Now listen children, this is the story of Wombat.
Long, long ago in the Dreaming the most popular pastime among all the animals that walked the young land was to gather together and tell stories. Sometimes these stories were of important things, great battles and the forming of the world; sometimes they were little things, bits and pieces of news, for the world was vast and new happenings traveled slowly; other times the stories were just idle fancies made of a pinch of magic and red dust, neither of which were in short supply back then.
No matter what kind of story a body wanted to hear though, everyone knew the greatest storyteller was Wombat. She would sit with her head just poking outside her burrow or in the shade of a cool tree and in her low, slow tone (Wombat never did anything quickly if she could help it, this is true even today) she would weave fantastic tales. It was Wombat who first described the Rainbow Serpent battling the Sun and it was Wombat who first warned that sighting the Minka bird was an ill omen and told how those who saw it never had long to live.
Of course, talent always breeds jealousy and not all the other animals were content to simply enjoy Wombat's stories: they wanted to be the center of attention themselves. Kookaburra in particular was desperately consumed by a desire to be known as the greatest storyteller in the land. Try as he might though he could never weave a tale that would make the other animals laugh as hard or weep as painfully or love as deeply as Wombat's could.
Resolving that it must simply be a matter of practice Kookaburra told story after story in quick succession, in fact he began telling his stories so quickly that he became known for his characteristic staccato voice: 'kookoo-kahkah-kookoo-kahkah'.
After a while a strange thing started to happen: While everyone still acknowledged Wombat's stories as the best most chose to listen to Kookaburra instead. Kookaburra went through so many stories so quickly that all the other animals were afraid that if they took the time to listen to one of Wombat's slower tales they might be the only one to miss something exciting. So the crowds around Wombat's burrow grew smaller and smaller until one day she plodded out to see no one had come to listen to her stories at all, excepting Koala, who slept in a tree above Wombat's burrow anyway so no one could tell if he was ever listening.
'Koala, are you awake?' asked Wombat, after she was sure no one was coming.
Koala grumbled and groaned at Wombat (Koala always let his food stew and ferment for hours in his stomach so he was always sleepy and cranky, this is true even today) but Wombat patiently sat through his curses and eventually he turned his head down towards her and replied, 'am now, I think. What'cher want?'
'Do you know where everyone has gone?' Wombat enunciated slowly, as was best when Koala had been digesting for a long time.
'They uh, 'soff to listen to Kookaburra ehn't they?'
'Oh, I see.' said Wombat in a sad small voice, 'Koala?'
'Emph?'
'Have my stories become boring?'
'Nah 'course not, Wombatsalwaysgotthebesstories, 'swat I always say. Why you think I sleep 'ere?'
'But Kookaburra tells better stories now?'
But the only answer Wombat got was Koala's rough snoring
After some thought, Wombat decided that the best thing she could do was to go with the other animals and listen to Kookaburra's stories to see what she could learn. Before long the echo of Kookaburra's staccato call had drawn her to a tall, tall tree where Kookaburra sat and declaimed to the crowd gathered below. Since most of the other animals were larger than her and looking up at Kookaburra besides Wombat was able to move unnoticed to the front where she settled down to listen.
It didn't take long before she started to become unsettled by the way Kookaburra's stories were constructed: they all followed a very simple formula, at least to start with, but he seemed to constantly change his mind about what would happen next depending how interested his audience was. In fact Wombat was sure that several times the first part of a story was completely dropped in favor more exciting sequences that seemed to come out of nowhere but she couldn't be quite sure because of how quickly Kookaburra shifted from one tale to another.
Eventually she couldn't bear anymore and quietly dragged herself away from the crowd feeling dejected and confused. Kookaburra's stories were not as good as hers, she was sure of that. If she could only master the speaking style that Kookaburra used she'd be able to tell her stories as quickly as he did and people would want to listen to her again.
As she was thinking this she became aware of a persistent chirping noise coming from somewhere nearby, moving to investigate she found Frog sitting in some branches overhanging a pond apparently absorbed in repeating something over and over to himself.
Wombat smiled to see her old friend and called out to ask what he was doing.
'Practicing,' explained Frog after nearly falling out of his tree from surprise at the interruption, 'I'm learning to tell stories like Kookaburra. I'm getting better but I'm still not as fast as he is, see:' and he began rhythmically chirping a simple story of a frog far from home.
'Could you show me that again?' asked Wombat after Frog had finished his story.
'It's not to hard to start with,' replied Frog, demonstrating as he spoke, 'You start at your stomach and push up and forward till the sound gets to your mouth. The trick is to get your rhythm up so you can do it quickly.'
Wombat tried mimicking the movement, her front claws digging into the dirt with concentration.
'Well,' said Frog, 'It's a start.'
And so Wombat spent the rest of the day with Frog practicing, and then each night after that would pace in front of her burrow practicing telling this story or that story in the new style, claws digging into the earth with each new sound, trying to get faster and faster as Koala snored gently above her head. Then as the sun rose she would go with the other animals and watch Kookaburra give his daily performance and try to spot some new nuance of his technique before returning home to sleep before it got too hot. She became so wrapped up in forcing her normally slow languid tone to fit this new harsh style that as she would pace and practice her body would tense and twist with the effort, she spoke to no one, save Koala who would sometimes be waiting at the base of the tree when she got back from watching Kookaburra to compliment her the stories she had told the previous night.
Time wore on and while Wombat went to watch Kookaburra religiously his popularity among the other animals was waning and his crowds were steadily decreasing. It didn't seem that they were going anywhere else, they simply weren't going to see Kookaburra anymore. As Wombat was wandering home contemplating this new development, ready to fall asleep after a long night of practice and an interminable morning of Kookaburra's disjointed plots, when she passed some of the other animals heading away from her burrow. Frog was moving swiftly in the middle of the group but when he saw Wombat he slowed down, 'That was a great story today Wombat. I can't wait to finish it tomorrow.'
Before Wombat could ask what he meant Frog had hopped away again and started talking excitedly with the other animals, from what Wombat could overhear it sounded like they were talking about the seven sisters, which was one of the stories she had been practicing the night before.
Thoroughly confused Wombat returned to her burrow to see Koala sitting at the bottom of the tree bidding farewell to a few remaining animals. Suddenly everything fell into place.
'You've been telling my stories!' she confronted Koala angrily,
'Whatchoo mean Wombles?' Koala replied with with a fuzzy stare.
'You've been listening to me at night and then telling my stories like your own,' Wombat went on, barely listening, 'I never would have thought you'd do this to me, you know how hard I've been practicing and now you do this.'
'I.. I haven't bin telling any stories Womby, you know I can't keep track of the... thing.. words. I've just been showing everyone the stories you've been leaving for me.' a sloppy sadness creeping into his voice at Wombat's accusations of betrayal.
'What?'
As Wombat slowly teased the story out of Koala it became apparent that he had been watching and listening to her practice each night, but from his perspective at the top of the tree her practice looked quite different. As Wombat had twisted and scratched at the dirt in concentration each sound she tried to enunciate in Kookaburra's forced style had left a different mark in the dirt beneath her claws, even though his concentration wasn't the best it didn't take Koala long to link sounds to marks. Since he had a very straightforward and slightly self-centered view of the world he had decided that his friend Wombat was leaving the stories there on the dirt for him so he could look at them at his convenience. The ability to hear whichever story he wanted at his leisure had excited him so much that he had brought other animals round and taught them how to decipher the marks Wombat left behind.
'Oh.' said Wombat, as it finally all sunk in. Looking around with new eyes at her tracks back and forth and around the clearing near her burrow she was struck by all the stories just lying there in the dirt. Stories that would stay there until they were erased and not fade quickly on the air. She realized that telling her stories like this she could tell more stories to more people than Kookaburra ever could.
Turning back to Koala she asked, 'Could you teach me how to read them too?'
So that is how Wombat was the first animal to write down her stories, and soon other animals were writing there own as well as reading Wombat's and they stayed there for all to see (for as long as these things do) and people weren't forced to listen to only one story at a time or worry they might miss something exciting ever again. Even today, though people write in many more complex and permanent ways than Wombat's first scratchings a tracker in deep bush will always go out of their way if they spot a wombat trail and they say the stories are always worth the time.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Dead in Real Life
"Have you ever been shot before?" he asked, trembling.
"Yes," Shrader said. "Twice."
"What does it feel like?" he asked.
"Well if it doesn't kill you right off, it hurts like hell," Shrader said. "Worst pain imaginable. But I'm sure you can't feel it if you die right away. And if you hold still for him, you'll die right away."
"You're just saying that," he said.
"Your right," Shrader said. "I love getting shot."
Shrader took a couple of steps away. The man reeked of tequila. Shrader's own light haze of gin was unsettled by the odor. He avoided turning his back with the grace of a professional. Never let them see the back of you, he thought. How many years since he learned that?
"I'm not going to let you do it," the man said. "I'm not going to let you bastards take me!"
"You don't really have much of a choice in the matter," Shrader replied. "It's either his gun or my knife. And I should say, no one ever gets stabbed and dies right away."
Shrader could see the man screwing up his courage. He telegraphed it in a way that was so transparent as to be ludicrous. Me thirty years ago, Schrader thought. He drew his knife slowly, and held it so they could see it. Make sure they can see it, he remembered. Help them connect the dots.
"I'll take my chances!" the man bellowed. He ran for the door. Shrader caught him in one arm, but he was going to fast. The two men stumbled, and almost fell off entirely. The man swung weakly at Shrader who punched a quick left to the man's gut. The man hopped a little as Shrader made contact. Shrader threw his right arm back. The knife glinted in the lights. Make sure they can see. He swung his arm downward. The knife swept in a low arc. The man hopped again. He screamed a long, loud, terrible scream, and he crumpled to the stage.
Schrader was shaking. It was as if he had been sleep-walking through it, and had only been woken by the scream. It was louder and so much more awful than James had rehearsed it. For the first time, he was grateful for what would come next. He walked downstage, slumped into a chair, lit a cigarette, and gazed over the audience. There wasn't a sound in the house. He gave a quick and nervous smile, something he'd never done in rehearsal. His red-soaked right hand was shaking. He allowed himself a nervous laugh. There wasn't a sound from the audience, not a single cough.
Damien Tangen had played this role for ten months before tonight. Every night that Damien had played this scene, the audience coughed when he lit the cigarette. The director had insisted there be a long pause here, and Damien had eaten it up, but you could tell that the audience wasn't with him. They coughed as soon as they saw smoke. But Damien was gone. Off to open another show, maybe something on Broadway proper. And here was poor old Jim Schrader, shaking like he'd just murdered a man, and the audience was entirely his.
A small trickle of red liquid inched past Schrader's chair and began dripping off the stage.
"Done already?" came a voice behind him.
"Don't touch him!" Schrader yelled, spinning around. It was the right line, but he was so genuinely startled, he hadn't actually remembered it. His mouth had done all the work. "He's mine, Wolf. Don't touch him."
She lowered her glasses and raised her eyebrows. "He wasn't supposed to be yours," she said. "He was supposed to belong to Bear."
"Bear got the other two tonight. This one wouldn't wait. This one belongs to Fox."
"Have it your own way, Foxy." she said. "Only let me have what he's got."
"Wait," he said. "I get his gadgets. He's got one of those fancy phones, and once Bear's had his say, I probably won't get paid a cent for this one."
"Gadgets, really? At your age?"
"To each their own," Schrader said stepping over the bloody figure lying on the floor. As drunk as he was, James played a better corpse than he had a man.
"Hmph," she said. "Wallets and rings for me; the simple life."
Schrader crouched down, retrieved his knife, wiped it on James' coat, and put it away.James had crumpled into a ball and fallen with his back to the audience. This obscured his breathing, and hid the large plastic blood bag. Something was wrong. Shrader went through James' pockets methodically. James didn't smile or whisper "fuck you" as he had during all the rehearsals. He wasn't even making faces. Shrader retrieved the iPhone from the inside breast pocket where it had always been, and then stopped cold. Something was very wrong. The world darkened. There was a faint ringing sound in his ears. Shrader's mind receded like a runway dropping away from an airplane.
Through the gin, his muscles did what they were trained to do.
"There she is," he said, standing up. "The fancy phone. Have you seen these?" It's not so bad, he thought. It can't be like that. But the bag. This sort of thing doesn't happen. But the bag was full.
"I can't work the damned things," said wolf. "If it were up to me, I'd still have my rotary."
He tried to get the picture out of his mind, but it sat there fat and obvious. The large plastic bag of stage blood was full, and James was empty. Shrader stepped over the stream of blood -- it's real blood! -- and walked back to the chair.
"My turn," Wolf said.
"He's all yours, deary," he said. Idiot! Why did you say that?
He glanced at Wolf as she walked to the body. The lights glinted off her glasses as she crouched and went through the same pockets he had just searched. He held his breath. Time stopped. It's not my fault, he thought. That asshole is as drunk as a lord. He forgot to wear the protective vest. It's not my fault he forgot to wear the vest. It's not murder if it's not my fault.
Someone in the audience coughed. Shrader glanced back again and saw Wolf stand again, a wallet and a ring in her hand. She hadn't screamed. The bag was full. She'd been right there, but she hadn't screamed. She caught Shrader's eyes and gave the queerest smile. He had never seen her smile like that before. It was devious. Their conspiracy was born in that smile.
His dread vanished, and he felt a rush of frantic energy.
"Good night, Fox," she said.
"You're not staying then?" he said.
"Oh heavens no. I don't want to be here when Bear shows up. Hell I don't want to be here when Rabbit shows up."
