Did Not Survive (3 page)

After the required dirty look, she said, “Junior's okay?”

“No problem.” I automatically wrapped a hand around my bulge.

“I guess you must have been the worst person to find him, right?”

Smoke curled up and around her face as she glanced at me with a delicate intensity, and I recalled the price of being her friend. Never show weakness, never say anything you didn't want circulated. “Just another day at the office,” I said. “Sam talked me through it over my cell.”

“Yeah, sure.” She blew more smoke, aiming it off to the side. “Sorry it had to be you. Must of brought up bad memories.”

Still not going there. “I've got to get to work. I'm way behind. Let me know when you hear how Wallace is doing.”

“Read the paper instead. The press gets everything before we do. And those picketers are going nuts. They've got bullhorns now.”

I'd forgotten about the picketers. Of course they were stirred up. They showed up in front of the zoo a couple times a week, starting a month ago, when a rumor got loose that the zoo was about to start construction on the new elephant exhibit. The good citizens of Vancouver had passed a bond measure almost a year ago to finally, finally bring Finley Memorial Zoo up to modern standards. The Asian Experience complex for orangutans, clouded leopards, and a few birds and reptiles was well under way. Better, bigger elephant housing was expected to be among the improvements.

No such construction was happening, to Sam's considerable ire, but the rumor lived on. Generally three or four protesters walked in a loose circle outside the front gate carrying signs. I was familiar with the messages: “Zoos are no place for elephants,” “Elephants deserve better,” “Sanctuaries, not prisons.” I'd read enough in the papers and online to know that certain animal rights groups were convinced that no zoo could provide a decent home for elephants.

“They already heard about the accident?” I asked.

“See for yourself.”

I walked closer to the entrance's locked turnstiles and metal mesh gate. A black van with TV station call letters on the side and a satellite dish on top was illegally parked in front of the entrance. A sleek man in a stripy tie and blue dress shirt held a mic up to a bushy-haired guy in denim coveralls, who was speaking with emphatic head movements. The interviewee had a picket sign slung over his back and a bullhorn dangling low from one hand. The other picketers, a mix of men and women, circulated slowly. Their professionally-printed signs were gone, replaced by ones hastily hand-lettered with colored pens. “Zoo life makes elephants crazy,” “Don't blame the elephant,” “Already a prisoner—set her free.”

Jackie spoke from behind me. “Try to improve the place and the hu-maniacs are all over us. They think we ought to pack up both elephants and send them off to some sanctuary paradise on their say-so instead of building a decent place here.” She stubbed out her cigarette and added, “Yesterday, I would have said they were wasting their time.”

Chapter Three

I left Jackie and finally showed up for work at the Penguinarium kitchen, the food preparation area for Birds. Calvin had gotten there first and started the daily routine. He was a quiet, stocky guy maybe sixty years old. I'd come to admire his honesty and hard work, his passion for anything in feathers, and he seemed comfortable working with me at last. As senior keeper of Birds, he directed the work, but he listened, and we made a good team. Calvin was a widower with a daughter and some grandkids. Now and then he pulled out pictures to show me a junior high school graduation or vacation shot. He was delighted by my pregnancy and insistent that I avoid many activities he perceived as risky.

I filled him in on the morning's disaster while he rinsed fish in a bucket at the left sink, and I stuffed vitamin pills into their gills at the right sink. The silvery smelt and herring were barely thawed, and yellow rubber gloves did little to protect our hands from the cold. I stacked the supplemented fish into a stainless steel pan on the counter. The rest went into a five gallon bucket.

African penguins hung out by the keeper door that let us access their exhibit. They liked to stand on their island and watch us work. Some of them were willing to waddle into the kitchen and supervise us more closely, so we stretched a baby gate across the door in the morning. We shut the door when the zoo opened and visitors started showing up.

When I'd finished my news bulletin, Calvin asked, “What were you doing here so early?”

I'd skipped that part. “Linda has a night watch going on Losa, the clouded leopard. She's due any day. I took a shift. The camera's set up in the Education office since I'm not allowed in Felines until my baby comes. I mean, I can visit, but I can't hang out.”

“I'm surprised you're up to doing that night work, big as you are. Need your sleep.”

I tried not to bristle. “I'm fine, and I really want to see those cubs.”

Linda and I had watched when Losa was first introduced to Yuri. Clouded leopard boyfriends are prone to domestic violence, sometimes fatal, but Yuri had tolerated a stranger in his space, kept his focus on reproduction, and got the job done, albeit with teeth and claws and yowling, while two nerve-wracked keepers and a veterinarian stood by wondering whether to use the hose to separate them. Now Yuri was safely shut away from Losa for fear he was not up to parental responsibilities, although they stayed acquainted through wire mesh. She was showing a little belly, eating a little more, and pissing out urine that said, yes, yes, babies in progress. Linda and I were ecstatic and had shifted our worries to her mothering skills.

