The volunteers had the barn ready for us. The cement floor had been scrubbed clean, overlaid with thick rubber mats, while one half of it was banked deeply in hay. The wooden walls had been whitewashed and then protected with thick metal rods; the heat lamps were already turned on. There were crates of carrots and apples. An office had already been set up with medical supplies.
Matt taped the IV lines to the mother’s body before Richie dropped the ramp on the trailer. The elephant, blinking against the barn lights, stepped out cautiously. Richie and Matt guided her forward while Tom and I helped the baby follow, supporting her body with the ropes. She was barely past my knees, tender and small and vulnerable and very thin from her ordeal. She trembled alarmingly as she held tightly on to her mother’s tail and struggled to follow her into the barn. She dropped into the straw as soon as we let go of the ropes. Richie covered her with a thick, warm blanket.
We turned our attention to her mother again. That’s when I noticed the chains. A heavy chain wrapped around each front ankle. They must been put on while she was sedated. Richie quickly attached them to chains that were cemented to metal brackets in the floor. The sight of them upset me. There is something repulsive in seeing a wild animal in chains. A moment later, she felt the restraints and tried to lift her leg, but they held her fast. She struggled against them, trumpeting loudly.
“Why is she in chains?” I demanded of Richie. Matt was busy adjusting the IV. My voice rose. “Why is she in chains?”
She tried to lift her leg, found it secured, tried to shake off the chain, and began screaming with rage and frustration.
“Oh God,” I said, putting my hands over my ears. “I can’t bear it.” She thrashed her trunk back and forth with fury, aiming first at Richie, then Matt, trumpeting all the while, the whites rimming her brown eyes. Her baby, startled, tried unsuccessfully to struggle to her feet.
“Take them off!” I yelled. “Look what it’s doing to them.”
Matt just ignored me. He went on examining her wounds with his bright flashlight, while dodging her trunk, then rinsed out the deep pockets of necrotic flesh with sterile water and filled them with handfuls of white cream. Richie restrained the baby, talking to her in a gentle voice.
“Oh God,” I said again.
Tom grabbed my arm and steered me outside the barn. “Calm down,” he said firmly, after we stepped into the fresh air, “before you get the elephant even more upset. How else is Matt to treat her, without getting hurt?”
“She doesn’t belong in chains,” I whispered. She didn’t. No more than Homer belonged in a Gogue.
“Bracelets,” he said. “They’re called bracelets. They’ll come off as soon as they’re finished working on her. It’ll be okay.” He put a hand on my shoulder, like a clamp.
I could hear the elephant screaming in panic, and the sound sickened me. I wanted to run to her, but Tom’s grasp held me in place and I began to weep with frustration.
“I can’t listen to this,” I cried out.
“Stop it,” Tom commanded sharply. “They have to do this. It’s the only way we can help her.” There was an edge of impatience in his voice. His hand remained tight on my shoulder.
I knew it was necessary for her to be restrained, for us both to be restrained, because I knew I would have foolishly run to her—to do what, I didn’t know.
I was embarrassed at Tom’s annoyance with me.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He put his arms around me in a great hug and rocked me, then stepped back and dropped his arms to his sides. “I’m sorry too,” he said, “but you have to let things happen the way they need to happen.”
He was so close to me, I could feel his presence in the dark night. I could hear him breathing, and I remembered the feel of his body when he had kissed me. What was wrong with me, that I was thinking of this?
We stood outside the barn for a little while more, but it seemed like hours. We said nothing, only listened to the elephant raging at her confinement. I looked up at the stars and thought that they had looked so different in Africa, but they were really the same stars, and we were still the same people. All the flying back and forth had changed nothing. Or had it? I looked over at Tom. Then it went quiet.
“You can come in now.” Richie poked his head out from the barn, and we followed him in. I took a deep breath and forced myself to look at her.
The bracelets were still around her ankles, but unclipped from the floor chains, and she was able to move about. Her wounds were covered in salve, big white patches melting into her gray skin. She lowered her trunk and poked at the hay in front of her, then slowly sniffed the bars. Her baby was down again, asleep in a pile of hay. Matt eased himself from the enclosure and locked the gate.
“I gave her a shot of long-acting antibiotics,” he said to no one in particular. “And I put some Silvadene on her wounds. The stuff’s great for infection. I’ll be back tomorrow to clean things up again.”
“I’ll stay with her tonight,” said Richie.
“Good idea,” Matt agreed. “Check her temperature at least once overnight, and call me if it goes up. Also, try to get some more of that formula into the baby.”
“Will the baby make it?” I asked Matt, forcing myself to look at him.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s very sick. The first two weeks are going to be critical, and Billy said that baby elephants are very fragile.”
We turned to watch our new charges. The mother had lowered her head and closed her eyes, her trunk now resting on the floor.
Tom turned to us, like a commanding officer. “Well, good job, everyone,” he said. “Thank you for your work.”
“Thanks for bringing her here.” Richie shook Tom’s hand. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am. She’s my first elephant.”
“You’re an enamel server,” I joked to Tom.
“Ah. Grisha.” He gave me a knowing smile. “He’s a good man. Been involved in animal conservancy for years.”