The stagehands rattled some boxes off left.
"Speak of the devil," she said.
"Is he still in here?" Rabbit asked, running in and pretending to be winded. "Because if he's not still-- Geez, he's dead!"
"That's usually what happens when we're done with them," Shrader said. Wolf slowly stepped out where Rabbit had stepped in. Out of the lights, she becaume Beatrice again. Beautiful Beatrice, star of the stage past her prime. Beatrice who had not screamed. Beatrice who had smiled.
"...supposed to be done with him yet," came the end of Rabbit's line. "We're supposed to hold him till Bear comes to do him."
"He was a runner," Shrader said. "Didn't want to wait for Bear."
"Geez, Foxy, what are we supposed..." Rabbit continued. Rabbit was safe. At no point in the next four minutes and fifty-two seconds during which he was on stage did he ever get close to James. Bear was the problem. Shrader spat his line in response to something Rabbit had said. It was insane. Finally in performance he had achieved what he never could despite all his preparation. He was actually afraid of Bear's entrance. But he wouldn't be here for it. He feigned disinterest as he talked with Rabbit, as he had done every night. But instead of absently playing with Fox's new "fancy phone", Shrader dialed frantically at the thing. Web browser. Taxi listings. Online booking. Wait outside the theatre. Keep the engine running. Big tip.
"...think we should at least clean up the mess?" said Rabbit.
"Don't get your hopes up," said Shrader giving his practiced look. "Wolf already got his wallet."
"Geez!" said Rabbit. I never liked this play anyway, thought Fox. Whoever says 'geez' anymore? His finger moved quickly. Web browser. Plane tickets. Mexico City. No flights until midnight. I have to get off this stage. Plane tickets. Tijuana. No flights tonight. Dammit. Plane tickets. Matamoros. 11:30. There was nothing before then. Rabbit pranced the stage, speaking his monologue and gesticulating wildly. There were only two minutes and five seconds left from the beginning of that monologue to Bear's entrance. Something had to be done. Matamoros. 11:30. He couldn't get off the stage, but he couldn't let Bear enter. Bear couldn't be allowed to play the scene and lift James' corpse like he did every night, because tonight it was actually James' corpse and not James' pus-filled, swaggering, overindulgent, woman-chasing body. It's not murder to get a guy drunk. It's not murder to try to get a guy fired. It's not murder just because I wanted him dead.
"That's the difference between you and me, Rabbit," Shrader said. "Give it time, though. Another thirty years in this business will dry you up faster than it did me."
"Screw you, Fox," said Rabbit. Matamoros, Mexico. 11:30. One-way ticket. Wait. She had smiled at him. She knew. He had done it for her, and she knew. It's not murder just because he deserved it. Two one-way tickets. Could he chance a message?
"Look, I'm getting out of here," said Rabbit. "You can tell..." He couldn't do it alone. She was his accomplice now. She hadn't screamed. There were no alarms. She was in this with him. She wanted it that way. He typed in her cell number as he'd memorized it from the call sheet. You. Me. Airplane to Mexico. Cab in the alley. No curtain call. Send.
The message was on its way, and so was Rabbit. Shrader remembered he was supposed to stop feigning interest in the phone. He slipped it in his pocket as Bear entered stage left.
At six-foot-two, Marcus Brenberg was an impressive man. With a team of experts in hair, makeup, and costume, Bear was almost cartoonishly intimidating.
He can't have the body, Shrader thought. "You can't have the body," Shrader said.
"The hell I can't," boomed Bear's voice.
This ends with him taking the body, but he can't have it. "It's my kill, and I intend to be paid for it."
"That wasn't the plan, little Fox. You were supposed to hold him," Bear said.
"He wouldn't be held," Shrader said. "And the contract is very clear."
"The contract is a piece of paper," said Bear. "And what's paper among men?"
Shrader glanced at the shining trail of blood on the stage. I can't change the scene, he thought. The problem wasn't with Bear, but with Marcus. If anyone else in this sorry excuse for a cast had played Bear, it wouldn't have mattered. But save Shrader and Beatrice, Marcus was the only professional in the bunch. If Shrader started changing the scene, if he added dialogue, Marcus would be professional. He'd say the scene's pivotal line and exit as quickly as possible to minimize the damage. Exit with the body.
"You can't. Have. The body," Fox said.
"You're trying my patience," Bear said. "Maybe you think you're old enough you don't have to listen to your betters."
I'm trapped, Shrader thought. I'm trapped in this horrible, stupid, third-rate play, and the only way I'll get out is in manacles, and at my age I'll die in prison, and I knew my career was over ten years ago, but I had to go on because I'd never BEEN anybody. He was shaking. And it's NOT MURDER!, he thought. Not in real life.
With that, and with all all of the frustration and adrenaline and chutzpah he could muster, Shrader clocked Bear in the jaw right where it curved up to meet the ear. Many in the audience gasped audibly. One shot. One chance to get out of here a free man. If Bear fell, he could finish the scene -- finish the show -- without anyone else ever touching James. But Bear did not fall. Instead, he slowly turned his head back to Shrader and blinked. Shrader's mouth fell open. Bear inhaled deeply, leaned forward, and laughed.
Marcus Heberg, the large, youg, studious, and consummate professional actor made the strongest choice he could think of and committed his whole body to it. He laughed uproariously. He laughed like a man who had just discovered all of humour. Something buzzed silently in Shraders pocket. Bear -- still laughing -- swept a long arm out and motioned toward the body. Shrader walked quickly over to it, bent and lifted James in a fireman's carry, careful not to burst the bag. He walked off the stage, and into the darkness. He walked to the back wall where the actors' sofa sat. He pulled it forward with one foot, deposited James behind it, and pushed it back again. Then he hurried back onstage. Bear was still laughing when he arrived. He looked at Shrader -- who was covered in blood -- chuckled twice more, and hit him on the side of the head with his open palm. Shrader fell to the stage, and -- laughing still -- Bear exited.
Shrader dragged himself up, and slumped once more into the downstage chair. He rubbed his temple. He was supposed to light another cigarette once Bear left, but instead he retrieved the iPhone. It had a message. "Re: Me. You. Airplane." Still rubbing his head, he thumbed the screen. The message was one word: "Darling."
The rest of the show was a dream, a waking dream. Shrader gave the last best performance of his life. He infused every word with his very soul. The mediocre script, and lackluster supporting cast seemed to absorb his energy. The audience seemed rivited. It was the perfect night. And as the lights went down the final time, and the audience cheered, Shrader bid farewell to theatre, and finally escaped the stage. Beatrice stood in the wings. She'd changed out of costume, and was holding Shrader's gym bag. Out of those glasses and makeup, she was radiantly beautiful. He caught her wrist and hurried her to the back door near the couch. Neither of them looked at it. The cab was waiting out back just as he had planned, and they sped away to the airport.
"This is so romantic," was the only thing Beatrice said. Shrader struggled to change shirts in the taxi. Even if no one discovered the body before their flight took off, there wasn't any way he could get through airport security looking like he was covered in blood. Actually covered in blood, he corrected himself.
He couldn't believe how easy it was. Print tickets at the booth. Find the terminal. Board the plane. Two for Mexico. His career was over. His life had changed irrevocably. But he had a beautiful, sophisticated woman of his own age and experience, and before them lay an adventure that could go on forever. Once the plane started toward its runway, he finally felt safe enough to speak. "I can't believe you came with me," he said.
"How could I not?" she asked. "You're my hero."
"I didn't mean it," he said. "It was a dirty thing, and I didn't mean to do it."
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I remember hearing about you doing the exact same thing to Marty MacCullen in 1982."
"I've never done anything like this," he said, taken aback.
"Nonsense," she said. "Marty had been taking unoffered liberties with the leading lady of whatever little comedy you boys were in, so you took him out and drank him under the table just before performance. Just like tonight. I heard it straight from Miranda Deitrich."
"I never killed Marty MacCullen," he said.
"Oh but you did," she said. "He was fired the next day, and as far as I know never got into anything again."
"But James--"
"Oh, I'm not worried about James. He made it as far as he had to. I pity my understudy, though."
"Understudy?"
"Yours too. James will be hell to work with these few days we're absconding with each other. You know I've always wanted to do this with you? But I never imagined you'd be so bold!"
"Beatrice, did you look at James tonight?" he said.
"Well of course I looked at him," she said, smiling that same beguiling smile. "But heaven knows I can't see a thing in those glasses especially under those lights. Still I could smell the man a mile away." She wrinkled her nose, in a manner far too cute for her age. Then she leaned forward and whispered, "I wish he would just drop dead while we were gone. Do you ever think that sort of thing could happen?"
Shrader watched out the window. "No it couldn't happen," he said as the runway dropped away. "Not in real life."
"Yes," Shrader said. "Twice."
"What does it feel like?" he asked.
"Well if it doesn't kill you right off, it hurts like hell," Shrader said. "Worst pain imaginable. But I'm sure you can't feel it if you die right away. And if you hold still for him, you'll die right away."
"You're just saying that," he said.
"Your right," Shrader said. "I love getting shot."
Shrader took a couple of steps away. The man reeked of tequila. Shrader's own light haze of gin was unsettled by the odor. He avoided turning his back with the grace of a professional. Never let them see the back of you, he thought. How many years since he learned that?
"I'm not going to let you do it," the man said. "I'm not going to let you bastards take me!"
"You don't really have much of a choice in the matter," Shrader replied. "It's either his gun or my knife. And I should say, no one ever gets stabbed and dies right away."
Shrader could see the man screwing up his courage. He telegraphed it in a way that was so transparent as to be ludicrous. Me thirty years ago, Schrader thought. He drew his knife slowly, and held it so they could see it. Make sure they can see it, he remembered. Help them connect the dots.
"I'll take my chances!" the man bellowed. He ran for the door. Shrader caught him in one arm, but he was going to fast. The two men stumbled, and almost fell off entirely. The man swung weakly at Shrader who punched a quick left to the man's gut. The man hopped a little as Shrader made contact. Shrader threw his right arm back. The knife glinted in the lights. Make sure they can see. He swung his arm downward. The knife swept in a low arc. The man hopped again. He screamed a long, loud, terrible scream, and he crumpled to the stage.
Schrader was shaking. It was as if he had been sleep-walking through it, and had only been woken by the scream. It was louder and so much more awful than James had rehearsed it. For the first time, he was grateful for what would come next. He walked downstage, slumped into a chair, lit a cigarette, and gazed over the audience. There wasn't a sound in the house. He gave a quick and nervous smile, something he'd never done in rehearsal. His red-soaked right hand was shaking. He allowed himself a nervous laugh. There wasn't a sound from the audience, not a single cough.
Damien Tangen had played this role for ten months before tonight. Every night that Damien had played this scene, the audience coughed when he lit the cigarette. The director had insisted there be a long pause here, and Damien had eaten it up, but you could tell that the audience wasn't with him. They coughed as soon as they saw smoke. But Damien was gone. Off to open another show, maybe something on Broadway proper. And here was poor old Jim Schrader, shaking like he'd just murdered a man, and the audience was entirely his.
A small trickle of red liquid inched past Schrader's chair and began dripping off the stage.
"Done already?" came a voice behind him.
"Don't touch him!" Schrader yelled, spinning around. It was the right line, but he was so genuinely startled, he hadn't actually remembered it. His mouth had done all the work. "He's mine, Wolf. Don't touch him."
She lowered her glasses and raised her eyebrows. "He wasn't supposed to be yours," she said. "He was supposed to belong to Bear."
"Bear got the other two tonight. This one wouldn't wait. This one belongs to Fox."
"Have it your own way, Foxy." she said. "Only let me have what he's got."
"Wait," he said. "I get his gadgets. He's got one of those fancy phones, and once Bear's had his say, I probably won't get paid a cent for this one."
"Gadgets, really? At your age?"
"To each their own," Schrader said stepping over the bloody figure lying on the floor. As drunk as he was, James played a better corpse than he had a man.
"Hmph," she said. "Wallets and rings for me; the simple life."
Schrader crouched down, retrieved his knife, wiped it on James' coat, and put it away.James had crumpled into a ball and fallen with his back to the audience. This obscured his breathing, and hid the large plastic blood bag. Something was wrong. Shrader went through James' pockets methodically. James didn't smile or whisper "fuck you" as he had during all the rehearsals. He wasn't even making faces. Shrader retrieved the iPhone from the inside breast pocket where it had always been, and then stopped cold. Something was very wrong. The world darkened. There was a faint ringing sound in his ears. Shrader's mind receded like a runway dropping away from an airplane.
Through the gin, his muscles did what they were trained to do.
"There she is," he said, standing up. "The fancy phone. Have you seen these?" It's not so bad, he thought. It can't be like that. But the bag. This sort of thing doesn't happen. But the bag was full.
"I can't work the damned things," said wolf. "If it were up to me, I'd still have my rotary."
He tried to get the picture out of his mind, but it sat there fat and obvious. The large plastic bag of stage blood was full, and James was empty. Shrader stepped over the stream of blood -- it's real blood! -- and walked back to the chair.
"My turn," Wolf said.
"He's all yours, deary," he said. Idiot! Why did you say that?
He glanced at Wolf as she walked to the body. The lights glinted off her glasses as she crouched and went through the same pockets he had just searched. He held his breath. Time stopped. It's not my fault, he thought. That asshole is as drunk as a lord. He forgot to wear the protective vest. It's not my fault he forgot to wear the vest. It's not murder if it's not my fault.
