The Elephant Parade

Jackie laughed, red-faced and shivering, as she gathered up snow in her makeshift mittens, composed of mismatched socks. The afternoon's accumulation was unimpressive, but she was still jovial in that moment of unmatched excitement that came only with the first snow every year. The trees were only skeletal silhouettes, like brittle bony arms against the dark December sky. Watching from the porch, I rubbed my hands together and winced with every icy breath.

“Are you ready to go inside?” I asked.

“I guess so,” she muttered and kicked the ground. “You said you'd help me make a snowman, though.”

“I said I would if there was enough snow. If it keeps falling all night, maybe there'll be enough in the morning.” She waddled toward the house in concession.

“C'mon,” I said trying to stifle my laughter.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing. I'll just never get over that parka.” It was ridiculous—sports car red, too large and very lumpy, bulging awkwardly all over. I told her when she tried it on at the store that it made her look like she'd been swallowed alive by a lobster, but he'd only managed to fit everything below her neck inside his mouth. She was pretty angry with me, but I only laughed harder as her face boiled to the same shade as the horrendous coat.

Inside, I knelt down to free Jackie from her boots, which can often be a perplexing trap for children. She ran off to her room before I had time to let the last one drop from my hands. I slipped my shoes off carefully and then rolled up my pant legs, cringing at their dampness. Still kneeling, I heard my mother's house shoes shuffling against the linoleum. She stood over me, her shadow blocking out the light from the only lamp in the room. I looked up at her finally, and her gaze was colder than the ice still clinging to my hair and coat.

“Your grandmother’s dead,” she said.

I didn't move, but she turned swiftly and disappeared into the shadows of the house. The truth is, I only met my grandmother once in my life. I was very young then. She and my mother had been estranged from one another since long before I came into the picture, for reasons that were never disclosed to me. I heard Jackie calling to Mom from upstairs, and I immediately got up to quiet her.

“She's dead?”

“That's what she said.”

“How?”

“I don't know, that's all she told me. But you'd better stay up here, at least until she goes to bed.”

“What was she like?”

“I don't know. I mean, you were only a baby when we went once to see her, but I was young too. I barely remember it.”

“Don't you remember anything?”

“Well,” I strained my mind like muscle. “I remember thinking that she was very pretty, but that she didn't look like Mom. And she was very quiet.”

Jackie thought bit her bottom lip, mulling everything over. “So what now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do we do?”

I told her I didn't know, and offered to read to her awhile, just to keep her away from Mom. She said yes, except she wanted to read to me instead. It was just some old kids’ story about a red-haired girl that carried around a magnifying glass everywhere she went in case a mystery came around. When she finished the book, she told me she wanted a magnifying glass for Christmas and asked me if I would help her write the letter to Santa Claus for it. Finally, she was yawning and struggling to keep her eyes open. She let me tuck her into bed, and I slipped out the door.

I crept silently down the stairs to this secret spot I found when I was younger. From it, I could see Mom on the couch in front of the television. It was the eight o'clock news, but she didn't appear to be paying attention. She was too busy smoking a cigarette and blowing the clouds all around her head. I pulled at a loose piece of carpet on the stairs. It frayed in my grasp. I remembered watching my parents screaming at one another from this same spot. They had divorced some time ago, and it was for the best. The holes in the wall had been patched over, the furniture replaced, and we never spoke of him in front of her again.

“I can hear you, Ellie.”

“Sorry. Is everything okay?” I asked sheepishly.

“Ellie, will you go get your sister?”

“Oh, I just put her to bed and—”

“I'm aware of that. Just go get her. She can sleep in the car.”

“The car? Are we going somewhere?”

“Yes, get your sister and your things. We're leaving.”

I hurried up the stairs, but I was careful not to make any sound. I hated to make noise, especially at night, and especially on a nights like this. I decided, after some thought, to gather all our things before I woke Jackie up. She was very curious, and would have many questions. Questions I didn't have the answers to like “Where are we going?” and “For how long?” I stuffed as much as I could into our backpacks for school, and then filled a garbage bag with everything else I thought we might need. There was no telling what could happen.

