The Masterwork of a Painting Elephant

by Michelle Cuevas

  “I suppose not,” Birch said, yawning, his trunk whistling like a distant train. “Perhaps they travel the world forever. Spiraling, twirling, dancing through the wet grass. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, we will happen upon them again when we least expect it.” Then Birch fell asleep, dreaming he had wings to fly—fly up high and catch all the world’s red balloons.

  NINE

  The Amazing Singing Hoboes

  And so the next few months passed in much the same way: I’d get made fun of at school, avoid being spat on by Mr. Turnipseed, and secretly pine for the love of Darling Clementine. The only thing that cheered me up was the approach of my tenth birthday.

  “What would you like?” Birch asked. “You can have anything at all.”

  “Anything?”

  Birch made the mistake of once again saying, “Yes, anything.”

  “Okay, then I want to go to the train station.”

  “Your birthday wish is a train? That may be a bit extravagant.”

  “No, it’s only the first part of what I’d like. Just last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I realized what we had to do. Why, it was as if I had been gazing at a twig and then suddenly realized what I was really looking at was a cleverly disguised insect.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” replied Birch.

  “You said the lady acrobat left you to go to Paris. And Paris is where all the famous artists go and hang out. Isn’t it obvious? We need to go to Paris! We need to go and find your love and make you the famous artist you’ve always dreamed of being.”

  “What about school?”

  “School vacation. It’s perfect!” Birch hesitated and I crossed my arms. “You said anything.”

  “So that’s really your birthday wish? Paris?”

  I smiled, knowing I had won.

  The next day Birch and I found a freight train heading to New York—a city where there are lots of planes traveling to Paris. The train stopped, and as I said to Birch, “I’m not sure you’re going to fit,” a voice on the train said the same exact words. It was an old man, a hobo, without any teeth. “You can try, though,” he went on to say. “I’ve never been one to discriminate against bigger-boned folks.”

  Birch nodded and climbed through the freight car door. He had to crouch down and kneel once inside so my head didn’t hit the ceiling, but overall, it was a pretty successful maneuver. The train rumbled through towns that had names I didn’t know, and when we shot into a tunnel through the mountain, the lights flickered once, then twice, and then went out. During those few moments of darkness, I imagined I was an astronaut on a ship zipping through space and, if I looked out the window and behind us, I’d see the earth—every person I’d ever known and every place I’d ever been. Every tree, every moon, and every voice. All the sadness, and the loneliness and the happiness too, all reduced to a speck so small that if I closed one eye and held up my thumb, I could block it all out. My entire world. Gone. Just like that.

  “Don’t be scared, youngster,” the toothless old man said as the lights flickered back on. “Train does that sometimes, loses its will to go on, I suppose. Always gets it back soon enough, though, just like the rest of us.”

  “I’m Pigeon,” I replied. “And this is Birch.”

  “Well, those are mighty fine names indeed,” the man said. “My name is Pocketless Pete, on account of my pants ain’t got no pockets. And these are my friends.”

  Three more hoboes stepped out of the shadows and smiled. “I’m Hatshoe Harry,” the first man said. He was wearing a porkpie hat in place of his left shoe.

  “I’m Kittenbeard Kip,” the second man said. Something meowed suspiciously from his knee-length beard.

  “And I’m Beancan Bill,” the third man said. “And this is my singing bean can.” He held an empty aluminum can in his hand like a puppet. The lid was still attached and did, in fact, look like a mouth.

  “We’re a singing group,” Pocketless Pete said. “We’re called the Amazing Singing Hoboes. Would you like to hear a song?”

  “Well, that would be wonderful, sir,” I said.

  The four hoboes cleared their throats, and Beancan Bill blew into a harmonica to get things started. “Let’s sing ’em the blues, boys.”

  Hobo Blues

  “So,” I asked, “are all your songs about not having pockets?”

