One Amazing Elephant

by Linda Oatman High

  “Iodine,” he says. “We need this stuff called iodine.”

  “Where can we find that?”

  “George’s Pharmacy,” Henry Jack says. “They have everything.”

  George’s Pharmacy is inside a small brick building just down the street. Shelves of antique medicine bottles line the walls as decoration, and there’s an old-fashioned soda fountain. George himself is behind the counter, which comes up to my knees. George is a small man, a very little person.

  “Hey, hey,” he says in a nasally voice. “Mr. Henry Jack. What can I do for you?”

  “We need iodine,” replies Henry Jack. “For a little burn on a big elephant.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that about my sweetie Queenie Grace,” George says, shaking his head, which is covered in sparse and spiky gray hair. “And I still can’t believe that Bill’s gone. Man, what a shock. Here one minute, gone the next.”

  “I know,” says Henry Jack. “And this is his granddaughter, Lily.”

  “Well, I’ll be! I am so sorry about your grandpa,” says George. He reaches up a small and pudgy hand, and I shake it. “You’re the spittin’ image of your grandma and with your grandpa’s height: so tall and willowy, with that long, beautiful hair and eyes shimmery as blueberry Kool-Aid. Plus, you have your mother’s cute dimples.”

  “Um, thanks?” I say.

  Henry Jack snickers.

  “George here always did have a crush on Miss Violet,” he says.

  George waves away his words like he’s swatting a fly.

  “Okay, back to business,” he says, slapping his hand on the wooden counter. “So how did Queenie Grace get burned?”

  “A bad guy,” says Henry Jack.

  “Mike? Or Fire-Eatin’ Charlie?”

  “Wow, good guess,” Henry Jack says. “How’d you know?”

  “Only two bad guys I can think of. So which one was it?”

  “That’s for us to know,” Henry Jack says, paying for the iodine. “And you to find out.”

  “And believe me,” George states, handing Henry Jack his change, “I will find out. I know most everything that goes on in this town. And whoever hurt that elephant is going to have to answer to me!”

  “And me,” Henry Jack adds.

  I don’t want to be left out, so I put in my two cents.

  “And me,” I say. “Nobody deserves to be hurt. Not even an elephant.”

  “That’s right, darlin’,” says George. “You sure do have your grandfather’s kindness, I can tell. Now you try to enjoy the holiday, okay?”

  I nod.

  “And maybe next time I see you two, just maybe, I’ll tell you some crazy stories about that guy Mike and Fire-Eatin’ Charlie. Not nice stories, but true stories.”

  “Why not tell us now?” Henry Jack asks.

  “It’s Christmas,” replies George. “Not a day for those stories.”

  “Aren’t most stores closed on Christmas?” I ask, and George shrugs.

  “If I closed the store, I’d be alone, except for my poor old lion, Boldo,” he says. “This way, I get to see my friends. That’s the best way to spend a holiday: seeing people I like. And helping them.”

  “And helping elephants, too,” I say as Henry Jack tucks the bottle of iodine in the pocket of his shorts.

  “That’s right, girlie. And Mr. Henry Jack: you’re looking sorta red. Make sure you don’t get sunburned, okay?”

  Queenie Grace Doesn’t Like Iodine

  I don’t like iodine. It burns worse than the burn burns.

  I flinch, skin quivering. I don’t like the iodine, but I do like that the Alligator Boy is taking care of me.

  The girl Lily stands far back, watching. She’s always watching. She’s always standing back, staying away. Sometimes she shakes. I can hear her breath. It’s a slight whistle, quieter than the tiger trainer’s whistle. The girl has asthma. Bill had asthma, too, when the dust swirled or when he was in a place with summertime flowers.

  I wonder if Lily will ever like me. And I wonder if I could maybe one day like the girl.

  Probably not. I know that some friendships are just not meant to be.

  A Smack in the Face

  So I’m getting braver, plus Queenie Grace is shaking a little, so I decide to carefully stand beside her while Henry Jack works. I pat her gently, as he uses the dropper to dribble brownish-orange liquid onto Queenie Grace’s cigarette burn. Red blossoms out like a blooming flower on the elephant’s rough gray skin.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”

  But the elephant doesn’t like the iodine. She flinches and quivers, and then she swings her trunk, hard.

