An Inconvenient Elephant (18 page)

OUR FIRST HORSE RESCUE APPEARED TO BE A SUCCESS.

The pregnant rescue mare foaled a tiny filly, and Mousi made friends with the Gang of Fifty-seven, as I had taken to calling the original horses out in the field, though some of their numbers had been sold. Some of the new rescues were turned out with them.

But mostly Diamond and I were inordinately proud of our success with Silky, because the bay mare was still alive.

We had all taken turns feeding her. Even Mrs. Wycliff helped, though I suspected by the occasional strong smell of brandy on Silky's breath, the mash had been spiked. We were giving her small handfuls of grain now, the IVs were gone, and today Dr. Harry had an appointment to remove the sling that was keeping Silky upright and off the damaged leg. He had strongly suggested that if she failed to stand on
her own, she should be euthanized. She would lose stewardship over her life.

 

Diamond was waiting impatiently in the barn. She had been trying to capture Dr. Harry's attention for weeks, offering him a puff of her cheroot, leaning into him when they worked on Silky, trying to impress him by double flipping her safari knife high in the air and ending with his jacket pinned to a stall door, even though he sometimes was wearing it. Occasionally she would entertain him with a private but earsplitting rendition of the night mating call of the spotted hyena, always brandishing her chestnut hair like a flag of availability when he looked her way. She had even offered to lasso and tie him in under a minute to show him her roping skills, but I knew none of it was going to work. I knew as soon as I saw Dr. Harry's neat haircut, the clean oxford shirt and navy slacks he wore under his coveralls, the way his boots were always polished, the tidy way he packed up his instruments when he was finished. I knew as soon as I saw him eye Diamond's crusty safari clothes, her boots that had accumulated twenty years of exotic grime, the thick gray knee socks, twin companions to the boots in terms of hygiene. I knew from the look on his face when she tossed things into a heap in the aisle, used syringes and cotton wipes, and baling twine and empty medicine packets, which he promptly retrieved and threw away.

“You don't need to worry, I got it covered,” Diamond said when I came into the barn that morning. “I've already planned my day around helping Dr. Harry.”

“I know,” I reassured her with a smile. “I won't get in your
way, I just want to see how the mare does. I'll leave as soon as he checks her over.” I walked over to Silky and rubbed my fingers up and down the thin blaze on her face.

“Oh, Neelie,” Diamond suddenly said, giving me a mournful look. “Am I trying too hard? You know, with him? Before I was married, I never had any trouble getting a guy in Kenya, but maybe that was because it was me or the monkeys.”

“You're very attractive,” I reassured her, “but with my two hundred percent failure rate, I'm the last one to give advice. Are you sure you're really ready? I mean, you're the one who talked of hearts and roads and intersections and all that.”

“I know.” She sighed. “But I'm lonely. And I've decided to put myself officially back on the road map.”

 

Punctual as usual, Dr. Harry arrived a few minutes later, bounding into the barn and bidding us all a friendly good morning before examining the mare.

“Swelling isn't down yet,” he said, looking over the leg, “but let's see how she stands.” He unhooked Silky from the sling and eased her gently down, onto her feet. She took a wobbly step and collapsed in a heap into the straw bedding.

“Oh no!” Diamond and I exclaimed together.

“Give her a minute,” Dr. Harry cautioned.

The mare struggled to regain her footing. She extended her front legs and pressed against them to stand, then groaned from the effort. She fought for a few minutes more, trying to throw her body forward to lift it, but it was too much of an effort and she finally dropped down. Dr. Harry
hooked her up to the sling, and we helped him work the winch to lift her again to her feet.

“You're lucky she's tolerating this,” he said to us when we were finished. “A lot of horses fight the sling like crazy, but I think it's time we did the right thing by her. Even if we save her, she won't be much use.” He waited for our response. Diamond moved to the horse's side.

“What do you think, Neelie?” she asked.

I looked at the mare. Diamond and I had taken turns gently brushing her scrungy hair. Tufts of new growth were beginning to cover her still-bony frame. She had put on a little weight and nickered for her meals now. And her eyes had taken on a cautious interest in her surroundings. Regaining her trust would take a long time, but she was fighting to live, at least that much belonged to her.

“I can't,” I said. “At least, not yet.” Diamond nodded in agreement.

Dr. Harry shook his head and picked up his medical bag. “I know this farm is on a budget. You'd do better spending your money on horses that can be useful. She needs a humane end. There's nothing wrong in that. My official opinion is why wait for the inevitable.”

