One Amazing Elephant

by Linda Oatman High

  “The funeral,” I say. “I’ve never been to one.”

  “There’s a bright side to funerals, too,” he says. “You get to say good-bye. Look at their face one last time.”

  I sigh. “I’m nervous.”

  “Don’t worry,” says my new friend, and his voice is like a warm, fuzzy blanket thrown over me when I’m cold. “I’ll be there for you.”

  And I know that he will.

  Queenie Grace Feels Pain for Henry Jack

  My burn is feeling a little bit better, after just one day. My trunk is also healing. My back is healing. The only thing that is not healing is my heart. It is still broken, missing Bill. But I’m trying to enjoy the Tuesday morning sunshine, watching the girl Lily paint a picture of the Alligator Boy.

  Except in this picture, Henry Jack does not have alligator skin. He does not have elephant skin.

  Henry Jack has the skin of a normal boy in Lily’s painting. He sits in a lawn chair in the yard, smiling, staring into the distance as she paints away.

  I wish Henry Jack did not have his wrinkled skin. I know that it gives him pain. He is in pain today, with red color from the sun on his face.

  I feel pain for Henry Jack. He feels pain for me. That is what best friends do.

  Painting Is Almost Magic

  It’s the day after Christmas, and I’m just finishing up the painting of Henry Jack when George stops by.

  “Wow,” says George in his high, nasally voice. He’s wearing a beret and he tips it, studying my painting with his head tilted back.

  “Wow,” he says again. “That’s really good, Miss Lily. You’re very talented.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been painting all my life.”

  “Maybe I could pay you to paint me. Me and Boldo, my lion!”

  I bite my lip.

  “I’m … kind of scared of lions,” I say.

  “Oh, Boldo’s a big pussycat!” George says. “He wouldn’t hurt you, I promise. When my grandkids come to visit, they play with him as if he’s just a huge overgrown kitty.”

  I shrug.

  “Okay,” I say. “I could do that.” I’m trying to conquer my fears.

  Queenie Grace is standing in the shade of the nearby tree, and George waves at her.

  “Hello, sweetie,” he says.

  I swear her lips curl into a smile and she raises her trunk. Queenie Grace walks with those huge feet, lifting them delicately like an enormous clumsy ballerina, in our direction.

  “Lily here is just like you,” George says to the elephant. “A talented artist. I have a bunch of Queenie Grace’s paintings hanging in my place. She’s famous in the elephant art world.”

  “Obvious that we’re related then, huh?” I ask, and George laughs.

  “Yep,” he says. “Something very similar in those eyes.” He looks from side to side, checking out my eyes and then the elephant’s.

  Henry Jack and I laugh.

  “And the cool thing is that my grandpa taught us both to paint,” I say. “He taught me, and he taught Queenie Grace.”

  “Bill lives on,” Henry Jack says, “in your paintings. Yours and Queenie Grace’s.”

  “You’re looking extra red today,” George says to Henry Jack. “You been using your sunburn cream?”

  “Yes, Mom,” Henry Jack says, rolling his eyes. “I swear, you’re as bad as her.”

  “But not nearly as pretty!” jokes George, and we laugh again. Even Queenie Grace seems to chuckle, in that snoring snuffling kind of way.

  “So I wanted to check out the cigarette burn,” George says, and Henry Jack points.

  “Right back there,” he says. “You can’t miss it. And it was definitely him. It was Mike.”

  “Do you have a step stool?” asks George. “Or a ladder?”

  Henry Jack stands up from the lawn chair, stretches, and then he just lifts George up, hands circling George’s pudgy waist. George inspects the red circle on Queenie Grace’s skin.

  “What a jerk,” he mutters.

  “I know,” Henry Jack says, lowering George to the ground. “He’s staying with Charlie the fire-eater now. Violet kicked him out.”

  George glares in the direction of the fire-eater’s house.

  “Neither one of those guys is worth anything,” he grumbles. “They deserve each other.”

  Just then, Henry Jack notices my painting. He stops dead, steps closer, stares at the picture, takes another couple of steps. He reaches out to touch the edge of the canvas, gently, eyes fixed on my painting of him. He looks as if he’s seen a ghost.

