Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [117]
I gotta be careful when I shake Mary Lane awake by her bony shoulder because, I’m not kidding, it’s so sharp she could use it to open tin cans. “Mary Lane. Mary Lane.”
“What?” she says, sitting up straight from the waist and reminding me again of that actress in The Bride of Frankenstein when she’s on the doctor’s table right after she’s brought to life. Mary Lane’s permanent wave hasn’t settled down at all.
Because of our mental telepathy, I know Troo’s about to crack wise about her electrified hair, so I hurry and tell Mary Lane, “It’s a matter of life and death. We need to go out to the zoo with you today. I can’t wait anymore. I gotta see Sampson.” That’s not a lie I’m telling her just to get out of the neighborhood for the day. I really do need to see him bad. It’s been almost three months. He must be missing me as much as I’m missing him.
Mary Lane, who smells like her pillow, which I’m sure is stuffed with potato chips, says, “Fine by me, but we gotta ask my dad.”
After she pulls on her usual high-tops, T-shirt and shorts, the three of us go out to the kitchen and beg Mr. Lane to take us with him to work. Being the nice man that he is, he swigs down his cup of breakfast java and says, “Yeah, sure. The more the hairier.” (He is known for these kinds of animal jokes. I think telling them is part of his job the same way shoveling poop is.)
Mary Lane was right when she told me at the beginning of summer that it would take at least three buses to get out to the new zoo on Bluemound Road. It takes almost a half hour by car. It kills me to say it, but it was worth it. It’s really nice. And HUGE. There’s an all-the-time pony ride and the hot dogs they sell are the Oscar Meyer wiener whistle kind and the critters have a lot more room to roam. I want to see Sampson right away, but Mary Lane wants to show us around. She is a big believer in saving the best for last.
We’re her guests, so that’s what we do. Spend the whole day, running here and there. The polar bears’ area looks like the North Pole and Monkey Island is something straight out of a jungle. There’s lots of animals that we didn’t even have at the old zoo, like seals and reindeer. The Reptile House is full of snakes. The boa constrictor sticks his tongue out and makes me think of Bobby Brophy. The only out-of-place cage we come across is the one that belongs to the camel, who doesn’t look like he lives in the desert of Arabia, but the dirt lot on the corner of 53rd Street.
When I ask her why, Mary Lane tells me, “That’s the best Dad could do. Bringin’ in all that sand costs a lot of money and camels are really stupid and they spit worse than your sister. What’d ya do to your tooth, by the way?”
I forgot all about it. “Ah . . . I . . . tripped and um . . . can we go see Sampson now?”
Troo and me follow her past the flamingoes and the penguins over to the Primate House. Mary Lane pulls open the door and says, “He’s got a big yard all to himself, but he’s indoors today. This way.” She leads us past the chimps and the mandrills and all the other monkeys doing their shenanigans until we get to the biggest and busiest cage of all.
Mary Lane clears her throat and announces very professionally, “Zoo business. Comin’ through,” and we push to the front of the crowd.
Seeing him in all his glory, it makes my knees go floppy. I tenderly press my hand against the glass and wait for him to do the same, the way he always did, but Sampson stays where he is, looking at me with his fudgey brown eyes the same way he’s looking at everybody else. He isn’t singing Don’t Get Around Much Anymore or Take Me Out to the Ballgame. He’s not beating his chest because he’s so happy to see me, after so much time apart. He just hangs there for a while from his ceiling rope and when he gets tired of that, he starts looking for that thing in his ear that he’s still not found.
Troo says, “Doesn’t look like he remembers you,” and I can’t get mad because it seems that way to me, too.
I think Mary