I saw a look cross Diamond's face. She accompanied Dr. Harry to the front of the barn, where she solemnly shook his hand.

“I guess it's not something you'd understand,” she said. “But we're not saving her for us, we're saving her for her.”

 

“So, Margo is leaving right after the party,” I said glumly to Diamond as we drove the old pickup down to the lion enclo
sure to heave yellow basketball-shaped frozen chickens over their fence. “She'll become a corporate elephant, and I won't see her anymore.” The truck transmission, having been burdened beyond its capacity when we used it to rescue the twelve horses, was emitting ungodly squeals.

“We're going to need a fund-raiser for a truck, before long,” Diamond commented as it shuddered over the rocky field. The lions trotted to the gate and grabbed the chickens in their jaws. “I wonder why it never bothered Richie to toss them chicken,” she mused. “Him being a vegetarian, and all.”

“Maybe because we have a choice and animals don't. They're kind of hardwired to eat what they have to,” I replied. “I always wished I could be a vegetarian. Ethically I am, but stomachly I still crave cheeseburgers.”

“I never thought about it,” Diamond said, watching one of the lions carry off a chicken. “You're lucky to eat what you can find in Kenya. I think being a vegetarian is an issue for people who aren't starving.”

Margo trumpeted from her pen, announcing she was ready for her lunch.

“How am I ever going to be able to say good-bye to her?” I mused aloud.

“It'll be okay,” Diamond said, bending over and picking up another raw chicken, then paused. “I wonder if it tastes better underhand or overhand,” she said, tossing the chicken to the waiting cat. “Anyway, letting Margo go is the right thing to do. I knew you'd come around.”

“How did you know?”

She stood in the bed of the truck and put her hands on her hips. The wind blew her hair around in red swirls, and
she looked like a wildflower. “Because it isn't fair to stand in the way of her finding a new family.”

I stopped what I was doing to ask something that had been on my mind for a long time. “Family seems to mean so much to you, I wonder why you and Jake never had children.”

“Oh,” she said sadly, and I was immediately sorry that I had been so intrusive. “You know how we know Joshua Mukomana?”

“No,” I said, puzzled at the odd response. “How?”

She gave me a rueful smile. “He and Jakob were roommates at Harvard Law.”

“Roommates?” I repeated, surprised. “But Joshua is about—”

“Sixty-seven years old,” she said, throwing the last of the chicken to the lions. “And so was Jake. I didn't marry him for romance. Our marriage wasn't like that at all.” She stopped. “I guess I married him for family. And I wanted family so bad. He took very good care of me. But he was like a father more than anything. There was never any romance there. Do you know what I mean? He
loved
me. And it was enought for me”

I thought I did understand. “Well,” I said, starting the truck up again and waiting for her to climb into the passenger seat. “If we have no one else, we can always make families out of our rescues, right?”

“Of course,” Diamond said as we watched the lions trot away with their catch. “A heart that is big enough to hold elephants can hold everything else.”

 

We spent the remaining weeks before the fund-raiser in whirlwind activity, coaxing donations from anyone within a fifty-mile radius, managing to procure food, live music, the free rental of tables and chairs, linens, grills, decorations, fresh flowers, heaters to keep the temperature comfortable, as well as recruiting a faithful coterie of volunteers to help run it all.

“I think it's my clothing,” Diamond said modestly, after another successful day of contributions. She had by now changed to more seasonal attire, brown-and-green camouflage slacks with a matching long-sleeved shirt, topped off with her usual red bolo string tie, and in deference to the weather, an all-weather camouflage jacket.

“Wow,” I enthused when she showed the list of donors, then added with a sigh, “all I got for a donation was a few dozen donuts. You must be giving them a great speech.”

“Yep.” Diamond nodded. “I have the whole routine down. First I introduce myself, talk about ELLI, warm up with imitations of some common jungle birds, throw in the call of the howler monkey, and then before I even finish with my specialty hyena screams, they're very eager to help me out.”

 

We had decided to hold the party in the elephant barn. It was the biggest structure on the grounds, although it meant leaving Margo in her paddock under the stars while I spent a few days scrubbing the elephant barn clean, whitewashing the walls, and at the last minute, directing two men who installed a jigsaw puzzle of wooden flooring across the cement.

“I never thought a party would entail so much stuff,” I grumbled to Diamond as we watched the men snap the large square pieces together. “We'll never get it all done.”

“We will if we keep working,” Diamond replied. “As they say in Kenya, you eat an elephant one bite at a time.” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “Sorry. No offense meant.”