  “Holy showman,” he says quietly. “So that’s what I’d look like, if I was just a normal boy.”

  “Well, you are a normal boy,” I say. “But that’s just you without the wrinkles. That’s all.”

  Henry Jack looks at me, and his eyes fill with tears.

  “Thanks,” he says. “I always wanted to see that.”

  “No wonder Bill bragged so much about you, Lily,” says George. “You’re one amazing girl.”

  I toe the ground with my shoe. I’m not used to so many compliments coming at me from all directions.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Have you ever painted your grandpa?” asks Henry Jack. “If you haven’t, you should.”

  “I haven’t,” I say. “But that’s a good idea. I’ll paint Grandpa Bill.”

  So the rest of the day and into the night, I paint. I don’t paint from a picture; I just paint from memory. I know my grandfather by heart: every line, every smile, every tuft of fluffy white hair. Blue eyes, thin slant of nose, lips that never knew how to frown. White stubble scruffy on his cheeks, a black mole over his straggly left eyebrow. A small slice of scar on his chin, the tiny pit on the right side of his nose where he once had skin cancer.

  And when it’s finished, it’s Grandpa Bill. Grandpa Bill on paper, in paint, come to life once again by the love in my hand.

  Grandma comes into the bedroom, wearing her baggy yellow SpongeBob nightshirt, just as I’m finishing.

  “Oh,” she says, stopping. “Oh, Lily. It’s perfect. It’s him. Scars and all.”

  I step back, squint.

  “It’s him, kind of. But not really. Because he can never really be here again,” I say.

  Grandma pulls me into a hug.

  “He’s here,” she says. “I can feel him. It’s like magic.”

  And then I realize why I like to paint. It is exactly like magic: taking something blank and empty and filling that space abracadabra with color and life and light. I want to explain all this to Grandma, the wonder of it all, but I can’t find the right words. There are some things in life that just don’t fit within twenty-six letters of the alphabet.

  “Thanks for the paints,” I say.

  Queenie Grace Would Never Hurt the People She Loves

  I can’t stop looking through the living room window at the new painting. The girl Lily painted my mahout!

  It is morning, Wednesday, and the eastern sun shines a spotlight on the painting. It is like a circus spotlight: a circle of light just like those we stood inside for so many years. We made people smile, Bill and I. We made them cheer.

  I go down on my knees, in order to better see inside the trailer.

  The mean fire-eater Charlie is outside in his yard.

  “Yeah, you’d better pray,” he says to me. I smell the cigar; I see the cowboy hat. “You’d better pray that they don’t get rid of you soon. Look at you: can’t keep away from their house. Next thing ya know, you’ll be bustin’ out another window and hurtin’ somebody.”

  Charlie is wrong.

  I would never hurt people I love.

  An Agreement

  Two days after Christmas. I’ve been here in Gibtown since Sunday night, but it feels like a miniature forever. Like a tiny lifetime.

  Trullia comes yawning and stretching out of the bathroom as Grandma and I are eating breakfast. She’s wearing a trapeze costume, so I guess she plans to practice today, or work, or whatever it is
that she does in those clothes.

  “Did you notice something different in the living room?” Grandma Violet asks as my mother pads barefoot into the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee.

  “Um … there’s no Mike sleeping there?” Trullia sips her coffee. Her hair streams wet down her back, dripping drops of water on the glittery gold costume.

  “No. I don’t even want to hear that name! Guess again,” Grandma says. “Hint: It’s something on the wall.”

  I try not to smile. She’s talking about my painting, the portrait of Grandpa. She already put up a hook and hung the unframed canvas on the living room wall.

  “Uh … you bought an Elf on the Shelf?” Trullia guesses.

  “Don’t be silly!” Grandma says, laughing. “Look! The wall over the sofa!”

  My mother’s eyes roam the wall until they land on my painting. She puts down her coffee, not taking her eyes from the portrait, and goes into the living room as if a magnet is pulling her.

  “Wow,” says Trullia. “This is good. Where’d you have it done?”