Someone in the audience coughed. Shrader glanced back again and saw Wolf stand again, a wallet and a ring in her hand. She hadn't screamed. The bag was full. She'd been right there, but she hadn't screamed. She caught Shrader's eyes and gave the queerest smile. He had never seen her smile like that before. It was devious. Their conspiracy was born in that smile.
His dread vanished, and he felt a rush of frantic energy.
"Good night, Fox," she said.
"You're not staying then?" he said.
"Oh heavens no. I don't want to be here when Bear shows up. Hell I don't want to be here when Rabbit shows up."
The stagehands rattled some boxes off left.
"Speak of the devil," she said.
"Is he still in here?" Rabbit asked, running in and pretending to be winded. "Because if he's not still-- Geez, he's dead!"
"That's usually what happens when we're done with them," Shrader said. Wolf slowly stepped out where Rabbit had stepped in. Out of the lights, she becaume Beatrice again. Beautiful Beatrice, star of the stage past her prime. Beatrice who had not screamed. Beatrice who had smiled.
"...supposed to be done with him yet," came the end of Rabbit's line. "We're supposed to hold him till Bear comes to do him."
"He was a runner," Shrader said. "Didn't want to wait for Bear."
"Geez, Foxy, what are we supposed..." Rabbit continued. Rabbit was safe. At no point in the next four minutes and fifty-two seconds during which he was on stage did he ever get close to James. Bear was the problem. Shrader spat his line in response to something Rabbit had said. It was insane. Finally in performance he had achieved what he never could despite all his preparation. He was actually afraid of Bear's entrance. But he wouldn't be here for it. He feigned disinterest as he talked with Rabbit, as he had done every night. But instead of absently playing with Fox's new "fancy phone", Shrader dialed frantically at the thing. Web browser. Taxi listings. Online booking. Wait outside the theatre. Keep the engine running. Big tip.
"...think we should at least clean up the mess?" said Rabbit.
"Don't get your hopes up," said Shrader giving his practiced look. "Wolf already got his wallet."
"Geez!" said Rabbit. I never liked this play anyway, thought Fox. Whoever says 'geez' anymore? His finger moved quickly. Web browser. Plane tickets. Mexico City. No flights until midnight. I have to get off this stage. Plane tickets. Tijuana. No flights tonight. Dammit. Plane tickets. Matamoros. 11:30. There was nothing before then. Rabbit pranced the stage, speaking his monologue and gesticulating wildly. There were only two minutes and five seconds left from the beginning of that monologue to Bear's entrance. Something had to be done. Matamoros. 11:30. He couldn't get off the stage, but he couldn't let Bear enter. Bear couldn't be allowed to play the scene and lift James' corpse like he did every night, because tonight it was actually James' corpse and not James' pus-filled, swaggering, overindulgent, woman-chasing body. It's not murder to get a guy drunk. It's not murder to try to get a guy fired. It's not murder just because I wanted him dead.
"That's the difference between you and me, Rabbit," Shrader said. "Give it time, though. Another thirty years in this business will dry you up faster than it did me."
"Screw you, Fox," said Rabbit. Matamoros, Mexico. 11:30. One-way ticket. Wait. She had smiled at him. She knew. He had done it for her, and she knew. It's not murder just because he deserved it. Two one-way tickets. Could he chance a message?
"Look, I'm getting out of here," said Rabbit. "You can tell..." He couldn't do it alone. She was his accomplice now. She hadn't screamed. There were no alarms. She was in this with him. She wanted it that way. He typed in her cell number as he'd memorized it from the call sheet. You. Me. Airplane to Mexico. Cab in the alley. No curtain call. Send.
The message was on its way, and so was Rabbit. Shrader remembered he was supposed to stop feigning interest in the phone. He slipped it in his pocket as Bear entered stage left.
At six-foot-two, Marcus Brenberg was an impressive man. With a team of experts in hair, makeup, and costume, Bear was almost cartoonishly intimidating.
He can't have the body, Shrader thought. "You can't have the body," Shrader said.
"The hell I can't," boomed Bear's voice.
This ends with him taking the body, but he can't have it. "It's my kill, and I intend to be paid for it."
"That wasn't the plan, little Fox. You were supposed to hold him," Bear said.
"He wouldn't be held," Shrader said. "And the contract is very clear."
"The contract is a piece of paper," said Bear. "And what's paper among men?"
Shrader glanced at the shining trail of blood on the stage. I can't change the scene, he thought. The problem wasn't with Bear, but with Marcus. If anyone else in this sorry excuse for a cast had played Bear, it wouldn't have mattered. But save Shrader and Beatrice, Marcus was the only professional in the bunch. If Shrader started changing the scene, if he added dialogue, Marcus would be professional. He'd say the scene's pivotal line and exit as quickly as possible to minimize the damage. Exit with the body.
"You can't. Have. The body," Fox said.
"You're trying my patience," Bear said. "Maybe you think you're old enough you don't have to listen to your betters."
I'm trapped, Shrader thought. I'm trapped in this horrible, stupid, third-rate play, and the only way I'll get out is in manacles, and at my age I'll die in prison, and I knew my career was over ten years ago, but I had to go on because I'd never BEEN anybody. He was shaking. And it's NOT MURDER!, he thought. Not in real life.
With that, and with all all of the frustration and adrenaline and chutzpah he could muster, Shrader clocked Bear in the jaw right where it curved up to meet the ear. Many in the audience gasped audibly. One shot. One chance to get out of here a free man. If Bear fell, he could finish the scene -- finish the show -- without anyone else ever touching James. But Bear did not fall. Instead, he slowly turned his head back to Shrader and blinked. Shrader's mouth fell open. Bear inhaled deeply, leaned forward, and laughed.
Marcus Heberg, the large, youg, studious, and consummate professional actor made the strongest choice he could think of and committed his whole body to it. He laughed uproariously. He laughed like a man who had just discovered all of humour. Something buzzed silently in Shraders pocket. Bear -- still laughing -- swept a long arm out and motioned toward the body. Shrader walked quickly over to it, bent and lifted James in a fireman's carry, careful not to burst the bag. He walked off the stage, and into the darkness. He walked to the back wall where the actors' sofa sat. He pulled it forward with one foot, deposited James behind it, and pushed it back again. Then he hurried back onstage. Bear was still laughing when he arrived. He looked at Shrader -- who was covered in blood -- chuckled twice more, and hit him on the side of the head with his open palm. Shrader fell to the stage, and -- laughing still -- Bear exited.
Shrader dragged himself up, and slumped once more into the downstage chair. He rubbed his temple. He was supposed to light another cigarette once Bear left, but instead he retrieved the iPhone. It had a message. "Re: Me. You. Airplane." Still rubbing his head, he thumbed the screen. The message was one word: "Darling."
The rest of the show was a dream, a waking dream. Shrader gave the last best performance of his life. He infused every word with his very soul. The mediocre script, and lackluster supporting cast seemed to absorb his energy. The audience seemed rivited. It was the perfect night. And as the lights went down the final time, and the audience cheered, Shrader bid farewell to theatre, and finally escaped the stage. Beatrice stood in the wings. She'd changed out of costume, and was holding Shrader's gym bag. Out of those glasses and makeup, she was radiantly beautiful. He caught her wrist and hurried her to the back door near the couch. Neither of them looked at it. The cab was waiting out back just as he had planned, and they sped away to the airport.
"This is so romantic," was the only thing Beatrice said. Shrader struggled to change shirts in the taxi. Even if no one discovered the body before their flight took off, there wasn't any way he could get through airport security looking like he was covered in blood. Actually covered in blood, he corrected himself.
He couldn't believe how easy it was. Print tickets at the booth. Find the terminal. Board the plane. Two for Mexico. His career was over. His life had changed irrevocably. But he had a beautiful, sophisticated woman of his own age and experience, and before them lay an adventure that could go on forever. Once the plane started toward its runway, he finally felt safe enough to speak. "I can't believe you came with me," he said.
"How could I not?" she asked. "You're my hero."
"I didn't mean it," he said. "It was a dirty thing, and I didn't mean to do it."
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I remember hearing about you doing the exact same thing to Marty MacCullen in 1982."
"I've never done anything like this," he said, taken aback.
"Nonsense," she said. "Marty had been taking unoffered liberties with the leading lady of whatever little comedy you boys were in, so you took him out and drank him under the table just before performance. Just like tonight. I heard it straight from Miranda Deitrich."
"I never killed Marty MacCullen," he said.
"Oh but you did," she said. "He was fired the next day, and as far as I know never got into anything again."
"But James--"
"Oh, I'm not worried about James. He made it as far as he had to. I pity my understudy, though."
"Understudy?"
"Yours too. James will be hell to work with these few days we're absconding with each other. You know I've always wanted to do this with you? But I never imagined you'd be so bold!"
"Beatrice, did you look at James tonight?" he said.
"Well of course I looked at him," she said, smiling that same beguiling smile. "But heaven knows I can't see a thing in those glasses especially under those lights. Still I could smell the man a mile away." She wrinkled her nose, in a manner far too cute for her age. Then she leaned forward and whispered, "I wish he would just drop dead while we were gone. Do you ever think that sort of thing could happen?"
Shrader watched out the window. "No it couldn't happen," he said as the runway dropped away. "Not in real life."
Unbearable
Unbearable
"Did you smell that?" Sara wrinkled her nose.
"So what's new." Caleb's tone was placid. He reminded Sara of the bears that they worked with. Large, furry, and quick to move from stillness to anger. Not nearly as cuddly as outsiders seemed to think.
"It's worse when Bob is off," Sara said, nodding her head at the closed door of the assistant curator's office.
Caleb shrugged. "He needs a drink just to be normal, at this point. Anyway, I'm not his boss. As long as he's not endangering anyone else, I'm not getting involved."
The conversation stopped abruptly as Nick shuffled back into the food prep area, the miasma of alcohol almost visible around him.
"Hot wire's off," he said. "Sloth bears."
The three exchanged looks. Sloth bears were Bob's exhibit. They should have decided first thing this morning who was working them today, but they'd procrastinated. On his return, Bob would always find some detail that had been neglected and nag about it. No one was enthusiastic about being his next victim.
It's probably my turn, Sara thought, resigned. She picked up another handful of mealworms.
"I can do it. No problem," Nick said, waving a hand, before she could speak up.
Sara put down the log she was stuffing with mealworms for the cusimanses. She walked over to the display that indicated the state of the various exhibit hot wires. The system was intended to give the animals a shock if they tried to climb out over an exhibit wall. Designed to react when something touched it, it was finicky about any kind of intrusion. Sara saw that one of the wires wasn't off, exactly, but clicking on and off excitedly.
"It's the one up top," she said. "Probably there's a branch or something in stuck it again. You'll have to climb up that rock wall."
"No problem," Nick repeated. "I can do it. No problem."
Nick wandered toward the exit of the keeper kitchen. Sara and Caleb exchanged glances. Was he going to make it out the door?
Nick stopped. He stuck his hand out, and it made contact with the doorknob.
"No problem," he said, pulling the door open. "Back in a jiff."
"Better him than me," Caleb grunted as the door closed behind Nick.
"Do you think he can really climb the wall in that condition?" Sara wrinkled her brow. She felt a bit guilty, but not quite enough to run after him.
Caleb shrugged. "I don't think he can climb it sober. He'll stand there all morning throwing rocks at the branch hoping to knock it free. Beats working, right?"
Sara thought about picking up the phone. Was it worth calling their senior curator about Nick's drunken state? But they'd complained before. No one seemed to care that they had to follow closely behind Nick all day, making sure he'd closed shift doors and locked gates. The problem was, they did such a good job of it that no one realized there was anything wrong. But what choice did they have? These were dangerous animals. They couldn't risk letting one of them get out just so Nick would get fired for it.
"Yeah. You're probably right," she said. She loaded the mealworm-stuffed pieces of log into a bucket. "See you later."
Sara glanced over at the sloth bear exhibit as she walked past. She didn't see Nick, either up on the wall or throwing rocks from the ground. He'd better not be up on the wall, she realized – the bear was out. It wandered into view from behind a pile of logs, shaking its head back and forth. Foolish animal, she thought. Not one of her favorites.
She peered toward the back of the exhibit. Something didn't look right. She sighed. She'd just spent a long morning scrubbing the forest carnivore section, and was looking forward to lunch. She was in no mood to cover Nick's ass again.
She trudged over to the exhibit without enthusiasm. As she'd suspected, the shift door to the back holding area was ajar. Not just ajar, but half open. The bear was supposed to be closed out during the day. If he had access to his holding area all day, they had trouble getting him to come in for the night. If the bear decided to mess with the door, it would be easy for him to push it the rest of the way open. In fact, he probably wouldn't have to bother. He could squeeze through that opening if -
Suddenly she had a worse thought. Was Nick drunk enough to leave the door that way while he was working back there?
Sara started to run. She pulled her keys out of her pocket as she approached the door to the service area. Her hand trembled as she tried to fit the key in the lock. It seemed like forever before the door opened and she pushed it open, so hard that she almost fell through the entrance.
"Nick?" she called out as she rushed toward the holding cage.
The light was dim. That ought to mean he wasn't back here working. But this was no time to waste time thinking. She pushed the shift door shut, hard.
Now she could relax. Her heart started to slow.
"Nick," she called again.
She turned on the light. There was no one in the service area. And no one lying there, mauled, in the shift cage.
It smelled like no one had cleaned yet, in fact. Obviously all Nick had done was pop in and let the bear out. And then not even closed the door properly behind him. She looked around. Her eyes lit on the panel of switches on the far wall. Nick hadn't turned the hot wire back on either, she saw. She walked across the room and flipped it back on.
