Did Not Survive (9 page)

Chapter Eight

Chicken artichoke casserole over rice, green salad, roasted red bell peppers with sweet onions. I had showered and changed before driving over, and I sat in a green sweat suit like a swollen toad with my hair still wet. I ate until common sense finally kicked in, and I could raise my eyes from my plate. “Oh, Marcie. Will you marry me and cook for me forever?”

“I'll give it some thought.” Marcie flipped a hand at me, brushing it off, but she had the embarrassed glow she got when anyone said something positive about her, as though it couldn't possibly be true but she couldn't resist being pleased. She had already cleared her plate and Denny's. I relinquished mine in hopes that it would be replaced by dessert. It was—strawberry-rhubarb pie and a cup of coffee.

We sat in her little dining room in her perfectly neat apartment. Marcie was very advanced in home making. That included cooking and baking, so I totally approved. All our plates were from the same set, and they were color coordinated with the place mats, which matched the napkins. The cream and red color scheme did not, however, match Marcie's pale blue pullover and neat navy slacks. That would have been too much. We'd been friends since college, Oregon State U. She got me through sophomore year, my last, and I got her through a breakup that left her man-shy and un-paired, until she hooked up with Denny. He was the last man on earth I would have chosen for her, but she didn't ask.

I had to admit, she looked happy. Sexy, actually. Voluptuous rather than chubby, comfortable with herself in a way I hadn't seen before. For now, being with Denny was working for her. He was more than casual in a faded purple tee shirt and jeans. He looked pretty cheerful himself, but who wouldn't after that meal? The pie was springtime itself.

“You should drink red raspberry leaf tea and not that caffeinated stuff,” Denny said.

“It's decaf,” Marcie said.

“Buzz off,” I said.

“They can hear negativity. Impairs their emotional development. Raspberry tea tones the uterus.”

“My uterus is
so
not your business. And not a ‘they.' Only one. Don't frighten me like that.” I scraped off the last gooey sweetness and decided I really must not lick the plate. Life was, if not good, at least much improved. Clean, fed, no impossible expectations coming at me out of the blue…I relaxed for the first time in a week.

“If you won't tell us whether it's a boy or girl, it's gonna be a ‘they.' I am not going with ‘it'.”

Marcie nodded agreement. I'd kept this secret from her, too, because she couldn't keep it from Denny.

I sagged back in my chair. “Denny, if I tell you, you'll be off and running about genderness and what I should be doing about it.”

“I haven't researched that yet. I've seen a lot of warnings about golden seal and dong quai. Pennyroyal is not good either. Stay away from all of those.”

“I have never consumed any of those to the best of my knowledge, and I promise not to start now. Meth and cocaine, ditto.”

“You think therapeutic herbs are
addictive?
”

Marcie stood up to clear the dessert plates, waving a hand at me to stay seated. “Denny, please. She's pulling your chain. Could we attempt a normal conversation?” She would never adapt to our habitual bickering. A limitation of being compulsively nice.

Denny handed over his plate and filled the empty spot on the table with his forearms. He leaned forward toward Marcie. “What she really needs is something to keep her stress level down. You didn't see her after she found Wallace, and she's been totally reactive about it ever since. It's got to be affecting her pH balance. Not good for Rick, Jr. At this stage of gestation, they—”

“
Drop it
,” I snarled. Wallace, Rick, and the baby thrown into a heap ignited an unsuspected pile of emotional gunpowder. They both flinched. After a frozen moment, I said, “I'd better go,” and got up from the table. Blinded by tears and unbalanced by new weight, I stumbled. Marcie set down the plates hard enough to risk breakage and grabbed my arm.

“I brought a couple of DVDs,” Denny babbled. “We could watch one.”

Marcie towed me into her pristine living room and pressed me down onto her white sofa. “Sit for a minute. Pet a cat. Digest.” She enforced these commands by plopping The Princess, a rickety old Siamese, in my lap. Princess stood stiff-legged on my thighs, sniffed around to orient herself, and carefully collapsed into a round warm pillow. I stiffened for a moment, thinking about toxoplasmosis, and remembered that cats weren't the threat, only their droppings.

