One Amazing Elephant

by Linda Oatman High

  I shrug off the jacket. Trullia’s window is open, and my hair blows. The air smells fishy and deep. I am drowning in neon. Flashing signs greet us, saying Drive Your Own Race Car and Pawnshop and Cheap Wine and Beer. Far as I can tell from here, Florida is not all it’s cracked up to be.

  “Do you ever see alligators?” I ask.

  “Sure,” says Mike. “Do you see bears in West Virginia?”

  “Sometimes,” I say, “if you’re lucky.”

  “Same here,” Mike replies. “Things are really mostly the same all over, I suppose.”

  “We’re almost home,” Trullia says. “There’s our landmark: the giant boot!”

  We pass a statue … of a gigantic boot.

  “Ooo-kay,” I say. “Why is there a statue of a boot?”

  “That’s a replica of the original Giant’s boot: size twenty-two,” replies Mike. “Your grandfather was related to that guy, supposedly.”

  “We’re kind of famous in Gibtown,” Trullia adds as the car pushes forward.

  “You have big shoes to fill, Lily,” says Mike.

  The car rattles along a road full of potholes. Gibtown is just a bunch of concrete buildings, rows and rows of mobile homes decorated with Christmas stuff, and lots of junk scattered everywhere. There’s a battered little restaurant with signs that say Fishing Camp Eatery and We Sell Worms.

  “Welcome to Gibtown,” says Mike, “where life is a circus every day.”

  “Hey!” says Trullia. “I grew up here! I love it.”

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Mike insists.

  In the flicker of some dim streetlights, I see an old merry-go-round with carousel horses, a Ferris wheel looming up into the night, a couple of lonely bumper cars, an abandoned cotton candy stand.

  “Why are there rides?” I ask. “Do they actually work?”

  “Most of them are just stored here,” says Trullia. “Old and broken-down, like most of the people.”

  Mike and Trullia crack up.

  “And the animals,” Trullia adds. “Most of them are pretty old and broken, too.”

  “What kind of animals?” I ask. “I know I’ve seen tigers and a bear and some dogs, when I go to the circus.”

  “Oh, plenty of animals that don’t even work in the circus anymore,” says Mike. “There’s a couple of ancient monkeys a few doors down. Plus these three annoying yippy white poodles that wear tutus. Oh, and there are a bunch of retired leopards.”

  “Ooo-kay,” I say. “I hope they’re in cages.”

  “Nope. No cages in Gibtown.”

  “So … it’s actually legal to keep big wild animals here? Just loose?”

  “Yup,” says Mike. “Gibtown’s the only place in America classified as RSB: residential show business zone. That means circus folks can train grizzly bears in their front yard, keep an elephant, a pet tiger, have a Ferris wheel out back.”

  “So do you work for the circus, too?”

  “Yep. I’m a ruffie. I set up the shows and games. Sometimes I work two days straight, then pack up and move on to the next town. Only time we take a break is in December, when we all come here to Gibtown. Some call it Showtown. Others call it the strangest town in the nation. We have a gas station, library, bar, tattoo shop, grocery store, pharmacy, and trapeze school.”

  “Is there anybody my age?”

  “Well,” says Trullia, thinking, “there is Henry Jack. He’s about twelve, I think. His skin is wrinkled like an alligator’s.”

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “Yup.”

  Mike presses on the brake, which is screechy, and I almost shriek, because limping slowly right across the road in front of the car is a lion. A wild lion!

  “There goes good old Boldo,” says Mike. “Poor thing’s on his last legs, so he’s pretty slow.”

  “Hello, Boldo,” Trullia croons through the open window.

  I watch the lion go, and all I can think is that I wish I were home.

  The lion disappears and Mike drives between an inflatable light-up snowman and a big vinyl snow dome that sways slightly in the night.

  “Here we are,” he says. “There’s the neighbor guy, Fire-Eating Charlie, just doing his thing.”

  I look to my right, and a man in a cowboy hat is all lit up by a flaming stick of fire. He tips back his head and the fire goes out. Then he turns to look across the yard, and even in the dark I can tell that his eyes meet mine.