Her concern had turned to annoyance now. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind, she thought. Giving me a scare like that. And what had he been doing all morning that he hadn't gotten around to cleaning here? If she or Caleb ended up having to do it, she was going to be furious.
Not that anyone would care, she thought, scowling. She turned out the light and slammed the door behind her.
It was nearly the end of the day. Caleb, carrying a clipboard, opened the animal fridge. He stuck his head inside and started making marks on the order form.
Sara was cleaning the kitchen. She'd rather clean than do the inventory and ordering any day. She hadn't become an animal keeper to spend her time doing paperwork.
An incomprehensible sound came from the depths of the fridge.
"I'm sorry?" Sara called.
"Eeniglaidly?" With Caleb's voice still muffled by the refrigerator, Sara couldn't make out any more than that. She put down her sponge and walked over to him.
"Sorry, what?"
Caleb's shaggy, bearded head emerged from the chilly depths. "Sorry. I said, have you seen Nick lately? Isn't this the sloth bear pan?" he pointed.
"Yeah. No. I haven't seen him since this morning actually. Not that I've looked for him, I was so angry after that thing with the sloth bear shift door."
Caleb nodded. Nick hadn't been around for lunch, either, or they wouldn't have been able to spend the whole break complaining about him. Caleb pulled out his radio.
"Caleb to Nick, lower bears."
They waited. There was no reply. He repeated the call, with the same result.
"He didn't – oh, he couldn't have gone home early, could he?" Sara said.
Caleb's face grew dark. Sara was reminded of how she'd often thought she wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of a shift door with Caleb if he got really angry. She watched as he stomped across the keeper area to the small office and vanished inside.
He reappeared after a moment. "No, his radio hasn't been put away. He must still be here."
"And ignoring his radio," Sara whined. It was such a good excuse, pretending you'd bumped up against something, accidentally turned your radio down. It happened for real often enough to be plausible. And such a perfect way to avoid someone who was trying to give you work to do.
Caleb shook his head. "I've had just about enough of this."
Sara nodded. "Between ignoring the radio, and giving me that scare at the sloth bear this morning, and not feeding – "
She stopped. "I didn't go into the holding cage," she said.
They looked at each other, both thinking of the covered den area in the bear's holding cage. Thinking, that was where he liked to drag his last bits of food, to eat in private.
"You don't think...." Sara began.
"He's probably just passed out in one of his other exhibits." Caleb sighed heavily. "Let's go look. Not that I care if he sleeps it off behind the grizzlies overnight, but who knows what else he hasn't gotten done today?"
"I guess. You take the grizzlies, I'll do the rest?" The grizzlies were the farthest walk away, so that was a fair division.
Caleb nodded. He took the sloth bear pan out of the fridge. "I'll feed this guy afterwards. Someone has to do it."
Sara nodded, her lips pursed, as they headed out the door.
Nick wasn't behind the beaver exhibit. Sara had run out of places to look. She unclipped her radio from her belt.
"Sara to Caleb."
"Go ahead."
"Any luck?" She didn't really think so, or he'd have called, but you never know. Maybe she'd missed it. Like Nick was always claiming.
"No. You?"
"No."
She hesitated. Nick couldn't really be dead or dying in the sloth bear holding cave, could he? That was crazy. Caleb would have had them go there first, if he'd thought that was really a possibility.
"Did you feed the sloth bear yet?" she continued.
"I'm just headed there now."
"I'll meet you."
"Ten-four."
Sara trotted toward the sloth bears. She couldn't decide whether to be concerned or angry. If Nick was fine, just slacking off somewhere, and they'd wasted all this time looking for him...
Caleb was just walking up to the exhibit as she arrived. Sara found herself scanning the enclosure. She told herself it was stupid, there's certainly no way he's been lying in there all day without anyone noticing. There've been hundreds of people walking by, she thought, as she was jostled by a woman pushing a huge stroller full of babies and cupholders.
But in back was different. She felt nervous as Caleb unlocked the door and she followed him in.
Caleb checked the shift door to make sure it was safe for him to go into the holding cage. It was solidly closed, as Sara had left it. He unlocked the cage door and picked up the pan of food he'd left on the floor behind him. The food was supposed to be spread around the exhibit for enrichment. Nick should have done it, of course. But now that it was so late, they didn't have time.
On the bright side, Sara thought, it would make it easy to bring the bear in for the night. She tried to convince herself that that was all there was to worry about as Caleb, inside the cage, bent over and looked into the den.
She felt all the tension go out of her body as Caleb just set down the pan and turned away. No reaction, like everything in there was normal. The urge to get mad at Nick resurfaced. It's not like I even like him, she thought, or the bear, that much. But the idea of one of the animals hurting or killing a keeper – it was everyone's worst nightmare. Even if it was the keeper's own drunken fault.
Caleb left the cage, closed and locked it behind him. He opened the shift door and rattled it, as they did to tell the bear it was time to come in. It didn't always work so well for the other keepers as it did for Bob. But the bear was hungry, and after only a moment he stuck his head through the door, lifting his snout, smelling. Catching a whiff of something edible, he hurried into his den, and Caleb closed the shift door behind him.
Sara's worry had turned fully to anger now. "So, no Nick," she said, as the two keepers watched the bear vacuum the pan clean. Worth waiting for, he seemed to think. Food delivered on a silver platter, instead of having to hunt for it through the exhibit. He looked over at them as if to indicate his approval. Why didn't they do more of this sort of thing?
"I say the heck with him," Caleb said.
She shook her head, disgusted. "The shift door was half open. The hot wire – he hadn't even turned that back on, and that's what he'd come out here to deal with. He's done nothing, and where's he disappeared to?"
"The hot wire?" Caleb said. He seemed suddenly interested.
"Yes. He'd switched it off to work on getting the obstruction off it, obviously. But he never turned it back on."
Caleb got a funny look on his face. Suddenly, without a word, he turned and walked quickly out the service area door.
"Caleb?" Sara called, trotting after him, surprised.
Outside, he was already in the exhibit, the heavy metal door left unlocked and wide open behind him, and was climbing up the wall to the top hotwire. Sara hurried in and closed the door behind her. She stood at the bottom of the wall where Caleb was now looking over the far side, his face oddly pale.
"Caleb? What's wrong?"
He didn't reply. She called again, and again, strangely, he didn't respond.
There was nothing else to do. She climbed up the wall after him, quicker than she'd ever climbed it before. She wasn't sure she wanted to see what he was looking at.
She reached the top and looked over, as Caleb was. Nick was lying on the ground at the bottom of the outside of the wall. Even at this distance, Sara and Caleb could recognize death. It was part of their job. They had no doubt.
Sara felt a moment of guilt. If she'd hunted for Nick earlier, before lunch, would it have made a difference? She considered the angle of his neck. No, she thought. It wouldn't have mattered.
Caleb took out his radio and called the zoo police. She looked over at him. His face had regained its color and his voice had sounded perfectly controlled.
The police responded. Caleb gave them the location, not revealing over the radio exactly what the problem was. There was no point in causing a ruckus.
He clipped the radio back on his belt. Now he looked directly at Sara for the first time.
He shrugged. "Well, that problem's solved." Then he began to climb down the wall without waiting for a reply.
"Did you smell that?" Sara wrinkled her nose.
"So what's new." Caleb's tone was placid. He reminded Sara of the bears that they worked with. Large, furry, and quick to move from stillness to anger. Not nearly as cuddly as outsiders seemed to think.
"It's worse when Bob is off," Sara said, nodding her head at the closed door of the assistant curator's office.
Caleb shrugged. "He needs a drink just to be normal, at this point. Anyway, I'm not his boss. As long as he's not endangering anyone else, I'm not getting involved."
The conversation stopped abruptly as Nick shuffled back into the food prep area, the miasma of alcohol almost visible around him.
"Hot wire's off," he said. "Sloth bears."
The three exchanged looks. Sloth bears were Bob's exhibit. They should have decided first thing this morning who was working them today, but they'd procrastinated. On his return, Bob would always find some detail that had been neglected and nag about it. No one was enthusiastic about being his next victim.
It's probably my turn, Sara thought, resigned. She picked up another handful of mealworms.
"I can do it. No problem," Nick said, waving a hand, before she could speak up.
Sara put down the log she was stuffing with mealworms for the cusimanses. She walked over to the display that indicated the state of the various exhibit hot wires. The system was intended to give the animals a shock if they tried to climb out over an exhibit wall. Designed to react when something touched it, it was finicky about any kind of intrusion. Sara saw that one of the wires wasn't off, exactly, but clicking on and off excitedly.
"It's the one up top," she said. "Probably there's a branch or something in stuck it again. You'll have to climb up that rock wall."
"No problem," Nick repeated. "I can do it. No problem."
Nick wandered toward the exit of the keeper kitchen. Sara and Caleb exchanged glances. Was he going to make it out the door?
Nick stopped. He stuck his hand out, and it made contact with the doorknob.
"No problem," he said, pulling the door open. "Back in a jiff."
"Better him than me," Caleb grunted as the door closed behind Nick.
"Do you think he can really climb the wall in that condition?" Sara wrinkled her brow. She felt a bit guilty, but not quite enough to run after him.
Caleb shrugged. "I don't think he can climb it sober. He'll stand there all morning throwing rocks at the branch hoping to knock it free. Beats working, right?"
Sara thought about picking up the phone. Was it worth calling their senior curator about Nick's drunken state? But they'd complained before. No one seemed to care that they had to follow closely behind Nick all day, making sure he'd closed shift doors and locked gates. The problem was, they did such a good job of it that no one realized there was anything wrong. But what choice did they have? These were dangerous animals. They couldn't risk letting one of them get out just so Nick would get fired for it.
"Yeah. You're probably right," she said. She loaded the mealworm-stuffed pieces of log into a bucket. "See you later."
Sara glanced over at the sloth bear exhibit as she walked past. She didn't see Nick, either up on the wall or throwing rocks from the ground. He'd better not be up on the wall, she realized – the bear was out. It wandered into view from behind a pile of logs, shaking its head back and forth. Foolish animal, she thought. Not one of her favorites.
She peered toward the back of the exhibit. Something didn't look right. She sighed. She'd just spent a long morning scrubbing the forest carnivore section, and was looking forward to lunch. She was in no mood to cover Nick's ass again.
She trudged over to the exhibit without enthusiasm. As she'd suspected, the shift door to the back holding area was ajar. Not just ajar, but half open. The bear was supposed to be closed out during the day. If he had access to his holding area all day, they had trouble getting him to come in for the night. If the bear decided to mess with the door, it would be easy for him to push it the rest of the way open. In fact, he probably wouldn't have to bother. He could squeeze through that opening if -
Suddenly she had a worse thought. Was Nick drunk enough to leave the door that way while he was working back there?
Sara started to run. She pulled her keys out of her pocket as she approached the door to the service area. Her hand trembled as she tried to fit the key in the lock. It seemed like forever before the door opened and she pushed it open, so hard that she almost fell through the entrance.
"Nick?" she called out as she rushed toward the holding cage.
The light was dim. That ought to mean he wasn't back here working. But this was no time to waste time thinking. She pushed the shift door shut, hard.
Now she could relax. Her heart started to slow.
"Nick," she called again.
She turned on the light. There was no one in the service area. And no one lying there, mauled, in the shift cage.
It smelled like no one had cleaned yet, in fact. Obviously all Nick had done was pop in and let the bear out. And then not even closed the door properly behind him. She looked around. Her eyes lit on the panel of switches on the far wall. Nick hadn't turned the hot wire back on either, she saw. She walked across the room and flipped it back on.
Her concern had turned to annoyance now. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind, she thought. Giving me a scare like that. And what had he been doing all morning that he hadn't gotten around to cleaning here? If she or Caleb ended up having to do it, she was going to be furious.
Not that anyone would care, she thought, scowling. She turned out the light and slammed the door behind her.
It was nearly the end of the day. Caleb, carrying a clipboard, opened the animal fridge. He stuck his head inside and started making marks on the order form.
Sara was cleaning the kitchen. She'd rather clean than do the inventory and ordering any day. She hadn't become an animal keeper to spend her time doing paperwork.
An incomprehensible sound came from the depths of the fridge.
"I'm sorry?" Sara called.
"Eeniglaidly?" With Caleb's voice still muffled by the refrigerator, Sara couldn't make out any more than that. She put down her sponge and walked over to him.
"Sorry, what?"
Caleb's shaggy, bearded head emerged from the chilly depths. "Sorry. I said, have you seen Nick lately? Isn't this the sloth bear pan?" he pointed.
"Yeah. No. I haven't seen him since this morning actually. Not that I've looked for him, I was so angry after that thing with the sloth bear shift door."
Caleb nodded. Nick hadn't been around for lunch, either, or they wouldn't have been able to spend the whole break complaining about him. Caleb pulled out his radio.
"Caleb to Nick, lower bears."
They waited. There was no reply. He repeated the call, with the same result.
"He didn't – oh, he couldn't have gone home early, could he?" Sara said.
Caleb's face grew dark. Sara was reminded of how she'd often thought she wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of a shift door with Caleb if he got really angry. She watched as he stomped across the keeper area to the small office and vanished inside.
He reappeared after a moment. "No, his radio hasn't been put away. He must still be here."
"And ignoring his radio," Sara whined. It was such a good excuse, pretending you'd bumped up against something, accidentally turned your radio down. It happened for real often enough to be plausible. And such a perfect way to avoid someone who was trying to give you work to do.
Caleb shook his head. "I've had just about enough of this."