Marcie waved Denny away. “Go do dishes or something.” She sat next to me with a hand on my shoulder. “Tell me.”

“I'm tired, that's all, and it
is
a boy and, and I'm suddenly starving all the time…Rick and Wallace…The nightmares are back.”

Marcie produced a tissue and nodded as though this made sense.

I wiped my nose. “Now it's not just lions and Rick, it's lions and elephants and Rick and Wallace, all gory and scary. Sometimes the baby is there…I'm trapped in slow motion, and I can't help them. My cell phone is stuck in my pocket, I can't remember if it's 911 or 119, my fingers don't work…” I trailed off.

Marcie put on her matter-of-fact therapy voice. “Finding your boss dying brought back Rick's death.”

“Yeah, it fried me more than I expected. I was dealing really well, but now…” I shifted on the sofa to help my stomach compete for room with my other internal organs. Princess put her ears back and stopped purring. “Until this, I was okay with Rick gone forever. Not over it, I can't imagine being over it, but moving on, thinking about the kid, not wallowing in stuff I can't change…Lonely, but not whacked out.”

“It's been a terrible week.”

“I know Rick and Denny were best friends, and he misses Rick, too. This baby is all that either of us have left of Rick, but Denny keeps telling me how to be pregnant. So does Calvin and my mother and everyone else. It's throwing me off. I have to trust
myself
. This single-parenting thing is scary enough without people assuming I can't possibly handle it.” I leaned my head back.

Marcie's hand was warm on my shoulder.

“Well, what
do
you want your friends to do to be supportive?” She tilted her head at an “I'm listening” angle.

“Don't ask me that now. Right now I want everyone to back off.” I drew a breath. “There's more.”

“What?” Denny couldn't stand being out of the loop and sat himself on a wing chair across from me, hunched forward with his elbows on his thighs.

I wanted to wait for a private meltdown with Marcie, but once begun, meltdowns are not easily deflected. “People are
on
me to figure out what happened at the barn. Marcie, remember I told you I'm supposed to collect elephant pee every day? The vet is after me to spy while I'm there. Even Calvin thinks I should root around in this, and I don't want any part of it. Maybe it was a stranger and maybe it wasn't. I hate suspecting coworkers. Those are my
friends
. It's creepy.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I stroked Princess, who vibrated with forgiveness. The youngster of Marcie's three cats, Impossible, used his claws on Denny's jeans and, after attaining his lap, flopped over on his back bonelessly. Six-Toes slept somewhere out of sight.

“It's not just you,” Denny said. “The negative energy is everywhere. First we thought Damrey went berserker, and that made us all wonder if our number's up next. Some animal or equipment that you trust comes unhinged or your foot slips, and you're the one on the stretcher. But it was murder. The press is all over the zoo. Crandall is getting creamed, even with the new cubs.”

“I can't fix it,” I wailed.

“No,” Marcie said. “Of course you can't.”

“But if we never find out who killed Wallace, it's my fault.”

“That's silly,” Marcie said.

Denny thought a minute and nodded.

Marcie said, “Don't
agree
with her! How could it be her fault?”

“I can see it,” Denny said. “You called it wrong at the beginning, thinking Damrey was smashing him. So the cops treated it like an animal attack and didn't totally work the scene. Now the evidence is trashed. No CSI instant answer.”

I nodded.

Marcie frowned. “Don't be so quick to give up on the police. They're the experts.”

Denny swung a foot back and forth, jostling the cat on his lap. “Everything that happens changes what goes forward. Sometimes you have to follow the trail back to understand it and realign it.”

“Not you, too,” I said.

Denny shrugged. “You need to restore your harmony so the kid's not marinating in stress hormones. Sounds like you've got Dr. Reynolds talking to you and access to the barn. That gives you the advantage.”

“Not so much.”

“Iris, no one has any right to put you in this position,” Marcie said, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Denny, please do stop encouraging her. This is a really bad idea. Iris has other priorities right now. This is a police problem.”

