the creek, and we would scramble up to the grove of cottonwoods that stood near the bear pen and hang on the cyclone fence and watch the animals get fed.
Mr. Noah’s red beard crackled and smoked in the morning frost, and his bald head glistened with sweat as he strode up and down between the cages, a metal bucket swinging from each arm. Back and forth between the iron cages and the zookeeper’s house he went, the buckets filled to the top with chunks of bleeding meat or vegetables or grain or the dark, black-brown, foaming sludge that slopped over the lips of the buckets and fell in trailing pools behind him.
In the morning, the zoo was a riot of noise. The bears swayed and growled. The macaques stuck to the wire and then exploded, ricocheting around and around their cages. The geese and the ducks stampeded to the corner of their pen, honking and quacking, their necks craned in anticipation. The gibbons whistled, and the wild pigs howled and banged their teeth together.
“You think he’d kill us if he caught us looking?” Luke wanted to know.
I was older. “No, silly. They don’t kill people for looking.”
“Papa said they killed people in the war for looking.”
“Those were spies.”
“So?”
“We’re not spying. We’re just looking.”
“They could still put you in jail or something,” said Luke.
“Are you scared?”
It was a mysterious place, the zoo. “You know,” I told Luke, “if any of those animals escaped, they would kill you. Every one of them is a dangerous killer. Mr. Noah is lucky to be alive.”
“They like Mr. Noah. He feeds them.”
“The bears would eat him so fast.”
“What about the ducks? What about the monkeys? Monkeys don’t eat people.”
“Some do,” I said.
“You know what Papa said about liars, Caroline.”
“I’m not lying.”
“They go straight to hell and rot.”
Luke liked the cows. “The cows are nice. They don’t eat anyone. They just eat grass.”
“Cows are dumb.”
“I think they are beautiful. They look real soft. Jimmy says if you put salt on your hand, they’ll lick it.”
“The bears would eat those cows in a second.”
Papa was a preacher. He preached for the Nazareens and then he preached for the Baptists. The year before the accident, he went to preach for the Methodists in Loomis. The church gave us an old, two-storey house in the trees near the river. It had been newly painted—sky blue with yellow trim—and the kitchen had shiny pink linoleum squares filled with green and white flowers.Mum said the cupboards were solid wood. Mary crawled into the stone fireplace in the parlour and said you could see all the way to the sky. We took turns looking up that chimney. It was true. You could see the sky, all right, a small patch of blue surrounded by darkness. Luke said it was like looking down into a magical well, but, if you stayed there long enough and your eyes adjusted, you could begin to see the edges of the bricks and the long streaks of soft, black soot on the walls. William said it smelled like vampire bats to him and that they really liked old chimneys. I didn’t believe him, but he scared Mary and Luke.
After we brought the boxes in, Papa gathered us together, and we stood in the kitchen and held hands. “Thank you, God,” Papa said, “for bringing us through the storm to this safe place. Thank you for this new beginning and for sharing your goodness and mercy with us, Amen.” Luke and Mary found a board and William found a can of paint in the cellar and made a sign, but he spelled it wrong because he was too proud to ask me.
“Mum screams at night, Caroline. Sometimes it wakes me up.”
“That’s the zoo, silly. Whenever it gets dark, all the animals howl at the moon.”
“The ducks don’t howl.”
“The real animals do.”
“Cows don’t howl, either.”
“Cows are dumb.”
“And she cries, too. Sometimes I can hear her crying.” “Animals love to howl at the moon, Luke. It sounds like
Mr. Noah’s red beard crackled and smoked in the morning frost, and his bald head glistened with sweat as he strode up and down between the cages, a metal bucket swinging from each arm. Back and forth between the iron cages and the zookeeper’s house he went, the buckets filled to the top with chunks of bleeding meat or vegetables or grain or the dark, black-brown, foaming sludge that slopped over the lips of the buckets and fell in trailing pools behind him.
In the morning, the zoo was a riot of noise. The bears swayed and growled. The macaques stuck to the wire and then exploded, ricocheting around and around their cages. The geese and the ducks stampeded to the corner of their pen, honking and quacking, their necks craned in anticipation. The gibbons whistled, and the wild pigs howled and banged their teeth together.
“You think he’d kill us if he caught us looking?” Luke wanted to know.
I was older. “No, silly. They don’t kill people for looking.”
“Papa said they killed people in the war for looking.”
“Those were spies.”
“So?”
“We’re not spying. We’re just looking.”
“They could still put you in jail or something,” said Luke.
“Are you scared?”
It was a mysterious place, the zoo. “You know,” I told Luke, “if any of those animals escaped, they would kill you. Every one of them is a dangerous killer. Mr. Noah is lucky to be alive.”
“They like Mr. Noah. He feeds them.”
“The bears would eat him so fast.”
“What about the ducks? What about the monkeys? Monkeys don’t eat people.”
“Some do,” I said.
“You know what Papa said about liars, Caroline.”
“I’m not lying.”
“They go straight to hell and rot.”
Luke liked the cows. “The cows are nice. They don’t eat anyone. They just eat grass.”
“Cows are dumb.”
“I think they are beautiful. They look real soft. Jimmy says if you put salt on your hand, they’ll lick it.”
“The bears would eat those cows in a second.”
Papa was a preacher. He preached for the Nazareens and then he preached for the Baptists. The year before the accident, he went to preach for the Methodists in Loomis. The church gave us an old, two-storey house in the trees near the river. It had been newly painted—sky blue with yellow trim—and the kitchen had shiny pink linoleum squares filled with green and white flowers.Mum said the cupboards were solid wood. Mary crawled into the stone fireplace in the parlour and said you could see all the way to the sky. We took turns looking up that chimney. It was true. You could see the sky, all right, a small patch of blue surrounded by darkness. Luke said it was like looking down into a magical well, but, if you stayed there long enough and your eyes adjusted, you could begin to see the edges of the bricks and the long streaks of soft, black soot on the walls. William said it smelled like vampire bats to him and that they really liked old chimneys. I didn’t believe him, but he scared Mary and Luke.
After we brought the boxes in, Papa gathered us together, and we stood in the kitchen and held hands. “Thank you, God,” Papa said, “for bringing us through the storm to this safe place. Thank you for this new beginning and for sharing your goodness and mercy with us, Amen.” Luke and Mary found a board and William found a can of paint in the cellar and made a sign, but he spelled it wrong because he was too proud to ask me.
“Mum screams at night, Caroline. Sometimes it wakes me up.”
“That’s the zoo, silly. Whenever it gets dark, all the animals howl at the moon.”
“The ducks don’t howl.”
“The real animals do.”
“Cows don’t howl, either.”
“Cows are dumb.”
“And she cries, too. Sometimes I can hear her crying.” “Animals love to howl at the moon, Luke. It sounds like
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