  Queenie Grace’s trunk slaps my face. It feels like the hand of a boneless giant.

  “Owwww!” I holler, holding a hand to my cheek. I sink to my knees in the grass. “She hit me!”

  “I don’t think she tried to hit you,” says Henry Jack.

  “I know. But still. It hurts.”

  I stand up, holding my cheek. Queenie Grace just looks at me. Then I step back, back, back … until no part of the elephant can possibly reach me. I’m rubbing my cheek. It smarts, and I’m starting to have a headache, too.

  “What’s going on? Who the heck was screaming? Can’t we have any peace around here, even on Christmas?”

  It’s Grandma Violet, standing on the little porch and yelling across the yard.

  “No worries,” Henry Jack calls back. “Just a little accident with an elephant slap. It’s fine.”

  “Yes,” I say. “You can go back inside, Grandma. I’m fine.”

  But my grandma obviously doesn’t believe that, because she’s already making her way across the yard, past the tree, directly to me. I keep my hand on my cheek.

  “Let me see,” Grandma Violet commands.

  I take away my hand

  “Good grief,” my grandma says. “There’s a huge red mark! I bet that’s going to bruise.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay,” I say.

  “No,” says Grandma Violet. “It’s not okay.”

  Trullia comes out, wearing shorts that are way too short and a top that barely covers her belly button.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “Queenie Grace accidentally slapped Lily,” Grandma says.

  Trullia strolls over, tugs down her shirt, plucks down her shorts.

  “It doesn’t look too bad,” she says. “How did it happen?”

  “It was an accident,” I say. I can’t believe that I am actually defending the elephant.

  Mike’s watching now from the doorway of the trailer, blowing smoke.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “It was an accident,” says Henry Jack.

  Grandma Violet shakes a finger at the elephant, the way a mother lovingly reprimands a little kid.

  “Queenie Grace!” she exclaims. “You know better.”

  “No, she doesn’t!” yells Fire-Eating Charlie, who’s back outside, smoking a cigar. “It’s a wild animal, and it’s going to act wild! I keep telling you people.”

  “Hush, Charlie,” Grandma snaps back. “It’s none of your business.”

  “It’s my business when that elephant wallops one of my dogs!”

  “Your dog was biting her leg!” Grandma shrieks.

  “Well, don’t worry; it won’t happen again,” Fire-Eating Charlie shouts. “Because of that elephant, I have to keep my dogs inside! The only time they come out is when they need to go potty.”

  Henry Jack snickers.

  “Go potty,” he whispers. “Big tough fire-eating cigar-smoking Charlie and his itsy wittle doggies that wear pink tutus and go potty. Plus that ugly beard of his. Did you know that a beard has more germs than a toilet?”

  “Ewwwwww,” I say. “Thanks for sharing that.”

  “Charlie’s got a point about the danger,” Mike calls, in between puffing away. “A wild animal is going to do wild things. It’s in their nature.”

  “Zip it, Mike,” Grandma sa
ys.

  “The thing hurt your granddaughter!” Mike says. “Smacked her right in the face! And you’re not going to put it in the chains.”

  “No,” says Grandma Violet. “I’m not. Queenie Grace is obviously not herself, but none of us are quite right at this time. So let it go.”

  Mike throws down his cigarette and grinds it out with his flip-flop, then throws up his hands.

  “I’m going in,” he says. “You guys interrupted my TV show.”

  Trullia is not expressing any opinion. She’s now sitting in a lawn chair, smoking, inspecting her legs like a monkey picking bugs.

  “Don’t know what my daughter sees in that man,” Grandma mutters. She’s sweating, and she lifts her long hair from her neck with one hand, fanning her face with the other. Grandma Violet is wearing a T-shirt version of the Ugly Christmas Sweater: all green and red, with a Rudolph and Santa. Rudolph has a red light for his nose, and it blinks: Off. On. Off. On.

