Notes from a Liar and Her Dog

  Just Carol has a dustpan in her hand. She hands it to me and pulls another one off a nail on the wall. “Scoop up the poop and the old meat, then put it in your bucket,” she explains. “I’ll take the front. You take the back. We’ll meet in the middle.” I nod and walk back to lions’ cage number 5, trying to pretend I do this all the time. I look at the pulley that operates the metal door leading to the exhibit area. I know I’m safe so long as I don’t pull it. Still, it feels spooky being caged in a cell that only a little while ago held a lion. I look at the metal door. There is a gap between the door and the floor. I see four lion legs walk by, close enough for me to touch. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up like little antennae.

  From the inside, the cage looks like a cartoon prison cell. There is one long wooden bench, and that’s it. The cage is just wide enough for a twin bed. I imagine the place all decorated with furniture and pictures. I wish I could fix it up, because it feels cold and empty the way it is. It makes me sorry for the lion who has to spend her night here.

  In the corner there is a pile of poop, which looks like extra large dog poop, and at the other end, a scattering of old meat that smells like raw turned food. A bone the shape of a heart sits on the bench. I wonder what animal it has come from. The bone feels heavy in my dustpan the way a big rock would. I dump it in the bucket. The bucket smells so bad I have to hold my breath when I’m near it. After Just Carol and I get all the big pieces up, we turn on a black hose and spray the rest down a drain in the low center of the cement floor. The water sprays hard, like a fireman’s hose. I like this part a lot.

  I like working with Just Carol, too. She shows me what to do, but she isn’t all teachery about it. She acts as if we are even-Steven here—like I am really a person, not just a kid. My mom is never like this. She is always the boss. Her job is to point out my mistakes, and as far as she is concerned, there are a million of them. I am wrong, even before I do anything. For one thing, I don’t look right. She thinks I look like my aunt. And the way she feels about my aunt, this is like saying I look like a big blackhead. But she is wrong. I’m not ugly, I just don’t fit in the same neat little box she and Your Highness and Kate do. I’m tall and dark. I have brown eyes and thick, thick hair that won’t stay inside the hair baubles Kate and Your Highness wear. My nose has a bump on it, which is another thing that really bugs my mom. I think she would sand it off if she could. Your Highness and Kate both have small freckled noses “the size of rosebuds,” my father says.

  Sometimes my mom buys dresses that match for her and for us. They always have puffed sleeves and sashes and flocked flowers. I don’t like them. I like my flannel shorts or my brown plaid pants or my orange jumper with all the zippers.

  When I was little, my mother used to dress me in Your Highness’s hand-me-downs. But now I’m taller than Your Highness, so my mom can’t do that anymore. This is good, because I’d rather drink pee than wear Your Highness Elizabeth’s clothes. My father says that Your Highness and I have normal “sibling rivalry” and it’s because we are only one year apart that there is a problem. But this is not true. Even if we were ten years apart, I would still hate Your Highness Elizabeth. The only way we’d get along is if she died before I was born. Even then, I wouldn’t want to wear her clothes.

  Elizabeth never tries to be nice, but I think sometimes my supposed mother does. It’s just that she can’t. She sees a weed growing in the lawn and even if she’s dressed in her best black dress, she can’t stop herself from swooping down and snatching it out. And no matter what I do, I will always be a weed to her. I am all wrong. I set the table forks first. I keep my socks in my jeans drawer. I do the dishes sitting down. I eat in the bathtub. I read on the floor. I write notes on my hand or sometimes my leg. “This isn’t the way people do things,” she tells me, shaking her head, as if she is the keeper of the right ways to do everything.

  It feels strange to squirt the lion’s cage down with water and not be told I am doing it wrong. I wait to hear those words. My back is stiff to brace against them, but Just Carol seems only to make encouraging noises. “Hey, that’s good, Ant. There, we got it. I think that’s it, my dear!” she says. And suddenly I feel as if I might cry.

  We are done cleaning the cages now. Carol opens the door of a refrigerator that sits against the side wall of the lions’ night house. The refrigerator looks like ours at home, except there are no shelves inside. The only thing in it is an enormous piece of raw meat, which still looks like the cow it was. Just Carol saws off chunks with her knife. I feel queasy.

