coffee’s not so bad black, but I’d be totally lying.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” I say, smacking my hands on the counter.
Anya and Paul exchange a glance. “Maybe you should switch to herbal tea,”Anya suggests.
I don’t respond, just grab the wine bottle where it sits on the table between them.
Back at my cottage, I leave the door open so that the elephant can watch me as I dump
the remaining liquid into the sink and rinse the bottle as best I can. She bleats,
loud enough for me to freeze to see if anyone else has heard her. When no one comes
running, I fill the empty bottle with water and add a few drops of corn syrup two
years past its expiration date that was left in the pantry of the hut by my predecessor.
Glucose would have been better, but this is a decent substitute.
The calf stares at me as I lift the bottle and try to tilt it into her mouth. She
turns her head and knocks me down sideways, so that the bottle goes spinning and half
its contents spill.
This time I try lifting her trunk to mimic the way she would be standing if she were
nursing from her mother. Her mouth opens, but when I attempt to pour the sweetened
water into her mouth, she chokes and backs away. Then she arches her trunk beneath
my arm, jerking her head, as if I could nurse her.
With my hands on my hips, I survey my tiny living space. I soak one of my T-shirts
with the water and wring it into the calf’s mouth, which works—but she knocks me over
in an effort to get more, faster. Determined, I tear apart my dresser drawers and
my closet. I find a hot water bottle and a funnel. Then I spy the rubber gloves beneath
my sink. I slip them onto my hands and scrub like I am a surgeon, trying to wash away
any residue of cleaning fluid. I slip the neck of a glove over the wine bottle.
I need a rubber band, but I don’t have one. All of the secretarial supplies are in
the office. I reach into my pocket, looking for a hair elastic, and instead touch
the telegram from this morning.
Just like that, I can’t breathe.
The calf bellows loud enough for the lights to come on in the cabin beside mine. I
freeze.
But no one comes forward from the darkness, and the only sound is the monkeys in the
trees, passing judgment. I reach into my other pocket for the hair tie and wrap it
tight around the glove to form a makeshift nipple. With a pocketknife, I punch a hole
into the tip of one of the fingers. Then I tilt the bottle upside down, so that the
calf can suckle.
She does. The sweetened water runs down her chin and her chest as she draws on the
teat of the rubber glove. I refill the bottle three times. My hands grow sticky; my
arm aches as I hold the bottle in place. The calf drinks like there’s no tomorrow.
Like I’m all she’s got.
My mother could have been a truly brilliant scientist, and she never passed up the
opportunity to tell me so. But she was also unusually beautiful, which undercut her
chances of being taken seriously as a college student in her day. Her white shoulders,
her jet-black hair, and her violet eyes called to mind a young Elizabeth Taylor, and
left her single and pregnant with the child of her very married biology professor.
She did not finish at Mount Holyoke but dropped out to have me.
I did not know this as a child, of course. When I started asking about my father,
she came home one day from work with a photograph. The man in the frame was young,
smiling, and looked nothing like me. The photo had been in her locker, she said, but
now she kept it on a shelf in the living room. It wasn’t until I was thirteen and
desperate for any clue written on the back that I slid the picture from beneath the
glass and realized it was just a head shot of a model that had come with the frame.
I confronted my mother, and that’s when she told me the truth: If not for me, her
life would have been considerably different.
For a few years, I had an almost-stepfather
“Son-of-a-bitch,” I say, smacking my hands on the counter.
Anya and Paul exchange a glance. “Maybe you should switch to herbal tea,”Anya suggests.
I don’t respond, just grab the wine bottle where it sits on the table between them.
Back at my cottage, I leave the door open so that the elephant can watch me as I dump
the remaining liquid into the sink and rinse the bottle as best I can. She bleats,
loud enough for me to freeze to see if anyone else has heard her. When no one comes
running, I fill the empty bottle with water and add a few drops of corn syrup two
years past its expiration date that was left in the pantry of the hut by my predecessor.
Glucose would have been better, but this is a decent substitute.
The calf stares at me as I lift the bottle and try to tilt it into her mouth. She
turns her head and knocks me down sideways, so that the bottle goes spinning and half
its contents spill.
This time I try lifting her trunk to mimic the way she would be standing if she were
nursing from her mother. Her mouth opens, but when I attempt to pour the sweetened
water into her mouth, she chokes and backs away. Then she arches her trunk beneath
my arm, jerking her head, as if I could nurse her.
With my hands on my hips, I survey my tiny living space. I soak one of my T-shirts
with the water and wring it into the calf’s mouth, which works—but she knocks me over
in an effort to get more, faster. Determined, I tear apart my dresser drawers and
my closet. I find a hot water bottle and a funnel. Then I spy the rubber gloves beneath
my sink. I slip them onto my hands and scrub like I am a surgeon, trying to wash away
any residue of cleaning fluid. I slip the neck of a glove over the wine bottle.
I need a rubber band, but I don’t have one. All of the secretarial supplies are in
the office. I reach into my pocket, looking for a hair elastic, and instead touch
the telegram from this morning.
Just like that, I can’t breathe.
The calf bellows loud enough for the lights to come on in the cabin beside mine. I
freeze.
But no one comes forward from the darkness, and the only sound is the monkeys in the
trees, passing judgment. I reach into my other pocket for the hair tie and wrap it
tight around the glove to form a makeshift nipple. With a pocketknife, I punch a hole
into the tip of one of the fingers. Then I tilt the bottle upside down, so that the
calf can suckle.
She does. The sweetened water runs down her chin and her chest as she draws on the
teat of the rubber glove. I refill the bottle three times. My hands grow sticky; my
arm aches as I hold the bottle in place. The calf drinks like there’s no tomorrow.
Like I’m all she’s got.
My mother could have been a truly brilliant scientist, and she never passed up the
opportunity to tell me so. But she was also unusually beautiful, which undercut her
chances of being taken seriously as a college student in her day. Her white shoulders,
her jet-black hair, and her violet eyes called to mind a young Elizabeth Taylor, and
left her single and pregnant with the child of her very married biology professor.
She did not finish at Mount Holyoke but dropped out to have me.
I did not know this as a child, of course. When I started asking about my father,
she came home one day from work with a photograph. The man in the frame was young,
smiling, and looked nothing like me. The photo had been in her locker, she said, but
now she kept it on a shelf in the living room. It wasn’t until I was thirteen and
desperate for any clue written on the back that I slid the picture from beneath the
glass and realized it was just a head shot of a model that had come with the frame.
I confronted my mother, and that’s when she told me the truth: If not for me, her
life would have been considerably different.
For a few years, I had an almost-stepfather
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