  “I’m sorry, Lily, honey,” Grandma says. She pulls me into a hug. “Not a very relaxing visit, is it? I apologize for everything.”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  “No,” Grandma says, “it’s not okay. Poor Grandpa would have hated all this commotion. He would have wanted you to have a nice peaceful Christmas visit.”

  And then Grandma notices the red blotch on Queenie Grace.

  “What is that red spot?” she asks, and Henry Jack looks at me. We both shuffle our feet. I have no idea what to say, and apparently, neither does Henry Jack. The silence is heavy as Grandma bends close to inspect the red spot on Queenie Grace’s skin.

  “Why, there’s a little circle of a burn mark!” Grandma says. “It’s the size of a cigarette! Did somebody … did Mike … burn her?” she asks, a look of horror crossing her face.

  “Yes,” Henry Jack says. “With his cigarette, when you were taking off the chains. We went and got some iodine, put it on the burn. I thought maybe we should wait to tell you. You know, you already have so much on your mind. Plus, we weren’t completely one hundred percent sure until now. Not like swear-your-life-on-it certain.”

  “We were hoping that maybe it was an accident,” I add, my voice quiet and trembly.

  “This was no accident! That man!” Grandma Violet says. “He’s going to have to go. Trullia, get over here!”

  Trullia heaves herself up, saunters over.

  “Look what your boyfriend did!” Grandma says. She points to the burned spot on Queenie Grace. “With a cigarette, for heaven’s sakes! What is wrong with that man?”

  Trullia glances at the burn.

  “Oh, Mom,” she says. “I’m sure it was an accident, and it probably wasn’t even Mike.”

  “It was Mike, all right, and it was on purpose,” Henry Jack says. “We saw him. Me and Lily were watching.”

  Trullia’s eyes widen, and confusion covers her face.

  “But … why?” she says. “Why on earth would he do that? Queenie Grace is so sweet.”

  “Anybody who would hurt an elephant like that,” says Grandma, “has problems. Big problems.”

  “Well, I told you about his childhood and all that,” says Trullia. “He had it rough. Remember, his mother pushed him down the steps? Pulled his hair and stuff? His childhood was tough.”

  “That is no excuse!” Grandma Violet says. “That man needs to own his mistakes, take responsibility! Why, I have half a mind to call the police on him!”

  “Mom,” says Trullia. “Please. Give him one more chance.”

  Grandma just takes a big breath, shakes her head.

  “Go tell him,” she says, slow and firm. “Tell him to get out of here and never come back. I don’t want him in my home.”

  Trullia stomps off. Henry Jack and I stare at our feet.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have told you,” he says to Grandma. “It’s like, you don’t need that on top of … everything else.”

  “Oh, it’s good you told me, honey,” Grandma says to Henry Jack. “We all need to look out for one another.”

  Grandma hugs Henry Jack, then me. She leans into Queenie Grace and kisses her skin.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says to the elephant. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with him.”

  Grandma steps back, looks at Henry Jack and me.

  “Mike’s not happy with himself,” she says. “And it comes out against everything and everybody else. Not that it’s an excuse. It is what it is.”

  I nod. This is beginning to sound like a conversation with the school guidance counselor. “How’s your face, sweetie?” Grandma asks.

  “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

  Grandma just looks up at Queenie Grace’s face for a few minutes, as her Christmas shirt winks off and on. Queenie Grace looks back, blinking. There’s love in her eyes, love in Grandma’s eyes, a shared bond between them.

  “No more swinging that trunk,” Grandma says to the elephant. “Be a good girl.”

  “She’ll be good,” Henry Jack says. “Queenie Grace is the best elephant I know.”

  Trunks Are Very Difficult to Manage

  I did not mean to hit the girl Lily in the face. Humans just don’t understand: trunks are sometimes very difficult to manage.

  My skin is beginning to cool. Violet tells me to be good. I always do my best to be good.

  If only Bill were here. An elephant without her mahout is nothing.

  Sunburn

  Grandma goes inside, and there’s the sound of yelling. Henry Jack and I act as if it’s not happening.

  “You look like you have sunburn,” I say.