  When she’s done, there is a plate of neat red meat cubes. We take the meat and the cutting board outside so we can finish the rest of our work in the sun-shine. We sit down on a bench in the shade of a big palm tree. I sit carefully so I don’t bump Pistachio.

  When I’m settled, Just Carol shows me how to cut a small hole in the meat and hide a white pill inside. “The lions take medicine for lepto…leptospirosis,” she explains. “We put the pills inside the meat, then Mary-Judy feeds the meat squares to the lions on a long shish-kebab stick.”

  “Oh,” I say, sticking one pill in a cube. I think I have it, then the pill pops out the other side and I have to dig another little hole for it. “So how come you work here every Saturday?” I ask as I pick the pill off the ground.

  “Being around animals puts me in a good mood. It helps me keep things in perspective. It reminds me of when I was a kid and I wanted to be a vet.”

  I look at her frizzy yellow hair and her bright green eyes. She looks younger today than she normally does. She doesn’t look like a teacher, either. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was an ordinary person.

  “How come you didn’t become one?”

  “Too hard,” she says.

  “Really?” I’m amazed. Teachers never say things are too hard. Teachers make everything sound like it’s supposed to be easy. Like writing a ten-page history report is more fun than a day at the beach.

  “I’m not good at science,” she says as she tips a pill in with the point of her knife.

  “But you’re a teacher,” I say.

  “I’m an art teacher. I did pretty well in English, history, and art, of course. But not science. Chemistry—” She shakes her head. “Forget it.”

  I’m so surprised, I stop what I’m doing. She notices this and looks over at me. “Not everyone’s as smart as you, you know,” she says.

  The smile comes to my lips before I can stop it. But as soon as I feel it there, I push it away. I don’t want her to know how pleased I am. Still, I hope she will keep talking more about this. More about me and how smart I am.

  “At least, that’s what Sam Lewis says.”

  “Cave Man?”

  Carol laughs a funny laugh, kind of a snort. “I guess I should feel lucky that I’m only ‘Just’ Carol and not something worse. Anyhow, Sam Lewis says you try to pass your work off as Harrison’s. He says you even try to copy that weird handwriting Harrison has.”

  “Not anymore,” I say as I pick up another chunk of meat.

  “Yes, he said he talked to you about it and got you to stop.”

  I bite the pouch of skin under my lip. I want to tell her this isn’t true. That he only thinks we’ve stopped. That we’ve outsmarted him. That we switch report cards now. But I know I shouldn’t. She has two strikes against her. One, she’s a teacher. And two, she told on me once already. I say nothing, the urge to brag practically choking me.

  “We don’t know why you did it, though.”

  I shrug. My mind clamps on the “we.” Cave Man and Carol have talked about me? I like this idea.

  “No really, Ant, why?”

  “Harrison’s father likes it when Harrison gets good grades,” I say.

  “Harrison’s not stupid—why doesn’t he do his own work?” she asks as she finishes her last cube.

  I shrug again. “He’d rather draw.”

  She sighs and shakes her head. “Well, what about you? Aren’t your parents,
or whatever you call them, upset when you bring home bad grades?”

  “They’re used to it.”

  “Well, what do they think now that you got all those A’s?” she asks, studying me as if the answer is somewhere on my face.

  “They think I’m smart,” I say, and I try to smile modestly while looking directly at her. Another good lying technique. Always hold a person’s look. Never be the first to turn away.

  “That’s nice,” she says as I feel something move in my pocket. Pistachio. I’d forgotten about him, but now he’s getting restless.

  We are done with our pill duty. This is my chance. “Look,” I say, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay.” She picks up the plate of pill-stuffed beef chunks. “It’s down by the front of the lion exhibit. It’s all painted with zebra stripes. You can’t miss it.”

  I go out the gate, step in the tub of bleach, then walk past the lion-viewing station to the zebra-painted bathroom. I’m smiling to myself. This Zoo Teen thing is really fun! But then the bottom drops out of my stomach when I remember the conversation I overheard last Sunday. As soon as I get happy, then my dad quits his job and we move again.

