Maybe if Mabel hadn’t looped the artsy necklace with the little pill bottle on it around Amelia’s neck and said, “This is perfect for an artist like you,” the girl wouldn’t have gone home and sketched the baby elephant, and then Mabel wouldn’t be trying to create some cockamamie story about a circus escape. But that’s exactly what she’d done. “This is perfect for an artist like you,” she’d said after handing five dollars across the counter and sliding the brown leather cord around Amelia’s neck. She turned it so the pill bottle fell at the center, a tiny glass jar, maybe an inch or two tall, with a cork in the top. Pretty wires wound around the jar, twisting upwards in a knotted pattern. Mabel thought they were nice. It was for sale in the artsy little café where they’d eaten lunch (so maybe it was Becky’s fault — she’d picked the restaurant) and Mabel had decided, as soon as she saw it, to buy it for Amelia.
The whole purpose of the lunch had been to cheer Amelia up. Amelia had been in some trouble. That’s all Becky, Mabel’s daughter, told her — in some trouble. So Becky had checked Amelia out of school and the three of them were huddled in a corner booth eating fancy salads as if it were perfectly normal for a 15-year-old to be out for a mid-day lunch with her grandmother and great-grandmother. Mabel had never cared for a fancy salad. She knew Becky had only invited her along because she was trying to cheer Mabel up, too. Becky had been hovering about for the last two days, since Mabel got the call that her sister, Virgie, was dying.
Amelia was wearing a solid black shirt and black jeans, with little black flats. There were tips of blue in the bottom of her brown hair, a pretty, sky blue that Mabel didn’t object to. Amelia had a friend named Skye — a tall, loud girl, who drove her own car and was a year or two older than Amelia — but Becky had told Mabel, repeatedly, that they were not to mention Skye. Amelia is no longer friends with Skye. Skye is bad news. So Mabel didn’t comment on the girl’s hair for fear she would say sky, accidently, though it turned out Skye wasn’t the only conversation topic to be avoided. Mabel could feel her daughter dancing around something as she chatted with Amelia, and Mabel felt sorry for them both. It still struck Mabel as extremely strange, at times, that her daughter had a granddaughter. This was not new information, of course, but it could still surprise her. Becky did not approve of how her own daughter, Amelia’s mother, parented. She was a single mom, a lawyer at one of the biggest firms in Memphis, and she worked long hours. Amelia had too much unsupervised time, according to Becky. I told her this would happen, Becky told Mabel, when she mentioned Amelia’s “troubles.”
“How’s school?” Becky asked Amelia.
“It’s fine.” Amelia looked directly at Becky when she answered and smiled, a half smile. She’d always had good manners, which was one reason it was hard to believe all the fuss over her being in trouble. She was a beautiful girl, even with the blue hair. Her real hair was the same reddish brown that Mabel’s had been when she was younger. Amelia wore it cut at a slant, with long bangs hanging across her face.
“Lots of homework?” Becky asked.
“Not really.”
Listening, Mabel felt vaguely angry with Becky. Amelia was mostly quiet, but if she said anything remotely witty (she was actually a witty girl), Becky laughed much too loudly, and the girl’s expression changed. There was a circle of water on the table, where her glass had been sitting, and Amelia traced her finger around the water, circle after circle, in a way that made Mabel feel tender toward her.
In the strange silence that settled over their table, Becky took to reading advertisements posted around the restaurant. “Oh, the circus is coming to town! How interesting!” she said, gesturing toward a sign that was too far away for Mabel to read.
“It’s actually the state fair,” said Amelia.
Becky nodded, conceding this. Amelia had excellent eyesight. But it was too late — with any mention of the circus came talk of the elephant.
“Oh, Mother,” Becky said, turning toward Mabel, her eyes hopeful. “You have to tell your circus story.”
What happened was this:When Mabel was eight years old, the circus came to town. Mabel and her sister walked two miles to the fairgrounds where it was set up, with Mabel carrying both of their tickets since she was the oldest. They each had a hot dog and they shared a bottle of Coke and then, after they watched a unicyclist and two acrobats who flew so high that Mabel felt a distinct dread in her stomach, the girls headed back home.
Virgie saw the elephant first. She always saw everything first. She shrieked and suddenly Mabel saw it, right there, in the middle of that familiar road: a baby elephant walking slowly down the dirt path, with its backside to them, as if it walked that path every day. Mabel had stopped, stunned, and then she’d gotten the giggles. (She still giggled when anything surprised her. It was a bad habit. She had, in fact, made a noise that sounded like a laugh when her niece called yesterday to say that Virgie had taken a turn and would most certainly die. It wasn’t a laugh, though — it was unrecognizable to Mabel and had come from a faraway place).
