Sweet Lamb of Heaven (42)
I grilled myself over my incompetence, how I had come to let myself be roofied. Nights when I wasn’t with Will were the worst, but I couldn’t ask him to take care of me every minute so I pretended to need “time alone” some nights, whenever I could stand to. I often passed the time by retracing my steps in the hours before she was taken, seeing a simple blueprint of our room from above. In bird’s-eye view I moved around performing mundane actions, the oval of my head between the knobs of my shoulders, the tips of my shoes beneath. There was Lena, a smaller oval, the same shapes in miniature.
I tried to reframe each movement to determine how the drug was introduced, think of myself brushing my teeth—was it in the toothpaste?—or brushing my hair. Maybe it hadn’t been a pill at all, maybe it was some kind of narcotic that was absorbed through the skin. I played back that hour before I went to bed, when Lena was already sleeping. It couldn’t have been the toothpaste because she uses a different one—a children’s flavor called Silly Strawberry—and she must have been sedated, as I was, otherwise she would have woken up as they carried her out, she would have kicked and screamed.
Sedated or not, I told myself, I would have been woken by a scream. Since she was a year old I’ve jerked awake at the slightest sound, a murmur or one-word whisper of sleep talk.
The cops had taken away the half-empty wine bottle and the plastic motel cup I’d drunk from, claiming they were going to test them; the wine was all I remembered eating or drinking, after our restaurant dinner one town over.
But they didn’t report any results. They were useless, Don said, they’ve been bought off or distracted or co-opted, he had no idea how but it seemed to be the case.
There was also the possibility of a needle, that I was injected while I slept and never found the pinprick hole. I couldn’t figure it out no matter how many times I set up that blueprint in my mind’s eye. No matter how often I took us through the paces, I could never narrow it down.
We never found Ned’s recording device, and together the two unknowns obsessed me.
WHAT IF ONE of the aspen trees was cut down, while the rest of the organism remained? Did the remainder grieve?
TRYING TO AVOID images of how Lena was living in that moment I lay on top of the neatly made motel bed and stared at the ceiling. I thought how, in our normal, middle-class circumstance, we almost relish the idea of dark forces that lurk in the shadows. We watch movies, read books made glamorous by black-and-red palettes of horror, the hint of an otherworldly malice running like quicksilver through the marrow of our bones. We like to call the dark rumors demonic, like to have monsters to fear instead of time, aging, the falling away of companions.
Even people who scoff at the supernatural can embrace the demonic with a gothic fervor, hold in themselves an abiding fascination with that beauty of darkness and blood.
BIG LINDA HAD been working, she said—her work for decades had been training orcas like Shamu. She’s pursued that vocation for most of her adult life.
She hadn’t been doing the shows for a while, though, she’d gotten middle-aged and taken on more of a supervisory role, because to get in the pool with the animals you had to be in peak physical form. There’d been human deaths, of course, she said, maybe you read about them, saw them in the news, and trainers knew the real story, that it wasn’t trainer error that caused those deaths but rather psychosis, because the great, predatory whales lived captive lives of aching, maddening frustration, shut up in their small cement tanks.
Some were more aggressive than others. Tilikum, she said. Blackfish.
Of course killer whales aren’t whales in the sense of baleen whales, the kind of whales that cruise gently through the deep, slowly straining millions of krill and copepod through large maws full of white comb-like structures (she told us). The orcas were toothed whales, big dolphins really, though also apex predators, if we were familiar with the term. They were so highly intelligent that parts of their brain appeared a good deal more complex than our own—the part that processes emotion, she said, was so highly developed that some neurologists believe orcas’ emotional lives are more complex than those of humans.
We know so little about them, she said, even the scientists, but they have language, even different dialects. They have culture. There are three kinds of orcas in the wild, all with their different cultures.
“They are astonishing creatures,” she said, her voice trembling. “Some peoples hold them to be sacred.”
I think I wasn’t the only one to feel how much she cared, in the moment when she said that—how palpable her passion was—and how also, on this large, horse-faced older woman, passion like that looked almost pitiable.
Anyway, her favorite whale was a youngster who’d been bred and born in captivity, which is still fairly rare, she said, they die off more quickly than they can reproduce, the captive ones. His mother and father were popular with the crowds who visited the aquarium-amusement park where she worked (swiftly I shut down the mental link children, blocked an image of children laughing, splashed by the orca’s leap).
Big Linda was alone one morning at the pool—the pools they live in, she added, only have to be twice the length of an orca’s body. Main Linda cleared her throat, jerking Big Linda out of her sad reverie.
There was a silence, a pleasant tranquillity, said Big Linda. This was Florida in summer; there were palm trees overhead, the smell of heating pavement.