Calvin stepped over the baby gate with the pan of supplemented fish. Penguins crowded around. “What is it, three-four months for them? Must sound like a breeze to you.”

That it did. “Thirteen weeks gestation.” Whereas I had been gravid for six months and had three left to go.

“Good thing you were here early,” he said as he handed out fish to eager beaks. “Be terrible to shoot Damrey. Sam would never get over it.
Wallace
would never get over it.”

He seemed to be assuming Wallace would survive.

Calvin shifted his attention to the penguins and chatted with them, calling each by name and admonishing them to be polite. When they were fed, we worked methodically to prepare food for the other birds, without a cross word from him about his beloved penguins breakfasting late or about having to work on his day off.

The zoo was strange without visitors. I'd always thought that it would be wonderful to have the place all to myself without the noise and trash of the great American public, but the silence and empty paths emphasized the day's tragedy.

I hid out at lunch time, avoiding Denny and the rest of the curious, and tried to hold up my end of the work despite a head full of leftover dread. Calvin left two hours before quitting time, when we were caught up. I clocked out the minute my shift ended and fled to my truck.

My new house was a welcome sight, even if it didn't feel quite like a real home. Winnie and Range, my dogs, were world-class therapists. I threw dirty zoo coveralls—Calvin's, since they fit me and mine didn't—into the washer, and we all bolted our dinners. Theirs was expensive kibble, mine was of the previously frozen variety. I managed a stroll around the block so that they could check their smell phone messages and tossed two tennis balls in the back yard for half an hour. Winnie, mostly shepherd, romped after Range, a sturdy black lab mix, but wisely let him collect both balls. Happy dogs goofing around cheered me up and dozing in front of the television set shut off compulsive rehashing of the day's crisis. Nonetheless, I slept badly, dreaming of slithery gray trunks whuffling elephant snot all over me while giant round feet came down way too close. I woke with a pounding heart and got up early rather than risk falling back into it.

I drove to work still unsettled and edgy. Mr. Crandall was waiting at the time clock, which was pretty much unprecedented. Mr. Crandall arrived in his office at eight in the morning. You could set your watch by him, Jackie claimed. It was also Sunday, which was officially a day off for him, along with Mondays. But there he was in his charcoal suit, white shirt, and polished leather shoes at seven thirty at the Commissary where we clocked in. When the roster of brown uniforms was assembled—Denny was five minutes late—Mr. Crandall squared his shoulders and began. “As I said, my intention is to keep you informed during this challenging period. Kevin Wallace remains in critical condition. As you should already know, I have assumed his duties. Are there any concerns over scheduling or your job responsibilities?”

“Could
Nakri
have whacked him?” Denny asked. “Instead of Damrey? I hear the door between the stalls was open a little. Could she get her trunk through?”

Mr. Crandall never allowed himself to look disconcerted or annoyed. Instead, he eyed Denny and paused, as though waiting for him to come to his senses. That wouldn't happen any time soon.

As the closest thing to a witness, I felt obliged to field it. “I don't see how. Nakri couldn't reach him where he'd fallen, and she tried. It would be pretty peculiar for him to walk over to her, get clobbered, and fall so far away.”

“He could have staggered around,” Denny argued. “Or Damrey dragged him away.”

That was remotely possible, but I kept quiet, hoping to hear whatever Mr. Crandall had to say. But before he could reclaim the reins, Arnie Bertram, the bear keeper, said, “Nah. Old Damrey went berserk and smacked him.”

Where was Sam to jump to her defense? Ah. Sunday, his day off. Ian was present but silent. Not so Denny. Mr. Crandall opened his mouth, but Denny said, “What did the doctors say about his injuries? Could someone have attacked him? Not an elephant, I mean.”

Every now and then, Denny's compulsive hypothesizing came up with something useful, but this was not one of those rare occasions. “
Denny
,” I said. “All the indications are that Damrey flipped out for some reason. No conspiracy required.”

That earned me a brief, forced smile from Mr. Crandall. “Iris is correct as of our current knowledge. More information may be forthcoming, and I will share that with you as it becomes available.” He added, as an aside, “I'm sure you know that medical information is confidential by federal law.”

Denny wasn't deterred. “What was he doing there alone? Maybe an experiment on Damrey or he was meeting someone secretly. Maybe it had to do with those animal rights activists. Or blackmail. There's a lot we don't know about Wallace's personal life. Blackmail gone wrong…”

Linda yanked the conversational ball away. “What's going to happen to Damrey? If she's really that dangerous, can we still keep her here? We're not exactly state-of-the-art in elephant facilities.”

I checked out Ian and caught a tiny, rigid nod of agreement.