Sara nodded. "Between ignoring the radio, and giving me that scare at the sloth bear this morning, and not feeding – "
She stopped. "I didn't go into the holding cage," she said.
They looked at each other, both thinking of the covered den area in the bear's holding cage. Thinking, that was where he liked to drag his last bits of food, to eat in private.
"You don't think...." Sara began.
"He's probably just passed out in one of his other exhibits." Caleb sighed heavily. "Let's go look. Not that I care if he sleeps it off behind the grizzlies overnight, but who knows what else he hasn't gotten done today?"
"I guess. You take the grizzlies, I'll do the rest?" The grizzlies were the farthest walk away, so that was a fair division.
Caleb nodded. He took the sloth bear pan out of the fridge. "I'll feed this guy afterwards. Someone has to do it."
Sara nodded, her lips pursed, as they headed out the door.
Nick wasn't behind the beaver exhibit. Sara had run out of places to look. She unclipped her radio from her belt.
"Sara to Caleb."
"Go ahead."
"Any luck?" She didn't really think so, or he'd have called, but you never know. Maybe she'd missed it. Like Nick was always claiming.
"No. You?"
"No."
She hesitated. Nick couldn't really be dead or dying in the sloth bear holding cave, could he? That was crazy. Caleb would have had them go there first, if he'd thought that was really a possibility.
"Did you feed the sloth bear yet?" she continued.
"I'm just headed there now."
"I'll meet you."
"Ten-four."
Sara trotted toward the sloth bears. She couldn't decide whether to be concerned or angry. If Nick was fine, just slacking off somewhere, and they'd wasted all this time looking for him...
Caleb was just walking up to the exhibit as she arrived. Sara found herself scanning the enclosure. She told herself it was stupid, there's certainly no way he's been lying in there all day without anyone noticing. There've been hundreds of people walking by, she thought, as she was jostled by a woman pushing a huge stroller full of babies and cupholders.
But in back was different. She felt nervous as Caleb unlocked the door and she followed him in.
Caleb checked the shift door to make sure it was safe for him to go into the holding cage. It was solidly closed, as Sara had left it. He unlocked the cage door and picked up the pan of food he'd left on the floor behind him. The food was supposed to be spread around the exhibit for enrichment. Nick should have done it, of course. But now that it was so late, they didn't have time.
On the bright side, Sara thought, it would make it easy to bring the bear in for the night. She tried to convince herself that that was all there was to worry about as Caleb, inside the cage, bent over and looked into the den.
She felt all the tension go out of her body as Caleb just set down the pan and turned away. No reaction, like everything in there was normal. The urge to get mad at Nick resurfaced. It's not like I even like him, she thought, or the bear, that much. But the idea of one of the animals hurting or killing a keeper – it was everyone's worst nightmare. Even if it was the keeper's own drunken fault.
Caleb left the cage, closed and locked it behind him. He opened the shift door and rattled it, as they did to tell the bear it was time to come in. It didn't always work so well for the other keepers as it did for Bob. But the bear was hungry, and after only a moment he stuck his head through the door, lifting his snout, smelling. Catching a whiff of something edible, he hurried into his den, and Caleb closed the shift door behind him.
Sara's worry had turned fully to anger now. "So, no Nick," she said, as the two keepers watched the bear vacuum the pan clean. Worth waiting for, he seemed to think. Food delivered on a silver platter, instead of having to hunt for it through the exhibit. He looked over at them as if to indicate his approval. Why didn't they do more of this sort of thing?
"I say the heck with him," Caleb said.
She shook her head, disgusted. "The shift door was half open. The hot wire – he hadn't even turned that back on, and that's what he'd come out here to deal with. He's done nothing, and where's he disappeared to?"
"The hot wire?" Caleb said. He seemed suddenly interested.
"Yes. He'd switched it off to work on getting the obstruction off it, obviously. But he never turned it back on."
Caleb got a funny look on his face. Suddenly, without a word, he turned and walked quickly out the service area door.
"Caleb?" Sara called, trotting after him, surprised.
Outside, he was already in the exhibit, the heavy metal door left unlocked and wide open behind him, and was climbing up the wall to the top hotwire. Sara hurried in and closed the door behind her. She stood at the bottom of the wall where Caleb was now looking over the far side, his face oddly pale.
"Caleb? What's wrong?"
He didn't reply. She called again, and again, strangely, he didn't respond.
There was nothing else to do. She climbed up the wall after him, quicker than she'd ever climbed it before. She wasn't sure she wanted to see what he was looking at.
She reached the top and looked over, as Caleb was. Nick was lying on the ground at the bottom of the outside of the wall. Even at this distance, Sara and Caleb could recognize death. It was part of their job. They had no doubt.
Sara felt a moment of guilt. If she'd hunted for Nick earlier, before lunch, would it have made a difference? She considered the angle of his neck. No, she thought. It wouldn't have mattered.
Caleb took out his radio and called the zoo police. She looked over at him. His face had regained its color and his voice had sounded perfectly controlled.
The police responded. Caleb gave them the location, not revealing over the radio exactly what the problem was. There was no point in causing a ruckus.
He clipped the radio back on his belt. Now he looked directly at Sara for the first time.
He shrugged. "Well, that problem's solved." Then he began to climb down the wall without waiting for a reply.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Bill Jamison's Escape
As the moon cast long slivers of silver on the dark waves, a bell rang three times from the forecastle. Three bells of the first watch is the same as 9:30 at night on land. Billy Jamison knew this but he never mentioned that to his shipmates - after all, an educated man (here meaning one who could tell time) masquerading as an able seaman on a whaling vessel would be eyed with great suspicion at best and derision to the point of violence at worst. To be awakened by a scrimshaw blade or cargo hook would be unpleasant and certainly fatal at sea, and so Billy kept quiet and to the degree possible on a ship, to himself.
The night watch afforded some calm and quiet; the bells ring out each half hour. The bells and the occasional calling out of sail trim changes or observations of weather are the only punctuation to the creaking of the lines, the wind, and the water against the hull. No rain today, again. Eight bells sound - after eight bells the watch ends and first watch yields to midnight watch. A clear, calm night means sleeping on deck to escape the underdeck life – sleep was difficult amidst the gambling and violence. Billy would have the morning, afternoon and second dog watch tomorrow, and then midnight. And, of course, the possibility of the whaleboat. He yawned and looked around the deck. A coiled hawser offered protection from pitching or yawing while asleep and, since it was unoccupied, Billy rested there waiting for the next sound of one bell that signaled the morning watch. It was a simpler life than the one he left behind a mere three weeks before.
Sleep brings dreams; dreams reverse his life and the past three weeks become fantasy and his reality reverts to the life he once knew: a small and dreary office on a side street; a sternly jawed employer with beady eyes and greedy, clawlike hands; a bright-eyed girl who fancied him not for his prospects, nor his looks or so she claimed. She could never tell him what she saw and he could never understand how she could be so charmed or seemingly happy in his company. “Billy, I love you for you” she would say and her words would vanish into his mind, unintelligible and unfathomable, but somehow believable, like the mysteries of Christianity. Billy lacked faith in both.
Tonight’s dream, like so many, returned him to the small cold office. The hard bench; the desk; the accounts forever updated; money in, money out; the marks that he made with ink on paper that represented lives, some ruined, some gilded. His life never really changed from day to day; the marks meant little to him and everything to one Mr. Schill, his employer. Schill’s dour countenance and menacing presence seemed to take the life and the air out of the room. “Bill, these people know nothing of the meaning of money,” he would say, “And all the better for me!” His laugh had a sickly snarl attached to it.
Bill hated the snarl but he had no feelings for the man. His life then was a succession of days on the hard bench, evenings swallowing hard food with cheap ale, and sleep in a small room he rented over a shop a few doors down. His life was confined to a few steps, a few coins, a few changes of clothes and one girl who always smiled for him and always seemed happy to see him. The dream continued to include her; a smile; a kiss; a confession of love he could not understand.
The first bell of the Morning watch rang through the salty night air. The sky was just beginning show orange and pink in the deep purplish black. Four-thirty, he knew and the beginning of his next watch. Bill rose from the hawser and walked to the foredeck for orders. The mate there sent him amidships to tighten lines, check knots and then go below to check for water in the hull. Belowdecks it was too dark to see without a lamp. He found one and took the steep steps down. With a purposeless stride and no feelings at all, Bill went about his business. The forenoon watch started with the first bell as he completed his walk the length of the ship, along the beam. He went above for a morning meal; hardtack, some salted meat, watered down rum. There were apples left. As he left the mess tossing the apple in one hand a voice called out to him – a voice he had heard only once, the day he came on board the ship.
“Mr. Jamison” said the Captain. “A word with you in the Chart Room”. Billy stood transfixed for a moment. Being noticed was certainly something he wanted to avoid; being noticed by the Captain unthinkable. “Aye, Sir” he responded, and followed the tall figure into the room normally only occupied by the officers of the ship. The Captain paused for a moment and turned to Billy. He had a letter in his hand. “I was handed this letter by a magistrate just before we sailed. I believe he gave them to all the ships sailing. I wanted to talk to you about this because the letter seems to indicate that you are a fugitive from the law.”
Billy blinked and felt the palms of his hands begin to go cold and moist. Not sure how to respond, and given no action to take that would not end in flogging or worse, he stood silently before the Captain. “We get these letters of warrant fairly frequently because many sought men seek refuge on the ships, and, frankly, we generally keep them unless they cause further trouble here. For the most part, you have been exemplary. Quiet, and business like. And you seemed to know your way around a ship, which truly makes what’s stated here all the more puzzling. Can you read?”
Billy’s mind raced again. If the Captain were dealing with anyone else on board, he was sure this question would not have crossed his mind. He looked up and said “Aye, sir, I can read”. The Captain nodded and handed him the letter. At the top it said “Warranted for arrest by order of the Constable General, Bell Harbor”. “Shipping Concerns and Captains be aware that employ or harboring a fugitive criminal is a criminal act subject to prosecution”. A list followed. He scanned the list to find his entry:
Jamison, William. Sought for the theft of $100 by graft from one Jonathon Schill, Banker and Lender.
Billy looked up and handed the letter back to the Captain. The Captain regarded him for a moment before speaking. “Murderers we usually place in the brig until we return. Some others we allow work until we return and turn them over to the constable. Some we never turn in. You’d have to say your piece in court no matter what, but you may get a fairer hearing here. Do you want to tell your story?”
Billy swallowed again. His hope of disappearing were fading but the temperament of the man before him, a man as surely a judge at this moment as any in a courtroom on land, told him his chances were probably as good here as there. Probably better. “Perhaps you would like to sit down,” said the Captain, and so Billy did.
“I adjusted his accounts to benefit a family in his debt. I never saw any money. He’s very rich, you know.” Billy related this in a monotone. He felt at this moment, much like he felt when he made the adjustments. He didn’t feel good or bad about it. It just seemed like the right thing to do. “They had so little and they needed so much”. The Captain weighed this information before speaking. “And you benefited not at all?” He asked. Billy nodded. “Why did you do it?” Billy looked down. At that moment, from the deck a loud report sounded while the bell rang over and over. The boatswain shouted for harpooners to the rails. The Captain rose quickly. “We’ll finish this talk when the whale is killed”.
Billy rose and moved quickly to the starboard rail. The main harpoon gun had hit the whale; harpoon line trailed from the surface of the water and some blood was still visible on the water. The whale had just sounded and the boats were being lowered. Billy got into the second boat and grabbed the oars. The boats followed the line waiting for the whale to surface for breath. Each man had a smaller harpoon or a long pick near his feet and a set of oars in his hands. Open ocean swells caused the boat to rise and fall, sometimes as far as 8 feet. The lead boat held the line and four boats in total chased the huge creature, purposing its death. The ship followed behind with the harpoon gun on the foredeck now reloaded.
Billy pulled his oars. There were men shouting and pointing but that didn’t matter to him. Although the whaleboat seemed large on the ship, even with 16 men on board it seemed tiny in the open ocean. His thoughts returned to the Captain and the deed he was wondering if he could ever leave behind. He remembered again the dreams he had, every night. The office, the bench, the books. The sneering Schill. Rose. That was her name, he reflected, and a good one. She was pink, and delicate and beautiful That was a new thought for him and as he pulled oars he considered that thought, rolling it around in his mind just as he might roll a hard candy around in his mouth.
The huge gray form surfaced right in front of the whaleboat, and the wave from the breach shot the prow of the whaleboat up and traveled under the boat. The furrow the wave created was easily twelve feet deep and the boat dropped rear end first into it. The whale had harpoons and lines hanging from it; it bled in many places. A huge, lidless eye stared into Billy’s for a moment and for some reason he felt like the whale – trapped; with no choices; at some kind of understanding with a fate he didn’t choose or want.
The whale continued his death throes as the boats circled, hurling weapons and lines with floats intended to prevent his sounding again. The blood tinged the sea; the life oozing from the great beast turned the water a sickly shade of green as it weakened. As the boats turned in for another pass with pikes and harpoons, the great beast turned, defiantly and slapped the water with it’s great gray flukes, causing a wave followed by a canyon of water that Billy’s boat once again jumped and subsequently fell into. The whale, dying, rolled into the trough and shattered the boat.
Under the water, Billy swam away from the great thrashing whale and up to the surface. He bobbed and watched the beast, rolling and thrashing. The ship began to come around throwing lines to the 16 men in the water. His attention was drawn back to the whale’s lidless eye, dimming and becoming lifeless and Billy began to wonder what it felt. The ship approached and his thoughts returned to his talk with the Captain. He knew in his heart that the Captain was a straightforward man. He was probably a Christian, too, a man who understood and truly believed the mysteries of faith Billy never truly fathomed. Perhaps he knew about love, too.
