to think I’ve finally lost it when the news hits. But for first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m on the bleeding edge of crazy.
37
It’s after two in the morning when we drive along the deserted main street of Cedar. The wooden buildings are gray from the salty ocean air. The lack of streetlights makes the small town feel even more desolate. “How many people live here?”
“Around two hundred.”
“Your friend must not be very social.”
“She’s not.”
We pass only one person, a guy wearing a frayed gray poncho over pedal-pusher jeans. He’s focused on changing a flat tire. There’s a closed coffee shop, a few restaurants serving seafood and a bait store whose roof looks like it’s slowly collapsing. About a mile outside of town, Otis turns onto a dirt trail bordered by trees. It looks more like a bike path than a road. The truck lurches over roots, branches scraping its sides as we wind around trees threatening to take back the road. Swifty’s trunk reaches over the back seat, stretching toward me. The little finger on the tip tickles my neck. An hour ago I climbed into the back and gave her a bottle. She drank only a fifth of it. “How much farther?”
“A few miles.”
“So Christine is a hermit?”
“She likes her privacy.”
The headlights finally illuminate a trailer. It might’ve been white at one point, but now it blends into the trees surrounding it. The sides sport muddy runnels, rust, moss and hungry branches that are on the way to swallowing it whole. A woman steps outside. Two things are apparent in the wash of our headlights. One, Christine is very attractive. Two, she’s holding a shotgun.
Otis stops in front of the trailer. He turns the ignition off. “Wait here.”
He gets out slowly, like he’s giving the woman time to get used to the idea. She lowers the gun, resting it against the sagging deck railing. Otis walks up the rickety steps. They hug...for a long time. “Come on out,” Otis finally calls.
As I climb the stairs, it’s clear I was wrong. This woman isn’t attractive. She’s beautiful. Thick, auburn hair runs well past her shoulders. Add a cleft in her chin, and a body, beneath leggings and a camisole, that is beyond perfect, and she’s pretty much the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. Her dark green eyes scan me, head to toe. “I’m Lily.” I hold out my hand but she doesn’t take it.
“Christine, we need to use your phone and internet,” Otis says.
“What’s mine is yours.”
She has an accent I can’t place, but it sounds familiar. “Where are you from?”
Christine looks at Otis. “Cedar.” She opens the metal screen on her door. The inside of the trailer smells delicious. Homemade breads line the counter. Chili boils on the stove. Bo
xes filled with dozens of muffins are set on a rough, wood table. The floor is yellow linoleum, the furniture Salvation Army plaid, but the place is spotless. Christine points to an old Mac in the corner set on a makeshift desk of crates. Otis gets to work.
“If you’re hungry,” Christine says, nodding at the chili.
She hands me two bowls. I make one for Otis that he eats while working. Mine I take outside so I can give them privacy. Flea and Swifty step onto the lift gate together. Once down, they wander the yard, side by side. When Flea stops to pee, lifting his leg so his stream hits high on a tree, Swifty attempts to do the same. A small amount of urine dribbles down her back leg.
“Otis wanted me to tell you that your third article has been picked up by the AP.”
I jump, because Christine moves like a freaking spook. I didn’t even hear the screen door open or her steps on the deck’s stairs. “How does Otis know?”
“It’s in the New York Times.”
My mouth hangs open for a second. The New York Times? I’m stunned, but more stunning is that I really only care because of Swifty. We watch the calf trail Otis’s mutt. Her trunk drags on the grass like she’s forgotten it, or it’s too much effort to lift. I’ll have to give her more fluids tonight.
“What you’re doing? It could get Otis into a lot of trouble.”
“You don’t approve.”
“This is not a game.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Christine’s eyes glint in the dark. “For Otis, this isn’t an adventure or a road trip to brag about to his friends when he’s back in his middle-class, safe home with Mommy and Daddy to tuck him in at night. Wild Walker’s Circus is the only life he’s ever known, the only life he’ll ever have.”
“He has other options.”
“No money. No job. No family. No financial or emotional safety net, possible prison time. It’s nice to see you care so much. And what will you lose?”
I think about telling her that I’ve probably lost my best friend, learned things about my father that I’m not sure I can forgive, and now I’m risking the one thing I’ve spent my entire life desperately trying to hold on to, my sanity, but she doesn’t know me so she won’t care.
“How long have you known Otis?” Christine asks.
“A few days.”
“I’ve known him for seven years. He has trouble saying no to a pretty girl.”
Definitely a backhanded compliment, but it’s obvious she cares about Otis so I bite my tongue. “Right now, no one knows that Otis is helping me. My plan is to keep it that way. He’s not in any photos, videos or in my articles, except as Walker’s PR guy who, in print, definitely doesn’t support the Pennington Zoo or stealing Swift Jones. If things go well, this will be over in a few days.”
“If they don’t?”
“Then I’ll make sure Otis isn’t with me when I get caught.” Christine’s eyes gleam. Not with tears. She’s too mean for that. Maybe it’s venom. “Satisfied?”
“Swear it on that stupid little elephant.”
I’m losing patience, especially after the word stupid, but Christine is giving us a place to stay. At least she cares about what happens to Otis. “I swear on Swifty.” Christine’s eyes narrow, like she’s trying figure out if I’m a liar.
“You smell,” she finally says. “There’s a clean T-shirt and shorts in the bathroom. I’ll find something for Otis, too. I only have one extra toothbrush so you two will have to share.”
“Lily?” Otis calls from the front door. “Ready when you are.”
We post the link to Facebook’s Save Swift Jones page, and then send my article to Shannon along with the link. “I should call her. Let her know so she can get it into tomorrow’s paper.”