As soon as she saw the elephant, Virgie turned and ran back to the circus. She was only seven years old, a year younger than Mabel, and Mabel imagined her rushing to the gate, yelling for help. Mabel was still giggling when a storm of people ran past her and then stopped, suddenly. A man and a woman pulled away from the group and approached the elephant slowly. The man was carrying a long silver pole with a metal circle at the end, and Mabel watched from behind as he slid the circle over the elephant’s head and then slowly, carefully, guided the animal around. The woman stood alongside the elephant and they walked him, facing Mabel and her sister, back toward the circus. His ears were laid back flat against his head.
Mabel felt sure the elephant saw her, that the eye closest to her was looking right at her, and she felt an unexpected surge of emotion. The elephant was nearly as tall as Mabel herself, and its grey skin looked old and wrinkly. (That was the question Mabel and Virgie kept returning to in the days after — why did it look so old?) Mabel felt the urge to touch the elephant, or at least talk to him, and she was sad that she’d just stood, frozen, and stared at him while Virgie went to get help.
The elephant’s trunk, which was longer than Mabel would’ve thought, for a baby, was held out in front, weaving up and down, like it was searching for something. The woman walking beside the elephant sang to him and stroked him slowly on the side. She had a pretty voice, very kind-sounding, and her voice had returned to Mabel at strange times over the years, as she was rocking her own children and grandchildren or when she was lying awake, alone in dark. She would find herself humming the tune or picture the woman’s hand resting steadily against the elephant’s side. Mabel wished, so badly, that she had reached out and touched him herself, that she’d felt the folds of his skin and the rise and fall of his breath.
That was the story, the way it really happened. Mabel and Virgie had rushed home in a glow, talking so fast their parents could hardly understand them. When she did understand, finally, Mabel’s mother had praised the girls for not approaching the animal. It could’ve killed you, her mother said. Even a baby elephant could weigh 500 pounds. Mabel imagined, sometimes, that the elephant had turned around and charged at Virgie, knocking her over and stomping her. And then she would’ve died all those years ago, instead of dying now, slowly, disappearing into nothing. “Any day now,” Virgie’s daughter said when she called. Any day.
Becky was making plans to take Mabel to North Carolina for Virgie’s funeral, once it happened. “I have no interest in seeing her after it happens,” Mabel had told her daughter. Becky didn’t ask the follow-up question, which seemed obvious to Mabel. Do you want to go before? Yes. She did. Ever since Virgie had stopped making sense, since her words became fewer and finally stopped, Becky didn’t understand that Mabel still needed to see her. Mabel allowed herself to carry hard feelings toward her daughter, sometimes, but then Becky would make a gesture so very familiar — a quick tilt of her head when she asked Mabel to tell the circus story — that the anger dissolved, immediately, and Mabel felt ashamed.
Mabel could not be sure when the elephant story had changed and turned into something different, something it never was. Had she lied intentionally? It must’ve been more than fifty years since she first told Becky, so who knew? Had her kids or grandkids misunderstood? Did it matter? Mabel never remembered choosing to lie about the elephant, but the story had evolved, and now she always told the story she was expected to tell, the story everyone wanted.
In this story, Mabel found the baby elephant hiding in the pampas grass that lined her parents’ back yard, snuggled amidst the overgrown green stalks that stood five feet tall, with airy white feathers reaching upwards.
This much was true: Mabel’s father had indeed lined the back edge of their yard with pampas grass that for years stood taller than Mabel. (Later, when bamboo fences became fashionable, Mabel decided her father had been ahead of his time.) She’d found a number of things hiding in the pampas grass — mostly rabbits and snakes but, once, an intoxicated man hiding from the police. Still, it didn’t make sense that something as large as an elephant could hide there. An elephant, for heaven’s sake, not a rabbit. Not to mention that the tall grass was bristly and sharp. Every time Mabel reached her hand in to feel around for a lost ball or a missing toy, she’d pull it out streaked with cuts and scratches, and she would itch for days. The pampas grass would have been a terrible place for the elephant to hide.