She just lost it sometimes. Once, some time after Dad had left, we got in the car to go to school, like we always did, but we never made it there. I noticed very early she was driving in the wrong direction, but I knew better than to say anything. She drove us out into the country, farther than I had ever been before, and stopped on the side of the road. Mom didn't say anything, and neither did we. She sat staring into the rear view mirror, as if she was waiting for something to come upon us at any instant. It was freezing outside; a biting day in late autumn and the heater didn't work. Luckily, I’d persuaded Jackie to take her heavier coat. Thankfully, I decided to pack our lunches that day, because her stomach began to growl after sitting there in silence for over an hour. I split a granola bar with her.

“Just a snack for now.” I whispered, and she nodded.

Then, as we were chewing away, Mom began driving again, this time in the direction of home. I was relieved, to say the least, until she turned onto another unfamiliar rural highway. She pressed hard on the gas, and we took off like a bullet down the dirt road, an ominous cloud kicking up behind us. This is it, she's going to kill us, I thought. Then she took one hand off the steering wheel and began cranking the window down with the other. Then she screamed. She was just screaming. And then Jackie was screaming. And soon I was screaming too, all of us hurtling into nothing.

Finally, when I was sure everything was packed, I woke up Jackie gently and told her we were going on Christmas vacation early.

“Where are we going?”

“I don't know. It's a surprise.”

“For your birthday?”

I had completely forgotten about that. I was turning thirteen in a few days. “Yes,” I told her, “It's my birthday present.”

“Can I wear my pajamas?”

“You can where whatever you want. But don't forget your coat.”

In the car, Jackie fell asleep right away on my shoulder. She looked hysterical in that lobster-coat, I thought, especially now wearing pink pajamas and house slippers. Mom had the heater fixed two winters ago, but she had the window cracked now so she could smoke and I was still freezing to death. It was still snowing, like Jackie had hoped, but we would not be there in the morning to make her snowman. Gazing out at the black night from my window, I nodded off, buried deep inside my blue peacoat.

When I woke up next, the sun was glaring brightly all around, but there was no snow on the ground. We were stopped at a gas station, and I saw Mom inside buying another package of cigarettes and—I hoped—some breakfast, too. When she got back in the car, she handed me a small, watered-down hot chocolate and a stale blueberry muffin, but I devoured my share of it, anyway. When I was finished, I woke up Jackie and gave her the second half of our breakfast.

“I don't like blueberries, Ellie.”

“Shhh, just eat it.”

I noticed Mom had changed her clothes. She was wearing a nice black shirt and black pants, an outfit she saved for job interviews and church and things like that.

“You look nice.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. You girls need to change into your dress clothes.”

“Dress clothes? What for?”

“The funeral.”

“Oh,” I said, as if something had just struck me on the head. “But,” I stammered, “I didn't pack them.”

“Then just wear something black. Go change in the bathroom.” I could tell she was angry.

I had packed some black clothing, I discovered, and Jackie and I didn't look half bad. Except for our shoes. Mine were simple black sneakers, which was bad enough, but Jackie only had her light-up white tennis shoes and her snow boots, which were old and dirty, and still wet from the day before. I tried to get her to put them on, anyway.

"But they're wet, Ellie!”

Finally, we came to an agreement: She could wear the tennis shoes if she promised to stand still at the funeral, or at least as still as possible. In our new outfits, we returned to the car. I had no idea where we were, and there weren't any clues, either. Nothing looked the same as it did where we lived. But, Mom knew her way around. She turned onto a neighborhood street, and then another, and finally turned into the parking lot of a beautiful brick chapel with a painted-white steeple gleaming in the sun. The windows were round, stained glass and appeared luminescent in the winter morning. We followed Mom around the side of the building, through the door, and down hallway after mysterious hallway. I held Jackie's small, pink hand in mine and watched her shoes lighting up spastically with every step. We came to a set of double doors and Mom pushed them open like she was pushing my sister out of the way in the kitchen.

Inside, the walls were dark cherry wood and the pews and carpet were deep red. The ceiling seemed higher than it should have, I thought, because from outside the building appeared much shorter. Standing up at the front, up by the casket, was an elderly man in his early seventies rubbing the back of his head. His hair was white and short. He wasn't bald, but his hair was thinning in spots all over. He turned his head a little, and I saw his face. There were deep lines around his eyes and mouth, and everything drooped, very slightly. His eyes were blue, heavy, and faded. And then I noticed his ear. It was a big, droopy, long ear, like mine. That's how I knew him. That's when I knew who he was.