Christine hands me a cheap cell phone. “It’s a burner,” she explains, then hands Otis another phone. “Just in case.”
I can’t remember Shannon’s cell number. I have to write down different combinations until one looks right. Otis rolls his eyes.
“Who memorizes numbers?” I ask. Shannon doesn’t pick up, probably because the number is blocked. I try five times in a row before she finally answers. I put her on speaker so Otis can hear the conversation.
“Hello?”
“It’s Lily. Decker.”
“Can you stop saying your last name when you call? I know who you are. Why aren’t you calling from your own phone and have you forgotten it’s almost midnight here?”
“I dropped it and I know it’s late, sorry.”
“Did you see that your article was in the New York Times?”
“Yeah.”
“A little excitement is actually appropriate. It was in the Post, the LA Journal. Basically? Every-freaking-where. Good job, kid. Seriously. You’re turning into a reporter, and the photos? Lily, they were better than the story. Matthews is bitching about video, though. It better be attached to your next article.”
“Shannon?”
“Yeah?”
“I just sent you the fourth article with photos plus a link to a video.” I can tell Shannon is checking the time or the print schedule or her email because she’s moving around.
“If it doesn’t need major work, Matthews might be willing to move some things, squeeze it in for tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be in Entertainment again.”
“Um.”
“What? You sound weirder than usual. Spit it out.”
“Read the article. Watch the video. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
It’s the longest five minutes of my life. Otis goes outside to check on Swifty. That leaves me with Christine staring a hole through my chest. Her superpower, it turns out, is the ability to make someone feel like a total piece of shit. “Lots of bread and muffins,” I finally say.
“I sell them to the coffee shop.”
There are burn scars on the inside of her arms. They’re perfectly round. “Have you always been a baker?”
“No.”
Okay then. I dial Shannon. She picks up immediately. Otis comes in so I push Speakerphone.
“Holy motherfucking shit,” Shannon says.
I wince. “Okay.”
“Lily?”
It’s Mr. Matthews. Shannon must’ve called him, put us on three-way. Any shred of confidence I possess leaks out with the perspiration that’s trickling down my back.
“You can’t do this,” Mr. Matthews says. “Wherever you are? Go back. Apologize. Then get on the next plane home.”
“I can’t.”
I hear Shannon in the background. “It is news.”
“Screw the news,” Mr. Matthews roars. “She’s going to wind up in jail.”
“I won’t take her back. If I do, Swifty doesn’t stand a chance.” No one says anything for a few seconds.
“Lily, if we print your story and that link, Wild Walker’s, their lawyers and the cops are going to be all over us,” Mr. Matthews says. “Does Dr. Tinibu know what you’re up to?”
“No.”
“Do you have a plan for Swifty that might keep her alive? Beyond publicly shaming Wild Walker’s Circus into letting her go?” Mr. Matthews asks.
“Yes. I hope so. They deserve it.”
“You realize this might get personal?” Shannon asks.
She knows about my past. Of course she does, because it was front-page news in her paper. Any journalist, after tomorrow, can dig it up. But I’m pretty sure the story will stay focused on Swifty. People are fascinated with her, and all of this, what we’re doing, is about her, not me.
“Lily?” Mr. Matthews says.
“Yes. I do.” Otis raises one eyebrow. I shrug it off.
“You could end up in court,” Shannon points out.
“It’ll give you something to write about,” I say. It’s gallows humor but she chuckles. My pulse speeds up. Without the
Pennington Times this will be harder, maybe impossible because it will take too long to get traction. Swifty doesn’t have unlimited time. “So? Will you print my article?” I can hear Mr. Matthews breathing, because it takes a lot to move his mountainous chest.
“Front page, with the link,” Mr. Matthews barks. “But we’re going to have to take out the part about sharing the link and copying the video, because that crosses the line. Don’t worry, people will do it anyway.”
I can’t help myself. “The paper might get sued.”
“It’ll give our fancy lawyers something to do besides count their piles of money.”
“Why are you willing to do this?”
“It’s news,” Mr. Matthews says. “Plus, I owe you one, kid.”
“You owe me one?”
Mr. Matthews puffs out a cloud of air. “I was a new editor at the Times when your mom tried to fly you off that roof. Shannon was my star reporter. The attempted murder and trial were news, but we squeezed hard, made an already shocking story more sensational than was professional, kept it alive way too long. Apologies, kid. Stay safe. Keep that elephant breathing.”
They hang up.
Now I know why Shannon picked me for the Times internship out of all the other applicants. It would’ve mattered to me, before. And now? I don’t care as long as it gets my article printed.
“How long are you going to stay?” Christine asks Otis.
“One or two days,” Otis says. “Is that okay?”
“You sure no one could’ve followed you?”
“Yes.”
Christine nods. “Okay.”
I wait for more, but there isn’t any. “Do you have a hose outside?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Any chance it has a warm-water option?”
“It’s rainwater from a cistern so it’s about air temperature. If I want a cold glass of tea I have to use ice.”
I’m sticky from the heat so it must still be in the low nineties outside. “That’ll work.”
“You sure she needs it?” Otis asks.
“Yeah.” Swifty is at the bottom of the stairs with Flea. “Hey, sweet pea.” Violet used to call me that...in the mornings, when she’d climb into my bed to snuggle before breakfast. The words hang in the air, shimmer. The true sound of my mother’s voice comes back to me...then fades away. The calf starts to climb the trailer’s stairs, but I don’t think the steps can hold her so I scoot to the bottom one. She nuzzles into my neck. “I know,” I say. “But it’s going to get better. Promise.” I hear the screen door open. Otis comes down the steps.
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