When My Heart Joins the Thousand(7)

I hit send. My palms are damp, so I rub them on my shorts.

His reply comes a minute later: Well, that’s definitely one of the more unique conversation starters I’ve heard. People usually say something about the weather. Or sports. Though, come to think of it, I never know how to respond to that, either.

Of course. He doesn’t want to hear about quantum theory. People usually don’t.

Do you want me to leave you alone? I send.

No, he replies quickly. You can talk to me about Copenhagen all night if you like. Hey, you want to sign on to Gchat? It’ll be easier.

Fine. I sign on.

So what’s your name? he types.

I suppose there’s no harm in giving him that information. Alvie Fitz.

Alvie, huh? Like that guy from the Annie Hall movie?

It can be a girl’s name, too.

Oh. You’re a girl?

I’m female, yes.

I like it, he sends. Your name, I mean. It’s better than mine, anyway. I mean, Stanley Finkel. It sounds like a skeevy game show host or something. Also it rhymes with “tinkle.” Which, needless to say, made grade school a blast.

It sounds like a normal name to me.

Well, thank you. :) And then: I have to ask. How did you come across my phone?

I saw you throw it into the pond. There’s no response. I wait. Why did you throw it away?

Several minutes pass without a reply, and I begin to wonder if he’s gone. Then a new message appears: I didn’t think I’d need it anymore. I was being stupid. It doesn’t matter now.

I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t. After a minute, another line of text pops up: Alvie? Thank you.

For what?

Nothing. I just wanted to say thank you.

I can’t remember the last time someone has thanked me. It’s a strange feeling.

I have to go, I say.

I close my laptop. For a while, I sit, staring into space. My heart is beating faster than normal.





CHAPTER FOUR


I don’t sleep much that night. Variations from my routine always upset my sleeping schedule, and the past few days have been full of aberrations.

Finally I drift off on the couch and wake to the glare of sunlight through the curtains. The light brightens and spills across the floor, illuminating the shabby blue-gray carpet, the cluttered stacks of books and newspapers in the corners of my living room. The rancid cheese smell permeates the air.

I pry myself off the couch and plod to the kitchen, where I start a pot of strong coffee. My shift starts in less than an hour. I need to get ready for work.

I brush my teeth, comb and re-braid my hair, and wash myself with a rag and a pot of soapy water. I don’t like showers or baths, but it’s possible to stay clean without them—not to mention I waste less water this way. Even hair can be washed in the sink. It just takes a little longer.

It’s cold out, and it takes me a few tries to start the car. I turn the key, and there’s only a dry click and a faint wheezing sound. I try a few more times, and the engine sputters to life.

At work, I clock in and walk down the cobblestone path. There’s a prickling itch in my skin, like an allergic reaction, as I pass the sign about anthropomorphizing.

I’m on feeding duty this morning, so I retrieve bags of trout and squid from the walk-in refrigerator in the storage shed; cut the slippery, pinkish-gray meat into tiny chunks; then feed it to the two river otters. Afterward, I give the gibbons their fruit. The gibbons are a mated pair named Persephone and Hades. This, I believe, is intended as irony.

The pale golden female leans down to pull my braid, and I let her. The touch of animals has never bothered me the way human contact does.

I move on. Inside a large, barred enclosure, a red-tailed hawk named Chance perches on the branch of a fake tree. He’s the zoo’s first hawk, acquired from a wildlife rehabilitation facility a few weeks ago. His eyes are a clear, light copper gold, somewhere between the color of champagne and a worn penny.

I unlock the door, very slowly, and remove a dead mouse—sealed in a little plastic bag—from my pocket. My hands are covered by thick protective gloves, the same khaki color as my uniform. I remove the mouse from its plastic sleeve and hold it by its tail. “Breakfast,” I say.

Chance’s yellow toes clench on his perch. His claws are long and black, very sharp—weapons for seizing prey and puncturing vital organs. But his hunting days are over. He flexes the stump, which is all that remains of his left wing.

I open the cage door, place the dead mouse inside, and nudge it toward him with my foot. Chance cocks his head, eyeing the rodent, but doesn’t move.

Since he arrived, I’ve been spending a lot of time with him. He’s still skittish around people. All wild-born animals are, at first . . . and since Chance has been through a severe injury, he’s easily agitated. If he were human, his condition might be called post-traumatic stress disorder. A zoo probably isn’t the ideal environment for him, but since he’s stuck here, he needs to adjust to the presence of humans. It will take time, but I’ve already made progress. In the beginning, he would go into a panic whenever anyone entered his cage. One day, perhaps, he’ll take food from my hand—but for now, I’m just trying to get him to eat in my presence.

The mouse lies on the dirt floor between us.

Chance hops down to the cage floor, snatches the mouse, and climbs back up to his perch, using his wing stump for leverage as he grips the branches with his talons. I’m impressed at his adaptability.