 

But she was right. We didn't stop for anything, and at last, fresh flowers stood in beautiful arrangements on tables draped in leopard-print tablecloths, ribbon garlands hung across the walls secured to blown-up photos of the animals that lived in the sanctuary, and strings of tiny white lights crisscrossed the ceiling as if it were a runway. Finishing the last job of the day, Diamond hung two huge posters, donated by the local printing shop, of Tusker and Silky to inspire our guests. Silky's picture had been taken the day after we brought her home, and she looked gaunt and disconsolate. Above it hung a photo of Tusker, the sunlight filtering behind him as he reached toward Diamond for the piece of cheese from her lunch. Next to his picture was a large calendar with the days counted off with red crosses.

“If those pictures don't break your heart,” I said, standing back to make sure both pictures were straight, “then you have no heart at all.”

“They're our real guests of honor,” Diamond agreed, stapling the calendar to the wall over her head. “There, it's done.”

“Good job,” I said gratefully. “I can't believe how fast you pulled this all together.”

“It's my safari training,” Diamond explained, jumping down from the ladder. “I learned a long time ago, if you dally, you get eaten by lions.”

THE PURPOSE OF A PARTY IS TO BRING PEOPLE
together. Sometimes for fun, sometimes for profit, sometimes to meet new people. Diamond was hoping for the first two, I was dreading the last.

In general, I hate parties and would really have preferred to hide in the elephant paddock with Margo and Abbie, away from the chatter and noise. I didn't want to waste one precious second that I could be with Margo, but I had to play hostess, along with Diamond-Rose and Richie and Jackie, who came up from Alabama just for the occasion, and Mrs. Wycliff, who greeted her guests in a cranberry velvet evening gown, pith helmet, and pink cockatoo. And wherever the two of them went, Samantha put her own spin on the social niceties.

“Harold and I are so glad you could make it,” Mrs. Wycliff
would murmur, graciously extending her hand to each new arrival. “Please do come in and enjoy one of our lovely drinks. They're on sticks, you know.”

“Fuck you!” Samantha would add genially from her shoulder, now having been properly schooled by Diamond. “Fuck you!”

 

My parents were the first to arrive, both carrying large plastic containers.

“Mom, you didn't have to bring anything!” I exclaimed. “It's a theme party. We wanted everything to be on a stick.”

“I know, dear.” She held out the container for me to inspect. “That's why I made three hundred breadsticks.”

Reese and Marielle arrived soon after, Reese waving a list of elephant jokes he had specially unearthed for the occasion.

“‘What's the similarity between elephants and plums?'” he read off.

It was the last thing I needed to hear. “Come on, Reese, I'm too busy for this.”

“‘They're both gray,'” he said. “‘Except, of course, for the plums.'”

I ignored him and busied myself giving the band a place to set up—the only place available was in the elephant cage, which didn't exactly please them—and directing guests to Silky's stall to view the mare, now a hundred pounds heavier than in her picture and meticulously groomed with bows tied into her mane. I also gave a few brief tours to the top of the elephant field, where guests could glimpse Margo and Abbie through the fencing.

But Reese is never discouraged. “Why did Hannibal try to conquer the world on plums?” he asked as I now made my way to the grills.

“Reese, please,” I protested.

“Because he was colorblind and couldn't tell them from the elephants,” he called after me as I walked away. “Get it? He was riding plums?
Plums!
”

 

I stood in the doorway of the elephant barn, dressed in a long skirt and velvet blouse and shook hands with 182 people, laughed at 77 inane remarks, explained 100 times about ELLI and how Margo got rescued, and answered yes, Silky had been a racehorse, while thinking at least ten times about the irony of how I had once told Tom how I would hate to stand around in a long gown making small talk.

All the while, I dreaded that Mrs. Pennington was going to bring Miss Victoria Cremwell. Of the Boston Cremwells. I wondered what she would look like. Did Tom have a certain type that he was attracted to? I mean, aside from the obvious of gray, wrinkled, and enormous. I wondered what I would say to her, and if that gnawing sensation in my gut was a craving for something-on-a-stick that was grilling on a corner barbecue or jealousy. In addition, I was trying to keep a watchful eye on Diamond's knife-throwing proclivities and Mrs. Wycliff's feathered shoulder accessory.