“Hello, Dad.” Mom said, walking toward him.

“Madeline,” he hugged her, but she pulled away soon after. “I didn't expect you to come.”

“Neither did I, really.” Mom answered.

“And these must be Jackieline and Eleanor.” he said, with a smile revealing his teeth. “You were both just a couple of pipsqueaks the last time I saw you.” He looked down at Jackie. “I like your shoes.”

“Sorry, I didn't pack her any other—“

“No, I mean it. I wish I had some. Your Grandma would've liked them too.”

After everyone showed up, there was a short service. There were about thirty others, most much older than Jackie and I, and most older than our mother, even. My grandfather stood up and told a few stories about her. It was strange: getting to know her life in the event of her death. He told a story about how one day in their fifties he had found her in the backyard flying a bright yellow kite, and how she let the it go as high as it could, so the string was barely hanging onto the handle. Then, when there was a strong gust of wind, she slipped the string off and the kite floated freely in the air, until it crash-landed in a yard a few houses away. “She wanted to see how far it would go without anything holding it to the ground,” he said.

When the people had all gone, we all got into the car and followed behind my grandfather's. We drove through a neighborhood with winding streets and old houses, most of which were very tall and decorated with Christmas lights. Their windows were open and grinning. The trees were all so tall and thick, much bigger than the ones that grew around our house. I tried to picture them in spring: their limbs, leafy and green, reaching out at me like welcoming, embracing arms. Everything felt very new and mysterious, but also familiar, like something you would dig out of a forgotten box in an attic when cleaning, a child's toy or an ancient photograph.

And then I saw the house.

It was wooden and pale blue with a white trim. The paint had begun to peel, but this made it appear all the more natural and friendly. It was had two stories, and the roof was pointed, like something Jackie would've drawn. There was a giant window in the center of the second story. It was beautiful, and I gawked silently at it from the backseat. My grandfather pulled into the driveway, and Mom pulled up alongside the curb. She stepped out immediately and grabbed her suitcase, which was dark forest green and stiff. It was a good suitcase—I thought—for putting travel stickers on. Excited, Jackie leaped out of the car and dragged her purple bag on the ground all the way up to the porch. I gathered up the plastic garbage bag and my brown corduroy backpack slowly and walked up to the house, looking up at the window the whole time. The others had gone inside already, and I was having quite a time figuring out a way to open the door while maintaining my balance. Gracefully, I stepped on a little icy spot and fell down with a large thud.

“Eleanor!” I heard my grandfather calling from behind the screen door.

“I'm okay! I'm okay.” I said, reassuring myself more than anything.

He opened the door. “Jesus, what happened?”

“There was a slick spot. I'm okay, though.”

He helped me up and took both of my bags, and then held the door open for me. He was a real gentleman. He told me about all the times he nearly fell to his death on that porch each winter and chuckled as he led me back to the bedroom Jackie and I would be sharing. The room was spotless, to put it lightly. The wood floors were shiny, as if they had just been polished. There was a dresser, an antique, placed snuggly on the wall by the door, which sat across from the bed. The bed was gargantuan, the biggest I had even seen, with layers and layers of brightly colored homemade quilts and afghans stacked a foot high. Jackie was struggling in her light up sneakers, whose laces were double knotted. She finally got them kicked off and climbed up onto the bed, which was almost as tall as she was. She began jumping up and down and giggling hysterically.

“Jackie! Get down.” I scolded her. We'd only been in the house five minutes and already, she was acting crazy.

“Let her jump, Eleanor. It's all right. It's a good bed for jumping. I'd jump on it all the time, if I weren't so old and wobbly.”

“Aw, I bet you could still jump on it.” Jackie said eagerly, “You don't look so wobbly to me.” She was bouncing all over the place. I thought she was going to fall off once when she missed her footing. It might've hurt her some, but she only laughed harder and kept jumping. “C'mon, Ellie!”

“I'm okay. Is it all right if I put our things in these drawers, sir?”

