The One and Only Ivan (9 page)

Mack wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. “Yeah, I know. We're all tired.”

He pushes Ruby with the heel of his boot. She ignores him.

George looks over from the food court, where he is wiping off tables. “Mack,” he yells, “maybe you should call it a day. I'll close up.”

Mack yanks on Ruby's chain. She's as anchored as a tree trunk. He pulls harder and falls to his knees. “That does it,” Mack says. He brushes sawdust off his jeans. “I am through playing around.”

Mack stomps off to his office. When he returns, he is carrying a long stick. The gleaming hook on its end is almost beautiful, like a sliver of moon.

It's a claw-stick.

Mac pokes Ruby with the sharp point. Not hard. Just a touch.

I can tell he wants her to see how much it can hurt.

I growl low in my throat.

Ruby doesn't budge. She is a gray, unmoving boulder. She closes her eyes, and for a moment I wonder if she might have fallen asleep.

“I'm warning you,” Mack says. He breathes out. He stares at the ceiling.

Ruby makes a huffing sound.

“Fine,” Mack says. “You want to play it that way?”

He draws back the claw-stick.

“No!” Julia cries.

“I'm not gonna hurt her,” Mack says. “I just want to get her attention.”

Bob snarls.

Mack swings. The hook slices the air just a few inches above Ruby's head.

“See why you don't want to mess with me?” Mack says. He draws back the claw-stick again. “Now
move
!”

Ruby jerks her head, flinging her trunk toward Mack.

She makes a noise that sends the sawdust scattering. It makes my glass shiver.

It is the most beautiful mad I have ever heard.

Ruby's trunk slaps into Mack.

I don't see exactly where she strikes him—somewhere below his stomach, I think—and I know he must be uncomfortable, because Mack drops the claw-stick and falls down on the ground and curls into a ball and howls like a baby.

“Direct hit,” Bob says.

Mack groans. He stumbles to his feet and hobbles off toward his office. Ruby watches him leave. I can't read her expression. Is she afraid? Relieved? Proud?

When Mack is gone, George and Julia lead Ruby from the ring. “It's okay, baby, it's okay,” Julia says, stroking Ruby's head.

They settle Ruby in her domain and make sure she has fresh water and food. Before long, Ruby's dozing.

“Dad?” Julia asks as George locks Ruby's iron door. “Do you think Mack would ever hurt Ruby?”

“I don't think so, Jules,” George says. “At least I hope not.”

“Maybe we could call someone.”

George scratches his chin. “I wish I could help Ruby, but I wouldn't know how. I mean, who would I call? The elephant cops? Besides”—George looks down—“I need this job, Jules.
We
need this job. Your mom, the doctor bills…” He kisses the top of Julia's head. “Back to work. You and me both.”

Julia sighs and reaches for her backpack. She removes a piece of paper, a bottle of water, and a small metal box.

“Homework first,” George says, wagging a finger. “Then you can paint.”

“It's for art class,” Julia explains. “We're doing watercolors. I'm going to paint Ruby.”

George smiles. “All right, then. Just don't forget your spelling.”

“Dad?” Julia asks again. “Did you see Mack's face when Ruby hit him?”

George nods. “Yes,” he says solemnly. “I did.” He shakes his head. “Poor Mack.”

He turns away, and only then do I hear him laughing.

Julia opens the metal box. I see a row of little squares. Green, blue, red, black, yellow, purple, orange: The colors seem to glow.

She pulls out a brush with a thin tuft of a tail at its end. She dips the brush in water and wets the paper, then taps at the red square.

When the brush meets the damp paper, pink petals of color unfurl like morning flowers.

I can't take my eyes off that magical brush. For a moment, I'm not thinking about Ruby and Mack and the claw-stick and Stella.

Almost.

Julia touches red again, then blue, and there, suddenly, is the purple of a ripe grape. She touches the blue, and her paper turns to summer sky. Black and white, and now I see that she is painting a picture of Ruby. I can make out her floppy ears, her thick legs.

Julia stops painting. She takes a few steps back, hands on her hips, gazing at her work.

She scowls. “It's not right,” she says. She glances over her shoulder at me. I try to look encouraging.

Julia starts to crumple up the paper, then reconsiders. Instead she slides it into my cage at the spot where my glass is broken. “Here you go,” she says. “A Julia original. That'll be worth millions someday.”

Gingerly I pick up the paper. I do not eat a single bite of it.

“Oh. Hey, I almost forgot.” Julia runs to her backpack. She pulls out three plastic jars—one yellow, one blue, one red.

She opens the jars, and an odd, not-food smell hits my nose. Julia pushes the jars, one by one, through the opening. Then she slides some paper through.

“These are called finger paints,” she says. “My aunt gave them to me, but really, I'm too old for finger painting.”

I stick a finger into the red jar. The paint is thick as mud. It's cool and smooth, like bananas underfoot.

I pop my finger into my mouth. It's not exactly ripe mango, but it's not bad.

Julia laughs. “You don't eat it. You paint with it.” She grabs a piece of paper and presses her finger on it. “See? Like this.”

I place my finger on a piece of paper. I lift it, and a red mark is there.

I get a bigger glob from the pot and slap my hand down on the page. When I pull my hand off the paper, its red twin stays behind.

This isn't like the ghostly handprints on my glass, the ones my visitors leave behind.

This handprint can't be so easily wiped away.

I lie awake, peeling dried red paint off my fingertips. Bob, who accidentally walked on one of my paintings, is licking his red paws.

Every so often, I glance over at the empty ring. The claw-stick glints in the moonlight.