  I shiver. The fire-eater creeps me out. In the window of the trailer behind him, three white poodles are yipping and yapping, leaping at the glass.

  “Shut up!” somebody yells.

  I look to my left and there’s Grandpa Bill’s elephant, outlined huge and shadowy against the night. I shudder.

  “Welcome home,” says Trullia Lee Pruitt.

  The Girl Lily Is Here

  The girl is here. Lily. Bill’s little one, the anxious child we see when we’re on the road. Wavy hair like the curled, peeled skin of tangerines. Speckled face. Eyes shadowy as a sky getting ready to storm. A sad smell of fear and loneliness. Her heart thrashes extra hard, and I can hear it from here.

  She steps gingerly out into the grass from the back of the car, and the scent is extra strong. This girl Lily does not trust, and her nervousness hangs on her like a ripped dress.

  “Say hello to Queenie Grace,” Trullia says. “You’ll probably have to go to her because she’s not moving.”

  “No, thanks,” says the girl. “I’m … kind of scared of elephants, you know.”

  “Oh, I know,” says Trullia. “And there really is no reason for it. No reason at all. Queenie Grace would never hurt you.”

  Mike flicks his lighter, holds a cigarette to the flame, puts it in his mouth. He blows smoke. I can smell it. I do not enjoy the smell of cigarette smoke. It smells gray, but not gray like me. Gray like danger. This man Mike is a threat.

  The girl does not look at me. She does not speak to me. Lily has hunched shoulders and tired eyes. She carries a thick padded black jacket, and heavy fur boots are on her feet. Jeans, tight to her legs. She is thin, too thin, legs like sticks. I will paint her one day, and all I will need are lines. Slashes and lines, dark, angry, melancholy.

  Violet bursts through the door. She spreads her arms wide, as if to fly. This is the happiest face she has worn in a while.

  “Lily-Bird!” she calls.

  The girl is not a bird. She does not have wings; she cannot fly. The sky is not her home, and neither is the winter camp. She does not belong here. She is longing for her home, for her family.

  I smell peanuts, salty, salty peanuts. My mouth waters, I swing my trunk. I sway, I shift my weight, I weave. I heave out a sound, and the girl glances back over her shoulder.

  Our eyes meet, finally, just one glimpse, but then it is time for the people to go inside.

  This Place Is Crazy

  Grandma Violet comes running, bounding along pretty fast for a grandma. She wraps me up in a snug two-armed hug that feels like love. I must have grown since summer, because now her head doesn’t even reach my heart.

  “Oh, honey!” she says, and I hear tears in her voice.

  “I’m sorry about Grandpa,” I say, and she really breaks down.

  “I know,” Grandma says. “Me too.”

  We hug for a long time, and then she steps back, studying me.

  “Lily, my girl,” Grandma keeps saying. “You are growing up so fast! You’ve gotten so tall!”

  Inside the trailer, it smells like smoke, and socks, and old people, plus something like French fries or a hamburger. There’s a tree—a green plastic bare one—but nothing else with a hint of Christmas. One saggy green sofa, two black recliners, a tiny red kitchen with a miniature silver refrigerator. Pictures on the walls of my grandma and grandpa, looking happy and young. There are my school pictures, too, framed in gold, and old photos of Trullia. There’s even a picture of way-young Trullia and my dad at their high school prom, back before they moved to West Virginia and had
me. And of course there are lots of pictures of Trullia on the flying trapeze: Miss Famous.

  A cuckoo clock chirps nine times.

  “Welcome to our little home, Lily,” says Grandma. “It’s not fancy, but it’s ours. And it’s a little bigger than that motor home we travel in.”

  My grandma waves her hand, which is wrinkly and spotted brown like most people who are in their sixties. She is so teeny and fragile; her purple-streaked hair hangs almost to her waist. Grandma Violet’s face is crinkly and kind, and she’s wearing plaid shorts and red Converse shoes (just like mine!) with a black T-shirt that says Be Yourself. I have to admit: my grandmother is pretty hip, with that purple hair and cool clothing.

  “So how was the flight, Lily-Bird?” asks Grandma.

  “Okay,” I say. “I sat with a nice lady. Her name was Donna, and she wore these funky cat’s-eye glasses and she was a ‘spiritual adviser and animal communicator’ of some kind.”

