The One and Only Ivan

I stare at the One and Only Ivan, at the faded picture of Stella, and I remember George and Mack on their ladders, adding the picture of Ruby to bring new visitors to the Exit 8 Big Top Mall and Video Arcade.

I remember the story Ruby told, the one where the villagers came to her rescue.

I hear Stella’s kind, wise voice: Humans can surprise you sometimes.

I look at my fingers, coated in red paint the color of blood, and I know how to keep my promise.

days

During the days, I wait. During the nights, I paint.

I worry when Mack takes Ruby into the ring.

He carries the claw-stick with him all the time now. He doesn’t use it. He doesn’t have to.

Ruby isn’t fighting back anymore. She does whatever Mack asks.

nights

I close my eyes. I dip my fingers into the paint.

When I’m done with one piece of paper, I set it aside to dry.

It’s so small, just one sheet. And I’m going to need so many.

I move on to the next, and the next, and the next.

It’s a giant puzzle, and I’m making the pieces one by one.

By morning, my floor is covered with paintings.

I hide the paintings under my pool of dirty water before Mack can see them. I don’t want them to end up in the gift store, selling for twenty dollars apiece (twenty-five with frame).

These paintings are for Ruby. Every one of them.

project

“Ivan,” Ruby asks one morning when I am trying to nap, “why are you always so sleepy during the day?”

“I’ve been working on a project at night,” I tell her.

“What’s a project?”

“It’s … a thing. A painting. It’s a painting for you, actually,” I answer.

Ruby looks pleased. “Can I see it?”

“Not yet.”

Ruby pokes with annoyance at her roped foot. She takes a breath. “Ivan? Do I have to do the shows with Mack today?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, Ruby.”

Ruby dips her trunk in her water bucket. “That’s okay,” she says. “I already knew the answer.”

not right

It’s night again, and everyone’s asleep. I look at the picture I’ve just made, one of dozens.

It’s smudged and torn, a muddy blur.

I place it beside the others lining my floor.

The colors are wrong. The shapes are off. It looks like nothing.

It’s not what I’m trying to create. It’s not what it’s meant to be.

It’s not right, and I don’t know why.

Across the parking lot the billboard beckons, as it always does: COME TO THE EXIT 8 BIG TOP MALL AND VIDEO ARCADE, HOME OF THE ONE AND ONLY IVAN, MIGHTY SILVERBACK!

If I could use human words to say what I need to say, this would all be so easy.

Instead, I have my pots of paint and my ragged pages.

I sigh. My fingertips glow like jungle flowers.

I try again.

going nowhere

I watch Ruby plod around the ring in endless circles, going nowhere.

More visitors have been coming, but not many. Mack says Ruby’s not picking up the slack after all. He says he’s cutting back on our food. He says he’s turning off the heat at night to save money.

Ruby looks thinner to me, more wrinkled than Stella ever was.

“Do you think Ruby’s eating enough?” I ask Bob.

“I don’t know. I’ll tell you one thing, though: You’re sure as heck painting enough.” Bob wrinkles his nose. “That stench is unbelievable. And I found yellow paint in my tail this morning.”

Bob isn’t happy about my night painting. He says it’s unnatural.

Now, while I work at my art, Bob sleeps on Not-Tag. He claims he prefers her because she doesn’t snore. He says her belly doesn’t rise and fall and make him seasick.

“What is this plan of yours, anyway?” Bob asks. “If you explained it to me, I could help out.” He gnaws at his tail. “Maybe I could come up with something that doesn’t involve … you know, paint.”

“I can’t explain it,” I tell him. “It’s an idea in my head, but I can’t get it right. And anyway, I’m almost out of supplies. I should have known I wouldn’t have enough.” I kick at my tire swing. It’s spattered with drops of blue paint. “It’s a stupid idea.”

“I doubt that,” Bob says. “Smelly, yes. Stupid? Never.”

bad guys

Most of the day I doze. Late in the afternoon, Mack approaches.

Bob slips under Not-Tag. He prefers to keep a low profile around Mack.

Mack’s gaze falls on my pool. A corner of one of my paintings is visible. “What’s that, big guy?” he asks.

I calmly eat an orange, ignoring him, but my heart is racing.

Mack kicks at my plastic pool. Underneath it are all the paintings.

Mack yanks on a piece of paper. It slips out easily, and he doesn’t seem to notice the other paintings.

The page is striped with green, which is what happens when blue paint and yellow paint get together. It’s supposed to be a patch of grass.

“Not bad. Where’d you get the paint, anyway? George’s kid?” He considers. “Hmm. I’ll bet I can get thirty for this picture, maybe even forty.”

Mack turns on my TV. It’s a Western. There’s a human with a big hat and a small gun. He has a shiny star pinned to his chest. That means he is the sheriff and he will be getting rid of all the bad guys.

“If this sells quick, I’m getting you some more of that paint, buddy,” Mack says.