Diamond had dressed for the occasion by actually treating herself to a purchase of new safari-brown wool slacks, green silk tank top and matching jacket, and pinning her hair up in big, loose, swirls secured with a skewer, thus launching hair-on-a-stick as a fashion statement. I watched
with a sinking heart as she enthusiastically demonstrated her roping skills by hog-tying each guest as they came through the door. Occasionally she would perform her whirling safari knife flip, catching the blade deftly by the handle before it had a chance to behead her captive audience as they cowered in terrorized fascination. On the other side of the room Mrs. Wycliff, encouraging everyone to kiss the lovely pink bird, who, not as socially accomplished as she, responded by nipping the lips of each and every taker.

Mrs. Margo Pennington finally swept through the door, swathed in a full-length black mink coat. Behind her was a beautiful woman with pale blond upswept hair and dark, thick-lashed eyes. She was very petite and dressed in a pale yellow tailored suit with gold jewelry, which gave her the appearance of a fragile but wealthy canary. Mrs. Pennington and her guest stopped near the entrance to look around, obviously seeking out their hostess.

Which would be me.

“Is that animal fur?” Richie hissed indignantly to me as I tried to slip behind him to hide. “Is Tom's mother actually wearing the skin of a deceased animal to an
animal sanctuary
?”

“Please don't make a fuss,” I whispered back. “She's our guest of honor. Besides, I'm having enough trouble trying to keep Diamond from stabbing our guests, and Elisabeth and that stupid cockatoo from maiming them. I'm starting to wish that Diamond would solve all my problems and accidentally knife that damn bird.”

But Richie wasn't listening. “And it's bad enough you're serving meat,” he grumbled, now gesturing to the volunteers
circulating with platters of salmon or steak cubes on skewers. “What are you giving out for door prizes? Ivory necklaces?”

 

“I believe you're the one we're looking for.” Mrs. Pennington gave a little wave as she sailed toward me, the gilded Victoria gliding behind her. “Nellie Sterlman, I want you to meet Victoria Cremwell, of the Boston Cremwells.”

The sophisticated and lovely Victoria offered her hand. We shook, and the skin of my scratchy, dried hand, chapped from a year of rubbing down baby ellies, caught against her tapered silken fingers. “So glad to meet someone who is doing so much to save our wildlife,” she crooned, and flashed me a tooth-perfect smile. “I'm sort of a crusader, myself. I stopped eating Welsh rabbit. Poor little things. So, how long have you known Tom?”

“A little over a year,” I said. “I helped him bring back the elephants that are in the pen outside.”

She gave me a faint smile. “I never expected someone so, you know, rough-and-tumble. I always thought Tom liked to spend his time with women who can offer a bit of culture, you know?
Refined
. Though I understand your relationship was strictly
jungle
.”

Mrs. Pennington put an arm around Victoria's teeny tiny hummingbird shoulders. “Isn't she just darling? Can't you just picture her in a wedding dress?” Victoria blushed and fluttered her eyelashes. “And,” Mrs. Pennington continued, “she's just absolutely insisting they take their honeymoon at Tom's place in Bretagne.”

“It's because France is so
refined
!” Victoria chirped.
“They treat their animals very well. There's nothing there left to save!”

“Tell that to their ducks,” I replied. “You may want to explain why they're being used for foie gras.”

 

There was a stir at the door. A tall, handsome man with sun-bleached hair walked in. As soon as I saw his safari suit, I recognized him as Jungle Johnny of television fame. He had a conservationist-based wildlife show for children that was quite popular, and as soon as he entered the barn, guests circled him like coyotes, shaking his hand and asking questions and pushing napkins at him to autograph.

“JJ!” Mrs. Wycliff called from across the room. “I knew you'd make it! You old dear!” She hobbled over to give him a kiss on each cheek, which he returned. “Neelie!” she waved to me. “Come meet my dearest friend!” I left Mrs. Pennington and the very refined Victoria to meet Jungle Johnny.

He was even more handsome up close. Burning blue eyes in a tanned face and a wide, friendly grin trained on me as he took my hand in his big, gentle one.

“I'm Neelie Sterling,” I said. “I appreciate so much that you came.”

Jungle Johnny put his arm around Mrs. Wycliff's waist. “Elisabeth and I go back many years—she's a wonderful conservationist. I would do anything for her. You know, as they say in Swahili, old friends are like good cook pots—you use them for the best dinners.”

I eyed him. I eyed Diamond-Rose in the corner flipping her safari knife and popping balloons. It was a match made in heaven.

“You really have to meet Diamond-Rose,” I said, taking his arm and leading him away. “I think you just might have a few things in common.” We crossed the room, and I tapped Diamond on the shoulder. “Diamond-Rose, Jungle Johnny.”

He shook her hand warmly and glanced questioningly at her clothes. “Safari colors,” he said, smiling.

