West With Giraffes(81)

As we kept on stroking and cooing, the giraffes began believing all was safe again. Girl stopped her stomping, and Boy, snorting a massive sigh, slowly laid himself down to rest.

So the Old Man and I eased to the ground, sat down by Red, and did the same.





14

To Arizona

There are times in life when everything shifts so fiercely you can only hold on, the Dust Bowls and graveyards and hurricanes all forging the You, and the fury, left behind. There are other times, though, when you feel a shift down deep in your bones. Quiet, clean, pure. As we moved on that morning, shaken but alive, I felt that kind of bone-quiet shift. The fury that had ahold of me ever since shooting my pa was gone. In its grip, I thought I could rescue us. Instead I’d almost killed us. It had taken the gentlest of giraffes to save us from the fiercest of lions, and somehow Boy had melted away my fury in the doing. In the days ahead, I’d have reason to ponder whether it was gone for good. But by the time we left the outcropping’s rest stop, I’d felt free of the fury long enough to know I wanted to stay that way.

A few miles down the highway, we felt the morning’s heat begin to rise. Then the land went off the caprock like a shot and we found ourselves in low red desert land. There was nothing as far as I could see—a different kind of nothing than the Panhandle, a bigger, wider, redder nothing.

At the first sign of a real gas station and store, I turned in. As the gas pumper came out, already geehawing at the giraffes, the Old Man said to Red, “The road turns south for a few hours before heading back west to Phoenix, bypassing El Paso, but we can detour over to that train station for you, Mrs. . . .” He paused, not having a name to go with his politeness, then glanced at the bell-shaped public telephone sign hanging over the store’s front door. “Looks like they got a phone if you need it,” he added, climbing out and going inside.

Red, though, didn’t move, having yet to look up, much less talk.

As I opened the door to get out, I looked at her sitting there so silent in the middle of the bench seat. A piece of hay was still stuck in one of her curls. I almost reached to pluck it. Instead I said, “I’m going to check the rig.” I fumbled for my next words. I wanted to say I was glad Cooter didn’t shoot her. I wanted to say how sorry I was for almost getting us both shot dead. I wanted to say more—so, so much more, something that would matter. Like always, I said something else. Staring at the hay in her hair, I heard myself say, “What were you doing inside the rig?”

At that, she looked up, all right. “You think I did it on purpose?” She sighed. “Last night the nice Oklahoma family offered to let me sleep in their Model T, but I knew I wasn’t going to do any sleeping. So, I sat by the fire until my clothes dried and kept sitting there for I don’t know how long. I watched you and the rig through the shadows, and when I saw you take your turn sleeping in the truck cab, I watched Mr. Jones. The longer I watched, the more I wanted to be near the giraffes one last time . . . by myself, you know? So, when Mr. Jones went off to relieve himself in the bushes, I climbed up to the open top and dropped into Boy’s side like I’d done in the mountains and I stroked his pelt for the sweetest time.”

Pausing, she sighed again. “I was only going to stay a minute, but then Boy lay down—I couldn’t believe it. So, I eased into the corner in all that padding to watch him drape his wonderful neck over his back and close his big eyes. When I felt my own eyes close, I let them. I knew I’d wake up when you tended them before we left. But you took off!” she said, throwing up her hands. “I didn’t even hear you close the top! Next thing I know, Boy is up on his feet and we’re bumping down the highway. And I couldn’t open the trapdoor from the inside like I had before, because of the flood.” She took a breath. “I even started yelling and banging, until I saw I was upsetting Boy. It was all I could do to stay out of his way.” She took another breath. “Then you turned into that maniac’s place . . . !”

Stifling a gasp, she had to stop. “I . . . only wanted to say a proper goodbye to them,” she added softly, then shut down again, hand to her heart. I almost reached over and took her other hand, I so wanted to touch her. But I got out and slowly closed the door.

The Old Man appeared with his arms full with sacks of apples, onions, bread, and a salami big enough to feed a work crew. He handed me the bread and salami and climbed up to feed the rest to the giraffes.

“They OK?” I asked.

“They always are, God love ’em. Despite everything we’ve done to them,” he said, offering up the delights.

As I set the bread and salami in the cab’s open window and climbed up to help, Red went into the store. Within seconds, though, she was back in the truck.

Jumping down, I went over to her window. I still had an apple in my hand, so I shined it up on my shirt and offered it to her. She barely noticed.

“What happened?” I finally said.

“I tried calling collect, but he didn’t accept my call.”

I shoved the apple in my pocket. “I thought you said he was a good man.”

“He is,” she mumbled. “He just needs time to remember it.”

As I pulled us onto the road, a highway patrol car whizzed by—back the way we came. I cut an eye at the Old Man, who was gazing, untroubled, in his mirror at the giraffes sniffing the wind.