Strays (6 page)

There’s even a trapdoor, and when she undoes that, a big nipple pops out like an accusing finger. Then she presses Noodle’s plastic head to her chest.

“But who,” she asks, “does it hurt?”

I don’t know what to do. Much less what to say. The front door opens, then closes with a bang.

“It’s . . . somebody,” I hear myself say. “I should go.”

She just plants a kiss on Noodle’s made-in-Taiwan forehead.

I run all the way to the Gold Line station. There’s only one place I want to be right now.

On the ride south, I’m kind of sick at my stomach. My mouth tastes like old pennies. My mother was odd, but she wasn’t psycho. If she’d had something called Little Noodle, it would’ve been a dachshund.

People doze or talk on their phones. Somebody with an old school boom box gets on, turns it way down, and leans his ear against it. At the Arroyo station, a man watches the woman he’s been talking to walk south carrying plastic bags in each hand; then he holds up a little portable radio and I can hear Vin Scully, the voice of the Dodgers.

I let myself think about my parents.

My dad was a baseball fanatic. He always had a game on the radio. His bedtime stories were all about mistakes: Enos Slaughter scores from first, beating Johnny Pesky’s lousy relay throw (Game 7, ’46). Bill Buckner lets Mookie Wilson’s dribbler get by him, and the winning run scores (Game 6, ’86).

My mother’s stories were about animals — how giraffes in captivity lick the fence when they’re upset, why hurt animals in the wild don’t whine and carry on because it’d attract predators, how birds that migrate have to learn and then remember the route because it isn’t hardwired into their brains.

Every now and then I’d hear about the day she was walking home from the store with some groceries and my dad pulled up on a little Yamaha. She said how long his legs were and he said how cute she was.

I have to sit back and take a couple of deep breaths.

A family of four gets on. The father stares out the window; the daughter opens a book, then fumbles with her glasses; her little brother crawls into his mother’s lap. He settles in with both arms around her neck, but as he dives deeper into sleep, his arms slip loose and hang over the back of the seat, limp as vines.

That about does me in. I’ve got that photograph in my wallet. But I don’t take it out. It’ll just make things worse.

The Gold Line ends downtown. It’s only a few hundred yards from that platform to the bus stop in front of Union Station. Then twenty minutes on the DASH bus.

I’m first off that, first in line to get the student discount, first to push through the turnstile. The zoo is big and green. It reminds me of Africa. At least all the bamboo does. Not the corny asphalt trails or the caterpillar-like trams with the loudspeakers.

I still feel more at home. I like the heavy air — biting and sour. Most people hold their noses, but it tells me things:
I live here. This is my territory. Don’t come any closer.

I stand outside the new enclosure for sea lions. Huge windows give everybody an underwater view, and up a dozen stairs there’s plenty of room for the pups to lie in the sun.

I say hello to them, but they’re too busy diving and having fun to reply. My dad didn’t like the sea lions or the seals. He said they loved their jailers too much. He wouldn’t watch them bark and clap their flippers and roll over for fish at the two o’clock public feeding. He told me that the reason I didn’t have any brothers and sisters was that he couldn’t breed in captivity.

A hundred yards away, the flamingos squawk and bend their long necks to hunt under one wing for something that’s aggravating them. One of them spots me and walks toward the iron railing.

“Your pants are awful,” he says.

“They’re Ralph Lauren.”

“They’re brown. You should wear brighter colors.”

“Are you guys okay?”

He shrugs. “I miss flying. How are you?”

“I’m having a little trouble. I kind of miss my folks.”

“Really? My mom’s in Florida, I think. Eggs are definitely the way to go.”

A little girl standing just behind me says, “Daddy, why’s that boy laughing?”

Her father isn’t quite sure what to do. He likes having the tall colorful bird right up close, but he’s not so sure about me.

