At the Zoo
by Gil Hoy
It’s late in the afternoon in late October. I’m at the zoo with my ten-year old son. We’re here most weekends. I’ve been coming here since I was a small boy. My son is staring at the elephants, the largest land mammals on earth. One of the three is particularly massive. He has a huge head, large ears, and a long trunk that is sucking up drinking water from a large container.
My cell phone rings. It’s my sister, Mary. The doctors just told her Mother’s condition is deteriorating rapidly. She won’t make it through the night. I knew Mother was sick, but I didn’t realize just how sick. Mary asks me to call her.
I don’t call Mother as often as I should. She lives far away, so I haven’t visited her much. And now it’s too late. I’ll call her today. Mary is asking me if I can come to New York for the funeral. I say I’ll try. I’ve been working a lot of overtime. I lost my better-paying job to a younger employee last month, but they kept me on in a lesser role. I wonder for how long. There have been a lot of layoffs and firings as of late.
The three elephants traipse about. The massive one seems to be frightened by something. And then he’s trumpeting. Air pushes forcefully through his trunk. My son jumps when he hears the blast. I’m more accustomed to it. I put my hands on my son’s shoulders to steady him.
Mary can’t stop crying. She and Mother are particularly close. And now I’m crying. I’ll buy a coach ticket and go to New York for the funeral. I’ll stay for a day. My son asks, “Why are you crying, Dad?” I tell him his grandmother is very ill.
I’ve called twice and finally get through. Talk to a person who’s dying. I don’t know how to do it. Mother says she knows she’s dying. And she knows I’ve called to say goodbye. Everything I think to say seems trivial and uncaring. I say that I love her. That Sally loves her. That her grandchildren love her. Mother starts to speak. She tells me to be a good father. But soon I can’t understand what she’s saying. Her words are slurred and her sentences aren’t making much sense. And then the nurse gets on the phone. She says Mother can’t talk further. That she’s exhausted and needs to rest.
The massive elephant is trumpeting again. The blare rings in my ears. What’s frightening him? My son asks me, “Can we go home now?” I guess I’m no longer good company, even for my son. It’s getting dark outside. A strong, cold wind is suddenly blowing. It was supposed to be warmer. I wish I’d brought my son’s winter coat. The windbreaker he’s wearing is way too thin.
The male elephant is quiet now. A female is batting around a beach ball with her trunk. A baby elephant cries. Is the baby cold? The massive male and large female caress and stroke the baby with their trunks. Are they a family?
I take my son’s small hand in my hand. We start to walk towards the exit. The zoo will be closed soon. Nearly everyone has already left. By the time we get to the exit, the zoo is deathly quiet. How did it get so late so soon? As we leave, I hear the faint trumpeting sound of a frightened elephant in the distance.
Copyright © 2022 by Gil Hoy