“Stop! No!” Ruby's frantic cries startle me.

“Ruby,” I call, “you're having a bad dream. You're okay. You're safe.”

“Where's Stella?” she asks, gulping air. Before I can answer, she says, “Never mind. I remember now.”

“Go back to sleep, Ruby,” I say. “You've had a hard day.”

“I can't go back to sleep,” she says. “I'm afraid I'll have the same dream. There was a sharp stick, and it hurt…”

I look at Bob, and he looks back at me.

“Oh,” Ruby says. “Oh. Mack.” She puts her trunk between the bars. “Do you think—” She hesitates. “Do you think Mack is mad because I hurt him today?”

I consider lying, but gorillas are terrible liars. “Probably,” I finally say.

“He ran away after that,” Ruby says.

Bob gives a scornful laugh. “Crawled away is more like it.”

We are quiet for a while. Branches claw at the roof. A light rain drums. One of the parrots murmurs something in her sleep.

Ruby breaks the silence. “Ivan? I smell something funny.”

“He can't help it,” Bob says.

“I believe she's referring to the finger paints Julia gave me,” I say.

“What are finger paints?” Ruby asks.

“You make pictures with them,” I explain.

“Could you make a picture of me?”

“Maybe someday.” I remember Julia's picture, the one that will be worth a million dollars. I hold it up to the glass. “Look. It's you. Julia made it.”

“It's hard to see,” Ruby says. “There's not much moonlight. Why do I have two trunks?”

I examine the picture. “Those are feet.”

“Why do I have two feet?”

“That's called artistic license,” Bob says.

Ruby sighs. “Could you tell me another story?” she asks. “I don't think I can ever go back to sleep.”

“I told you all I remember,” I say with a helpless shrug.

“Then tell me a new story,” she says. “Make something up.”

I try to think, but my thoughts keep returning to Mack and his claw-stick.

“Anything yet?” Ruby asks.

“I'm working on it.”

“Ivan?” Ruby presses. “Bob said you are going to save me.”

“I…” I search for true words. “I'm working on that, too.”

“Ivan?” Ruby says in a voice so low I can barely hear her. “I have another question.”

I can tell from the sound of her voice that this will be a question I don't want to answer.

Ruby taps her trunk against the rusty iron bars of her door. “Do you think,” she asks, “that I'll die in this domain someday, like Aunt Stella?”

Once again I consider lying, but when I look at Ruby, the half-formed words die in my throat. “Not if I can help it,” I say instead.

I feel something tighten in my chest, something dark and hot. “And it's not a domain,” I add.

I pause, and then I say it. “It's a cage.”

I look at the ring, layered with fresh sawdust. I look at the skylight, at the half-hidden moon.

“I just thought of a story,” I say.

“Is it a made-up story or a true one?” Ruby asks.

“True,” I say. “I hope.”

Ruby leans against the bars. Her eyes hold the pale moon in them, the way a still pond holds stars.

“Once upon a time,” I say, “there was a baby elephant. She was smart and brave, and she needed to go to a place called a zoo.”

“What's a zoo?” Ruby asks.

“A zoo, Ruby, is a place where humans make amends. A good zoo is a place where humans care for animals and keep them safe.”

“Did the baby elephant get to the zoo?” Ruby asks softly.

I don't answer right away. “Yes,” I say at last.

“How did she get there?” Ruby asks.

“She had a friend,” I say. “A friend who made a promise.”

It takes a long time, but finally Ruby returns to sleep.

“Ivan,” Bob whispers, yawning, “what you said … about the zoo. How are you going to do it?”

Suddenly I feel as if I could sleep for a thousand days. “I don't know,” I admit.

“You'll think of something,” Bob says confidently, his voice trailing off as his eyes close.

“What if I don't?” I ask, but Bob is already asleep.

His little red feet dance, and I know he's running in his dreams.

Bob and Ruby sleep on.

I don't sleep. I think about the promise I made to Stella, and the pictures I've made for Ruby. And I remember.

I remember it all.

We were clinging to our mother, my sister and I, when the humans killed her.

They shot my father next.

Then they chopped off their hands, their feet, their heads.

There is a cluttered, musty store near my cage.

They sell an ashtray there. It is made from the hand of a gorilla.

When morning comes and the parking lot glimmers with dew, I see the billboard on the highway.

There I am: the One and Only Ivan, bathed in the pink light of dawn. I look so angry, with my furrowed brow and clenched fists.

I look the way my father did, the day the men came.

I am, I suppose, a peaceful sort. Mostly I watch the world go by and think about naps and bananas and yogurt raisins.

But inside me, hidden, is another Ivan.

He could tear a grown man's limbs off his body.

In the flicker of time it takes a snake's tongue to taste the air, he could taste revenge.

He is the Ivan on the billboard.

I stare at the One and Only Ivan, at the faded picture of Stella, and I remember George and Mack on their ladders, adding the picture of Ruby to bring new visitors to the Exit 8 Big Top Mall and Video Arcade.

I remember the story Ruby told, the one where the villagers came to her rescue.

I hear Stella's kind, wise voice:
Humans can surprise you sometimes
.

I look at my fingers, coated in red paint the color of blood, and I know how to keep my promise.

During the days, I wait. During the nights, I paint.

I worry when Mack takes Ruby into the ring.

He carries the claw-stick with him all the time now. He doesn't use it. He doesn't have to.

Ruby isn't fighting back anymore. She does whatever Mack asks.

I close my eyes. I dip my fingers into the paint.

When I'm done with one piece of paper, I set it aside to dry.