Part 11 (1/2)
”You're welcome,” Jose called as I left.
I turned and blew him a kiss, then one for Ralph. They hooted.
I'd almost forgotten how to smile.
I called Linda and asked her to eat with me at Felines instead of the bas.e.m.e.nt lunch room. To avoid running into co-workers and sharing my indecision, I bought lunch early. The burrito was cooling when I caught Feline's steel door to keep it from slamming behind me.
The old concrete box was hers now, her posters and cartoons on the wall, her food in the fridge, but it still smelled and sounded the same as when I was the feline keeper-cat smells, cougar chirps, lion grunts. It always felt like a home I'd abandoned. We sat at the metal table in the kitchen. I unwrapped the burrito and popped the lid off the coleslaw container. ”I need to hear myself talk.”
”I'm told your date with the dog guy was pre-empted by the Tiptons.” She'd already pulled cottage cheese and sliced peaches out of the fridge.
”Pete, Cheyenne, or Hap?”
”Pete. It was on the news, too-'broke into a Portland house and fled.' No mention of your name or address.”
”Good. Here's the thing. I have to keep Robby far, far away from them. Hap wants me to buy a gun, but that's a non-starter. Pete and Cheyenne are mostly home when we are, but it's not fair to ask them to go up against criminals. I don't know what to do.”
”So is your house safe or not? I'm thinking the evidence is pretty clear.”
”d.a.m.n it, why should I have to wrench my entire life around and move out because of those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds? I would take the risk, if it was just me, but letting Robby stay there is unthinkable.”
”h.e.l.lo? You can't afford it either. Who's going to raise him if they shoot you?”
”Where on earth can I take Robby and two dogs? I wouldn't feel any safer in a motel, and it's too expensive. My parents have their own lives, and I can't keep spreading the disruption.”
Linda raised an eyebrow. ”My keen intuition tells me you have made a decision and are just stalling.”
”Pete and Cheyenne should leave, too. It keeps rippling out.”
”Call your parents. I'll come with you to pack.”
”No!” I sulked for a moment. ”All right. Yes. Where can Pete and Cheyenne go?”
Linda thought about it. ”Denny's, I suppose. He's got room. All I've got is a sofa.”
”They can train that dog of his and clean up the place. Then all this might be worth it.”
It was a weak joke, and Linda ignored it.
I finished my food, ranted some more, and departed in search of Pete. Cheyenne would probably refuse to hide out, so best to start with him. He was working Bears since Arnie, the regular bear keeper, was off. I found him on the platform above and behind the black bear exhibit, hosing down. ”Pete,” I called, ”need you for a minute.” He shut the water off and climbed down. He agreed that it made sense for all of us to move out for awhile and that Denny's place would be their best bet. I said, ”I'm leaving it to you to persuade Cheyenne.”
He looked glum.
I called my mother and explained the situation. She's at her best in a crisis and a.s.sured me that I was doing the right thing and that ”we'll have a good time.” What if Jeff and Tom had been raised by two warm-hearted, capable parents? I wished I could clone mine and a.s.sign all the sad, frightened toddlers in the world to better homes.
Hap waited at the time clock at day's end. He wanted to share that Oregon doesn't allow bail bondsmen or bounty hunters. ”That means you can jump bail in Was.h.i.+ngton and hop over to Oregon, the state where you live, and no one but the police can haul you back to Was.h.i.+ngton. That means...”
”Yeah, I get it. The Tipton boys might stay in Portland, and they could come back to my place.”
”You need protection.”
”No, I need to hide out for awhile. I'm going home to pack.”
”Where will you go?”
”Somewhere else.”
He considered being offended that I wouldn't tell him and decided to pa.s.s on it. Or else he figured out that it had to be my parents'.
He met me at the house after work ”just in case.” He checked the inside, then hung out in the living room as Linda and I rounded up stuffed animals, clothing, and dog food. Pete and Cheyenne showed up with a load of groceries and put them away in a strained silence. I raised an eyebrow at Pete. He shook his head.
”So,” Cheyenne said when she finished tucking away the coconut milk and lemon gra.s.s, ”you're bailing?”
”Yeah. Until the Tiptons are back in jail. And you?”
”We'll be fine here.”
I considered arguing and gave it up. My own problems were more than enough. ”Pete, would you feed the macaws while I'm gone? I'll write out instructions.”
”No problem. Show me where the food is.”
”We can feed them together now, before I go.”
Hap took a break from guard duty and the three of us fed the macaws, with minor disputes about the proportion of fruit to pellets and whether the bas.e.m.e.nt was warm enough at about sixty degrees. Since one of them-I didn't know which was Stanley and which was Stridder-was half naked from feather-plucking, I had set up a heat lamp to radiate on a perch. Pete said he'd keep an eye on the bulb.
”Pete,” I said, ”if you talk Cheyenne into moving out, just call me. I'll come feed them. I won't be that far away. Don't let her use this as an excuse.”
He nodded. ”It could happen. Elephants could sing opera.”
”Look at those two,” Hap said. ”Crammed into that cage side by side for years, and now they can't get far enough away from each other.”
True. The birds perched at opposite ends of the remodeled cage. ”Too bad. They'd be happier paired up,” I said. Happier flying free in a tropical jungle, but that was really beyond my powers. And only a fantasy since they couldn't have a clue how to survive in the wild.
Hap said, ”I'll send you an email with links to local sanctuaries. If you can get them in. They get lots of big parrots that people can't keep or don't want. I don't breed mine anymore, not since I tracked down what became of half a dozen birds I bred and sold. Too many of them resold and vanished or given away or stuck in a bas.e.m.e.nt.”
I said, ”This bas.e.m.e.nt was so not my idea.”
”I know that.”
Pete went upstairs to start dinner and fight with Cheyenne, Hap to see if by any chance our fridge held a beer. I stayed a moment, watching the birds pick through our offerings.
Jerome Tipton had been outraged that we were hauling them off to the zoo. When he hollered to ”get my birds,” I was sure he meant Stridder and Stanley and not the Amazon parrots. He and his sons were facing trial, his wife was in the hospital, his ”daughter” was missing-a.s.suming he didn't know she was dead-and his property was invaded. Yet he was desperate to get his birds back. His last words were about them.
The unplucked macaw put his face to the mesh, and I scratched his forehead. ”What are you not telling me?”