“What will he do now?”
“He’ll go back to Africa. Maybe sneak back into Zimbabwe, keep an eye on things. Mugabe proclaimed all the elephants there are Presidential Elephants, and he promised to protect them, but they are still being hunted like crazy. Some of it to spite him. When Grisha finds an animal that needs me, he’ll let me know soon enough.”
“I think we should let them sleep now,” Matt suggested. He gave me a long look and walked outside, hoping, I think, that I would follow him.
“Good idea,” Richie agreed. He lowered the lights, and we followed Matt into the night. He and Richie stepped aside to discuss medications and treatment, in low tones.
I turned to take one last peek. Even in the darkened barn, I could see the outline of her huge body, the shape of her bony head, the big fan ears, and it thrilled me.
“She’s magnificent,” I said softly to Tom.
“You can have the privilege of naming her,” he replied quietly.
“I’d rather name the baby,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows, then touched my arm. “She won’t be the last baby in your life, you know.”
“Maybe not.” I caught my breath. “But she’s my first.”
We stood outside the barn in a circle of triumph and immense fatigue, reluctant to let the night go.
Matt stretched and yawned and looked over to me. “Want to grab a cup of coffee?” he asked. “And then I can take you home.”
“No thanks,” I replied.
“Oh,” he said. “Okay. Okay.” He turned from me and walked to his car.
“I’m going home to shower,” Richie said to me. “And then I’ll set up a cot and take the first shift. We can do one week on and one week off.”
“Let me know when you want me to take over,” I said.
“Yep.” He gave me and Tom bear hugs and headed down to his house, leaving us standing together in front of the barn.
“What are you going to name her?” I asked Tom. “The mother, I mean.�
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“Maybe Margo,” Tom said, “after my mother. I never got to name one after her.”
“Margo,” I repeated. “Yes.”
“Do you need a lift home?” he asked. “I’m taking a cab back into the city tonight. I could drop you off.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Half an hour later, we pulled up at my house. We had been too tired to make much conversation during the ride. Tom took my luggage from the driver and carried it to the front door for me.
“Maybe I could call you in a day or two,” he said, his voice carefully noncommittal. “See if you’ve recuperated.”
“I don’t know how much I’m going to recuperate, sleeping with an elephant every other week,” I said, “but I would like that.”
“I’m concerned about you.” He raised his arm to touch me, then seemed to think better of it.
“Thank you,” I said. He stood next to me as I fished through my fanny-pack for my keys. I didn’t want to ring my bell and bring bigmouth Reese to the door. “I’ll be okay,” I added, thinking I would give him a way out, if he wanted one.
“I think so, too,” Tom said. “But I’m not sure you believe it yet.”
“Will you be checking on—Margo?” I asked.
“I’ll come up here once in a while,” he said, “when my schedule permits. I think you and Matt and Richie can handle things.”
“Oh.” I felt disappointed. And annoyed with myself for feeling that way. “You must be very busy, of course,” I said. “It’s probably going to be difficult for you to find the time.”
“I’ll find the time,” he said. He stepped toward me and lifted my face with his fingers and brushed my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. I looked up into his eyes, because eyes can tell you everything, but I couldn’t read his. He has careful eyes, I thought. Then he leaned toward me and gently pulled my face to his, and kissed me. If his eyes were careful, his lips betrayed him. They pressed against mine with heat and urgency and the answers I was searching for. He found me desirable. Desirable. I wanted to know that. He kissed me, and I wanted more. I kissed him back, and he held me to him, covering my face with kisses. Suddenly he backed away a step and cupped my chin and grinned. “I’ll find the time,” he said. “I always find the time if something’s important to me.”
Chapter Twenty-four
PLATE TECTONICS. It’s when the plates that make up the surface of the earth slide against each other, the resulting friction causes mountains to rise, earthquakes to rumble, and volcanoes to erupt. And I now had plate tectonics going on inside my head.
I thought I would come home and take a long, hot shower, fall across my bed, and lapse into an immediate stupor. The fact was, after mumbling a few quick greetings to Reese and Gracie, who was miffed at my absence and would not let me pet her, I lay awake for most of the night, feeling plates shift across my brain. Mountains sprang up and disappeared, earthquakes of emotion left me staggered, boundaries were colliding and collapsing. I wanted to hate Matt, and I couldn’t. I didn’t want feelings for Thomas Princeton Pennington, and I had them. Rivers of tears overflowed their banks. There was a huge sensation of continental drift going on. I was a geographical mess.
Grace, who finally thought better of snubbing me, was now all forgiveness as she jumped onto my bed. She gave my face a big welcome-home lick and made herself comfortable across my chest. Alley Cat tucked herself under my armpit, and we all fell asleep together.
The next morning, Reese was standing by the sink, gulping down a cup of coffee, ready to dash off to school.
“Good morning,” he said. “So—did you bring him back alive?”
I poured myself a cup of coffee and let Grace out the back door. “Her. It was a female. And we brought two of them back alive. She had a baby with her.”