“Sir?” He scoffed. “Go jump on the bed. I'll put these things away.”

“No, really. I'm all right on the ground. I'll just put away our stuff.”

“Suit yourself, I guess,” he shrugged. “Looks like your sister is even more old and wobbly than I am, Jackie.”

“You're wobbly, Ellie!” Jackie roared with laughter.

“I am not wobbly.”

“Then jump already!”

I pulled myself onto the bed. It felt even bigger, standing on top of it. I hopped up and down a few times. I laughed, but mostly I just felt ridiculous.

“I hope you can both fit onto that thing,” he said, putting away our clothes, “It's sort of dinky if you ask me.”

“I think we'll manage,” I said, sitting on the bed now.

“I don't know. Jackie's kind of fat,” he said mischievously.

“Am not!”

He was laughing now, but Jackie didn't think it was very funny. I watched grandpa folding a shirt of mine, his lips broken in a smile. I didn’t get it: We had just returned from my grandmother's—he's wife's—funeral, after all. If he was this amiable in mourning, I couldn't imagine him on the best day of his life. When all the clothes were put away he said, “Come with me to the kitchen. I know you've got to be hungry.”

We followed him around the house. He had changed out of his funeral clothes sometime, I thought, because he was wearing sweat pants, an old white t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned jean shirt, and some house slippers. He had a funny way of walking, like he had hurt one of his legs, and he whistled a little as he walked.

“Grampa,” Jackie tugged on his sleeve. “What are these?”

“Eh? Don't mumble, Jackieline. I can't hear so good.”

“These.” She whined, pointing at two very tall wooden cabinets with glass doors. “What are these?”

“Oh. Those? Those were Isabelle's. She collected them.”

“That’s Gramma’s name, right?” she bit her lip, “What’s your name?”

“Grampa,” he opened up one of the glass doors, “But sometimes, other old people call me Samson.”

The shelves were filled with trinkets and statuettes. There were a hundred of them, easily, and they all came in pairs or small groups. Two ceramic giraffes (one was missing its right horn), two plastic crabs, two wooden camels. An entire symphony of bears, dressed in very nice clothing: six with different instruments (from a trumpet to a cello to a bass drum) and one proud conductor. “She couldn't go anywhere without picking one of these up.” He picked up one of the canaries. “I gave her these two, and some of the others, but these were two of her favorites. He traced his finger along the wings, and he appeared as though his memory and flown him off to someplace else. “Here.”

“Really?” Jackie said as he handed her the canary.

“Take them. Take any that you want.” He looked down at her. “She isn't going to mind.”

Jackie's eyes widened as she surveyed the shelves. I wasn't sure if it was right for her to take any of them, but I didn't say anything. She grabbed a bunch, going for some obvious selections. The dogs and the kittens, and also the mice in bathing suits. And to my surprise, the miniature skyscrapers, the tennis rackets, and the boy and girl fishing. Afraid she would drop them, I helped her carry them back to the guest room where she arranged them and rearranged them to her liking on the dresser. After she had them just like she wanted, we followed grandpa back into the kitchen.

“Whaddya kids want to eat?”

“Mashed potatoes!”

I put my hand over Jackie's mouth. “Anything's all right, grandpa.”

“I can make mashed potatoes. Is that all? I think they might get kind of lonely.”

“French fries!”

“Mashed potatoes and French fries?”

“It's her favorite,” I explained, grinning apologetically. “She asks for it everywhere we go.”

“Mashed potatoes and French fries it is, then. Is it all right if I make some baked chicken and corn to go with it, Jackie?”

“I guess so.”

Grandpa began throwing open cabinets and grabbing at a variety of silver,cooking tools. In the clamor, Jackie dismissed herself to the bedroom to again admire her new gifts. I stayed, sitting at the dining table, smoothing out the wrinkles of the tablecloth with my palms. The kitchen was modest in size and it appeared as though someone had taken the contents of a kitchen twice its size and crammed it all into such a tiny space. There were shelves upon shelves of charmingly disheveled old cook books and magazines, and here and there an artifact from decades ago rested like pieces in a museum. The kitchen—and the entire house, for the matter—was very tidy, without a trace of dust anywhere. He rolled up his sleeves and began tinkering away, and the friendly aroma of a hot, home-cooked meal in winter flowered out over the stove.