  “That’s good,” Grandma says. “It always makes flying nicer when you have a friend. Plus, who doesn’t need a little bit of spiritual advice and communication with animals, every now and then?”

  “Man, this suitcase is heavy,” complains Mike, scrunching up his face as if he’s lifting weights. “Where can I put this thing?”

  “Oh, just set it down anywhere,” says Grandma. “Make yourself at home, Lily. Our home is your home, too.”

  “You can take off those boots,” says Trullia. “You keep forgetting: you’re not in West Virginia anymore.”

  Mike puts my suitcase on the sofa.

  “Feels like she packed the entire state of West Virginia,” he says.

  “Did you pack a swimsuit?” asks Trullia. “There’s a pool.”

  “Um … no. I kind of forgot. It was just so cold when I left home that I didn’t even think about swimming.”

  “I understand how that happens,” says Grandma. “It’s like when I’m here in Florida, I can’t even imagine it snowing and being cold in West Virginia. Two different worlds. How’s your father, Lily?”

  “Good. He’s good.”

  My mother obviously doesn’t like talking about my dad. She chews on a fingernail, and then she changes the subject.

  “Mom!” says Trullia. “Where are the tree ornaments? Where are the lights?”

  “I took the ornaments down,” Grandma says. “I wrapped up the lights. Who feels like celebrating now?”

  “That’s kind of extreme,” Trullia says.

  “I just needed to do something while you were gone, so I undecorated the tree,” Grandma says.

  “But you didn’t take down the outside lights?” Trullia asks.

  Grandma shrugs. “Can’t explain it,” she says. “I’m just not feeling the holiday spirit.”

  “Well, we do have Lily here,” says Trullia. “We could do it for her.”

  No. Don’t do anything for me. Please. Because that would mean I have to appreciate, and I’m not in an appreciation kind of mood, to tell you the truth.

  “This is Christmas Eve,” says Mike. “You need a freaking tree.”

  “I have a dang tree,” says Grandma. “And that’s all I have.”

  They’ve moved Trullia to the green sofa, and Mike to the recliner, and given me their room, which really isn’t much to brag about. A creaky whining bed that sags in the middle; a dresser with broken drawers. Apparently, everything in this trailer is broken or old or tired or sad.

  It’s only nine thirty, but I’m tired. Too sleepy to even unpack my suitcase and take out my pajamas. Flying wore me out. It’s like I’ve left my entire body and half my mind in the sky.

  I flop into the bed, lying on top of the covers.

  Grandma Violet made macaroni and cheese with hot dogs for my dinner, but I’m still kind of hungry. That’s when I remember the pack of peanuts in my jacket pocket.

  I take out the peanuts, rip open the pack, and munch a few. But then I get thirsty. I really don’t want to go back out and talk to anyone. I decide to just suck it up and go to sleep. I put the pack of peanuts on top of the dresser.

  I turn off the light and through the window, I can see the elephant, a hulking shadow in the night. It’s a little bit cool tonight, so the windows are closed. I can imagine the sounds of her huffy breathing, though.

  I yank off my jeans, drop them on the floor, and climb once again into the complaining bed, wearing the shirt and socks from this morning. So weird to think that I put these clothes on just this morning, at home, with my dad nearby. And now here I am: same clothes, same me, same moon overhead … but somehow everything has changed.

  Good night. Going to bed, I text Dad, and he texts right back.

  Sweet dreams. Love you.

  I wish he was here to tuck me in, to sing one of his silly songs, to read a book with me. I know I’m kind of old for all that, but still.

  I just really love my dad.

  Falling asleep, I think I’m in a dream, something about tapping and knocking. Then a crash, a huge splintering sound of breaking glass, and I sit up. It’s real. The glass of the window is crashed, a big, jagged, sharp, star-shaped hole letting in a piece of the night.

  “What the … ?”

  And then I see it: the trunk of the elephant, reaching boldly into the room, eating from the open pack of peanuts I left on the dresser.

  It’s Queenie Grace, and she just keeps eating the peanuts, never taking one eye from my face.

