Tiger, Tiger (3 page)
I crossed the length of the pool and asked just that. He answered, “Of course,” and then immediately splashed my face, frolicking with me as though I were his own child. I splashed the boys’ faces and they mine, for these boys didn’t seem to mind playing with someone so much younger and a girl to boot. At one point the handsome boy gently dunked my head, and when I rose, I laughed so hard that for a moment it seemed all I could hear was my own laughter. Then the father lightly took me under the arms and whizzed me around, laughing like a big kid. When he stopped, the world was off balance and a strange burst of white flooded his features, like a corona.
Later, when the lifeguards called everyone out of the pool for closing, the father, whose name was Peter, introduced us to a sweet-looking Hispanic woman named Inès, who had been wading by herself in the shallowest part of the pool while we played. Peter teased her about her need to be close to the pool’s edges and joked to my mother and me that Inès was nervous about things no one thought to worry about, such as going on carousels or riding a bicycle. Inès had an awkwardly pretty face, drowsy, sun-lined eyes, long curly hair that started out dark but midway changed to a dyed apricot shade, and the mild, disoriented look of a wild fawn. She had purple press-on nails; two had gone missing, and the rest had tiny black peace signs painted on them.
Peter told us everyone’s names: the older boy, Miguel, looked about twelve or thirteen and the younger boy, Ricky, only a couple of years older than I was. By the end of the day I’d forgotten all the names but I remembered the first letters of the parents’ names: P and I. I kept thinking of them, P and I, and their promise to invite my mother and me to their house. A few days passed and nothing happened, so I forgot them.
I might have permanently forgotten, except for some vague stamp of joy that the incident left on me. We were in Poppa’s 1979 Chevy when Mommy said they had called her up, or, rather, Peter had called.
“We’re invited to go to their house. Isn’t that nice?” When Poppa said nothing, she continued. “Peter and Inès. And the boys, Ricky and Miguel. Miguel and Ricky. Such nice boys. Well-behaved boys, not rough at all. Such a nice family.”
“Their house? It is around here?”
“Not far. On the phone, Peter said Weehawken, right where it meets Union City. I just wanted to run it by you. See what you think?”
“About what?”
“Going there. On Friday while you’re at work.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, I thought I’d run it by you.”
“I don’t care. These people are not ax murderers, right?”
“They’re a very nice family. Very nice people. A lovely family.”
“Everything is so nice to you. Everyone is so nice. Everything is so lovely.”
“So it’s set, then,” said Mommy. “For Friday at noon.”
I
n front of the two-family house sat a two-tiered white fountain and three large resin statues—a pink bear, a black Lab with wings, and a mermaid. The bear was half sunk in ivy. The strange, dark, coiling ivy braceleted the mermaid’s plump tail, and up the side of the house it crawled, swallowing the chipped purple shingles like a wild man’s beard; sprouting out from the clotted ivy on the ground were tall red and pink roses. There was a ragged gold and red Spanish flag on a pole, and flowerpots on both sides of the welcome mat. The bell that my mother rang lolled out of the frame on its wires. When she didn’t hear it, she resorted to a heavy gold-colored door knocker.
At first I didn’t associate the slender, lithe man who led us up the stairs with the father from the pool. I clung to the mahogany banister in deference to my mother’s command: she called the winding stairs “tricky.” I almost slipped at one point because I was too busy watching a set of golden-key wall ornaments by the stairwell ascend with me, positioned so that each key seemed larger than the one beneath it.
“These stairs are a killer,” the man said, holding his back. “I wish we lived in the first-floor apartment instead. But it’s too small for all of us. Plus, it’s not in the greatest shape. I can’t even rent that floor out right now. I keep meaning to fix it up, but there’s so much to do upstairs. You’ll see.”
At the top of the stairwell was a mirror that my mother asked about, and the man said, “It’s an American girandole, with the federal eagle on the top. I spray it gold each year or so to keep it looking nice. I got it at a flea market. It’s an antique.” Then he laughed, and said, “So am I.”
The man continued: “Everything in our house is an antique. Our stove is a Bengal gas-on-gas, installed in 1955. And we have an old claw-foot bathtub, too, the really deep kind of tub you never see anymore. And a deep double sink: one side is meant for washing dishes, and the other side for clothes.”