“You're going to rub a hole in my tablecloth if you keep at that Eleanor. Is something on your mind?” He said, looking over his shoulder as he peeled the potatoes above the sink.

“Well, not really. Except, where did Mom go?”

“Oh, she's up in her old room sleeping. She was exhausted from travel, she said.”

“Should we wake her soon? She might be hungry, too.”

“I'll make her something when she wakes up. Who knows when that'll be.”

“Do you need any help with those?”

“Oh, not really. But you can help anyway if it'll get you to stop messing with the damn tablecloth.” He handed me a knife and a potato, and I started in. I butchered the thing something awful, and I hoped he wouldn't notice.

"Grandpa,” I mumbled, “Why hasn't Mom ever brought us here before?”

“You've been here before, Eleanor. You probably don't remember, you—”

“No, I remember that. But that was only once. That was a long time ago.”

He stopped peeling and leaned his elbows on the counter, allowing a sigh of fatigue to escape from him. He faced me, and his mouth was heavy with the words he was withholding. “There're just some things people have trouble letting go of, Ellie.” I looked up at him, my eyes pleading with his. “She really never told you about this?”

I shook my head.

“They had their disagreements, from time to time, like people often do. But I suppose it really started when your mother met your father.”

“My father?”

“Yes. Isabelle was never very fond of him, and she didn't even begin to hide it. But he and Madeline got married anyway, and we hardly heard from her. Though, it wasn't until they got divorced—aside from that from that time when you were very little—that we completely lost her.”

I began to ask him why, but I knew. I knew my mother well enough. “It's because she was right,” I mumbled. “It's because Grandma was right, and Mom was wrong. She shouldn't have married him. She shouldn't have. And Mom knows it.”

We'd finished peeling all the potatoes and Grandpa had gone on, swiftly slicing them as he dusted away my family's small mysteries. He divided the potatoes into two piles; one of potatoes for frying, the other for mashing. “Perhaps your dad was not the greatest father, or husband, or man. But he's your father. Just like Isabelle was Madeline's mother. You can fight it all you want. You can burn all the bridges you want. But it won't do you any good. We're family. You can’t escape that.”

He told me he would finish cooking the chicken and the corn, and asked me to go check on Jackie. I lay down on the bed and she hummed loudly as she acted out little make believe scenes with the figurines. The window was open, but it was already growing dark outside. I covered my eyes and my hot face warmed my palms. I never forgot what my father looked like. Jackie looked just like him, skinny and darked-haired, with a sharp face. And when she was angry, they were identical.

In many ways, he was better than he used to be. I heard he quit the drugs. The last time he called, which had been on our first day of school, he told me all about his new apartment that he was able to pay for with the money from his new job. He told me about his new dog, which was named by his new girlfriend. It was a new life, plain and colorless. But I yearned to be a part of it all the same.

“Soup's on,” Grandpa called from the kitchen.

“Soup?” I thought we were having potatoes?” Jackie asked.

“We are,” I rolled my eyes. “It's just an expression.”

“Aren't you going to eat?” She lingered in the doorway.

“I don't really feel like it," I answered.

It was getting cold, and I crawled under one of the numerous quilts on the bed. It was likely Grandma Isabelle had made it herself, I realized. I wanted to talk to her. The day had been endless, and with every new revelation, I felt more lost. I know Mom would've disagreed, but I knew we would have been better off if she hadn't kept us from them. Grandpa had been nothing but kind, and I couldn’t imagine Grandma would have treated us any differently. And, I dared to think, it wouldn't have hurt us to see Dad more often. He was different, I told her once, but she wouldn't hear of it. So I was stuck, with no grandmother and no father. I rolled onto my side and gave into my exhaustion, looking for some missing piece in a dream.

I woke up shaking in the dark, hours later. Jackie was hogging all sixty layers of bedding and had rolled over an inch away from me. She was making a racket of sleepy grumbles and groans, and I tried not to laugh at her. I wanted so badly to fall back asleep, but it was no use. Quietly as could be, I slinked out of the bed. I nearly yelped at the icy touch of the hardwood floor as I eased myself across it. The door was cracked some, the way Jackie likes it, and the lights were still on somewhere in the house. I was feeling famished after my nap, and crept with a hopeful stomach to the kitchen.