“I'm a safari leader with a level three license and advanced weapons certificate,” she murmured politely, then, to my surprise, excused herself to get a drink.

 

The food-on-a-stick theme worked out better than I could have imagined. I had managed to devise salad on a stick by skewering cherry tomatoes and decoratively wrapping the stick with frisée. And I had been determined to invent the elusive soup-on-a-stick as well, though it took me more than a week of failed kitchen experiments before I finally thought to run skewers through the rims of small paper cups before filling them. Aside from the dexterous balancing required, they worked rather well, and I was very proud of my clever solution.

The band played through the night from inside the elephant enclosure, the food both entertained and fed our guests, and so far, no one had been accidentally impaled, mauled, hung, poisoned, or insulted, which was a success of sorts.

 

I danced with Reese, told Marielle that I forgave her for Mousi, how could she have known about the really nice man, though a dash of research just might have helped. I danced with Richie; danced with Jungle Johnny, who was
really a good dancer; ardently thanked my mother for the breadsticks, thinking how Margo would enjoy them tomorrow morning; danced with my father while listening to the history of barbecue sauce; and kept an eye on the fluttering, delicate, birdlike Victoria. My fantasies of Tom showing up and dancing with me and changing everything back to the way it was flew out the door after one glance at his Tweetie Pie. I had about as much chance of winning his heart again as I had of dancing around the floor astride Margo.

I watched from across the room as the fluttery Victoria chatted animatedly with her future mother-in-law, and I drowned my heartache by sucking down fourteen frozen piña coladas–on-a-stick. I wasn't sure if frozen alcohol had the same inebriating properties as room temperature alcohol, and I was determined that it was going to be my science project for the night, with the hopeful side effect of getting me totally smashed. I ate nine breadsticks to make my mother happy and ate something unidentifiable–on-a-stick that melted quickly and tasted like soap, which might have been someone's cigarette put out in a soup cup. What did it matter? I felt terrible and looked terrible. Silky had sneezed masticated hay across my hair after I led a few people over to the horse barn to visit her, and the collar of my new velvet blouse had been eaten by Samantha when I took her onto my shoulder so that Mrs. Wycliff could look for Harry.

“I'm so anxious to meet Harry,” Mrs. Pennington informed me as we passed each other. She was delicately nibbling ice cream cake–on-a-stick. “We've met Elisabeth a few
times socially,” she said, “but never met her husband. Victoria and I are going to help her look for him.”

 

Jungle Johnny ran the auction. He was witty and cajoling and doing a wonderful job. Some very nice prizes had been donated, thanks to the generous friends of Margo Pennington: a day at a spa in New York City, dinner at Daniel, fresh flowers every day for a month, a week in Belize; while the less glamorous prizes had been procured by me and Diamond: six months of free lariat lessons, a certificate from Dr. Harry for a free cat neutering, a ten-dollars-off coupon at the local Cut'n'Blow, and a free large pizza from Big Tony's, toppings extra.

It was a lively auction and seemingly successful until I realized that Mrs. Wycliff was one of our most active bidders, blithely outbidding the guests. I marched over to Diamond, who was standing next to her.

“We have to stop her from bidding,” I whispered fiercely. “She can't contribute to herself.”

“Don't worry,” Diamond whispered back. “Everyone knows we're taking the last bid before the lady in the pith helmet.”

I looked around at our guests, who were growing more amused with each bid and sighed. I had hoped for a dignified, successful fund-raiser, and instead, we were providing comic relief for the social set.

“I just wish this was over already,” I muttered. “It's a disaster.”

“No, it isn't,” Diamond said. “It's been great fun. And after the auction, Mum is going to sing.”

My heart sank. I wondered if there was a limit to our guests' good-natured tolerance. “Please don't let her sing,” I pleaded.

“Oh come, it'll be lovely,” Diamond replied. “And then I'm planning to give a presentation of my more popular jungle calls. Jungle Johnny said he'd join me—he promised he does an especially good hyena. These things always go over very well. It'll be the perfect way to end the evening.”

 

An hour later, I was listening to Elisabeth Wycliff sing “Meet Me in St. Louis” in her high-pitched, tremulous voice, the lyrics punctuated by Samantha's well-placed curses, and wishing they both were there. I was actually grateful that Tom hadn't come to witness my total humiliation.

Margo Pennington interrupted my thoughts. “What a perfectly amusing evening,” she said. “Did you know that Hannibal took plums on his journey through the Alps? What an odd historical fact. At least, I think that's what some young man was telling me.”