THE ZOO

by John T. Van Dijk

  Aware of her scrutiny, Per smiled broadly, showing splendid white teeth.

  "You are Scandinavian?"

  Per nodded in agreement. "Norwegian, actually." He said. "I have been in your country for a few years now. Just traveling about, seeing the sights, as they say." He paused, "That’s how I ended up here. I liked it, so I stayed.."

  Sam was more than a little intrigued. "Why do you stay here?" She asked. "What appeals to you about Swans Island?"

  "Probably the same things that makes anyone move to an isolated location." He replied quietly, catching and holding her eyes with his own. "The need to be alone. To have abundant space around you. The desire to test yourself. And, of course, the appeal of feeling safe that such a lonely spot as this island can give you."

  Per remained silent for a moment, then he finished his thought. "Some people, when picking a place such as this, are running to something while others are really running away from something."

  Sensing that his line of talk was making Sam uncomfortable, Per rapidly changed the subject.

  "Now, How about letting me start on your place first thing Monday morning? It needs some scraping, but it shouldn’t take longer then a couple of weeks to finish. Besides, my partner and I need the work." Per smiled as he leaned back in the chair, waiting for her reply.

  Without fully understanding why, Sam capitulated, agreeing on Monday. The issue resolved, he stood up to leave. However, just as he reached the top of the porch steps, he turned to give Sam one last, long pondering look as she waited for him to go with her hands shoved deeply into her sweater pockets.

  "Be careful not to shoot yourself in the foot with that thing." He said gently.

  Quickly, he descended, climbed into the battered bus and, painfully grinding gears all the way, was gone down the drive.

  Chapter 6

  Wanda Kneeland had been having the same dream for three nights in a row now. As a full - blooded Pa’nawampske’wi-ak, or Penobscot, she knew enough to pay attention. Proudly, Wanda could trace her ancestry back to the great chief Madockawando who had lived and fought in the Penobscot region of Maine in the mid sixteen hundreds. One of Madockawando’s daughters had married the French adventurer, Jean-Vincent d’Abbadie de St. Castin, according to both Abenaki custom and Catholic Church. From this union came a son and a daughter. It was with a great deal of pride that Wanda could mark her lineage that far back. So, when her heritage spoke, she listened.

  "Company’s coming."

  William glanced up from his newspaper to peer out the kitchen window.

  "I don’t see anyone, Nana." Shrugging, he returned to the sports section. "The Red Sox couldn’t take one in a Little League Game ..." He muttered in disgust.

  Wanda’s chair began to rock vigorously. "He’s coming." She stated stubbornly.

  William folded the Bar Harbor Times on top of the kitchen table’s cracked linoleum and walked over to his grandmother.

  "The only one who’d better be getting here right off is Per. We’re late this morning. Did I tell you we were going to start painting Martha’s friend’s old house today?" Bending down, he gave her a kiss on her weathered cheek. "See you tonight, Nana." He said as he heard the old bus chugging into the driveway.

  Long after William had gone, his grandmother continued to rock steadily back and forth in her chair.

  "Company’s coming today." She said, smiling to herself.

  "Make yourself at home," Wanda Kneeland said, moving her rheumatoid filled body as quickly as she possibly could to grab a pile of Reader’s Digests off the worn couch. "Don’t get much company anymore," she said vaguely, looking around her living room as if she’d never seen it before.

  "Grandmother, do you know me?" Asked the tall man quietly.

  He stood before her with his face painted a deep, dark red with stripes of vibrant blue over his upper lip, nose and chin. On his head he wore a kind of coronet, made of a substance like stiff hair, colored red. He had jewels of quartz in his ears and bracelets of little white round bone, fastened together with a leather string.

  "Oh, yes," breathed Wanda, "you gave me the visions, didn’t you?"

  "Yes." Gluskabe smiled gently at the old woman.

  "In my vision, Turtle swam up to the water’s surface and started to pull the Island back into the sea. When I asked him "Why?" he replied, "There is no longer any place to put Earth." ....... here Wanda paused, uncertain how to continue. "There was something in my dreams that I do not understand."