  “Lily painted it,” Grandma says. “Last night, while you were gone.”

  “Wow,” Trullia says again. She looks at me as if I’m somebody she doesn’t know, which actually I suppose I am. “You’re an awesome artist, Lily,” she says. “It looks just like him. It’s almost like you brought him back to life.”

  I shrug.

  “I tried,” I say. “I know his face by heart.”

  I’m hoping for more of a conversation about my painting, about my grandpa, about how proud my mother might be of my talent for art. But no. It’s not going to happen, because Trullia is hustling back to the kitchen and slurping her coffee.

  “I have to hurry,” she says, “I’m teaching at trapeze school today, for Faith.”

  “Maybe you could take Lily,” Grandma suggests. “I don’t think she has any plans.”

  I sigh.

  “Not exactly,” I say. “Maybe just hanging with that kid Henry Jack.”

  “Well, Mom, it sounds as if she has plans,” Trullia says. “I’ll see you later today.”

  And then my mother bangs out through the door, juggling her coffee cup and her purse, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. She just leaves me behind, once again, not even looking back before she goes.

  My phone beeps. It’s a text from my dad.

  Everything going OK?

  Yes, I text. Fine.

  Now that I’m in the painting mood, I want to keep on going. I set up my new easel and canvas outside, in the yard, planning to paint a Florida landscape in shades of yellow and blue and green and orange.

  Grandma’s on the phone inside, talking about funeral details. I can hear her voice through the screen window, plus the TV sounds of a morning talk show.

  Queenie Grace is standing nearby. She keeps staring over at Charlie’s place, even though there’s nobody outside. Maybe she can smell Mike. I must be getting to know the elephant, because I can tell that she’s nervous. She trembles a little bit when she looks over there, plus she keeps shuffling her feet and rocking. Her eyes swim with fear.

  “It’s okay, Queenie Grace,” I say. “We won’t let him hurt you again. He’s not coming back here. Don’t worry.”

  Queenie Grace seems to understand. Her eyes shine with something like gratitude, and she walks slowly to my side. I have a bunch of paintbrushes, a cup, and the new paints from Grandma.

  I dab a brush in the blue, paint sky. Orange, yellow. Lots of flowers, green grass, and trees.

  And then Queenie Grace reaches over with her trunk. She picks up a brush and dunks it in the cup. Water splashes. I laugh, surprised. The elephant dips the brush in the purple paint and adds a swath of color to my sky.

  “Good job!” I say. “You’re a good painter, Queenie Grace!”

  The elephant is standing right next to me, and I’m not even scared, not really. We paint together for a few minutes, and it feels comfortable, as if we’ve been doing this forever. Her trunk brushes against my arm a few times, but I don’t even flinch. Something about putting paint to canvas is so relaxing, and I’m happy. I’m glad that the elephant and I are starting to become friends. I’m getting over my fear. This might be a miracle, a Christmas miracle. Everything feels peaceful, both inside of me and outside.

  But then I see something that makes me afraid and gives me the shivers. It’s Mike, slinking around in Charlie’s yard. He’s carrying a tool of some kind, long and sharp, and he looks away when he sees me.

  I shudder. Something is just not right about Mike.

  Queenie Grace feels it, too.

  “Don’t worry,” I say again, reaching over and patting the elephant. “He won’t hurt you anymore. I promise. I swear, I’ll do my best to protect you. Hopefully, you’ll protect me, too. Deal?”

  Queenie Grace pats my arm gently with her trunk. It’s an agreement.

  Queenie Grace Paints with Lily

  We paint together, the girl and me. I have never before painted with a human, except for when I was taught to paint by Bill.

  This feels nice: standing side by side with Lily. I think that perhaps we are becoming friends. Perhaps she is starting to be not so afraid.

  But then I feel her shiver. It is Mike. He is in the yard next door. Mike sends knives with his eyes.

  I am not worried. I have Lily by my side. And we have promised, we have sworn, to do everything we can to protect each other.

  This is what friends do.

  Night

  I paint most of the day with Queenie Grace, and then Henry Jack shows up as the sun is setting.

  “Hey!” he says. “Nice painting! Pretty cool that you two are hanging out together.”