I considered that. “My priorities are staying healthy, doing my job, and getting ready to deal with a baby.” A baby. What was wrong with the world that a basket case like me would end up responsible for a baby? My friends were right to worry. “Having my work scene, the zoo, in a mess isn't good. It's going to stay in a mess until we know what happened and why. I
want
to know.”

“Iris, this is not your problem.” Marcie's voice had a flavor of calm that would be shouting from anyone else. “You are talking yourself into interfering, and that is unnecessary and maybe dangerous.”

“Not interfering. Trying harder to notice. I've got the inside perspective and the lead detective's phone number. If I'm proactive—is that the word?—maybe the nightmares and flashbacks will slack off. I won't do anything dangerous, and I'll call that Quintana guy if I learn anything he might not know.”

“We can work together,” Denny said, energized. “I think we should start with the activists. And Ian. There's something not right between him and Sam. Another thing—”

“Denny. Please.” Marcie said. “You and I need to talk, but not now. We're going to stop discussing this and watch one of those DVDs you brought.”

“Okay, fine. You want
Raising Arizona
or
Rosemary's Baby
?”

Chapter Nine

One of the better reasons for living with dogs is that they are oblivious to shame, especially when their brains are flooded with hope for a run in the park. Winnie and Range did not care in the slightest that I awoke feeling like a cretin. At Marcie's the night before, I'd been unstable, unpleasant, and incapable. The dogs hadn't been there to observe gluttony, hair-trigger rage, and sniveling, and wouldn't have cared anyway. With a leash in each hand, I radiated the glory of a goddess.

It was my day off and doggie entitlement got me moving. Mt. Tabor Park wasn't far, but I was in no mood to walk. The dogs hopped into the pickup, I tied the leashes to eyebolts in the middle of the truck bed for safety and hauled my unwieldy self into the cab.

The legality of doggy freedom comes and goes in Portland parks, as does enforcement. On this early Thursday morning, neither got in our way. Parents walked their preschoolers, birders with binoculars wandered around making “pish pish” noises at little birds in the trees, crows investigated whether eatables had grown from the ground during the night. A woman flung a tennis ball for her golden retriever. Winnie hijacked the golden for a romp while Range stole his ball and brought it to me. I tossed it to the owner, a hefty woman in shorts, and hurled my own tennis ball for him.

It was a beautiful spring morning full of birds and blossoms. I scooped poop with a better heart, although Kevin Wallace kept intruding. I thought I'd made a decision to find out what happened to him, but in the light of day, I couldn't see where to start. My musings circled back to what Calvin and Dr. Reynolds had suggested in the first place: keep my eyes open, especially at the elephant barn. There must be something more, but nothing came to me. The dogs exercised themselves happily for most of an hour, and we all went home.

In the driveway of the teal bungalow with cream trim, 3 bds, 1 bath, new rf. and elec., I wondered if I'd ever quit thinking I should park on the street like a visitor. Everyone said my new house was cute and perfect, and I liked it myself. It was only that I felt I was house-sitting for the real owners, probably an older couple or maybe a family with a dad and mom and twin eighth-graders. I invented occupants whom this house would wrap around and shelter. None of them were single mothers still mourning their husbands or zoo keepers with vague ambitions to find out why their boss was dead.

The dogs flopped on the living room rug, licked themselves tidy, and fell asleep. Energized by sunshine, I started on the home version of what I did at work—cleaning. The household version required a lot less brain power. I focused my unused cognition and started loading the dishwasher, stopping occasionally to make a note on scrap paper.

After the pans were washed, the counters wiped and the kitchen floor swept, I reviewed the water-spotted piece of paper. Under the heading “Scenarios” I'd listed the following:

I fixed a cheese sandwich and stuck it in the toaster oven. While that was heating, I crossed out everything after number five as unlikely. That left way too many possibilities. It was also distasteful. I'd been optimistic that Wallace's killer was someone from outside the zoo, but that was wishful thinking. I had no idea.

I switched from chewing on the pencil to chewing on the sandwich, pulled another piece of paper out of the recycling bin, and wrote: “Who is X?”

Male or female?

Known to Wallace—zoo staff or from somewhere else?

Stranger—how in barn? Why in barn?

Stalled out, I mopped the kitchen and vacuumed.