But, in the new story, that’s exactly where he was. Mabel had gone out to burn the trash — that part, too, could’ve been true. Mabel and Virgie took turns throwing the family’s trash in the fire. On three separate occasions, when it was her turn, Mabel had accidentally thrown the trash barrel in, right along with the trash, and burned it up. This child’s head is in the clouds her mother had said, so many times that Mabel still heard the phrase in her mind on occasion. (In fact, when that absent look darkened Amelia’s eyes and made her seem very far away, Mabel remembered how she used to daydream. She’d suggested to Becky that perhaps Amelia’s head was just in the clouds and she was kind of dreamy-like, like Mabel had always been, but Becky looked at her, hard, and said, “That is not the problem.”)
Maybe one night, as Mabel watched the trash burn and the white, feathery wisps of the pampas grass wave in the moonlight, she had imagined that the baby elephant was with her. That she turned and saw him, crouched beneath the sprawling green grass with his ears pressed back and his eyes watching her. This time, she had gone over to him and knelt beside him and touched his face. She sat beside him for a long time and sang to him, the same song the lady sang to him on the road, the song that drifted through her dreams. And the elephant lay still and watched her, and she had watched him and petted him and talked to him quietly, until Virgie came out and saw the elephant and ran for help. By the time Virgie found her, Mabel was curled next to the elephant, lying beside him, she, too, hidden in the grass.
It was quite likely that Mabel saw all of this one night as she watched the trash burn, as her thoughts drifted in the darkness. That might’ve been how the story was born, this story she told Amelia.
Amelia became very animated while Mabel told her tale, and Becky looked happy. There was no harm in telling the story one more time, Mabel decided. It had been helpful, in fact. The awkwardness was gone and they were laughing with Amelia. Wasn’t that the point of their lunch? Mabel began to feel lighthearted and stayed so until, just before they rose to leave, she heard Becky chiding Amelia to eat more. (Mabel herself had noticed that Amelia was entirely too thin — but if Becky was so worried about it, why had she picked a salad place?)
Amelia gave another little half-smile and Mabel was feeling sorry for her when she noticed the artsy little pill-bottle necklace at the checkout. The artist bit had come to her immediately. Amelia was indeed artistic, that much was true, always painting on the walls of her bedroom and whatnot — currently, she’d painted a city skyline on one of her walls, which was not to Becky’s liking. What the girl needed was an identity, Mabel decided, something to hold on to. There were worse things than being an artist, for crying out loud. This, Mabel had said to Becky several times. She thought she was doing Amelia a kindness, giving her a way of thinking about herself. This will be perfect for an artist like you. And maybe she was right — Amelia had gone home and sketched the elephant, straightaway.
In the twenty-one days beforeBecky called to say Amelia’s drawing had won first prize at the state fair, Mabel had maintained a running calculation of exactly how many times she could’ve been to North Carolina and back. Twenty-one days meant she could’ve flown to North Carolina and back ten times, driven five times. Virgie was hanging on. She hadn’t improved — wouldn’t improve, the doctors had assured — but the end hadn’t come as quickly as they’d predicted. Every morning, when Mabel called her niece to check, she said those words exactly: “She’s still hanging on.” Becky had offered, half-heartedly, that they could go — But we’d just have to turn around and go right back. And there’s no guarantee we’d make it. To Becky’s credit, Mabel hadn’t told her that she wanted to go, that she needed to see Virgie before they went for the funeral. But shouldn’t Becky know? Shouldn’t anyone? Mabel thought about this each time she talked to Becky. The travel calculations required her full concentration, so she was only halfway listening when Becky called, talking rapidly about the juried — this detail was evidently important — competition: a juried competition.
“Troubled teenagers do not enter artwork in the state fair,” Mabel said.
“Mother,” Becky paused. “Her teacher entered it.”
“Troubled teenagers do not allow their art work to be entered into the state fair,” Mabel said. She was quite sure of this. Becky was quiet.
“But I’m glad for her,” Mabel added. “It was a nice little sketch.”
Amelia had brought the sketch over to Mabel’s house for her to see it, sitting shyly on Mabel’s sofa and twirling the necklace Mabel had given her between her fingers as she waited for Mabel’s reaction. She had taken to wearing the necklace every day. (I’m not sure a pill bottle was the most appropriate choice,” Becky had whispered.) Mabel stared at the sketch, stunned. Amelia was a good listener (“At-risk kids are not good listeners,” she reminded Becky) and she had captured the details Mabel described perfectly.