  I shrug and smile, as if painting with an elephant is just an ordinary everyday thing in my life.

  “I was hanging out at my mom’s trapeze school,” Henry Jack says. “Your mom is working there today.”

  “I know.” I rinse the brushes as Queenie Grace lumbers away.

  “She was bragging about a painting that you did of your grandpa,” Henry Jack reports. “I must have heard about it a hundred times today.”

  Trullia was bragging … about me?

  “My mom was bragging about you, too,” Henry Jack continues. “Telling everybody about the painting you did of me, showing it to them. She took a picture of it with her phone camera after she hung it on the wall at our place. It made her cry when she first saw it.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad,” I say. “My art making people cry.”

  “It’s good,” Henry Jack says. “Because your paintings are touching their hearts. It’s your gift, Lily.”

  I’m not very good at accepting compliments, and so I just keep swishing paintbrushes in the cup, watching the water change colors.

  “How much for this painting?” Henry Jack asks. “I’d like to buy it. First original by Lily Pruitt and the Amazing Queenie Grace.”

  “Free for you,” I reply. “It’s my gift.”

  Henry Jack is hanging the painting on his bedroom wall when his mother gets home from work.

  “Look at the painting that Lily did with Queenie Grace,” he says.

  “Oh, how sweet,” says Faith. “It’s beautiful!”

  “She gave it to me,” Henry Jack reports. “I offered to buy it… .”

  “It’s a gift,” I say. “Merry Christmas, two days late.”

  “Oh, Lily,” says Faith. “I can’t thank you enough. Not only for this painting, but for the one you did yesterday of Henry Jack. Well, let’s just say I’ve been blinking back tears ever since I saw it.”

  I smile. Faith is studying Henry Jack’s face.

  “That sunburn doesn’t look good,” she says, peering at his skin.

  He sighs.

  “I don’t want you going outside in the sunshine for a few days,” Faith says to Henry Jack.

  “Can I go out at night?” he asks. “Like tonight?”

  “Yes, but no later than ten o’c
lock,” Faith says. “Remember, the funeral is tomorrow.”

  My stomach lurches. I don’t have to try to remember; I have to try to forget.

  Henry Jack and Queenie Grace and I hang together in the yard, by the tree. Henry Jack and I stretch flat on our backs, staring up at the nighttime sky. Queenie Grace towers over us, as if standing guard. She’s blocking the moon, but I can still see stars.

  “So I’m really nervous for tomorrow,” I say. “For the, you know, the … funeral.”

  “Yeah, well, funerals are never exactly fun,” says Henry Jack. I look at him. He’s staring straight up.

  “Even though I know funerals have a bright side, I still couldn’t help but hate my brother’s funeral,” Henry Jack says. “That’s when it all became so totally final. And now I just talk to him in the stars, in the sky, at night.”

  We’re both quiet for a few minutes.

  “That’s so sad,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “Do you really think he’s up there?”

  “Where else would he be?” asks Henry Jack.

  We fall silent again, like paying our respects to Henry Jack’s dead twin. Even Queenie Grace is breathing quieter, standing still except for her trunk, which sways back and forth, back and forth.

  “I’m going to try to believe that’s true,” I say. “I’m going to have faith that my grandpa is okay, that he is really up there. Still with us, except in a different way.”

  “Love doesn’t die,” says Henry Jack.

  “Okay,” I say. “This conversation is getting a little too deep for me.”

  We both laugh: another we’re in this together moment. Nothing like talking about dead people to bond a friendship.

  “You know what’s kind of cool?” I say. “I’m less afraid already.”

  “Afraid of … ?”

  “Everything. Well, the elephant mostly.”

  “I told you, Lily Rose,” says Henry Jack. “There is nothing to be afraid of, especially when it comes to Queenie Grace.”

  “Well, if you knew what I went through when I was six, when she almost killed me …”

  “Pfffft. Queenie Grace would never hurt a kid. She’d never hurt anybody!”

  “That’s what you think. We all have our opinions. And my opinion is that elephants are dangerous.”

  “What about humans? They’re dangerous, too.”