Time for a cookie break. I shared cookies with the dogs. Re-read my notes. Zero inspiration. What to do next?

Giving up sounded good. My left brain was tired and so was the rest of me. Time for the subconscious to pick up the slack. I gave it every chance by crashing on the sofa. I slept like the dead, catching up from a week of troubled dreams and clouded leopard watches.

Barking dogs woke me up hours later. I blundered to the front door and my mother bustled in, bright in a yellow sweatshirt. She set a bushel of pink peonies on the dining room table. “Hello, dear. Color isn't right for this room, but aren't they lovely? The lilacs are already gone and the dahlias aren't open yet.”

“Mom? Was I expecting you? Did I forget?” I'd have to plead mental disability due to pregnancy if I'd forgotten they were coming to dinner, a humiliating prospect. I buried the papers with my notes under a stack of mail. A neat stack.

“No, no, sorry. Your dad said we should call, but I forgot. I took off work an hour early so we could shop for a new washing machine, and we decided to drop by.”

My mother developed supplemental math units for elementary schools, floating from school to school, sprinkling pre-algebra everywhere she went. I had not inherited her short stature, double-dose of energy, or math gene. In fact, my school performance had caused her many years of self-doubt about her parenting skills and profession.

My father wandered in like the calm after the storm, carrying a big shopping bag in each hand. I blamed his genes for my dark hair, height, and lack of academic ambition. A self-employed sign painter, he lived for gold leaf and up-scale designer jobs.

The dogs greeted both visitors politely, and the parents settled in the dining room. Ducking into the kitchen gave me a few minutes to collect myself and to put water on for tea. Splashing water on my face dispelled some of the grogginess. I checked in with my subconscious and found it had declined to do any heavy lifting. No inspiration about Wallace. On the plus side, I'd slept without nightmares.

I joined my parents in the dining room and, after fielding inquiries about my health and that of my unfinished offspring, undertook the now-customary opening of packages. This batch included another crib sheet, diaper covers, a musical mobile, and maternity pajamas. The jammies consisted of a pink top and pink plaid bottoms, totaling enough fabric to outfit a clipper ship. “This is great. Thanks so much,” I ritually responded. Baby gear was piling up in the second bedroom while I still had no idea what I needed. It was daunting and premature. The baby wasn't due until August, after all, and it was only June.

“Tell her, Jim,” my mother nudged.

“I maybe found a car for you,” he said. “A Honda CRV, lot of miles, but runs good. Friend of a friend is getting divorced and needs to sell it fast.”

What was the rush? I had
months
yet. I tossed out the first objection I could think of. “So I wouldn't get a trade-in on the pickup. I'd have to sell it myself.”

“Got that covered. Aaron, the guy from Fresno who's been helping me in the shop, wants the truck. He'll pay the low end of Blue Book, which is pretty fair for that thing.”

“Dad, it runs great. That truck has never failed me.”

“This is a good deal, Iris. I don't think you're going to get any more for that truck.”

“Maybe.” My obstetrician and any number of free baby magazines assured me that riding in the front of a vehicle is lethal for an infant. Only back seats are suitable and only if equipped with an infant carrier incorporating space-age technology. My parents had provided the car seat within hours of learning I was pregnant, but I still lacked a back seat. My truck had to go, and I was struggling with an inappropriate attachment to a mechanical object, or so my mother told me.

My dad seemed mildly puzzled by my lack of enthusiasm. “Tomorrow you can come by the shop and show Aaron the truck. Then I'll go with you to look over the Honda. If you like it, you'll be ready.”

“Ready,” as in for a baby not safely housed out of sight, a baby requiring a skill set other than eating for two and wearing a face mask at work? No way would I be “ready.” “We'll see. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

My mother looked pleased, confident that I'd been nudged another step toward responsible parenthood. “Have you gotten a crib yet?”

“I checked prices on Craigslist,” I lied.

Apparently that was sufficient because she moved on. “The circus is coming to town.”

“How about that,” I said cautiously, thinking this might be a metaphor.

“Next week, I'm taking a classroom of fifth graders. I want you to come, too. You can tell them about the animals. The kids will love it. It's a week from today. Two o'clock. I'll get you a free ticket.”