  I don’t know what to do, so I don’t do anything. I just sit and stare, knees and blanket to my chin, quivering. The clock in the living room cuckoos twelve times, and I reach over and turn on the light.

  The elephant is bleeding. She has a small spot of blood on her trunk, and then it’s dripping onto the broken old dresser in this creepy little room.

  This feels like a nightmare, some crazy bad dream, but then I know I’m awake because Trullia Lee Pruitt busts hollering into the room.

  She goes straight to the elephant, never mind me, and then she yells for my grandmother and for Mike, and before you know it, there’s a big ruckus going on.

  I’m watching them all through the broken window, trying not to step in shards of broken glass that fell on the bedroom floor.

  “What are you going to disinfect it with?” Trullia asks.

  “Hydrogen peroxide,” Grandma says.

  “Are you sure that’s the right thing to use?” Trullia asks, and it strikes me that she worries more about the elephant than she does about me.

  “Yes,” Grandma says.

  “I bet it’ll burn,” Trullia says.

  “Babe,” Mike says, “it’s an elephant. Just an elephant. Chill out a little bit, okay?”

  From here I can see that Trullia’s gnawing on her fingernails again.

  Grandma pours hydrogen peroxide on the elephant’s trunk and Trullia helps to hold it still. The elephant makes noise as Grandma Violet wraps gauze around the cut on its trunk.

  Mike carries a big chain across the yard.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Mike,” Grandma says.

  “Well, we can’t have her breaking windows and stuff,” Mike replies.

  Grandma sighs. I can see the rise and fall of her chest with her deep breath.

  “I’m too tired to fight,” Grandma says.

  Mike bends down and ties the chain around one of Queenie Grace’s legs, then he circles a tree with the chain. He knots it tight and steps back, surveying the elephant and the chain.

  “That should keep her safe for the night,” Mike says. “And keep us safe.”

  “She only wanted the peanuts,” I whisper to myself, kind of surprised that I’m feeling half-sorry for the elephant.

  I smell cigar smoke. The creepy fire-eater is standing outside, gawking and smoking. I swear he catches my eye again, even through the darkness.

  I look away. The elephant stares at me, too.

  I know just how Queenie Grace feels; I do. But this much, too, is true: I still don’t like her. After all, that elepha
nt did try to kill me one time, and she scared the heck out of me back in July.

  Maybe the chains serve her right.

  Queenie Grace Is in Trouble

  I am in trouble, big trouble. They have chained me, all because I ate the peanuts. I have never before been chained in this place. Bill the Giant would never, ever chain me.

  It is morning; I am still confined by the chain. Violet brings my water; she does not speak. Trullia brings my food; I will not eat. I will teach them how to treat an elephant.

  I wish I could paint. I wish I could do my tricks. I wish it was summer, and the circus was my life. I wish that my best friend Bill would come back and take off the chain.

  I wish that the girl Lily would just go away. She is to blame for leaving the peanuts where I could see. The girl was teasing me. I wish she would just go home, where she belongs, and I wish that everything wrong would turn right.

  I wish that Saturday had never turned to night. I wish the Giant had not decided to mow the grass. I wish that his heart had been stronger.

  I wonder how long I will remain on this chain.

  This day feels like a year. It feels like forever.

  I will never be okay again.

  A Christmas Tizzy

  It’s Christmas—Monday morning—and the elephant keens and whines outside. There’s no way you can get away from the racket.

  Grandma Violet is making French toast for breakfast. Mike sleeps on the recliner; Trullia’s snoozing on the sofa. They both snore. I’m sitting on the floor, trying to block out the noise of elephant with the TV.

  The elephant just keeps going with her sad sounds.

  Birds chirp outside and the sky is bright, but inside it’s dim and quiet and thick with grief. No joy to the world in here. More like, Let’s open this stuff and get it over with so we can all go back to being sad and alone.

  I open the first one, crumple the wrapping paper, and shove it into the trash bag Grandma brought into the living room.

  “A set of watercolors!” I say. “Awesome. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Grandma says. “Here’s another one from me.”

  She hands me a big package.

  I pull off the snowman paper. It’s brushes, an easel, and canvases.

  “Cool,” I say. “Now I can paint, here in Florida.”