So I move on. I don’t go by the chimps, because they all jabber at once. My mother told me a story once about chimp wars. A couple of troops of males would meet on neutral turf and throw it down. That’s how researchers finally figured out the weird female-to-male ratio they ran into every now and then; a lot of the males had been killed. Mom said Jane Goodall hated to think her beloved chimps could do something like that. But they could and did.

Giraffes don’t make war. I like seeing a real giraffe instead of the one in the backyard. I stand by their big enclosure, and the dominant female strolls my way.

“Teddy. How nice of you to drop by.”

Giraffes are always polite and kind of upper-class.

She leans as close as she can and bats her lashes at me. “You seem shorter. Or maybe that’s because you look so awful.”

“I’m just upset, I guess. You know what happened. . . . The accident and all.”

She nods as only a giraffe can nod. “That was a shame. They were young.”

“It’s not like they were perfect. No way were they perfect, but . . .”

“Nobody’s perfect, Teddy.” She leans a little to her left. “See that big oaf over there? Nobody can go into that corner by the boulders because it’s his precious corner. He has to eat first. He has to go inside first at night. But nobody wants to see him die. Wasn’t it rather like that with your parents?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“Just being alive at all is pretty much a combination of good and bad, Teddy. This is a bad part. If you can be patient, it’ll get better.”

“Were you patient,” I ask, “when you were captured and brought here?”

“It was terrible at first; then I got used to it.”

“It’s kind of terrible where I am.”

By now there are people all around me. A dozen fathers holding up their kids while the giraffe nibbles at my hair.

I say, “Look, I’m just going to, you know, wander around a little, I guess.”

“Go visit the lions. All boys like predators.”

“All right. I will. Thanks.”

I make my way through the little crowd. I’m sure people are looking at me and wondering, but I don’t care.

When I get to the big cat pavilion, the male lion stands up, shakes his mane, and makes one of those low, coughing roars.

“Theodore,” he says, “what are you doing here?”

“I just came by to say hello.”

“Oh, there’s more going on than that. You can tell me. I’m king of the beasts.”

“Well, okay.” Finally I take the picture of my parents out of my wallet and hold it up. “Can you see this?”

“Are you kidding? There are three people — a male and a female and a cub. The male has his arm around the female, they’re both smiling, and the little one’s asleep.”

“Well, they died. And I’m living in this foster home, and the lady there has this doll and she’s pathetic, and her husband is this old military guy and he’s pathetic, and sometimes I’m just so lonely.”

“What you need, Theodore, is a pride. If you can get some females to hunt for you, that’s all the better. Nothing beats lying around under a tree while the girls work. But a few young guys — that’s okay, too. Promise me you won’t spend too much time by yourself — the hyenas will get you.”

“Son?”

I look up to see two park guards in their blue uniforms. Behind them are a dozen people.

“Are you okay?” The big guard has his hand on my shoulder. “It says right there you can’t feed the animals.”

“I wasn’t feeding the animals.”

“You could have fooled me. Those lions never get that close to the moat, and if they do, they don’t stay there unless somebody’s throwing food.”

“I was just showing them this picture.”

He reaches for the photo in my hand. “Who are these people?”

“My parents.”

“You’re showing the lions a picture of your parents?” He starts to lead me through the crowd. “They around here somewhere?”

“No, I’m by myself.”

“Did you drive?”

“I took the bus. And before that the Gold Line. I live in Pasadena now.”

“It’s nice up there. I’ve got family in Pasadena.”

Down in the enclosure, the lion has his back to everything.

“You’re not on anything, are you?” the guard asks.

“Like drugs? Are you kidding? I don’t mind leaving. I know that’s what you want me to do.”

“Do we need to walk with you?”

“No. I know where the gate is.”

They get on either side of me. “I think we’ll just walk with you anyway.”

The next day I’m dozing when Astin comes in. He’s limping, and his jeans are torn.

“Hey, man,” he says. “Did you even make it to school? I didn’t see you all day.”

“I was late, but I made it.”

“You were dead to the world this morning.”