The shadow of the bowsprit came over Billy in the water and lines from the ship hung down for him to climb. The nameplate of the ship hung over him as he looked up. It said “Elizabeth Rose”. As the ship moved alongside him, he thought about her words; the love she professed for him; the words he never said back. The mystery of her soft skin; the gentle kisses and smiles. He never understood why she felt the way she did although he was sure she meant it. He never understood why he changed her father’s accounts and he never told her. Returning to her meant prison. He was sure the Captain, being who he was, would return him to justice.
The crewmen shouted for him to take the line. The ship kept moving and passed him, turning. It seemed to be coming back and Billy could not understand why. His die was cast, he felt, before even being born. But, oddly, he didn’t feel strongly one way or the other. And he dove, down, into the blue, down until he felt burning in his chest, and behind his eyes. He looked up as the shadow of the ship passed over, distantly and went on. He knew it would not turn again.
The night watch afforded some calm and quiet; the bells ring out each half hour. The bells and the occasional calling out of sail trim changes or observations of weather are the only punctuation to the creaking of the lines, the wind, and the water against the hull. No rain today, again. Eight bells sound - after eight bells the watch ends and first watch yields to midnight watch. A clear, calm night means sleeping on deck to escape the underdeck life – sleep was difficult amidst the gambling and violence. Billy would have the morning, afternoon and second dog watch tomorrow, and then midnight. And, of course, the possibility of the whaleboat. He yawned and looked around the deck. A coiled hawser offered protection from pitching or yawing while asleep and, since it was unoccupied, Billy rested there waiting for the next sound of one bell that signaled the morning watch. It was a simpler life than the one he left behind a mere three weeks before.
Sleep brings dreams; dreams reverse his life and the past three weeks become fantasy and his reality reverts to the life he once knew: a small and dreary office on a side street; a sternly jawed employer with beady eyes and greedy, clawlike hands; a bright-eyed girl who fancied him not for his prospects, nor his looks or so she claimed. She could never tell him what she saw and he could never understand how she could be so charmed or seemingly happy in his company. “Billy, I love you for you” she would say and her words would vanish into his mind, unintelligible and unfathomable, but somehow believable, like the mysteries of Christianity. Billy lacked faith in both.
Tonight’s dream, like so many, returned him to the small cold office. The hard bench; the desk; the accounts forever updated; money in, money out; the marks that he made with ink on paper that represented lives, some ruined, some gilded. His life never really changed from day to day; the marks meant little to him and everything to one Mr. Schill, his employer. Schill’s dour countenance and menacing presence seemed to take the life and the air out of the room. “Bill, these people know nothing of the meaning of money,” he would say, “And all the better for me!” His laugh had a sickly snarl attached to it.
Bill hated the snarl but he had no feelings for the man. His life then was a succession of days on the hard bench, evenings swallowing hard food with cheap ale, and sleep in a small room he rented over a shop a few doors down. His life was confined to a few steps, a few coins, a few changes of clothes and one girl who always smiled for him and always seemed happy to see him. The dream continued to include her; a smile; a kiss; a confession of love he could not understand.
The first bell of the Morning watch rang through the salty night air. The sky was just beginning show orange and pink in the deep purplish black. Four-thirty, he knew and the beginning of his next watch. Bill rose from the hawser and walked to the foredeck for orders. The mate there sent him amidships to tighten lines, check knots and then go below to check for water in the hull. Belowdecks it was too dark to see without a lamp. He found one and took the steep steps down. With a purposeless stride and no feelings at all, Bill went about his business. The forenoon watch started with the first bell as he completed his walk the length of the ship, along the beam. He went above for a morning meal; hardtack, some salted meat, watered down rum. There were apples left. As he left the mess tossing the apple in one hand a voice called out to him – a voice he had heard only once, the day he came on board the ship.
“Mr. Jamison” said the Captain. “A word with you in the Chart Room”. Billy stood transfixed for a moment. Being noticed was certainly something he wanted to avoid; being noticed by the Captain unthinkable. “Aye, Sir” he responded, and followed the tall figure into the room normally only occupied by the officers of the ship. The Captain paused for a moment and turned to Billy. He had a letter in his hand. “I was handed this letter by a magistrate just before we sailed. I believe he gave them to all the ships sailing. I wanted to talk to you about this because the letter seems to indicate that you are a fugitive from the law.”
Billy blinked and felt the palms of his hands begin to go cold and moist. Not sure how to respond, and given no action to take that would not end in flogging or worse, he stood silently before the Captain. “We get these letters of warrant fairly frequently because many sought men seek refuge on the ships, and, frankly, we generally keep them unless they cause further trouble here. For the most part, you have been exemplary. Quiet, and business like. And you seemed to know your way around a ship, which truly makes what’s stated here all the more puzzling. Can you read?”
Billy’s mind raced again. If the Captain were dealing with anyone else on board, he was sure this question would not have crossed his mind. He looked up and said “Aye, sir, I can read”. The Captain nodded and handed him the letter. At the top it said “Warranted for arrest by order of the Constable General, Bell Harbor”. “Shipping Concerns and Captains be aware that employ or harboring a fugitive criminal is a criminal act subject to prosecution”. A list followed. He scanned the list to find his entry:
Jamison, William. Sought for the theft of $100 by graft from one Jonathon Schill, Banker and Lender.
Billy looked up and handed the letter back to the Captain. The Captain regarded him for a moment before speaking. “Murderers we usually place in the brig until we return. Some others we allow work until we return and turn them over to the constable. Some we never turn in. You’d have to say your piece in court no matter what, but you may get a fairer hearing here. Do you want to tell your story?”
Billy swallowed again. His hope of disappearing were fading but the temperament of the man before him, a man as surely a judge at this moment as any in a courtroom on land, told him his chances were probably as good here as there. Probably better. “Perhaps you would like to sit down,” said the Captain, and so Billy did.
“I adjusted his accounts to benefit a family in his debt. I never saw any money. He’s very rich, you know.” Billy related this in a monotone. He felt at this moment, much like he felt when he made the adjustments. He didn’t feel good or bad about it. It just seemed like the right thing to do. “They had so little and they needed so much”. The Captain weighed this information before speaking. “And you benefited not at all?” He asked. Billy nodded. “Why did you do it?” Billy looked down. At that moment, from the deck a loud report sounded while the bell rang over and over. The boatswain shouted for harpooners to the rails. The Captain rose quickly. “We’ll finish this talk when the whale is killed”.
Billy rose and moved quickly to the starboard rail. The main harpoon gun had hit the whale; harpoon line trailed from the surface of the water and some blood was still visible on the water. The whale had just sounded and the boats were being lowered. Billy got into the second boat and grabbed the oars. The boats followed the line waiting for the whale to surface for breath. Each man had a smaller harpoon or a long pick near his feet and a set of oars in his hands. Open ocean swells caused the boat to rise and fall, sometimes as far as 8 feet. The lead boat held the line and four boats in total chased the huge creature, purposing its death. The ship followed behind with the harpoon gun on the foredeck now reloaded.
Billy pulled his oars. There were men shouting and pointing but that didn’t matter to him. Although the whaleboat seemed large on the ship, even with 16 men on board it seemed tiny in the open ocean. His thoughts returned to the Captain and the deed he was wondering if he could ever leave behind. He remembered again the dreams he had, every night. The office, the bench, the books. The sneering Schill. Rose. That was her name, he reflected, and a good one. She was pink, and delicate and beautiful That was a new thought for him and as he pulled oars he considered that thought, rolling it around in his mind just as he might roll a hard candy around in his mouth.
The huge gray form surfaced right in front of the whaleboat, and the wave from the breach shot the prow of the whaleboat up and traveled under the boat. The furrow the wave created was easily twelve feet deep and the boat dropped rear end first into it. The whale had harpoons and lines hanging from it; it bled in many places. A huge, lidless eye stared into Billy’s for a moment and for some reason he felt like the whale – trapped; with no choices; at some kind of understanding with a fate he didn’t choose or want.
The whale continued his death throes as the boats circled, hurling weapons and lines with floats intended to prevent his sounding again. The blood tinged the sea; the life oozing from the great beast turned the water a sickly shade of green as it weakened. As the boats turned in for another pass with pikes and harpoons, the great beast turned, defiantly and slapped the water with it’s great gray flukes, causing a wave followed by a canyon of water that Billy’s boat once again jumped and subsequently fell into. The whale, dying, rolled into the trough and shattered the boat.
Under the water, Billy swam away from the great thrashing whale and up to the surface. He bobbed and watched the beast, rolling and thrashing. The ship began to come around throwing lines to the 16 men in the water. His attention was drawn back to the whale’s lidless eye, dimming and becoming lifeless and Billy began to wonder what it felt. The ship approached and his thoughts returned to his talk with the Captain. He knew in his heart that the Captain was a straightforward man. He was probably a Christian, too, a man who understood and truly believed the mysteries of faith Billy never truly fathomed. Perhaps he knew about love, too.
The shadow of the bowsprit came over Billy in the water and lines from the ship hung down for him to climb. The nameplate of the ship hung over him as he looked up. It said “Elizabeth Rose”. As the ship moved alongside him, he thought about her words; the love she professed for him; the words he never said back. The mystery of her soft skin; the gentle kisses and smiles. He never understood why she felt the way she did although he was sure she meant it. He never understood why he changed her father’s accounts and he never told her. Returning to her meant prison. He was sure the Captain, being who he was, would return him to justice.
The crewmen shouted for him to take the line. The ship kept moving and passed him, turning. It seemed to be coming back and Billy could not understand why. His die was cast, he felt, before even being born. But, oddly, he didn’t feel strongly one way or the other. And he dove, down, into the blue, down until he felt burning in his chest, and behind his eyes. He looked up as the shadow of the ship passed over, distantly and went on. He knew it would not turn again.
And The Rest...
AND THE REST…
I had already checked out and had my bags loaded into the cab when the desk clerk came running out of the hotel lobby. “Dr. Hinckley! A courier just delivered this for you,” she said and handed me a manila envelope. I thanked her, got into the cab and read the dock number from the charter boat brochure my travel agent had included with my itinerary.
I hadn’t been expecting the news quite this soon, but this message was expected. Confirmation that on my return I would be named the T.M. Howell Professor of Applied Bio-physical Chemistry – a final validation of the past 15 years spent toiling in the groves of academe. I wasn’t keen on leaving the day after my interview by the selection panel, but the Provost had assured me that I had it “in the bag” and my selection was a foregone conclusion. My travel arrangements had been made months in advance; changing the dates for my trip would be prohibitively expensive.
So off I went on my first vacation since I was a child – first two days on the beach in Hawaii, then a short boat ride to the tiny isolated resort island of Mi’illwaw Kea for some botanizing (perhaps even an encounter with the rare Mantis Khani). A week of rare tropical plants, birds and insects!
I had caught my jacket pocket on the door handle as I entered the cab, ripping it and spilling the contents over the back seat. By the time I had gathered my things and rearranged them in other pockets we had reached the dock. So was unable to find an opportunity to open the Provost’s envelope until all my things had been loaded on the boat. Once my dunnage had been stowed and I had been given a tour of the vessel and met my fellow passengers I was finally able to sit near the stern and read the letter – almost half an hour later. I was barely conscious of the harbor slipping away so pre-occupied was I with my long-anticipated professional triumph.
At first I thought there must have been a mistake – a one paragraph letter from the university “Thank you for your interest, but unfortunately…” How could they possibly have turned me down? My credentials are impeccable – no one has my background, my publications, my accolades. They didn’t even interview anyone else. It was just to be a formality! How on earth… Then I noticed the handwritten note from the Provost.
Roy,
I am so terribly sorry this has happened. I’ve tried to telephone and hope I will reach you before this is delivered. Just after you left we had a call from one of the U.’s most important donors. He was livid that you were even being considered for the chair that he had funded and would never give the U another cent if you weren’t dismissed immediately. I think we were able to dissuade him from the latter, but the Chair is quite out of the question at this point. Apparently a paper you wrote caused the Federal government to amend a regulation which cost his company a great deal of money. In any case, I am so very sorry about this. We will do all we can to salvage the situation and find a suitable spot for you when you return. If we haven’t spoken, please call when you receive this.
Fred
I sank back into the deck chair, utterly stunned. Everything I had worked for since I was an undergraduate. Every hour in the library. Every day in the laboratory. All the papers read and written. Almost twenty years of my life devoted to a single goal – All gone. All snatched away by some businessman. And what did “find a suitable spot for you” mean?
A wave of despair swept over me such as I’d never felt before. I cannot describe the sense of utter futility, frustration and hopelessness that crushed me, other than to say that I hope that I never experience it again. For a short while I understood on a visceral level as I never had before why suicide might be an attractive option.
I suppose my distress must have been obvious. Someone laid a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?” It was one of my fellow passengers.
“Oh. Yes. Or, rather not really. It’s Miss Summers, isn’t it?” I stammered. Flirtatious banter has never been a strength, much less at a time like this.
“That’s right,” she said and smiled. “I saw you read your letter and you just went white. Then you were sitting so still that I knew something had to be wrong. Is there anything I can do?”
“Oh no. I’ll be fine. Just a little, er, setback,” I tried to give her a confident smile, but I could tell from her reaction that it was feeble at best and closer to sickly. She smiled again. Or rather she SMILED. Her smile was unique in my experience. It was a thing of radiance, purity and joy. Things could not be all bad if that smile was in the world.
