The One and Only Ivan

Mac pokes Ruby with the sharp point. Not hard. Just a touch.

I can tell he wants her to see how much it can hurt.

I growl low in my throat.

Ruby doesn’t budge. She is a gray, unmoving boulder. She closes her eyes, and for a moment I wonder if she might have fallen asleep.

“I’m warning you,” Mack says. He breathes out. He stares at the ceiling.

Ruby makes a huffing sound.

“Fine,” Mack says. “You want to play it that way?”

He draws back the claw-stick.

“No!” Julia cries.

“I’m not gonna hurt her,” Mack says. “I just want to get her attention.”

Bob snarls.

Mack swings. The hook slices the air just a few inches above Ruby’s head.

“See why you don’t want to mess with me?” Mack says. He draws back the claw-stick again. “Now move!”

Ruby jerks her head, flinging her trunk toward Mack.

She makes a noise that sends the sawdust scattering. It makes my glass shiver.

It is the most beautiful mad I have ever heard.

Ruby’s trunk slaps into Mack.

I don’t see exactly where she strikes him—somewhere below his stomach, I think—and I know he must be uncomfortable, because Mack drops the claw-stick and falls down on the ground and curls into a ball and howls like a baby.

“Direct hit,” Bob says.

poor mack

Mack groans. He stumbles to his feet and hobbles off toward his office. Ruby watches him leave. I can’t read her expression. Is she afraid? Relieved? Proud?

When Mack is gone, George and Julia lead Ruby from the ring. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” Julia says, stroking Ruby’s head.

They settle Ruby in her domain and make sure she has fresh water and food. Before long, Ruby’s dozing.

“Dad?” Julia asks as George locks Ruby’s iron door. “Do you think Mack would ever hurt Ruby?”

“I don’t think so, Jules,” George says. “At least I hope not.”

“Maybe we could call someone.”

George scratches his chin. “I wish I could help Ruby, but I wouldn’t know how. I mean, who would I call? The elephant cops? Besides”—George looks down—“I need this job, Jules. We need this job. Your mom, the doctor bills…” He kisses the top of Julia’s head. “Back to work. You and me both.”

Julia sighs and reaches for her backpack. She removes a piece of paper, a bottle of water, and a small metal box.

“Homework first,” George says, wagging a finger. “Then you can paint.”

“It’s for art class,” Julia explains. “We’re doing watercolors. I’m going to paint Ruby.”

George smiles. “All right, then. Just don’t forget your spelling.”

“Dad?” Julia asks again. “Did you see Mack’s face when Ruby hit him?”

George nods. “Yes,” he says solemnly. “I did.” He shakes his head. “Poor Mack.”

He turns away, and only then do I hear him laughing.

colors

Julia opens the metal box. I see a row of little squares. Green, blue, red, black, yellow, purple, orange: The colors seem to glow.

She pulls out a brush with a thin tuft of a tail at its end. She dips the brush in water and wets the paper, then taps at the red square.

When the brush meets the damp paper, pink petals of color unfurl like morning flowers.

I can’t take my eyes off that magical brush. For a moment, I’m not thinking about Ruby and Mack and the claw-stick and Stella.

Almost.

Julia touches red again, then blue, and there, suddenly, is the purple of a ripe grape. She touches the blue, and her paper turns to summer sky. Black and white, and now I see that she is painting a picture of Ruby. I can make out her floppy ears, her thick legs.

Julia stops painting. She takes a few steps back, hands on her hips, gazing at her work.

She scowls. “It’s not right,” she says. She glances over her shoulder at me. I try to look encouraging.

Julia starts to crumple up the paper, then reconsiders. Instead she slides it into my cage at the spot where my glass is broken. “Here you go,” she says. “A Julia original. That’ll be worth millions someday.”

Gingerly I pick up the paper. I do not eat a single bite of it.

“Oh. Hey, I almost forgot.” Julia runs to her backpack. She pulls out three plastic jars—one yellow, one blue, one red.

She opens the jars, and an odd, not-food smell hits my nose. Julia pushes the jars, one by one, through the opening. Then she slides some paper through.

“These are called finger paints,” she says. “My aunt gave them to me, but really, I’m too old for finger painting.”

I stick a finger into the red jar. The paint is thick as mud. It’s cool and smooth, like bananas underfoot.

I pop my finger into my mouth. It’s not exactly ripe mango, but it’s not bad.

Julia laughs. “You don’t eat it. You paint with it.” She grabs a piece of paper and presses her finger on it. “See? Like this.”

I place my finger on a piece of paper. I lift it, and a red mark is there.

I get a bigger glob from the pot and slap my hand down on the page. When I pull my hand off the paper, its red twin stays behind.

This isn’t like the ghostly handprints on my glass, the ones my visitors leave behind.

This handprint can’t be so easily wiped away.

a bad dream

I lie awake, peeling dried red paint off my fingertips. Bob, who accidentally walked on one of my paintings, is licking his red paws.