The Dragon Keeper (32 page)

She turned around and faced the silent rows of faces. “There are maybe less than four thousand Komodo dragons in the world. Isn’t it more important to make sure they can breed than to get some old white alligator in return? After everything we’ve been through, after Jata somehow managed to give these dragons to us, don’t we owe them the chance to flourish? They need space. They need mates. They need care. And we can give them all of these things.”

She looked toward Dr. Reading, who gave her a tiny, tight nod and broke in. “Speaking of jurisdiction, I know that I don’t have any here in this room, but throughout my extensive research and travel, I’ve worked with many zoos, and I have a recommendation, Gerald—a place that I’m confident will fit all of the needs addressed in this discussion.” Dr. Reading glanced back at Meg. “And there may be some bonuses with it as well.”

40 Days
after
Hatching

A
week after Jata’s death, Meg paced the public trails of the Reptile Kingdom. When anyone asked what she was doing, she said she was looking for Gemma, and so far that had been enough to get people to stop talking, drop eye contact, and back away. The one time Meg bumped into her in the staff hallway outside the iguana exhibit, Gemma had acted as if nothing had happened. She’d actually stopped to ask if Meg needed a hand, leaning on the wall and flipping her radio from hand to hand, all nonchalant. Hip Gemma. Casual Gemma. Paycheck-dangling-out-of-her-back-pocket, let’s-let-bygones-be-bygones Gemma. Meg had walked into the iguana exhibit and shut the door in her face.

Nobody said anything. Nobody asked her for her assistance. They all kept their distance, but the strange thing was that she kind of was looking for Gemma. She missed the joking, the stories, the easy, quiet work between them when they overhauled exhibit after exhibit—but most of all she missed the not knowing. She missed not knowing what Gemma would do to save herself.

At least she could move around freely today. The media had mobbed the zoo all weekend, looking for interviews to follow up Jata’s attack, death, and autopsy—the bizarre chain of events had captured national attention—but today there were new stories, more shootings on the North Side and tankers tipping in the middle of rush hour on the cross-town. The city was blooming with disasters, and the reporters, good honeybees that they were, had all buzzed on to the next flower.

Since she’d formally signed the deal in Gerald Dawson’s office, Meg spent more and more time on the public side of the zoo, the formerly dreaded area now an anonymous refuge. She didn’t have the energy to explain to the other keepers what she’d done for the hatchlings, why it seemed like the right thing. Instead, she stopped to answer every question from visitors along the path, happy to show a group of tourists how to tell the geckos apart, and even give a little girl a quick lesson about the birds and the bees.

“So that opening right up there”—Meg pointed to a diamond-shaped skylight—“is how the stork can fly in and drop off the babies. There’s a special latch on the window that only storks know how to open.”

She waved off the mother’s grateful beam and watched the two of them walk over to the last exhibit before the exit—Jata’s exhibit. Meg crossed to the railing nearby and leaned over it, tracing the lines of Jata’s space without even really looking at it, just feeling the sink of the sandy beach under her boots, smelling the hints of algae that lingered in the empty, drained pool, and sliding her arm along the bumpy stone façade of the back wall. They’d transferred one of the big tortoises into the new outdoor exhibit to distract people, make them look for something other than bloodstains dyeing the grass, but the indoor space wouldn’t be filled until the hatchling left the baby building. The place was empty and yet so full of everything she remembered—all the years of feedings, cleanings, and play—and the contrast between the empty and the full just kept rubbing her raw every time.

“Momma, what does it say?” The girl pointed at the sign.

“It says, ‘Komodo dragons live on a few islands in Indonesia. They can grow up to ten feet long and are the world’s largest lizard. Jah-tah … is a six-year-old female dragon, named for a serpent goddess. The Dayak people of Borneo believed that Jata the goddess ruled the underworld and rose up from the ocean to create everything between the sea and the sky.’ Pretty neat, huh?”

“Where is it? I don’t see it.” Head pressed up against the bars, the girl strained to see directly below the viewing platform, as if by sheer force she could will the animal into sight.

“The dragon’s not here anymore,” Meg said flatly.

“Where’d it go?”

“She died.”

Without any warning the kid’s eyes watered up, and she buried her head in her mother’s legs. The mother rolled her eyes and whispered, “We just watched
Bambi
.”

Kneeling down, she rubbed her kid’s back and made soothing little noises. She glanced up at Meg, a supplication in her eyes. “It’s okay, sweetie. The zookeeper was just kidding. She’s not dead; she just went away, right?”

“Uh, right,” Meg lied. Her first instinct was to run away, but there was something compelling in the kid’s naked sadness, how a child could be shaken by the death of an animal she’d never heard or seen. She remembered what Dr. Reading had said about children’s minds, about children being the ones who were reachable.

“She’s not dead,” Meg reiterated, trying to sound confident.

“How do you know?” The kid looked up, all tears and disbelieving red cheeks. She was going to be a hard sell.

“Honey,” the mother said, “she’s the zookeeper. It’s her job to know things like that.”

“But she said—”

“What I meant was that she’s gone. I watched her go.”

The tears had stopped falling, but the kid’s face was still wet. Meg dug a clean but wrinkled tissue out of her pocket, handed it to the mother, and watched her carefully wipe the girl’s face dry. She was no good at guessing ages, but it was a weekday, so the kid was definitely too young for school. Four years old, maybe? How did a four-year-old wonder so many things? It was mind-blowing, to think of what it would be like to be responsible for a life like that, to field the infinite questions of a growing mind and somehow try to teach them everything you ever learned. The kids that churned through the zoo every day were like some massive, chaotic ecosystem unto themselves. As a whole they inspired irritation and frustration, and on bad days you could kind of see where that guy got the idea for
Lord of the Flies
. Individually, though, there was something undeniably amazing about them. A kind of pull, like the first time Meg picked up a hatchling and saw its perfection.