I sensed he was stalling on opening the wooden door at the top for some reason; that like all adults, he enjoyed making children wait. I slunk my way between him and my mother and gave him my sternest yet most amicable pout and said, “Uh, what’s your name again?”
“Peter, don’t you remember?”
“Peter, can you open that door? Please?”
Swiftly, with a smile as sweet as a Cracker Jack, he placed his wide, kind hand over my eyes. “Now, don’t peek. I’m going to take my hand off all at once, fast, and, when I do, you’re going to see something amazing, okay. Promise you won’t try to peek?”
“Promise.”
I heard the door open and did attempt to look, but all I saw was the light fringing the cracks in his fingers. “Ready?”
“Ready!”
A square glass tank sat in the middle of the floor—about the size of a small living room sofa. Inside were large brown branches, and on the branches there were iguanas with spikes on their heads; a small dirty pond held a black, whiskered catfish. On perches by the windows, parakeets and finches fluttered; the floor was covered in newspapers to collect their droppings; the walls contained built-in bird feeders, and from the ceiling hung bird toys: bells and colored rocks strung together. A big furry dog, tongue hanging, came to me for petting, and I plunged my hand into his long autumn-colored fur; he sank to the floor with pleasure, and rolled onto his back to get his soft white belly rubbed and scratched.
“This is Paws,” Peter said. “He’s the friendliest dog in the world, part golden retriever, part collie.”
“Oh, those are nice breeds!” my mother said, and though she was allergic, she couldn’t resist petting him.
Peter then led us into the kitchen, which contained a tank with a small box turtle swimming in it. The turtle ate worms, Peter said, and showed me the gray cubes, which were really worms, crushed and dried up. He took the wire netting off the top of the tank and I dropped the gray cube in and saw the flat, wrinkled head bob up to get it. The turtle’s tank and the tank in the front room had a wild, rank smell that mixed with every other smell: bird droppings and feathers and old newspapers and Paws’s fur, which had that warm, dirty, doggy smell. He followed us everywhere and kept looking at us with his moist eyes. The bird chatter merged with the ticking of dog claws on the kitchen linoleum, and the sound of that crazy, happy tail swiping everything he passed. Paws’s entire bottom swished with it, nonstop. “It’s like he’s dancing,” I said.
We went to the living room, which had red carpeting, a red velvet sofa and velvet-cushioned chairs, red drapes, and three huge bookcases jammed with books. On the floor was a small mesh cage with a stout brown-and-white hamster in it, and by the window, in a huge tank about half the size of the one in the front room, goldfish swam—orange, black, spotted. They drifted among aquarium plants, a stone cottage, a stone mermaid, and a stone toad, past a windmill churning bubbles. On the left of the tank was another, smaller tank, and with a grin, Peter led us to it, pointing inside to a small alligator.
“He’s a caiman—part alligator, part crocodile,” Peter explained, and I saw that in length he was half the size of my arm, maybe a bit wider. He had skin full of ripples, ancient unblinking eyes, and sat as still as the creatures made of stone.
“How can he be so tiny?” I asked.
“Well, if he was in the wild he’d grow bigger,” Peter said. “But here, in captivity, he grows only to about the size the tank allows. His body knows, instinctively, that if he got bigger, he would outgrow his surroundings. He’s happy there, see, with his little stream and log to sit on: he’ll never really get bigger than he is. Unless I get a bigger tank.”
“Will you?” I looked up to his smiling face. “Get a bigger tank?”
“Maybe someday. But I like him the size he is. Wanna see a trick, something really neat?”
“Yeah!”
Peter put his hand into the tank, which made Mommy and me gasp. But he kept right on smiling and nudged the little alligator over, and I moved closer to see the smooth, white, lined belly and plump, stubby legs raised in what seemed total submission; and that oddly shaped face with its mouth forming a sort of serene grin, exposing the tiniest triangles of teeth. Those teeth, though tiny, looked like they could hurt, and my heart beat in fear for Peter’s hand. I thought about library books I’d read about tigers and other big cats, a subject of endless fascination for me. Supposedly, crocodiles, hiding under swamp water, could suddenly spring up and grab the neck of a drinking tiger, yank the big cat down with all those small mean teeth digging into thick orange fur while the tiger’s back legs tried to keep a hold on the earth.