  “I suppose they are,” Pete said. “They say to write what you know, and I know what it’s like not to have pockets.” He sat next to the window and a ray of sun found his cheek, illuminating a scar that ran down the side of his face like twine. I wondered where it was from, but I didn’t ask. I guess there are some sorrows in the world even a choir of angels couldn’t unravel with a song.

  “Could I ask you a question, young man?” Pete asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Are you going to finish that ham sandwich?”

  I had half a sandwich that we’d bought on the road left over, the edge of which was hanging out of my pocket. “Probably,” I said. “I’m saving it for later.”

  “That’s the right thing to do,” Pete said, smiling. “On the road, you never know where your next meal will come from. It’s time for our afternoon nap, but remember, when the train drops you off, take the subway into the Bronx.”

  “But we’re headed to the airport,” I said.

  “Make a stop before you get there,” he said. “There’s something in the Bronx that I’m sure you two would enjoy. And remember,” he added, “never forget how to sing, Pigeon. Never ever.”

  While they were asleep, I helped Birch leave them a special surprise. Birch got out his paints and brushes and went to work on the walls of that old train car. He painted a stage with velvet curtains and a neon sign that read BLUES JOINT. He painted an audience seated at tables, smiling and clapping. And, last but not least and with special care, he painted a set of pockets on the worn cloth of Pocketless Pete’s pants.

  Birch and I had to get off the train before they awoke, so we didn’t see their reaction, but I like to think they were pleased. I like to think that when Pete woke up, he was excited to see his imaginary pockets and also to see the ham sandwich I’d left him.

  “Why, I have pockets!” he’d exclaim. “And look, inside there’s a sandwich.” I like to think he’d take a giant bite of ham and cheese and mustard, then close his eyes like he had heaven in his mouth. Then he’d take a few slices of ham out of the sandwich and feed them to a dog with a dirty bandanna around his neck. The dog would smile the same way the old man did, and the two of them would sit together in the open door of the train car, their hearts glowing just as bright as the sunset.

  TEN

  The Great Golden God

  After we left the train, we followed Pocketless Pete’s advice and made our way to the subway. Birch, however, did not fit through the turnstile.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the man in the subway booth. “Do you happen to know of a place in the Bronx that would be of interest to a boy and an elephant?”

  “Well, the Bronx Zoo isn’t too far. Maybe you’d like it there.”

  And so we set out. However, after a few blocks, it became clear that we were obstructing the flow of traffic. Cars stopped and drivers craned their necks out windows to see Birch. A police officer approached, speaking frantically into his radio. Birch, intrigued by all the colors of the city, didn’t seem worried. “Why, Pigeon, what a lovely uniform that officer is wearing,” he said. “What color do you think it is? Royal? Cobalt? Midnight blue?”

  “Don’t panic, little boy!” The officer blew his whistle and continued shouting. “I’ve called for a truck to take that elephant to the zoo.”

  “How wonderful,” I replied. “That’s exactly where we’re headed.”

  The officer looked confused. Unsure what to do, he blew his whistle once again. A few minutes later, a flatbed truck arrived and Birch and I were on our way. “What a nice, helpful officer,” Birch said. “And his uniform was definitely forget-me-not blue.”

&n
bsp; The truck pulled up to the back entrance at the zoo. Before Birch and I knew what was happening, several zoo workers had approached and were circling around us with giant nets and snare poles. “Don’t worry, little boy,” one said to me, “we’ll save you.”

  “I don’t need to be saved,” I replied.

  “He’s delirious with fear,” another zookeeper said.

  “I’m not delirious with fear,” I told him. “We just wanted to visit the zoo.”

  Of course they didn’t believe us, because an elephant near the zoo is automatically considered an escapee, as we learned that day. And that, my friends, is how Birch and I were locked up within the first twenty-four hours of our great adventure.

  When the guards tried to take me down off Birch’s back, I threw a fit, kicking my legs, hollering, and attempting to bite a guard’s hand, so they left me where I was for the time being. We were placed in a holding pen and could hear some of the other animals milling about: the lions yawning, the birds squawking, and the monkeys throwing things at one another. The day turned to deepest night, and we were still confused as to what our fate would be.