  At the man’s patient look, she continued. "The shell on Turtle’s back was broken.

  Instead of the usual number of plates, thirteen, he only had a few left. What does that mean?"

  "Yes," he replied, "the shell would be broken now." He sighed heavily, "Old Woman, each plate on Turtle’s back stands for the Abenaki nations that belonged to the Wabanaki Confederacy. Turtle’s shell was made this way to remind us that everything in the natural world is connected. To tell us that there is balance and rhythm and a plan to all things. Turtle’s shell reminds us of this and also reminds us to keep that balance."

  Listening closely, Wanda nodded her head to show understanding.

  "Your visions tell you that the balance in Creation has been lost." Gluskabe smiled both sadly and gently at the elderly woman sitting before him. "There are things I must tell you. Things that you must remember in order to pass them along to our people. These are words of great importance."

  Wanda Kneeland leaned forward eagerly, clasping her withered hands together in her lap. Waiting for what was to come next.

  Once again, Sam had not slept well. At some point during the middle of the night, she’d finally given up on all thought of sleep and had made her way to the chaise in the dark, dragging the comforter from the bed with her. Making a small nest for herself by the window, Sam contemplated the dark, star-ridden sky as she smoked.

  When she was a child, Sam would spend long summer evenings after supper in the field behind her house catching jars full of lightening bugs. Eventually, when she tired of that, she would stretch out on the scratchy ground, still baked full of warmth from the day’s sun. She would lie there as still as could be, trying to count each and every star in the endless heavens above her. Even now, she could precisely remember the awesome feeling of insignificance that would overtake her as she lay looking up at the vast expanse of night sky. Smiling, Sam remembered how she would often doze off where she lay, stretched out on the grass, as her young mind had contemplated infinity. Somehow, miraculously it seemed at the time, she always awoke in her own bed the next morning. Years later, of course, Sam understood that her father had been responsible for moving her. But when she was a child, it was just one more magical thing that could happen during the Island’s tranquil, summer nights.

  Infinity, she thought, taking a deep drag off her smoke. Almost thirty years later, it was a concept that still intrigued her. The very idea of all that fathom less space surrounding this tiny planet, Earth, had fostered her desire from an early age to be part of the space exploration program. When she had seen the video of Neil Armstrong jumping on the moon in 1969, she had been hooked for life. Sam was ready to have another drag when she started coughing harshly. Talk about being hooked for life on something, she thought, disgusted with herself and complete lack of willpower. That’s it, she thought resolutely, I am quitting these damn things right now. Sam smashed the smoldering cigarette out and put the ash tray aside.

  "How smug we are to seriously believe that we were all alone in this universe .......

  " Snuggling deeply down into the comforter, Sam drifted off into sleep.

  The dull thump of something decidedly heavy hitting the side of her house abruptly woke her a few hours later. Peering groggily over the windowsill, Sam could just make out the rear end of the battered VW parked in the drive below.

  "Swans Island Paint Company," she thought wryly as she watched Per and an extremely large man jointly wrestle an uncooperative extension ladder into place.
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  Chapter 7

  Happy Joyce lived on five acres situated high on Hockamock Head. Ever since the old lighthouse station that overlooked Jericho Bay had been abandoned in 1963, Happy was the sole inhabitant on that lonely stretch of the Island. And that was just fine with him.

  Happy was fond of boasting that he could trace his family back to Swans Island’s first white resident. Thomas Kench was his name. He had fled to the Island as a deserter from the Revolutionary Army, and for fourteen years had existed as a solitary recluse. Kench had been part of Benedict Arnold’s ghastly march on Quebec in the autumn of 1775. Like his comrades, he had become sick, cold, and desperately hungry. He had survived the long, arduous trek to Canada only to freeze in a tent during the winter months on the open Plains of Abraham. While a raging smallpox epidemic killed men all around him, Kench had come through it strong enough to be one of the first American soldiers to climb the cliffs, scale the walls and attack Quebec’s Citadel. Kench was one of the few to make it back to American lines, struggling and straggling all the way through the wilderness to Maine hip deep in snow.

