West With Giraffes(21)

“Yessir.”

“OK, pop the top to let the darlings munch.”

By the time the Old Man had gotten out of the cab, I’d already climbed up and unlatched the top. Girl’s snout poked out quick, but I didn’t see Boy. I peeked over the side. He was on the floor, his big body curled up, legs under him, and worst of all, his neck looped over his back. Jumping to the ground, I gasped out, “Boy’s down—”

The Old Man flipped open the wild boy’s trapdoor. There was the giraffe’s whole body close enough to touch. Spreading the fingers of his bad hand as far as they’d go, the Old Man placed them on the wild boy’s looped neck and began to stroke. Boy uncurled it to flick his tongue at the pleasure of the Old Man’s touch, and instantly rose to his feet by Girl.

“It’s a good sign,” the Old Man said my way. “They like your driving. Which means I like your driving.”

I was still rattled. “Giraffes lie down?”

He shrugged. “Back on your Okie farm, you never saw a horse lie down?”

Sure I had. But they weren’t giraffes. Then I thought about the Old Man’s shrug. “Have you ever seen a giraffe lie down?”

“Can’t say I have,” he answered, unlatching Girl’s trapdoor. “In fact, the few zoo bigwigs that have had giraffes will tell you they don’t. Except to die.”

Die? “How do you know it’s OK then?”

“I can feel it,” he said. “If either do it again, though, they’ll never do it at the same time, I suspect. Least as long as the female’s leg is in a bad way.”

“Why?”

“Lions. Somebody’s got to keep watch.” Gearing up to check her splint through the trapdoor, he leaned sideways, surely thinking he was going to have to do their dance. She was already stomping a bit, knowing he was there. “Keep back,” he ordered.

“I can help,” I said.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said my way, leaving his shoulder wide open, and Wild Girl kicked.

WHOP.

Groaning, he staggered back.

So, before he could tell me not to, I grabbed the cab’s gunnysack, climbed up the side of the rig, and held out a sweet onion to Girl, who lapped it right up and waited for more. Soon, like the first night in quarantine, both giraffes were sniffing me all over for onion delights. The Old Man watched for a minute, then carefully finished his splint inspection as Girl kept getting onions for no more whops and Boy got them just because Girl got them, fair being fair.

As the giraffes went on nudging me with their snouts, I could feel the Old Man eyeing me again. He took his Lucky Strike pack from his shirt pocket, tapped out a smoke, lit it, and hunkered down on his haunches against the tree, motioning me down. I hopped to the ground. He held out his pack. Tobacco might as well have been chewing gum back then—my churchy ma even dipped snuff, nastiest stuff you ever saw. I’d already done more than my share of coughing in my young life, though, and wasn’t stupid enough to take up smoking until the War. When I shook my head, he stuffed the pack back in his pocket, took a long suck of his Lucky, and settled back against the tree, resting both arms over his knees. The cigarette was dangling between his mangled fingers. It was the first time I’d had a real good look at them—one finger was half gone, and the others looked like they’d been chewed on by something fierce and spit out to heal all wrong.

“If I let you help me with the darlings,” he was saying, “whatever you do, don’t let me catch you inside. Big don’t know from small. They could love you like their mama but still crush an arm or leg without a clue. And don’t be lulled by the fact they’re young. After all they’ve been through, add that to what we’re asking of them and they’re about as skittish as you’d be in the same situation. You hear?”

I nodded.

Sucking the guts out of the smoke, he flicked the butt in the road, grabbed up a water bucket, and began filling it from the rig’s jugs as the giraffes bent his way. As he cooed his giraffe-speak to them, I felt as if I were eavesdropping on something personal.

“You got a feeling for animals, don’t you?” I heard myself mumble.

He held out the full bucket until I took it. “That’s a safe bet.”

“My pa said it’s a weakness.”

“Did he now,” said the Old Man, filling the other bucket. “I look weak to you?”

“. . . No, but he said animals were put on earth by God for our use, that it’s the natural order, and bucking it’s childish for a grown man since we got to either eat or kill them to survive.”

“And God knows you got to survive,” the Old Man said under his breath.

“You agree with him?” Sarcasm wasn’t a thing I heard much down on the farm.

“What?” he said, only half-listening.

“You agree with Pa?”

“Well, now,” he said, handing me the second bucket, “I did say we’re all lions. Lions got no choice but to always be lions. We do. By the way, you got a feeling for animals yourself whether you and your pa like it or not.” He nodded up at the giraffes. “The darlings know it. They knew about Earl, the sumbitch, and they fixed that, didn’t they?”

The giraffes were stomping a little for us to get a move on with the water buckets. So I did, as the Old Man sat down on the truck cab’s running board, lit up a new Lucky, and began eyeing me again. I felt the hackles rise on the back of my neck as he kept it up, like he was a mountain lion sizing me up on the Panhandle plains. The longer it went on, the sorrier I was I’d kept him talking.