I lost my appetite instantly.

Sprawled over the table, I saw my grandfather sobbing into the soft tablecloth. His railed shoulders stuck out awkwardly and with one arm he held the back of his head. It appeared as though he was losing more hair, and it was coming out in his bony fingers. He choked and heaved. I stood for an eternity in the threshold. I had only seen children crying—and usually it was just Jackieline trying to get attention. But this was different. I heard his heart breaking in his throat. I couldn't take it anymore. I closed myself around him, resting my head on his shoulder. It startled him slightly at first, but then he embraced me weakly.

“I'm sorry,” I repeated again and again. And I was, for many reasons. I was sorry she had died and that he had lost her. And I was sorry that I had not known her. I was sorry I had not known him. I was sorry my mother was so stubborn, and that my father had been so careless with his family. I was sorry for Jackie, and how she couldn't remember things ever being different. I was sorry for the way doors closed so easily, and how reluctant they were to open again. I was sorry. I was sorry for everything.

And then I did the worst thing in the world. I started crying all over him. At first, it was only a steady trickle, but then my eyes were pooling and my eyes opened and closed like dams. Soon, he was holding my head, reminding me that all things pass in time. I gulped. I felt as though I was swallowing glass.

Without any warning, he stood up and asked me to follow him. He led me out into the room with Isabelle's cabinets, her hundred statuettes. Beside the cabinet on the right was an old footstool, which he picked up delicately and set down on the floor before him. He stepped up—an act that appeared to be somewhat difficult for him—and reached his arms over the top of the cabinet. His hands searched blindly, but finally, they found what they were searching for.

They were carved marble elephants, two of them, linked together by trunk and tail, though it appeared that at one time, there had been many of them forming a long chain. A parade, I thought, an elephant parade. He handed them to me. They were smooth, with tiny toenails and eyes, and even eyelashes. Every wrinkle and crease was etched in finely, no detail overlooked.

“I gave those to her, a long time ago, before we were married. There was a carnival in town, and I went with my brother, before he had to go off to fight in the war. My brother and I didn't have a nickel between us, but I couldn't go home without something for her. I made a bet with a con artist for them. I bet my cap and shoes.”

“And you won?” I asked eagerly, still crying a little.

“No, actually,” he let out a small laugh, “I lost. But my brother, he was a real sharp guy. It was a card trick and he figured it out right there. He beat that bastard at his own game and won me back my cap and shoes, and these elephants.” He laughed a little more, and then his eyes shifted from me to the other figurines. “They were the first and they've never been apart from one another,” he said. “And now they are yours.”

“I can't take these.”

“Yes, you can. I want you to have them. Besides, it's after midnight.”

“Why does that matter?”

“It's your birthday,” he said. “Happy birthday.”

With this, he sent me to bed. I lay awake awhile, pulling the elephants along my stomach like a train. I thought about my grandfather, who then was only Samson, giving Isabelle his gift, and telling the story of the dirty carnie he and his brother had outsmarted fair and square. I thought about mom, who then was only Madeline, knowing about them, way up on the top shelf, longing to play with them, if only for an afternoon, and how once maybe she'd even told my father about them. But in time, she must've forgotten. She must have. I rested them gently on the bedside table and curled up to sleep, listening to Jackie's snoring.

In the morning, I woke up with Mom sitting at the edge of the bed. The room was flooded with white light. It had snowed, thick and heavy, and a white glittering blanket was draped over every house and tree I could see through the window. Jackie was still sleeping, and Mom put a finger to her lips and told me not to wake her. She went on to explain, in a quiet whisper, that an ambulance was on its way. She found him, she said, in the bathtub and that the water had still been warm.

We were informed later that they had deemed his cause of death as “heart failure,” but my mother told me that that was just something they wrote down when there was no other explanation. We stayed there, in the house, a few more days until his funeral had come and gone, and this time my sister and I were able to find some appropriate clothes, though Jackieline wore her light up tennis shoes anyway, because he said he liked them.

And I kept my hands plunged in my pockets, tracing the elephants' trunks as they lowered him into the ground.