  “Shoot,” Henry Jack says, studying his arm, then his legs. “I do. My mom is going to kill me, if this sunburn doesn’t kill me first.”

  “Sunburn could kill you?”

  “Sure. With this skin condition, I’m supposed to be super careful.”

  “So why aren’t you?”

  “I am. It’s just that I forgot, in the excitement of actually having somebody to hang out with. Kids our age aren’t exactly that common here in Gibtown.”

  “I noticed.”

  Henry Jack and I walk quickly back to his house so that he can use his sunburn cream. His mother smells it from down the hall and comes floating into his room.

  “Henry. Jack. O’Toole,” she says, his name all spaced out like seeds in a garden. “You. Are. Sunburned.”

  “I know,” says Henry Jack. “Not that bad, actually. Don’t worry, Mom. I’m taking care of it.”

  Faith holds a hand to her heart.

  “I swear, you give me a heart attack sometimes,” she says. But then she remembers about my grandpa having a heart attack, because her face scrunches and she changes the subject.

  “So, Lily,” Faith says. “Did you inherit your mother’s talent for the flying trapeze?”

  “I … don’t think so,” I reply. “I’m scared of heights.”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “Um, no. It’s not like there’s lots of opportunity for that in West Virginia.”

  Faith laughs. She tosses back her long black hair and lifts her arms, pretending to be flying on a trapeze.

  “One day while you’re here,” she says, “I will teach you. I’ll teach you to fly.”

  Henry Jack slathers himself with more smelly lotion, and he promises to stay inside for the rest of daylight hours. We both sit on the top bunk this time, heads grazing the ceiling. It’s weird to think that his brother slept here.

  “How’s your asthma?” Henry Jack asks, and I shrug.

  “Good. Normal. How’s your sunburn?”

  “Bad. Normal. So do you want to play a game or something?” Henry Jack asks. “We could play video games. Or this game called Apples to Apples that I got for Christmas. Or cards.”

  “No, thanks,” I reply. “I guess I’d better get back to my grandma’s. See if Trullia got rid of Mike.”

  “Why do you call her Trullia?”

  “That’s her name.”

  “But she’s your mo
m.”

  “Yeah, but no. Not really. She left, like when I was three. My dad raised me. I only see her every now and then.”

  “So why’d she leave?”

  “Beats me. I’m still trying to figure that out. We live in this awesome place called Magic Mountain, a campground, with a swimming pool and mini-golf and hiking trails. It’s a great place, at least in the summer, when all the flowers are blooming and we can be outside. Winter’s not so good.”

  “Sounds like you’re pretty lucky,” Henry Jack says. “You get to go to school, a regular school. If you were like me, on the road, you’d have to mostly learn on your own, plus have a tutor.”

  I shrug. “Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”

  “It must feel weird, though,” he says. “Not to have your mom.”

  “It does. I used to actually pretend she was dead, because I thought that was better than knowing she just didn’t want to stay with us.”

  Henry Jack’s quiet for a minute.

  “At least I have a great dad,” I say, looking for the bright side. “And our campground. And my painting. I love to paint, more than just about anything. That’s one thing that Queenie Grace and I have in common: painting. Actually, it might be the only thing we have in common. Grandpa taught both of us to paint.”

  “Speaking of Queenie Grace,” says Henry Jack. “See that picture hanging over there?”

  He points to a painting with slashes of blue and green and purple and red.

  “Queenie Grace painted that!” he says. “Me and Jeremy Zack stood together and we asked her to paint us, and that’s what she painted.”

  “Cool.”

  “I think I’m the blue and green,” says Henry Jack. “He was more fiery and hyper, so he must have been the purple and red.”

  Just then my cell phone beeps with a text.

  “It’s from my grandma,” I say. “I didn’t even know she knew how to text.”

  “She wears Chuck Taylor sneakers and has purple hair,” says Henry Jack. “She knows how to text.”

  I kicked Mike out, says the text. He won’t be here when you get back.

  “She kicked him out,” I say. “She got rid of Mike.”

  “Good,” says Henry Jack. “I hope he doesn’t show up at the funeral.”

  My stomach drops.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Henry Jack. He flips back his hair, peering at me.