  “Hello?” I said. “Can anyone hear me? We’re not supposed to be in this zoo.”

  “As if anyone is supposed to be here,” a bored voice said with a French accent. “I’m from France. Do you even know where that is?”

  “Who said that?”

  “I did,” the voice said. “Bonjour. I’m a turtle and they call me Pierre.”

  “Pierre, we’re trapped here,” I told him.

  “It may seem to you that you are trapped in that small pen,” the turtle said from over the wall, “but truthfully you’ve been able to leave the whole time. There’s a door behind you, hidden in the shadows.” I looked behind us, and squinted to see in the dark. Birch felt around with his trunk. Slowly, slowly, something started to move. There was, in fact, a door. And so we opened it and stepped on through.

  “Birch, look. It’s so beautiful.”

  All around us was a lush, verdant paradise. There were trees of every size and a watering hole where several animals stood, dipping their heads into the placid water. A giraffe and her calf ate from a tree, and busy birds chatted noisily. Nobody seemed to notice us.

  “Not exactly freedom,” Pierre said. “But more in accordance with our rights than solitary confinement.” Birch and I made our way to a small patch of flowers, and Birch lay down for a rest. When he lowered himself to the ground, a great cloud of yellow pollen from all the flowers rose up around us like a thick fog, and then settled down again. Birch and I sat there, watching the sunrise over the walls of the zoo. The light crept slowly, first illuminating the farthest corner of the enclosure, and then stretching across the field like it was unfurling a roll of wrapping paper. When the light finally hit us, we heard a great chatter go up from around the watering hole. A crowd started to form around us, so we stood up to greet them.

  “Gadzooks!” a gazelle shouted. “The Great Golden God has come!”

  “It’s him,” said a cockatoo.

  “We’re not worthy,” a zebra said, leaning forward, head bowed.

  “I’m sorry, are you speaking to us?” I asked.

  “Of course,” the gazelle replied. “We have been waiting for you for so long. You are here to free us. The Golden God we knew would come.” He pointed his hoof toward the watering hole. In the center of the small pond sat a water fountain in the shape of a great, golden elephant god. And on the golden elephant’s back sat a boy just about my age. As the sun hit us, each ray reflected off the million specks of golden pollen covering Birch’s skin and made us a mirror image to the statue.

  “You’ve come to free us,” a monkey said. “That is what the legend says. That’s what my father told me, and his father told him.”

  “If you’ll excuse us, we need to have a word in private,” I said. The animals nodded solemnly and backed away.

  “Birch,” I said, and then sneezed because of the pollen up my nose. “Birch, this could be our chance to get out of here. We have an entire zoo full of animals rallied around us, ready to do whatever we tell them.”

  “I agree,” Birch said. “I just hope it doesn’t rain and wash away all my great golden power.”

  ELEVEN

  Svelte Hippos and Colorful Zebras

  I stood on Birch’s back in front of the other animals with my chest puffed out, like a sailor standing on the prow of a ship. Our golden hue gave off an intense shine, and the sun was hot. We were light within light, like a match flame struck on the brightest of days. “We have a plan,” I shouted to the animals.

  “They have a plan!” the monkeys shouted back.

  “A plan to free us all,” I continued.

  “A plan to free us all!” the monkeys shouted.

  “Monkeys, please.”

  “Sorry,” they replied, blushing.

  “This plan,” I continued, “was inspired by a legend I once read.” The animals all nodded. They were pleased. Animals like legends.

  “I read that the Hindus believe that the world rests upon an elephant. And the elephant rests upon the back of a giant turtle. But what, you may ask, does the turtle rest upon? The Hindus would tell you, ‘Something, but we know not what.’”

  “Huh?” the monkeys said, scratching their heads.