  By 1776, Kench had withstood all he was going to. He deserted and fled, heading to the lonely islands off Mount Desert. One a day late in October, Kench grounded out his boat on a tiny islet of Swans Island. After years of solitude, he took a Penobscot woman for his wife, sired six children and lived well into his nineties to tell the story.

  Happy was about as ornery as his ancestor. He owned a ramshackle Cape Cod style house on a rocky bluff that looked straight out to Marshall Island. It was, by anyone’s standards, a perfectly fine house. Nonetheless, Happy preferred to cook his meals outdoors and sleep in one of the several dilapidated, broken-down automobiles he kept spread out over the property. In the spring and summer, as it was now, Happy generally slept in a rusty, silver 1962 Chevy Impala convertible. This way, as he said, he had an unobstructed view of the stars in the night sky. He liked to lie fully stretched out in the back seat, slowly drawing on his pipe, watching the twinkling lights overhead. Every once in a while, Happy would be fortunate enough to spot a shooting star or two. A comet was a real treat. Overall, most people agreed that Happy may not have known much, but he sure did know his night sky with all it’s various and mysterious constellations.

  Somewhere, on a rather vague level, Happy was aware that the Island’s other citizens, most of whom he had known for all of his 82 years, considered him a little strange and eccentric. If the truth were to be know, Happy was more than likely outright certifiable. But due to the innate, fundamentally held Yankee belief that each man has a basic right to his own privacy, the locals pretty much left Happy to his own devises ......... and that was how he liked it.

  This particular Wednesday evening, Happy was just tossing the day’s catch of clams into the boiling pot on top of his Coleman stove when a sudden movement to the east caught his attention. Pushing his grimy cap back on his head, Happy looked up, watching the gradual streaking of lights as a plane made it’s way almost leisurely over Jericho Bay.

  "That boy better pull her up some, Spike, or he’ll be taking a bath." Happy commented to his customary companion.

  Spike, alertly watching the bright lights getting even brighter as the craft slowly went still lower in the sky, whimpered nervously.

  His master, though, had gone back to tending his clams and didn’t pay anymore attention to the dogs’s uneasiness.

  "Just a couple more minutes for supper ... " Commented Happy, checking his antiquated pocket watch before shoving it back into his pants. Rummaging around deep in the trunk of the Chevy, Happy surfaced triumphantly with a paper plate and plastic fork. Irritably, he abruptly turned around to address Spike, who had finally stopped his whimpering and was now loudly barking.

  "What the hell, boy ....... ?" He never got to finish the sentence because for the first time in his life, Happy was struck speechless by what he saw.

  Chapter 8

  Just about sunrise the next morning, Happy rolled over in his sleep. This sent him crashing off the back seat of the Chevy Impala onto the rusted out floorboards, heavily hitting his head on the door handle as he fell. Happy didn’t even feel it. That small wallop was nothing compared to what was going on inside his head.

  "Jesus Christ on a crutch, Spike," He muttered, " worse hangover I’ve ever had ......

  "

  But even as he said the words, Happy remembered old Bobby Pigeon’s grandson’s wedding festivities just this past winter over in Deer Isle. Now, those folks down Deer Isle - Stonington way knew how to throw a party.

  Hazily, the previous night’s events started to come back into focus. Splashing ice cold water onto his face, Happy paused, trying to recall exactly what had happened. He could clearly remember Spike barking like an idiot. He could remember seeing something bright. So bright that it should have hurt his eyes, but for some reason it didn’t.

  Happy was concentrating so hard now that he was squinting. Passing a rough towel over his face, he gingerly touched his forehead. What a pounder, he thought sourly.

  But no matter how hard he tried, Happy couldn’t seem to jog his memory.

  There was only one more thing that he could recall after the brightness.

