beer—he thought more clearly with a beer or two under his belt, which he loved about himself—and tore into the story.
D ESPITE T RUMAN’S JITTERS, the ribbon-cutting ceremony went off without a hitch at midday, and in record time—Dink delivered a three-minute set of comments that Truman scripted for him, the mayor gave two minutes of observations about the zoo’s importance to the community, and a round of applause rang out. Despite his father’s urging, he hadn’t included Martin Choi in the program. Dink snipped the ribbon in two with a pair of hastily found garden shears loaned by the buildings and grounds crew, and the zoo visitors surged back into the briefly closed gallery.
At the windows Friday showed for the first time his alleged fascination with babies, a fact they’d all been told about but doubted. Now, however, Truman saw him select a little girl in her mother’s arms at the front of the crowd, hover in the water right in front of her, and watch her for a long time without going up for a breath of air. The child looked back at him, smiled, offered her bottle. The whale nodded and stayed on and on in the window, watching the bottle, watching the baby, going with them as her parents finally walked away with a regretful last look to a place where the killer whale couldn’t follow.
The atmosphere in the gallery was what Truman imagined it would be at Lourdes. Though they were packed in shoulder to shoulder, people talked in hushed tones; many cheeks were wet with tears. Cameras were ubiquitous. And Friday delivered. Still dingy with the last of the zinc oxide ointment, and trailing peeling skin like mourning ribbons, he gave his visitors his fullest attention. Once the baby was gone, people set their toddlers on the deep windowsills in front of them and watched excitedly as the killer whale homed in on one after another, bringing his eye to the window inches away to look them over. For Truman there was something slightly unnerving about the intensity of both the whale’s interest and the crowd’s. It was as though they were beholding a superhero or saint.
He left the gallery for the back area and office. Gabriel was at the computer when Truman came in. From the office’s underwater window he could still see Friday across the pool, at the gallery windows.
“It’s amazing,” Truman told Gabriel. “Are all killer whales treated with this kind of, I don’t know, reverence?”
“Yep. Blows your mind, doesn’t it?”
Truman admitted it did. “But why?” he asked. “What’s the draw?”
“They’re black and white,” Gabriel said, consulting a handwritten slip of paper and continuing to type.
“What do you mean?”
Gabriel swiveled around to face Truman. “People just go nuts over black-and-white animals. Pandas, penguins, zebras, white tigers, snow leopards, killer whales. No one knows why.”
“Really?” To Truman the statement was at once outrageous and plausible.
“Absolutely. Don’t take my word for it—ask any zookeeper and they’ll tell you the same thing.”
In bed that night, Truman floated Gabriel’s theory past Neva. “Well, sure!” she said. “I thought everyone knew that.”
F IRST THING M ONDAY morning, Truman picked up a copy of the News-Tribune and spread it on his desktop. The headline was: KILLER WHALE WANTS TO GO HOME . The sole source quoted was one Libertine Adagio, animal psychic—the woman he’d met two days ago sitting by the side of the road. There couldn’t possibly be two women with that name.
After reading it, which took a surprising amount of fortitude, he paced in his office, trying to decide what to do. He’d always known trouble would find them—god knows Neva had hammered that home—but he hadn’t imagined it would be so soon, or come from so close by. But in Truman’s mind it was counterbalanced against Friday’s rapt attention to the visitors who now packed his gallery. Truman was already overhearing visitors describing his
D ESPITE T RUMAN’S JITTERS, the ribbon-cutting ceremony went off without a hitch at midday, and in record time—Dink delivered a three-minute set of comments that Truman scripted for him, the mayor gave two minutes of observations about the zoo’s importance to the community, and a round of applause rang out. Despite his father’s urging, he hadn’t included Martin Choi in the program. Dink snipped the ribbon in two with a pair of hastily found garden shears loaned by the buildings and grounds crew, and the zoo visitors surged back into the briefly closed gallery.
At the windows Friday showed for the first time his alleged fascination with babies, a fact they’d all been told about but doubted. Now, however, Truman saw him select a little girl in her mother’s arms at the front of the crowd, hover in the water right in front of her, and watch her for a long time without going up for a breath of air. The child looked back at him, smiled, offered her bottle. The whale nodded and stayed on and on in the window, watching the bottle, watching the baby, going with them as her parents finally walked away with a regretful last look to a place where the killer whale couldn’t follow.
The atmosphere in the gallery was what Truman imagined it would be at Lourdes. Though they were packed in shoulder to shoulder, people talked in hushed tones; many cheeks were wet with tears. Cameras were ubiquitous. And Friday delivered. Still dingy with the last of the zinc oxide ointment, and trailing peeling skin like mourning ribbons, he gave his visitors his fullest attention. Once the baby was gone, people set their toddlers on the deep windowsills in front of them and watched excitedly as the killer whale homed in on one after another, bringing his eye to the window inches away to look them over. For Truman there was something slightly unnerving about the intensity of both the whale’s interest and the crowd’s. It was as though they were beholding a superhero or saint.
He left the gallery for the back area and office. Gabriel was at the computer when Truman came in. From the office’s underwater window he could still see Friday across the pool, at the gallery windows.
“It’s amazing,” Truman told Gabriel. “Are all killer whales treated with this kind of, I don’t know, reverence?”
“Yep. Blows your mind, doesn’t it?”
Truman admitted it did. “But why?” he asked. “What’s the draw?”
“They’re black and white,” Gabriel said, consulting a handwritten slip of paper and continuing to type.
“What do you mean?”
Gabriel swiveled around to face Truman. “People just go nuts over black-and-white animals. Pandas, penguins, zebras, white tigers, snow leopards, killer whales. No one knows why.”
“Really?” To Truman the statement was at once outrageous and plausible.
“Absolutely. Don’t take my word for it—ask any zookeeper and they’ll tell you the same thing.”
In bed that night, Truman floated Gabriel’s theory past Neva. “Well, sure!” she said. “I thought everyone knew that.”
F IRST THING M ONDAY morning, Truman picked up a copy of the News-Tribune and spread it on his desktop. The headline was: KILLER WHALE WANTS TO GO HOME . The sole source quoted was one Libertine Adagio, animal psychic—the woman he’d met two days ago sitting by the side of the road. There couldn’t possibly be two women with that name.
After reading it, which took a surprising amount of fortitude, he paced in his office, trying to decide what to do. He’d always known trouble would find them—god knows Neva had hammered that home—but he hadn’t imagined it would be so soon, or come from so close by. But in Truman’s mind it was counterbalanced against Friday’s rapt attention to the visitors who now packed his gallery. Truman was already overhearing visitors describing his
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