  “What I’m saying is that we will build on this idea of animals resting upon animals, supporting the world. We’ll stand on one another’s backs, and rise higher and higher until one of us can climb over the wall and unlock the gate.”

  “Brilliant!” they all shouted. “Magnificent!”

  “We have to wait until nightfall,” I said. “In the meantime, everyone go roll around in the golden pollen and prepare for freedom.”

  * * *

  And so we waited. Soon the zoo closed for the day, and the sun set at a languid pace. To pass the time until dark, Birch took out his easel and paints and did portraits of the different animals.

  “I’d like to look svelte,” a hippopotamus told Birch as he painted her. Of course, she didn’t need to say anything; Birch had a special knack for painting his subjects exactly how they wished to look, as if he took their deepest desire, laid it out on his palette, and then dipped his brush into their dreams. The slim hippo, the colorful zebra, the nimble sloth: they all saw the paintings and exclaimed, “It’s me! Yes, that’s exactly how I see myself in my heart.”

  Dusk fell after the hot day and dark heat hugged the walls of the zoo. The animals slipped out of their cages and into the open area by the pond. They had done as we’d asked and each one glowed, covered from head to tail in golden pollen. Marching single file toward the wall of the zoo, they looked like a great processional of glorious statues.

  “Elephants and hippos, you’ll form our base,” I directed. “The next lightest animals—mostly zebras and gazelles—climb on after that. Monkeys and large rodents follow them, and so on, until we reach the top.”

  We began to pile high when the sound of a door opening and closing was heard in the distance, and footsteps started moving closer and closer. “Don’t move a muscle,” I whispered, and the animals all held their breath. Two zoo security guards came out into the clearing, their flashlight beams swinging around in front of them like shafts from a lighthouse.

  “You see anything suspicious?” one guard asked the other.

  “Nothing at all. Just a giant golden totem pole over by that wall.”

  “Oh, right, that,” the second guard replied.

  “You have to wonder what they’re going to think of next.” They shrugged their shoulders, turned, and walked back to the office.

  “You two are the most brilliant creatures I’ve ever met,” a monkey told us. “You had us cover ourselves in pollen to fool the dim-witted guards. We’ll follow the two of you to the ends of the earth,” he continued. The other animals voiced their agreement.

  “Well, to be honest,” I said, “we’re just headed to Paris so Birch can fall in love and
be famous.”

  “You don’t go to Paris to become famous,” a lizard shouted from the top of the totem. “You go to Hollywood. That’s where all the agents are. Once you get an agent, he’ll make you famous and then you can go hang out with all the artists in Paris.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose…” I replied.

  “Hey!” a hippo’s voice said loudly from the bottom of the pile. “Could we perhaps chat about this later, maybe at a time when I’m not carrying a dozen of you idiots on my back?”

  “But we need an extra boost,” I said. “We’re just a tiny ways from the top. Is there anyone else? Anyone?” But everyone was already stretching as far as they could stretch.

  “Oh no,” an aardvark said, sniffing the air.

  “Uh-oh,” a porcupine said, quivering her quills.

  “What?” I said, hearing nothing.

  When a storm is brewing, humans must rely on technology to detect it. Or they just stand and watch the lightning and hear the noise. But the animals know before that. A horse can perk her ears and the birds fly to taller trees. The animals sense a storm is coming before the first cloud, before the first streetlamp bangs against a post in the wind, before the first hoofprint in the sand blows away.

  And they were right. A storm was coming fast, and the tops of trees started to shiver. Several animals got scared and started to move around, causing the tower to sway and lean precariously.

  “Hurry,” I said. “We need to hurry.”

  Then, suddenly, there was a lurch, and the animals rose up the tiny bit more they needed to rise, and a monkey was able to scramble over the wall. He ran around and unlocked the door, and all the animals climbed down the totem and out the door into the city streets.

  “How did that happen?” I asked.

  “It was Pierre the turtle,” the animals shouted.

  “But how? That’s impossible,” I said. Yet there sat Pierre, a bored expression on his face.