She didn’t realize she was staring until the kid cocked her head back at Meg, returning her gaze.

“Where did the dragon go?” she asked.

Shaking her head, Meg looked away toward the exit doors, glimpsing the river valley and its far, sun-washed banks. The water moved sluggishly downstream, on its way to meet the Mississippi and the ocean beyond.

“She went swimming,” Meg murmured. “She decided to swim home.”

2 Months
after
Hatching

T
he regular hospital wing was noisy and crowded. A hassled-looking nurse thumbed the way to Antonio’s room after Meg leaned over the top of her station and asked three times. The rudeness was fantastic after all the polite whispers and creepy pats on the hand in the ICU. She wandered in the direction the nurse had pointed, glancing into rooms as she passed. Every door was open, the TVs all pumping out tinny distraction, family members walking in and out, and attendants wheeling gurneys, wheelchairs, and dollies up and down the hallway.

She stopped outside Room 248 and kicked the tile floor for a minute. After visiting the hospital every week, this was the first time she’d actually come to his room. There’d been no point before. The nurses gave her a quick update each time on the progress of his leg. Surgeries went well, infections were controlled, skin grafts, physical therapy, and on and on. Why stand around a hospital bed telling someone he was going to be fine and trying to think of stupid conversation?

But this was the last visit, and she couldn’t avoid going inside anymore. There were things that had to be said.

The Twins game was on inside the room; she could hear the announcer whooping over a double play. Smoothing her T-shirt over her hips, she heaved a sigh and walked in.

Antonio was sitting up in the first hospital bed; a curtain bisected the room, concealing the window and anyone who might have been on the other side. When Meg appeared, he looked over, and his face lit up. His usually oak-colored skin was as pale as maple after spending the last month indoors, but the same gleam colored his eyes. They came alive, eager and hesitant at the same time, locking into her face as if he’d been expecting this moment since he’d woken up in the hospital four weeks ago.

They didn’t say
hi
. They didn’t say
how are you
because
how-are-you
s were for people who didn’t give a shit how you were and only needed to fill the empty air, and
how are you
between her and Antonio—if they meant it, if they each really wanted to know—could take hours, or days, and she doubted he could handle what she would say.

He propped himself up higher against the pillows, stretching his hospital gown over a sling that dangled his left leg above the bed. “I was wondering if you’d show up before they released me. You’re cutting it close, Yancy.”

A line of staples closed the skin together over his calf. It looked like a Frankenstein zipper running up his leg. One of the ICU doctors said it was so the air could get to the wound and bring the infection to the surface.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy.” She stood in front of the olive-green chair that flanked his bed and crossed her arms.

“Too busy to see if I’m dead or alive?”

She shrugged. “I’m sure I would’ve gotten a memo if you kicked it.”

“Wow, that was beautiful. You should freelance for Hallmark.”

“They keep lowballing me.”

He grinned, but it didn’t last, couldn’t survive on his face as other emotions started flooding over it. She turned away, pacing the length of the wall as he turned the TV off and left them in silence. Now that she was here, the words were gone, squeezed out of the room by the weight of that day. It wasn’t just a memory; it was everywhere, staring at her from the fat, black staples in his leg and the dark hollows riding under his eyes. Jata’s carnage was still twisted up inside him, living in this hospital bed, leveling him. Meg kept pacing the edges of the room, blindly, unable to look at him and face the blame that she knew was there.

“Meg.”

She stopped and dropped her head. His voice was low, almost buried by the hallway noise. She didn’t say anything.

“Will you look at me?”

She turned around and looked at him from across the room. He nodded, his eyes burning into hers, and repeated her name.

Shaking her head, she started to speak, but he held up a hand to stop her. He dropped his head back against the pillows, stared up at the ceiling, and swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, exposed.

“Have you ever had a dream, something you wanted so badly and worked so long to get that it seemed like everything in your life was either building toward it or getting in your way?” He swallowed again and paused.

“My father told me not to come to the U.S. The American dream is dead, he said. Everything you could want is right here. My family was happy, and they had their little place carved out in the world, but I wanted more. I wanted to make a difference, to change the world around me. The fish were disappearing from the ocean, but did my father get depressed? No, he just stopped being a fisherman and started working for the tourists. He adapted, but I couldn’t. I thought, why accept this when there’s got to be a way to make it better? We can fly around the world or into space; we can split an atom into pieces. Why can’t we save the animals, too? We can do anything, can’t we?”

As he talked, she skirted the foot of the bed, not even realizing she was moving until she’d drawn up near his side, where his hand lay limp and pale on the sheets. He stared straight up, past the water-stained ceiling tiles, through the roof, looking at things that were miles away from this stale room.

“Jata—when we found out about the parth, and you and I started … you made me see things differently. It was the first time in years I started to think that maybe we couldn’t control animal populations, couldn’t put things back on track the way I had dreamed, and I kind of hated you for it.”

She exhaled in a laugh, and he smiled, too, just a ghost of a smile at the sky, and then he turned his head and looked at her.

“I was interested, too. Obviously. But then you just kept shutting me out.”

“I shut you out?”

“Yeah, you did. And then I got the test results back, and everything changed. It was an entirely new game, a game with no rules, and I thought that this was my chance. This was the opportunity I had worked so hard to prepare for, to prove that the technology could help us understand the phenomenon. I thought I could show everyone, that somehow I could capture that miracle and reproduce it. The cure for Komodo extinction, right? It was the first step to saving other threatened species, every endangered animal on the planet.”