  I cut around behind the bathroom. Then, I look to see if it is safe to put Tashi down here. Nope. Too many kids by the lions’ viewing area, so I cut through by the side of the exhibit. Two years is a long time, my brain tries to calm my stomach. And when we moved to Sarah’s Road, he said it would be the last move. He said it would be forever. Besides, I asked him if we were moving and he said no.

  I am near the lions now, but a safe distance from Just Carol and the public part of the zoo. This seems perfect, so I put Pistachio down on the dirt and right away he arches his back and sticks his nose and his tail in the air. He looks like a parade horse. I’m so happy to see him behaving like himself again, strutting around as if it’s top secret business for him to smell everything. I take off my jacket and toss it on a straw bale. I feel much cooler now. It really is too hot for a jacket, especially standing in the sun.

  I sit down on the straw bale and wait for Pistachio to do his business. He is so busy smelling, he forgets to pee. “Go on, pee,” I whisper. “We don’t have all day, you know!” Once before, I left him too long in my pocket and he peed right there, a hot liquid running down my leg. I definitely don’t want this to happen again. I look at the sun, wondering what time it is. Eleven? Eleven-thirty? This is close enough to the middle of the day, I think, so I take out Pistachio’s tiny white heart pill and poke it down his throat, hold his mouth closed, and massage his neck the way the vet showed me how. Then I let him down. “Now, pee,” I hiss at him, but he is so busy smelling the bale of straw that he pays no attention to me. He is very thorough about his smelling. One whiff won’t do. He must smell every square inch. “Come on!” I say.

  “Hey, Ant,” Just Carol calls. Her voice seems close. Pistachio is down by the rocks now, sniffing his way to the chain-link fence. I wonder if I can get to him in time, when I hear Just Carol, even closer this time. “Ant?”

  There’s nothing I can do except hope she doesn’t see Pistachio. “Yes,” I say.

  “Whatcha doin’?” she asks in an easy, friendly tone of voice.

  “Oh, I was just looking at the lions,” I say, nodding toward them and away from Pistachio. “They sure are lazy.”

  “A little nap, a sunbath, a sip of water…tough life, isn’t it?” she says as Junior, the male lion, nuzzles one of the lionesses. Just Carol is absorbed in watching them, so I glance to see where Pistachio is again.

  “You ready?” Just Carol asks. “Because it’s lunchtime. Mary-Judy doesn’t like it if we’re late. She’ll get worried the lions had an early dinner and come hauling up here in the zoo truck to find us.” Just Carol smiles.

  “Okay,” I say. I will walk down a bit with her, then tell her I forgot my jacket, which luckily I did take off. Then I’ll run back and scoop up Pistachio. I glance at him. He is all the way over by the fence now.

  “I know you brought your lunch…did you bring something to drink, too? I don’t know about you, but I’m really thirsty,” Just Carol says. She is walking fast. I am walking slow, hoping she will slow down, too. But she doesn’t. She walks on ahead of me.

  We are getting farther and farther away from Pistachio. My heart is jammed up in my throat and beating loud in my head. I’m sweating big drips. I steal a glance back and I see Pistachio’s brown body near the lion chain link. The lions will eat him if he goes in there. This idea hits me hard, like I jammed my finger in the door. “Wait here!” I whisper. “I—I forgot my jacket.” I am so scared, my throat has closed up. I can barely speak.

  I run back, hoping she won’t follow me, but I can’t help it if she does, now. Pistachio is too near the fence. He is so small, he could go under. I head back to where I last saw him, but now I can’t find him. I stop. I look around. Where is he? “Pistachio!” I call through my closed-up throat. Then I hear his high-pitched yip and I see the sudden excited motion of his small body out of the corner of my eye. I turn around. There he is. In with the lions. He’s barking at them, his stubby tail straight in the air.

  9

  A HIPPOPOTAMUS OATH

  At first, the lions ignore him. They are too busy sunning themselves to notice. Maybe they think Pistachio is a fake dog, or too little to care about one way or the other. I am almost to the fence now. “PISTACHIO! COME! COME!” I pound my leg with my hand.

  Pistachio ignores me. He is jumping around, barking his head off, daring them to get him. Daring them to fight. Then, suddenly, one of the lionesses snaps to attention. Her whole body tenses. A streak of energy arches through her. She crouches and leaps, all in one smooth motion.