The pampas grass at the back of the yard looked exactly as Mabel remembered, as if Amelia had seen it herself. The only thing Amelia didn’t get right was the girl’s face. She looked like Virgie, not Mabel. Mabel understood the mistake. There was a framed sketch in Mabel’s hallway of her and Virgie when they were girls, a sketch her mother had done years ago. Amelia had been imitating that sketch, apparently — hers had the same lines and shading, the same tilt of Virgie’s head. Maybe Amelia had gotten the two girls mixed up or maybe Virgie’s face had stood out more vividly in her mind — Virgie’s was more memorable, with her wide, dark eyes and sharp chin and the smattering of freckles that Amelia captured, just exactly, in the sketch.
It was unusual, apparently, for a sophomore to win first place at the fair. Amelia’s whole school was up in arms over her and now, Becky told Mabel, so was the local news.
“They already interviewed her,” Becky said. And Mabel was listening fully now because she was happy for Amelia, glad to think of her getting so much attention. Maybe it would be good for her.
“The pretty girl,” Becky continued. “The brunette who’s on in the morning. She interviewed Amelia last night. She wants to interview you, too.”
Mabel knew exactly which reporter Becky was talking about.
“Me? Why?” she asked, though she was afraid she knew.
“About the elephant. Amelia told them the whole story, how she got the idea. They want to talk to you. What do you think?” Becky said. Mabel could hear a car honking. Becky always called her when she was driving, never when she was home.
Mabel was quiet.
“I’m too old to be on TV,” she said, after a moment.
“That’s silly. Amelia would love it. Won’t you do it?”
“I guess I don’t have a good reason not to,” Mabel heard herself saying, but her voice was unfamiliar. Becky would call her later with the details, come help her pick out an outfit. They would probably need to go shopping for something new.
Mabel hung up and stared out her front window to the street outside. It was a big picture window and Mabel kept the blinds open to watch the traffic. School had just dismissed for the day, so a steady flow of cars streamed down the street. How could Mabel go on television and tell the world she’d found an elephant in her own back yard, that she’d played with him and petted him in the moonlight? It was absurd; anyone could see that.
Maybe if she could’ve called Virgie and they could’ve laughed together at how the story had changed as stories do, then she might’ve done it. Virgie might’ve helped her figure out what to say, how to explain how the elephant had gotten into their back yard and how they’d gotten him back to the circus. Virgie would’ve come up with a good story, one that was believable. She would’ve made it funny. It might not have mattered that the story wasn’t true if Mabel and Virgie could’ve laughed. It had been their story, together, in the beginning.
Mabel watched school kids unloading from the bus a few houses down, and she saw Virgie, as a girl, running back to the circus for help, two braids flying behind her. She saw Virgie’s face in Amelia’s sketch, staring at the elephant with wide eyes, her hand on his forehead as she knelt in front of him. She saw Virgie now, a shell of herself, in an unfamiliar hospital room. Mabel felt something shift inside of her.
There was a Greyhound station downtown. Mabel didn’t drive anymore, hadn’t in years, but she started her car each week and let the motor run for a few minutes. She had never mentioned this to Becky. She would drive herself to the bus station in downtown Memphis and she would buy a ticket. It might be nice to ride across the country, to watch the land change. She would call her niece from the bus station in North Carolina. Or maybe she would take a cab from the bus station straight to the hospital.
Mabel felt the beginnings of guilt as she thought about Amelia, but the girl would understand. Mabel thought she would. She hadn’t traveled much over the last few years, and Mabel couldn’t remember where her suitcase was stored, but she wouldn’t take time to look for it. She felt an urgency, now, that made her breath come more quickly. Mabel picked up her purse, walked outside, and started her car. Her hands trembled as she drove, but only slightly.
About the Author
Hannah Heath Johnson
Hannah Heath Johnson is the winner of the 2017 Memphis magazine Fiction Contest for her story, “Sketches.” Johnson lives in Heber Springs, Arkansas, where she is an English instructor at the Heber Springs campus of Arkansas State University-Beebe. She grew up in Wynne, Arkansas, where she first developed a fascination with writing about relationships that simmer over decades. She holds an M.F.A. in creative writing from the University of Memphis and, after spending nearly 10 years in the Memphis area, she and her husband are raising their two children with a healthy love for the Grizzlies. Johnson’s work has been recognized by Glimmer Train and Narrative magazines, and has appeared in Windhover and The Front Porch.
Judges for this year’s contest were Marilyn Sadler, former senior editor of Memphis magazine and a longtime judge and coordinator of the fiction contest, and Richard Alley, book editor for Memphis magazine and the Memphis Flyer. We are grateful for the support of Burke’s Book Store, who served as the sponsor of this year’s contest.