  That was being scared shitless.

  Happy could remember being so terrified that he could barely breath. So, when the brightness had finally gone, he’d done just what any other All-American Male would have done. He’d gotten good and drunk.

  "Come’on Spike," he said planting his cap firmly on his head. "Let’s you and me go see if Wanda’s got the coffee pot on this early."

  Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Happy started the short hike to Minturn, on the other side of the Island. By the time he arrived at Wanda’s back door, the sun had burned through the early morning mist and the day ahead promised to be a warm one.

  Peeking through the window, he spotted Wanda in her usual rocking chair. Not bothering to knock first, Happy opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.

  Wanda barely glanced up from her newspaper.

  "Morning, Hap," she nodded, "coffee’s on the back burner."

  Trying to move slowly so as not to jog his head unnecessarily, Happy took a mug down from the shelf and filled it to the rim with hot brew. Sighing, he carefully let himself down into the chair at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands.

  "Hap, you look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet." Commented Wanda casually. "What’d you do, tie one on?"

  Not waiting for his reply, Wanda proceeded to read a news article out loud.

  "A teenage girl in New Jersey is facing up to thirty years to life in prison.

  The girl is accused of murdering her newborn son in the bathroom of the local high school gymnasium minutes after giving birth in one of the stalls.

  Authorities say that she wrapped and hit him in the bottom of the trash reciprocal, and then returned to her high school prom, where she preceded to dance the night away with her date."

  After a long moment of silence, Wanda finally spoke again. "It’s all there ......

  in the papers, on TV ...... just like Gluskabe had said it was."

  "What’s that, Wanda?" Happy asked, picking his head up carefully.

  Sharply, Wanda looked over at Happy. She may be old, but she sure wasn’t stupid.

  If she didn’t want to sound like a crazy, old woman, she had to be real careful here.

  "Hap, what do think about the state the world’s in today?"

  "Excuse me, Wanda?" Happy looked up from his coffee mug, not quite sure what she meant.

  "The world, Hap .... you know, this place we all live in together. The one where every time you pick up a paper or turn on a TV you hear more about people killing each other every day and playing Russian Roulette with our environment."

  Wanda stated irritably.

  On the other side of the Island, Sam was stubbornly trying to ignore the persistent ringing of her telephone. Groaning loudly, the finally gave
up and rolled over. Making a grab for the receiver, she knocked a pile of books precariously balanced on the bedside table onto the floor with a loud bang.

  "Speak." She growled into the instrument as she automatically fumbled on the night stand for her smokes.

  "We’ve picked up two more." The voice on the other end stated without preamble.

  "Not interested, Jake." Replied Sam, flipping over onto her back as she remembered she no longer smoked.

  Obviously fully prepared to ignore any protests, Jake continued as if she hadn’t said a word. "I’ve made all the arrangements. The equipment that you need will be arriving today on the 4:00 ferry. See that you’re there to meet them."

  Scrambling to sit up, Sam snapped, "Goddamn it, Jake. I don’t work for you anymore. Have you forgotten that?"

  "I need you with me on this one, Sam ...... it could be for real this time."

  Without allowing her enough time for so much as another word, he quietly disconnected.

  Sam made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Disregarding Mr. Coffee, she made herself a quick cup of instant. She slumped in a chair with it, sipping slowly as she replayed the brief call over in her mind.

  There was a great deal about Jake Gorham that Sam didn’t understand. He was as much an enigma to her now as he had been when she had first gone to work for him on SETI based tracking project nine years ago. However, the years working with him had taught her this - Jake was a resourceful man who never wasted valuable time or energy with what he considered meaningless chatter. Sam knew that if Jake had contacted her now, even after all the animosity he knew she held for him, than there could be only one reason for it. Jake was sure he was on to something big.

  Precisely at 3:55 Sam was waiting at the ferry terminal. Shading her eyes and squinting across the water she could just make out the Edmund S. Muskie as it steadily glided towards the Island. Right on schedule, as usual.