“Would you like to talk about it?” she asked and SMILED.
“Oh no, I couldn’t burden you…” and I really didn’t intend to, as I am really a very reticent person. But somehow I found myself unburdening myself to her – my personal and professional history, how I had utterly devoted myself to my research, how my hopes had crystallized into a single goal and how that goal had been denied me just minutes before.
“Dr. Hinckley, you mustn’t despair. This must be the first time you’ve ever faced disappointment. I’m sure it’s bad now, but it gets better,” she said, while patting my arm in a touchingly encouraging manner. “And just consider all the good you’ve done so far. And you’ll still get to do the work you love – sounds exciting to me. Maybe you won’t get the prestige or recognition you deserve. But that’s just what other people think. You’re really a very lucky man.” And she SMILED at me again.
She had really made me feel much better and I told her so. I was looking forward to spending the next few days getting to know this wonderful creature better. I stood and we walked to the rail to watch the early evening shadows form over the waves. “I’m terribly sorry to bore you like this. Very inconsiderate of me. Please tell me about yourself.” I asked.
“About me? There’s not much to tell,” she said and went on to describe her life on a Kansas corn farm. Her days were divided between caring for her parents, working in the local feed mill and endless farm chores. The nearest town, a thriving metropolis of 4,000 was 20 minutes away. Topeka was two hours away. She had won this trip in a contest by submitting the best coconut cream pie recipe to the Coco-Pure Coconut Company. “This is a once in lifetime thing for me. I can’t imagine I’ll ever get to take a trip like this again.”
I was struck by the self-imposed limitation on her world and was preparing to encourage her to raise her aspirations. I was interrupted by a strikingly beautiful sight – two Megaptera novaeangliae leapt from the sea. They faced each other and their trajectories met at the peak of their arc. They were no more than 50 meters from the boat. Truly an astounding exhibition of cetacean behavior. But I was even more touched by Miss Summers’ reaction. When I turned to her after the two humpbacks had submerged back to the depths I noticed that tears were running down her cheeks. I felt an extreme affection for the young lady at that moment. Perhaps it was the sea air – more likely the clash of strong emotions I’d experienced in such a short time. But I overcame my normal reserve and placed my hand on top of hers on the rail.
We had stood like that for only a short while when were interrupted by the ship’s First (and only) Mate. A tall, awkward young man named Willy; he seemed highly good-natured and likely. “I just wanted to warn you folks that we might see a little rough weather,” he said and pointed over the opposite site of the boat. We could see a dark line of clouds in the distance. “Captain says nothing to worry about. We’ll be going around the bad part of the storm. But we might get some rain and a few waves,” with that he gave us a sheepish grin and ambled back toward the bow.
We crossed to the other side to look at the storm. Even from several miles away it was obvious that it was quite severe, with impressive bouts of lightning and cresting waves. The boat was beginning to pitch more noticeably as the waves reached us and we moved along the length of the well defined storm. As I watched I noticed some distinctively shaped clouds along the leading edge of the storm front – pale green in a distinct chevron shape.
“Why those are Schwartz-Sherwood cirro-nimbus clouds,” I said. “And look at the ratio of cloud height to the length of the storm!” I made a few quick mental calculations. “That must be a Scotti-Wells osmotic anti-cyclone. I read a paper about it just last month!”
“What does that mean?” Miss Summers asked.
“We’re doing exactly the wrong thing. That storm is only about a quarter-mile wide. But the most violent winds and turbulence are directly in front of it. We could be blown miles out of way.”
“Goodness!” she said, “You have to tell the captain.”
“I will,” I said, and left her there at the rail. I wasn’t sure how I would convince him. He seemed an amiable enough fellow, but had no reason to accept advice from me. The Scotti-Wells was a newly observed phenomenon and it was unlikely he would have heard of it. I took a second to compose my thoughts. As I leaned over the starboard rail, the two Megaptera repeated their unlikely performance. As the closer of the two leapt into the sky, meeting his companion at their mutual apogee, his eye met mine. In hindsight I am sure I had only fallen victim to the anthropomorphic fallacy, but at the time I was certain that I had had a split-second’s shared understanding with the cetacean.
I do not know how long I stood there transfixed. It may have been as long as five minutes. I do not know, but I was awakened from my reverie by the increased violence of the sea – the ship had acquired a pronounced lateral roll. I scanned the waves for the whales one last time. It began to rain.
I may never fully understand exactly why I did what I did next. At the time I was convinced it was the right thing to do. While the ensuing events and the difficulties of the past few years have engendered some doubts, I have never regretted my decision.
I turned and walked carefully back to the stern and Miss Summers. “Did you tell him?” she asked. She was still smiling, but I was able to detect an overtone of concern in her voice. It was raining hard now and the wind was blowing the drops into painful little pellets.
“I did,” I lied, “but it may have been too late.” I took her hand and led her below decks.
I had already checked out and had my bags loaded into the cab when the desk clerk came running out of the hotel lobby. “Dr. Hinckley! A courier just delivered this for you,” she said and handed me a manila envelope. I thanked her, got into the cab and read the dock number from the charter boat brochure my travel agent had included with my itinerary.
I hadn’t been expecting the news quite this soon, but this message was expected. Confirmation that on my return I would be named the T.M. Howell Professor of Applied Bio-physical Chemistry – a final validation of the past 15 years spent toiling in the groves of academe. I wasn’t keen on leaving the day after my interview by the selection panel, but the Provost had assured me that I had it “in the bag” and my selection was a foregone conclusion. My travel arrangements had been made months in advance; changing the dates for my trip would be prohibitively expensive.
So off I went on my first vacation since I was a child – first two days on the beach in Hawaii, then a short boat ride to the tiny isolated resort island of Mi’illwaw Kea for some botanizing (perhaps even an encounter with the rare Mantis Khani). A week of rare tropical plants, birds and insects!
I had caught my jacket pocket on the door handle as I entered the cab, ripping it and spilling the contents over the back seat. By the time I had gathered my things and rearranged them in other pockets we had reached the dock. So was unable to find an opportunity to open the Provost’s envelope until all my things had been loaded on the boat. Once my dunnage had been stowed and I had been given a tour of the vessel and met my fellow passengers I was finally able to sit near the stern and read the letter – almost half an hour later. I was barely conscious of the harbor slipping away so pre-occupied was I with my long-anticipated professional triumph.
At first I thought there must have been a mistake – a one paragraph letter from the university “Thank you for your interest, but unfortunately…” How could they possibly have turned me down? My credentials are impeccable – no one has my background, my publications, my accolades. They didn’t even interview anyone else. It was just to be a formality! How on earth… Then I noticed the handwritten note from the Provost.
Roy,
I am so terribly sorry this has happened. I’ve tried to telephone and hope I will reach you before this is delivered. Just after you left we had a call from one of the U.’s most important donors. He was livid that you were even being considered for the chair that he had funded and would never give the U another cent if you weren’t dismissed immediately. I think we were able to dissuade him from the latter, but the Chair is quite out of the question at this point. Apparently a paper you wrote caused the Federal government to amend a regulation which cost his company a great deal of money. In any case, I am so very sorry about this. We will do all we can to salvage the situation and find a suitable spot for you when you return. If we haven’t spoken, please call when you receive this.
Fred
I sank back into the deck chair, utterly stunned. Everything I had worked for since I was an undergraduate. Every hour in the library. Every day in the laboratory. All the papers read and written. Almost twenty years of my life devoted to a single goal – All gone. All snatched away by some businessman. And what did “find a suitable spot for you” mean?
A wave of despair swept over me such as I’d never felt before. I cannot describe the sense of utter futility, frustration and hopelessness that crushed me, other than to say that I hope that I never experience it again. For a short while I understood on a visceral level as I never had before why suicide might be an attractive option.
I suppose my distress must have been obvious. Someone laid a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?” It was one of my fellow passengers.
“Oh. Yes. Or, rather not really. It’s Miss Summers, isn’t it?” I stammered. Flirtatious banter has never been a strength, much less at a time like this.
“That’s right,” she said and smiled. “I saw you read your letter and you just went white. Then you were sitting so still that I knew something had to be wrong. Is there anything I can do?”
“Oh no. I’ll be fine. Just a little, er, setback,” I tried to give her a confident smile, but I could tell from her reaction that it was feeble at best and closer to sickly. She smiled again. Or rather she SMILED. Her smile was unique in my experience. It was a thing of radiance, purity and joy. Things could not be all bad if that smile was in the world.
“Would you like to talk about it?” she asked and SMILED.
“Oh no, I couldn’t burden you…” and I really didn’t intend to, as I am really a very reticent person. But somehow I found myself unburdening myself to her – my personal and professional history, how I had utterly devoted myself to my research, how my hopes had crystallized into a single goal and how that goal had been denied me just minutes before.
“Dr. Hinckley, you mustn’t despair. This must be the first time you’ve ever faced disappointment. I’m sure it’s bad now, but it gets better,” she said, while patting my arm in a touchingly encouraging manner. “And just consider all the good you’ve done so far. And you’ll still get to do the work you love – sounds exciting to me. Maybe you won’t get the prestige or recognition you deserve. But that’s just what other people think. You’re really a very lucky man.” And she SMILED at me again.
She had really made me feel much better and I told her so. I was looking forward to spending the next few days getting to know this wonderful creature better. I stood and we walked to the rail to watch the early evening shadows form over the waves. “I’m terribly sorry to bore you like this. Very inconsiderate of me. Please tell me about yourself.” I asked.
“About me? There’s not much to tell,” she said and went on to describe her life on a Kansas corn farm. Her days were divided between caring for her parents, working in the local feed mill and endless farm chores. The nearest town, a thriving metropolis of 4,000 was 20 minutes away. Topeka was two hours away. She had won this trip in a contest by submitting the best coconut cream pie recipe to the Coco-Pure Coconut Company. “This is a once in lifetime thing for me. I can’t imagine I’ll ever get to take a trip like this again.”
I was struck by the self-imposed limitation on her world and was preparing to encourage her to raise her aspirations. I was interrupted by a strikingly beautiful sight – two Megaptera novaeangliae leapt from the sea. They faced each other and their trajectories met at the peak of their arc. They were no more than 50 meters from the boat. Truly an astounding exhibition of cetacean behavior. But I was even more touched by Miss Summers’ reaction. When I turned to her after the two humpbacks had submerged back to the depths I noticed that tears were running down her cheeks. I felt an extreme affection for the young lady at that moment. Perhaps it was the sea air – more likely the clash of strong emotions I’d experienced in such a short time. But I overcame my normal reserve and placed my hand on top of hers on the rail.
We had stood like that for only a short while when were interrupted by the ship’s First (and only) Mate. A tall, awkward young man named Willy; he seemed highly good-natured and likely. “I just wanted to warn you folks that we might see a little rough weather,” he said and pointed over the opposite site of the boat. We could see a dark line of clouds in the distance. “Captain says nothing to worry about. We’ll be going around the bad part of the storm. But we might get some rain and a few waves,” with that he gave us a sheepish grin and ambled back toward the bow.
We crossed to the other side to look at the storm. Even from several miles away it was obvious that it was quite severe, with impressive bouts of lightning and cresting waves. The boat was beginning to pitch more noticeably as the waves reached us and we moved along the length of the well defined storm. As I watched I noticed some distinctively shaped clouds along the leading edge of the storm front – pale green in a distinct chevron shape.
“Why those are Schwartz-Sherwood cirro-nimbus clouds,” I said. “And look at the ratio of cloud height to the length of the storm!” I made a few quick mental calculations. “That must be a Scotti-Wells osmotic anti-cyclone. I read a paper about it just last month!”
“What does that mean?” Miss Summers asked.
“We’re doing exactly the wrong thing. That storm is only about a quarter-mile wide. But the most violent winds and turbulence are directly in front of it. We could be blown miles out of way.”
“Goodness!” she said, “You have to tell the captain.”
“I will,” I said, and left her there at the rail. I wasn’t sure how I would convince him. He seemed an amiable enough fellow, but had no reason to accept advice from me. The Scotti-Wells was a newly observed phenomenon and it was unlikely he would have heard of it. I took a second to compose my thoughts. As I leaned over the starboard rail, the two Megaptera repeated their unlikely performance. As the closer of the two leapt into the sky, meeting his companion at their mutual apogee, his eye met mine. In hindsight I am sure I had only fallen victim to the anthropomorphic fallacy, but at the time I was certain that I had had a split-second’s shared understanding with the cetacean.
I do not know how long I stood there transfixed. It may have been as long as five minutes. I do not know, but I was awakened from my reverie by the increased violence of the sea – the ship had acquired a pronounced lateral roll. I scanned the waves for the whales one last time. It began to rain.
I may never fully understand exactly why I did what I did next. At the time I was convinced it was the right thing to do. While the ensuing events and the difficulties of the past few years have engendered some doubts, I have never regretted my decision.
I turned and walked carefully back to the stern and Miss Summers. “Did you tell him?” she asked. She was still smiling, but I was able to detect an overtone of concern in her voice. It was raining hard now and the wind was blowing the drops into painful little pellets.
“I did,” I lied, “but it may have been too late.” I took her hand and led her below decks.
A Whale Story
I kicked the valve one last time. Finally salt water started to pour into the half-full tank.
"This place is really going down the tubes. I've been trying to get this valve replaced for months."
"Don't hold your breath. I heard the last plumber resigned this morning."
"Another one? What is taking them so long to – oh, what's the use. I'm going to get coffee while this fills," I nodded at the tank.
Rick pulled the siphon out of the tank he was cleaning. "I'll come. This can wait."