“I meant Matt,” he said. “I expected you to be hauling him in here all hog-tied, and you smiling in triumph.”
“I have nothing to smile about,” I said. “Everything’s still a mess. I’m a mess.”
Reese put his hands on his hips. “Okay, this should cheer you up. How do you shoot a blue elephant?”
“Not now,” I replied.
“With a blue-elephant gun,” he said. “So—how do you shoot a red elephant?”
“It’s not funny, Reese.” I opened the refrigerator and looked for breakfast.
“Squeeze it by the neck until it turns blue,” he answered himself, “then shoot it with the blue-elephant gun!” He guffawed and slapped his knee. “I have another one. What is red and white on the outside, and gray and white on the inside?”
I whirled around. “Didn’t you hear me?” I snapped. “I’m not in the mood.”
“What’s gotten into you?” he asked. “Didn’t you have fun in Zimbabwe?”
“No,” I said. “People are dying there, animals are dying, and the land is dying. It wasn’t fun at all.”
“Oh,” he said contritely.
I looked back into the refrigerator.
“Why are these in here?” I demanded, annoyed at the largesse of four half-empty pizza boxes stacked neatly on the top two shelves. I had left him eggs and juice and bread and bacon and fruit. And a roasted chicken.
“After I ate everything in there, I bought some extra snacks,” he explained. “I was starving.”
“Ironic,” I said. “There’s starvation and there’s starvation.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, peeking into the refrigerator behind me. “You can finish the rest of the pizza.”
“No thanks,” I mumbled. “I don’t feel like eating pepperoni pizza for my first breakfast home.”
“Well, there are a few beers left, behind the boxes,” he said as he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. “Help yourself.”
I did my donut run. The shop owner handed me my coffee and donut, and I stood for a moment, mesmerized by the bins and bins of fresh-baked pastel donuts. The smell of coffee, the sight of people lined up, casually ordering lattes and eggs on bagels as they did every day, it all felt strange to me. I glanced down at my own coffee and then at the line behind me. Every one of them would have a different request and expect to have it filled, without much thought about how easy it was. A dozen donuts, please. A chocolate donut. A Bavarian cream. No one would know about Zimbabwe and the men picking through garbage looking for something they could eat, for some stray cast-off piece of food they might bring home to their families. Men who would never know about the donuts here, stacked in huge fluorescent piles, fresh and inviting and so easy to obtain. Stacks of donuts, just waiting to be bought. Donuts that are always waiting here, that would be stacked and waiting here tomorrow, too.
“Anything else?” the shop owner asked me impatiently.
“No,” I said. “No thanks.” And I mused how even the simple act of buying donuts now seemed miraculous to me.
I put Delaney on the cross-ties and spent a good amount of time grooming him. He was a puzzle. Inconsistent in temperament and work, he was my most challenging horse so far.
Today he had good manners and stood quiet and respectful, letting me brush him and clean out his hooves. He even looked like he enjoyed it. He let me saddle him and mount him. Maybe I had made some progress in the weeks before I left for Africa. Perhaps he had talked things over with the other horses and decided to reform.
I walked him into my riding ring, and after a few minutes of warm-up, we picked up a trot. His body felt tight—I could feel it in his back, in his jaw, in the way he braced his neck against me—but he was manageable. The last time he had misbehaved with me, I had tapped a whip against his flank and urged him into a strong trot that settled him. Maybe that was all he needed, a firm hand and a secure rider who would insist he behave properly.
Fifteen minutes later, he threw me. It was sudden. A violent twist to the left that left me no time to react, no time to regain my balance. I hit the dirt, unhurt, and sat on the ground, watching him gallop madly around the ring, like a crazed merry-go-round horse. I go
t up, dusted off my jeans, and caught him. He stood trembling while I examined him. When a horse reacts like that, it is usually the result of unexpected pain—maybe a pinch from the saddle or an insect sting. I ran my hands over his body, his legs, across his neck, trying to feel for something out of the ordinary. There wasn’t a lump or heat anywhere, and my saddle fit him well. I was stumped. I mounted him and cantered him around the ring. He rode fine, and I dismounted and led him back to the barn.
“What is wrong with you?” I asked him as I brushed the saddle marks from his back. At the sound of my voice, he turned his head to me and opened his eyes wide. I braced, prepared for him to act up again, but he let out a long sigh and dropped his head. I studied him for a moment, puzzled. He didn’t strike me as spiteful, and then an inkling of something crossed my mind. It was an answer I didn’t want.
I can fix just about anything, except crazy.
Alana called me that afternoon to welcome me home. “So you came back in one piece,” she said.
“How did you expect me to come back?” I asked.
“Frankly, deep in the bowels of a lion.”
“Which would make me a pile of shit,” I said. “Which I feel like anyway.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said. “How are things with Matt?”
“We had a big fight.”
“Of course you did,” she said. “Emotions are running high. You’re resentful, and rightly so. And he’s defensive, and—”
“I know all that crap,” I said. “Tell me how to fix it.”
“You ought to know,” she said. “You need to talk it through. Define your goals. Decide if you want to be righteous or married.”
“Can’t I be both?”
Still Life with Elephant Page 12