Mr. Crandall took a breath and resumed our regular program. “No decisions have been made in regard to either elephant. I am sure answers about the incident will be forthcoming as a result of the police investigations and the National Association of Zoos committee visit, which is being scheduled. I will keep you informed as I learn more.” He picked up steam—a tiny frown and the voice of authority. “I've been assured that with the new protected-contact procedures, no keeper is at risk from the elephants. Please let me know if you have safety concerns. Some of you may be interviewed by the police as well as by the NAZ committee, and I expect you to cooperate fully. The zoo will re-open today with normal hours. Again, please refer all questions to me and avoid speaking with the press.” He nodded in farewell, took a step toward the open door, then turned back with an actor's precision. “Be safe out there, all of you.” Another nod, this one for emphasis, and he walked to the steps that took him down off the Commissary dock and strode with dignity toward the Administration offices.

He hadn't promised any more early morning updates. Perhaps he had taken away a new understanding of why Wallace was so often irritable after meeting with keepers. I scuttled out quickly, evading the bull session that was sure to follow. No one knew any more than I did, and reliving my experience trying to shift Damrey was the last thing I needed.

Sunday was a day off for Calvin. “Real” weekends off were a prize available only to the most senior keepers. Saturday and Sunday, I normally worked Birds all day alone. On the three days a week that Calvin and I overlapped, we undertook the big jobs, such as draining and cleaning the penguin pool, or, if Calvin didn't need me, I was assigned elsewhere, usually Primates.

Today I wasn't at top efficiency, thanks to a lousy night's sleep, and the extra weight I was packing was starting to slow me down. But without Calvin around, I had nothing to prove and could go at my own pace. I settled into the familiar routine. The kitchen smelled of fish and fishy excrement and the air periodically rang with penguin brays.

I stepped over the baby gate and handfed penguins while I inspected them for lack of appetite, lameness, or any other sign of decline. I checked out Mrs. Green, so named because she had a green wing band for identification and a well-established gender from years of laying eggs. She had become widowed about the same time I had, but was much farther along the path of grief and acceptance. As Calvin had pointed out, she was undeniably putting the moves on Mr. Brown. Despite Mrs. Green's age—advanced for an African penguin—Mr. Brown was responding. Mrs. Brown, on the other hand, apparently held to the “mated for life” rule. I hoped nobody lost an eye.

Zookeeping has its share or more of boring work, and today I was grateful for that. I felt too twitchy and nervous to face any challenges. Wallace and the elephants intruded as I pushed a steel cart loaded with food pans along asphalt paths. He was an experienced elephant person. Damrey had been at the zoo for decades and never hurt anyone. What had gone down? I hoped Sam would figure it out soon. I hoped Wallace was recovering.

The zoo was open, a sliver of normalcy. Visitors arrived and wandered about. Delivering food to the duck pond set off the usual avian food riot and drew a crowd, almost all moms with strollers or toddlers or both. The older kids were fascinated by the mass of wild, uninvited mallards shoving aside the zoo's mandarin ducks, pintails, and wood ducks in a grand display of oafishness. The mute swans rose above the fray, literally. Tall and long necked, they outcompeted the free loaders and scarfed their share.

I checked out the variety of kid carriers, an excellent distraction. Strollers ranged from Porsche to Hummer. How did women get these contraptions in and out of cars? The backpack carriers with sleeping or fussing infants looked good for climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. Did Goodwill have an infant department or did I need to refinance the house to buy this stuff?

One woman hoisted a toddler, a little boy, up on the guardrail to see the waterfowl better. Her belly bulged even more than mine. The prospect of managing a pregnancy and a kid at the same time made my knees weak. The little boy wiggled and his mother set him down. She missed a grab for his hand and he shot off. She called after him in a voice thick with artificial sweetener, “Cecil, Mommy wants you to stay close. Come back now or Mommy will have to come get you.”

This was a world I must master and somehow I would, but no child was ever going to hear me refer to myself in the third person.

Next up was cleaning the owl and hawk exhibits. Usually that was a simple matter of picking out the casts—tidy regurgitated pellets of bones and fur—and raking the wood chips until the droppings were hidden. Today the exhibits were due for a more thorough cleaning. The old spectacled owl was unaggressive. I pulled a little white mask over my nose and started shoveling chips into the wheelbarrow.

Shoveling was mindless work and my brain soon wandered. Wallace on the floor…Damrey rampaging…My heart rate and breathing ramped up. Clutching the shovel, I hoped fervently he wouldn't die because, logical or not, I would feel somehow responsible. I willed away the image of his limp body. His and Rick's, months ago in the lion exhibit…A peacock yelped nearby and startled me out of grief. I straightened and stretched and wrapped an arm under my belly. I couldn't bring back my husband, but our child felt like another chance.

By lunch time, Birds was in decent shape, and I'd eaten all the food I'd brought. Time to forage. Time to see whether more information had come in about Wallace. Maybe connect with Linda and get an update on cats.

As luck would have it, Linda and I converged outside the café, and we walked in together. I played it safe with a beef burrito, and she opted for a turkey sandwich and potato chips. The day was nice enough to sit outside, and we got a good table, one that didn't wobble, with chairs not adorned with peacock droppings. Visitors wandered in and out of the entry gate and the gift shop. They didn't ask us any questions about Wallace or elephants so we didn't send them to Mr. Crandall.