But Peter stroked its belly, and I watched the pale, clear reptilian eyes dilate. And soon, to the awe of Mommy and me, the caiman’s eyes shut completely and Peter said, in a whisper, “He’s sleeping.” I whispered back to Peter, “I thought he was going to bite you. I was scared.”
“All animals love to have their bellies rubbed. There are no exceptions.”
“What’s his name?”
“Warden.”
“He sure looks like one,” said Mommy. “Awake, that is. Peter, how do you find the time to take care of all these animals?”
Peter lit up a King 100. I knew my mother worried about me being around secondhand smoke, but she kept quiet. “I’m on veteran’s disability. My job is taking care of this house, because as you can see, something’s always breaking, and I was trained as a carpenter so I know a lot about fixing things.” He blew out some smoke rings and I stuck my finger in them, giggling as they dissolved.
“You see, I was working as a stateside carpenter during the Korean War and I was driving down a hill in the rain and a truck rear-ended me. I ended up having to get a spinal fusion. Sometimes I have to wear a back brace, but I don’t let it get me down. I keep busy. Fixing this house and taking care of the animals. Without that, I’d be pretty bored. But a person can never run out of things to do in this place.” He paused. “You know how old this house is?”
“How old?” Mommy asked. I started tracing circles on the sleeping caiman’s tank.
“Over a hundred years. This house was built during the Civil War era; it’s one of the oldest houses in Weehawken. Inès inherited it from her husband. He was killed in a car crash while her kids were still in diapers.”
My mother’s eyes widened. “Did you know over a hundred people a day die in car accidents? That’s why I always tell Margaux to wear her seat belt. My husband won’t.” She shook her head. “That must have been devastating for her. I can’t even imagine a thing like that.”
Peter nodded. “It was traumatic for Inès, very much so. Anyway, Miguel and Ricky really needed a dad and Inès—I don’t know if she could have managed it without someone to help her out with this place. Believe me, it’s in an eternal state of . . . oh, what’s the word? It’s falling apart. She works at the
Pennysaver
; one of her jobs is typing up the personal ads and such. She decided to put in one for herself but there was some kind of mix-up and the ad wasn’t even supposed to run that day. But
it did
. Some things are fate, I guess. Anyway, your name, Cassie, it comes from Cassandra, right?”
“Yes. Cassandra Jean. My father named me. He used to call me Sandy.”
“Would you mind if I called you Sandy, then? I think it’s important to stay close to our childhoods. Childhood is the most important time, really.”
“Yes, I agree. Call me Sandy, then.”
“There’s a little poem I had to learn in school and I still remember it today. Funny what we remember. It goes like this: ‘Blessings on thee, little man, / Barefoot boy with cheek of tan! / With thy turned-up pantaloons, / and thy merry whistled tunes; / With thy red lip, redder still / Kissed by strawberries on the hill; / With the sunshine on thy face, / Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace; / From my heart I give thee joy, / I was once a barefoot boy!’ John Greenleaf Whittier.”
“Bravo!” Mommy said. “You didn’t miss a beat.”
Peter cleared his throat. “For all I’ve lived, I still try to have that attitude. I don’t want to lose my cheer. Did you ever feel, Sandy, for everything that’s happened in your adult life, you’ve still kept the heart of a little girl? I can see that in you.”
Mommy blushed and paused before speaking. She kept her voice low; I think she thought I was so caught up with the caiman that I wasn’t listening. “Well, I might as well be a child, the way my husband treats me. He’s always saying I can’t do anything right. When I was a little girl, my father gave me responsibilities. I used to wash the dishes every night and my dad would give me a nickel.” Her face glowing, she said, “I was the youngest child and my father’s pet.”
“I bet you looked just like Shirley Temple back then.”
“This is the zoo and you’re the zookeeper!” I blurted out.
“Well, I guess you could say that. You want to see some more animals?”
“Yeah!”
“There’s a guinea pig in the attic I haven’t shown you yet. The attic is Miguel and Ricky’s room. And there’s some rabbits outside, in hutches.”
“Where are Miguel and Ricky today?” Mommy asked. “I was hoping Margaux might get to play with them.”
“Out at Big Mouth Arcade, probably. Wasting this sunny day.”
“With Inès?”
“No, Inès doesn’t get home from work until around five thirty. Lately she’s been putting in overtime. They don’t pay her extra, but she’ll never say anything.” He rolled his eyes.