“I’m still trying to get over Little Noodle.”

His grin is huge. “Is that far out or what?”

I sit up and put both feet on the floor. The clock says it’s the middle of the afternoon. “Is she going to keep doing that?”

Astin opens the top drawer of his IKEA dresser and paws through it.

“If she tries, here’s the drill — you see that look on her face and she starts talking about her womb, you’re out the door.”

“But she told me if I was difficult, she’d call Ms. Ervin.”

“No way is she calling anybody, Teddy. What’s she gonna say — that you wouldn’t play dolls with her? Look at it this way: she hasn’t got her hand in your pants, she’s not drunk, and she’s not stoned. But now you’re an official foster kid. You get the
I’VE SEEN LITTLE NOODLE
T-shirt.”

“I about lost it. That bra of hers looks seaworthy.”

Astin cackles, then clutches at his side. “Don’t make me laugh; my ribs hurt.”

“What happened?”

“I was helping a buddy of mine work on his rice burner, and when I took it out for a spin, I had a little wreck. I wasn’t going very fast. I’m all right.” He starts tugging at his belt. “I’m going to change my pants, then get something to eat. Come with me.”

“I just keep seeing those boobs of hers. I may never eat again.”

“I’m buying. I hate to eat alone.”

“Call Megan.”

“She’s making puppets for that AP English class you guys are in. C’mon, we’ll take the chopper. Get you some street cred.”

“Okay, I guess. I sure don’t want to stay here.”

Outside, Astin points to the tarp on his motorcycle. “Help me with this.”

I tell him, “I feel sorry for her. Do you feel sorry for her?”

“For Barbara? Are you kidding? If I feel sorry for anybody, it’s Bob.”

We lift at the same time, and the tarp billows a little.

“Give it a shake and then stand still.”

I watch him come toward me, one fold after another. He brushes at the tarpaulin, fusses with the corners. I go over what Astin told me: she starts in with the waffles and the womb; I’m out the door. If it works for him, it’ll work for me.

I follow him into the garage, where he opens the trunk of Mrs. Rafter’s Saturn and stows the folded cover. Then he wants me to look too.

“What’d your old man drive?” he asks.

“Subaru.”

“What’d his trunk look like?”

“Afghanistan.”

He opens a varnished box with brass hinges. There’s a fire extinguisher, yellow jumper cables, red flares, one of those aluminum blankets, bottled water, a see-through sandwich bag full of folded maps, and some kind of walkie-talkie.

“She’s afraid of earthquakes,” he says.

So there’s Barbara with her doll wondering if the overpass is going to fall on her before she gets to Curves. Oh, God.

Astin leads me back outside and pats the motorcycle like it’s a big pet.

“Harley Shovelhead, S&S engine, and a Boyd front end. I drove all over hell and gone to find stuff. And what I couldn’t find I made. This thing is so lean and mean I’ve had guys tell me it won’t run ’cause it hasn’t got enough parts.”

There’s not much room for paint, but the gas tank is the deepest blue I have ever seen. “It’s nice.”

“You bet your ass it’s nice. This baby and I go to Daytona Speed Week next year and win some prizes.” He mounts up, hands me a helmet, grabs the handlebars, and leans back. “Get on.”

I step back. “No way am I putting my arms around you.”

“Just grab hold of my jacket. Nobody’ll see you, anyway. We’ll be going too fast.”

He turns the key, and we’re gone. Dry leaves fly up behind us like a wake. I don’t much want to, but I have to hang on to something because we’re up to at least fifty miles per hour just like that.

“You okay?” he shouts.

“Yeah.” Actually I’m a little scared, but I’m not going to tell him that. And it’s nothing like when those three jocks turned me upside down in a trash can. This is kind of fun.

He leans us into a turn. “Know how to drive?” he yells.

“A car, yeah.”

“Not one of these?”

When I shake my head, my helmet bumps against his. The wind grabs part of our conversation.