It was against the rules to leave the area while a tank was filling. Even if you knew, from years of experience, exactly how long it would take before it overflowed. But it had gotten hard to worry about being fired for breaking the rules when we were so busy worrying about getting fired due to budget cuts.
We headed down the corridor in a glum silence. "Let's go out," Rick said as I veered toward the break room.
I shrugged, and we continued down the hall. We probably shouldn't be spending money on Starbucks with the aquarium in the state it was in. We'd need the savings if we ended up having to go and work in a pet shop for minimum wage. But I followed him toward the exit.
I sat down next to Rick at the window table. I tried not to salivate at the sight of his huge mocha frappuccino topped with a mountain of whipped cream. I'd ordered a regular coffee and doctored it up with cream and sugar. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't that different from a cappuccino. That steamed milk always made them too hot to drink at first, and we didn't have that long a break, right? So it saved time as well as being cheaper. But it might be worth asking what they'd charge for some whipped cream.
"So take a look at what I just got." He took a folded-up envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to me.
I unfolded it. It was a letter from our director, Andy, on official aquarium stationery. I started to read.
"What the – you're kidding," I said. "This can't be serious."
He nodded. "Twenty percent cut in pay."
The letter said that Rick was being demoted from senior aquarist, as a result of budget cuts.
"But you – "
He just nodded, cutting me off. We were old friends. I didn't have to spell it out, how he'd uprooted his family, took on a huge mortgage to be in a decent school district, on the strength of this job offer a year ago.
"No change in your responsibilities, I see," I said, shaking my head.
"Of course not. When I talked to him, he made it sound like that was a good thing. Cutting my pay made it possible not to fire anyone else, which would have meant more work for fewer staff. Good deal, right?" He sucked fiercely at his straw.
"Oh, man. This is so bogus," I said as I continued reading to the end, where they put the lame apologies, full of corporate doublespeak. "I am so sorry." I folded the letter back up and handed it to him. "It just hasn't been the same since they appointed Andy."
I waited nervously for his response. I'd encouraged him to take this job, and lately I'd been feeling vaguely guilty about it. Of course, there was no way I could have known about the changes that were coming. But that didn't necessarily mean he wouldn't blame me, illogical as it might be.
But he just shook his head. "It's OK. I've got a plan."
I didn't press him. He'd sometimes talked about getting out of the business – the pay was lousy, the schedules sucked, never being home with your friends and family for a whole weekend – but he did it without enthusiasm. I knew he'd busted his ass in worse jobs for a long time and had moved halfway across the country to get the position here. At the time, this place had been the jewel of the city's tourist attractions, with a national reputation as the best. It had seemed like a good idea.
"Yeah, well, let me know if I can help." I had no idea how. But maybe a sincere letter of reference from a trusted colleague would be of more use than the boilerplate nonsense that the director would no doubt produce. Or maybe he could use some of my techniques for gussying up ramen noodles.
"We better get back," he said, slurping up the last of his drink.
"Yeah." I tossed my cup in the trash and we headed out the door.
I looked up and down the hall quickly before opening the door to the service area. I didn't want anyone to see me coming back – clear evidence that I'd left while a tank was filling.
"Don't worry, the coast is clear," Rick said.
"Thanks, cap'n," I saluted.
I hurried to my tank and watched it slowly fill the last few inches while Rick worked on his. I could probably be doing something else at the same time, but if they thought that filling tanks needed to be watched so badly, I'd better keep an undistracted eye on it, right?
I leaned on the crumbling, salt-encrusted concrete that enclosed the exhibit. Rick scrubbed at the empty holding tank behind me. Normally we'd make conversation, but right now, I wasn't sure what to say. Twenty percent salary cut. I remembered that Rick and his wife had been talking about trying to have a second child. I didn't know if they'd made any progress, and it seemed like a bad time to ask.
I decided that the tank was full enough given the uncomfortable situation and started to turn the valve. Of course, closing it was no easier than opening it. And in the almost-closed position it sprayed a trickle of water onto the service area floor.
"Shit," I whined, looking at the puddle that was accumulating as I kicked at the valve. "This leaks right through the wall to the aqua theater if I can't get it shut all the way."
Rick glanced at his watch. "Hey, do me a favor," he said. "Just leave that."
"Uh, sure." I didn't ask why, but the question was obvious from my tone.
"I want to show Andy exactly what the problem is."
"Right," I shrugged. It seemed like Andy knew exactly what the problems were, and just had a vastly different idea of how to address them than we did. But Rick had said he had a plan. I figured he knew what he was doing. He always did – that was why he was paid so well. Or had been. There was no need for me to butt in.
It was after closing time. I crossed the soaring glass-enclosed lobby on the way back to my locker. They'd had enough money to build a place like this, once. The summer sun, low to the horizon, hit me right in the eyes. This time of year, I knew that meant I was here much later than they really paid me for. But there weren't really enough of us to get everything done in a day, anymore.
But finally I was ready to head home. Or so I thought. Just as I unclipped my radio from my belt to put it away, it crackled with static. I hesitated, about to decide to put it away anyway – and then a voice said "I need assistance in the aqua theater. I've got a man down. In the pool."
I started to run, out the door of the locker room, back across the lobby. I wasn't sure what help I could be. I didn't work with the marine mammals, the dolphins and killer whales that performed in the theater. And if someone was drowning and there were still animals in the pool... There'd be nothing I could do. But I ran anyway.
Rick had beaten me there. He was standing at the entrance. By the pool, everything was as under control as it could be. Two of the trainers were shifting a killer whale out of the pool into a holding area. Three other staff were pulling a limp body out of the water.
"You probably don't want to look," Rick said.
I could see enough blood from here to imagine what he might mean. It's politically correct to call them orcas now, but they don't call them killer whales for nothing. Like elephants, they were fine most of the time, but they only had to get a bit cross with their trainer for it to be big trouble.
"Who is it?" I said, although I thought I knew. "Is he –"
"It's Andy. He's pretty definitely dead. He – never mind. You don't want to know."
"How... what would he be doing in the pool?" I trailed off, watching the puddle of blood grow larger on the floor next to the theater pool.
Rick looked at me. "It must have been an accident. The floor's slippery there, from that leaky valve."
He held my gaze. I noticed that he seemed to be speaking very carefully.
"Yeah, I guess that's it," I said, hesitantly.
"He did go on about how bad he felt about the budget situation, but I doubt that he was sincere enough about it that he jumped."
"Right," I said.
"I mean, it's not like anyone would have pushed him."
I nodded. "I better get back and close that valve then."
"Maybe we'll get some plumbers hired soon," Rick said. "You know, when we get a new director."
I nodded again as the sound of sirens approached, then turned and walked quickly away.
"This place is really going down the tubes. I've been trying to get this valve replaced for months."
"Don't hold your breath. I heard the last plumber resigned this morning."
"Another one? What is taking them so long to – oh, what's the use. I'm going to get coffee while this fills," I nodded at the tank.
Rick pulled the siphon out of the tank he was cleaning. "I'll come. This can wait."
It was against the rules to leave the area while a tank was filling. Even if you knew, from years of experience, exactly how long it would take before it overflowed. But it had gotten hard to worry about being fired for breaking the rules when we were so busy worrying about getting fired due to budget cuts.
We headed down the corridor in a glum silence. "Let's go out," Rick said as I veered toward the break room.
I shrugged, and we continued down the hall. We probably shouldn't be spending money on Starbucks with the aquarium in the state it was in. We'd need the savings if we ended up having to go and work in a pet shop for minimum wage. But I followed him toward the exit.
I sat down next to Rick at the window table. I tried not to salivate at the sight of his huge mocha frappuccino topped with a mountain of whipped cream. I'd ordered a regular coffee and doctored it up with cream and sugar. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't that different from a cappuccino. That steamed milk always made them too hot to drink at first, and we didn't have that long a break, right? So it saved time as well as being cheaper. But it might be worth asking what they'd charge for some whipped cream.
"So take a look at what I just got." He took a folded-up envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to me.
I unfolded it. It was a letter from our director, Andy, on official aquarium stationery. I started to read.
"What the – you're kidding," I said. "This can't be serious."
He nodded. "Twenty percent cut in pay."
The letter said that Rick was being demoted from senior aquarist, as a result of budget cuts.
"But you – "
He just nodded, cutting me off. We were old friends. I didn't have to spell it out, how he'd uprooted his family, took on a huge mortgage to be in a decent school district, on the strength of this job offer a year ago.
"No change in your responsibilities, I see," I said, shaking my head.
"Of course not. When I talked to him, he made it sound like that was a good thing. Cutting my pay made it possible not to fire anyone else, which would have meant more work for fewer staff. Good deal, right?" He sucked fiercely at his straw.
"Oh, man. This is so bogus," I said as I continued reading to the end, where they put the lame apologies, full of corporate doublespeak. "I am so sorry." I folded the letter back up and handed it to him. "It just hasn't been the same since they appointed Andy."
I waited nervously for his response. I'd encouraged him to take this job, and lately I'd been feeling vaguely guilty about it. Of course, there was no way I could have known about the changes that were coming. But that didn't necessarily mean he wouldn't blame me, illogical as it might be.
But he just shook his head. "It's OK. I've got a plan."
I didn't press him. He'd sometimes talked about getting out of the business – the pay was lousy, the schedules sucked, never being home with your friends and family for a whole weekend – but he did it without enthusiasm. I knew he'd busted his ass in worse jobs for a long time and had moved halfway across the country to get the position here. At the time, this place had been the jewel of the city's tourist attractions, with a national reputation as the best. It had seemed like a good idea.
"Yeah, well, let me know if I can help." I had no idea how. But maybe a sincere letter of reference from a trusted colleague would be of more use than the boilerplate nonsense that the director would no doubt produce. Or maybe he could use some of my techniques for gussying up ramen noodles.
"We better get back," he said, slurping up the last of his drink.
"Yeah." I tossed my cup in the trash and we headed out the door.
I looked up and down the hall quickly before opening the door to the service area. I didn't want anyone to see me coming back – clear evidence that I'd left while a tank was filling.
"Don't worry, the coast is clear," Rick said.
"Thanks, cap'n," I saluted.
I hurried to my tank and watched it slowly fill the last few inches while Rick worked on his. I could probably be doing something else at the same time, but if they thought that filling tanks needed to be watched so badly, I'd better keep an undistracted eye on it, right?
I leaned on the crumbling, salt-encrusted concrete that enclosed the exhibit. Rick scrubbed at the empty holding tank behind me. Normally we'd make conversation, but right now, I wasn't sure what to say. Twenty percent salary cut. I remembered that Rick and his wife had been talking about trying to have a second child. I didn't know if they'd made any progress, and it seemed like a bad time to ask.
I decided that the tank was full enough given the uncomfortable situation and started to turn the valve. Of course, closing it was no easier than opening it. And in the almost-closed position it sprayed a trickle of water onto the service area floor.
"Shit," I whined, looking at the puddle that was accumulating as I kicked at the valve. "This leaks right through the wall to the aqua theater if I can't get it shut all the way."
Rick glanced at his watch. "Hey, do me a favor," he said. "Just leave that."
"Uh, sure." I didn't ask why, but the question was obvious from my tone.
"I want to show Andy exactly what the problem is."
"Right," I shrugged. It seemed like Andy knew exactly what the problems were, and just had a vastly different idea of how to address them than we did. But Rick had said he had a plan. I figured he knew what he was doing. He always did – that was why he was paid so well. Or had been. There was no need for me to butt in.
It was after closing time. I crossed the soaring glass-enclosed lobby on the way back to my locker. They'd had enough money to build a place like this, once. The summer sun, low to the horizon, hit me right in the eyes. This time of year, I knew that meant I was here much later than they really paid me for. But there weren't really enough of us to get everything done in a day, anymore.
But finally I was ready to head home. Or so I thought. Just as I unclipped my radio from my belt to put it away, it crackled with static. I hesitated, about to decide to put it away anyway – and then a voice said "I need assistance in the aqua theater. I've got a man down. In the pool."
I started to run, out the door of the locker room, back across the lobby. I wasn't sure what help I could be. I didn't work with the marine mammals, the dolphins and killer whales that performed in the theater. And if someone was drowning and there were still animals in the pool... There'd be nothing I could do. But I ran anyway.
Rick had beaten me there. He was standing at the entrance. By the pool, everything was as under control as it could be. Two of the trainers were shifting a killer whale out of the pool into a holding area. Three other staff were pulling a limp body out of the water.
"You probably don't want to look," Rick said.
I could see enough blood from here to imagine what he might mean. It's politically correct to call them orcas now, but they don't call them killer whales for nothing. Like elephants, they were fine most of the time, but they only had to get a bit cross with their trainer for it to be big trouble.
"Who is it?" I said, although I thought I knew. "Is he –"
"It's Andy. He's pretty definitely dead. He – never mind. You don't want to know."
"How... what would he be doing in the pool?" I trailed off, watching the puddle of blood grow larger on the floor next to the theater pool.
Rick looked at me. "It must have been an accident. The floor's slippery there, from that leaky valve."
He held my gaze. I noticed that he seemed to be speaking very carefully.
"Yeah, I guess that's it," I said, hesitantly.
"He did go on about how bad he felt about the budget situation, but I doubt that he was sincere enough about it that he jumped."
"Right," I said.
"I mean, it's not like anyone would have pushed him."
I nodded. "I better get back and close that valve then."
"Maybe we'll get some plumbers hired soon," Rick said. "You know, when we get a new director."
I nodded again as the sound of sirens approached, then turned and walked quickly away.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
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