  “PISTACHIO!” I scream, shoving my arm under the fence, trying to grab him. My fingers graze his fur, but I get hold of nothing.

  “What? What? Are you nuts?” Just Carol screams. I hear her rubber boots pounding toward me.

  I am flat on the dirt with my arm as far under the fence as it will go. “PISTACHIO! PISTACHIO!” I call. The chain link is tearing my arm. I try to push closer to Pistachio. I touch his fur again, trying to grab ahold, but he jumps out of my reach. Just Carol tugs at my other arm. “GET YOUR ARM OUT OF THERE!” she cries.

  “LET GO!” I scream. The lion is there now. She has covered the ground in a flash. She lets out a terrifying roar and sails through the air. Pistachio is bark, bark, barking. I snap my eyes shut and yank my arm back without even thinking. I can’t help myself. It’s pure fear. Then I force myself to open my eyes. Oh, my God. She’s eaten him. I hear a terrible noise as if someone is sobbing or moaning. It’s coming from me. I want him back. I have to hold him again. I will do anything for this, and then I feel a scratching at my boot. I look down and there he is. Panting hard, wagging his tail a million miles an hour, looking eagerly at me as if he has just had a lot of fun.

  “Holy Jesus!” Just Carol says.

  I pick up Pistachio and hold him tight against me. I am never going to let him go again. I smell his dog smell, like leaves burning. He licks my finger with his small, wet, raspy tongue. The lioness is still watching him. She is pacing on the other side of the fence. Back and forth. Back and forth. I shudder. My whole body feels stiff, as if I’ve taken a hard fall. And my arm is bleeding a little where I scratched it on the chain link.

  “What the hell were you doing?” Just Carol asks.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t feel able to explain right now. I don’t think my mouth will work. All I know is that Pistachio is here with me. I stroke his fur. He curls his body against mine and licks my hand all over as if it’s dirty and he needs to make it clean. He seems proud of himself. I would hate him for this if I weren’t so glad to have him safe. I’m shaking, I’m so grateful he is all right.

  Just Carol is watching me. She is very quiet.

  I get my coat, put it on, and pour Pistachio back in the pocket.

  “So,” she says. She’s not moving. Not blinking
. She is so still, I wonder if she is even breathing, but then I see her eyes are jumping mad. “He’s been there all morning,” she declares in a hard little voice.

  She’s walking now, and my legs are moving, too. We go around to the front and step in the bleach tub and walk down to the main zoo, through the gate that says Danger: Do Not Enter.

  Just Carol doesn’t say anything else. I steal a glance at her, wondering what will happen now. Her face is blank, it’s only her teeth that give her away. They grind as we walk.

  We are approaching the big feed room and the locker room. Harrison is sitting with Mary-Judy and three keepers at a picnic table just outside the door of the kitchen.

  A khaki man is walking behind us. “Hey, what was all that commotion over by the lions?” he asks.

  “What commotion?” Mary-Judy’s hand freezes, holding the waxed paper from her sandwich.

  “I don’t know…sounded like maybe a keeper was in there.” The man laughed.

  “Yeah,” said Just Carol. “It was Peggy. She climbed a tree after a squirrel. It was something.” Just Carol smiles.

  “Oh, is that all.” Mary-Judy relaxes. “Did she get it?”

  “Nope. Got to a high skinny branch where Peggy couldn’t get her.”

  “Treed her, huh? Well, it’s only a matter of time, then. That Peggy, she’s good. I’ve seen her climb halfway up the chain link to get a squirrel. Scared me to death. I had maintenance double string the top of the whole exhibit after that.”

  “Well, so long as it’s not you up there in that tree, Mary-Judy.” The man laughs.

  “If it is, you’ll be the first to hear about it, Joe.” Mary-Judy takes a banana out of her lunch bag.

  “If we lose you, I have dibs on your radio,” a tall, skinny khaki lady says. She takes a long drag from her cigarette.

  “Honey, if I’m gone, you can have everything. Even my underwear,” Mary-Judy says.

  “Harrison.” Just Carol beckons with her finger. Harrison jumps up and comes over to us.