Not a metaphor. “Um, I might have other plans?” Plans that didn't involve rowdy ten year olds. “Tigers jumping through hoops makes me queasy. It's undignified. People shouldn't get their kicks watching tigers being bossed around.”

“I thought you'd love the idea. They have elephants and horses, too. Not enough parents signed up to help, and I'll have to cancel.”

She wasn't the sort to overact with a sad face, but I could tell she didn't want to cancel. She didn't often ask my help. Usually she was helping me. Had I always been so vulnerable to arm-twisting? “Okay, fine. Sure. You do remember that the clowns terrified me the last time you took me to the circus?”

“You were six years old. You ate popcorn and licorice until you threw up.”

“No way. I've always hated licorice.”

“Loved it until then, but don't blame the circus. We'll have a good time. You'll see. Oh, that reminds me. I've been saving this clipping for you for months.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping. It showed a picture of Damrey with the little girl who'd won the art contest.

I glanced at it, thanked her, and set it on top of the stack of bills.

She said, “I read in the paper that the foreman died. What was his name?”

On to the next item on her agenda. I was barely keeping up. “Kevin Wallace.”

“What a horrible thing. I wonder if they'll be able to figure out what happened.”

“The police? Sure they will. They do it in an hour on TV,” I said, unsure where she was going but hoping to deflect her. I didn't want to share the details of finding Wallace yet again or, worse, explore the fact that a killer might be loose in my workplace.

“I should think you would want a desk job at this point. You have two to think about, and your job is risky in your condition.”

I should have seen that coming. This campaign had started long ago. “Mom, I'm a bird keeper now. I might get pecked. On the finger.”

“You always make light of it, even when you were working with lions. Is there an office job maybe available? You should think about it. You shouldn't be doing heavy work.”

“Nope. No office jobs. How's
your
work going? How did you get roped into this circus thing?”

“I love circuses. Who's your boss now?”

“Mr. Crandall is acting foreman.”

“That dinosaur. I can't imagine why he doesn't retire. If he's your boss now, you could ask him about another sort of job, couldn't you? I mean, it wouldn't hurt to ask.”

I wasn't
that
much of a wimp. “Mom, it would hurt. I'm an animal keeper. It's what I do. You shouldn't worry. It's perfectly safe. The doctor told me to exercise.”

“Gloria, it's getting close to dinner time,” my dad said.

My mother jumped up. “Right. Come to dinner with us. We're going to that new café on Division.”

I wasn't hard to convince since sleep had won out over shopping for groceries. Maybe the café would be noisy enough to minimize conversation. Six months hadn't been near enough time for my mother to adjust to the idea of a pregnant daughter. I was exhausted by her worries and suggestions, and the real action hadn't started yet.

As we got into the car, she said, “Honey, I just want everything to go well. You've had such a hard time of it. Tell me to back off if I'm too, too…”

“Bossy?”

“Involved.”

An opportunity to lower my stress level that I should not pass up, but this was the tricky interpersonal stuff I was terrible at. What would Dear Abby or Amy or Carolyn advise me to say? I silently rehearsed the phrasing. Stilted, but the best I could do. “Mom, I know you feel that I'm not able to handle this, and I appreciate everything…”

She snatched up the bait before it landed. “No, no, that's not it at all! I—we—have complete confidence in you. You are extremely capable. We only want to help!”

Feeling wildly successful and a little guilty, I said, “It's good to hear you think I can handle being pregnant and getting ready for the baby. So, Mom, there's no need to try to think of everything and push me to do it.”

“I know, I know. I'm over-doing it. It's just that I'm, we're, excited about our first grandchild. It's so brave of you to tackle this alone.”

“Bravery hasn't anything to do with it. I really do appreciate the support, but—“

“I promise to lighten up. I won't press you anymore.”

“That would be great.” I sat in the back of the car, totally pleased with myself, and silently counted seconds. “
One Mississippi, two Mississippi…
”

At “
fifteen Mississippi
,” “You will get a crib tomorrow, won't you? Make sure the bars are close together. You don't want the baby to get his head stuck.”