But the absolute best part of the park, no matter what time of the year it is, has always been right where we are. The zoo. Sitting on the bench under our favorite climbing tree in front of Sampson the gorilla’s enclosure. Daddy and I used to sit at this exact same spot together. He’d point at Sampson and say, “Some people say the lion is the king of the jungle, but I’d have to disagree with them. Just look at him, Sal! He is magnificent!” I would nod my head, but what I was secretly thinking was No, Daddy, you are the king. Of the land and the sky. It’s you who is magnificent.
That was in the good old days. Before the night Bobby the counselor set me down on the grass near the lagoon. Before I heard Daddy’s voice call to me from on high-Now, Sal, now… fly like the wind-and I ripped down the zoo path and jumped over the black iron fence in front of Sampson’s enclosure. When Bobby caught up to me, he gave me the same winning smile I loved when we played chess together at the playground. Only that night he didn’t say, “Checkmate. Better luck next time.” He ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip so slowly and whispered, “Gotcha,” and I was sure that he did. But when he leaped over the fence, the air came off his body and his arms became wings. I waited until the timing was right and I ducked. Bobby flew over my head like Sky King’s Songbird and crashed down into Sampson’s pit. He died, so the only one he’s playing chess with now is Lucifer.
The reason we came here today is so I can say one last good-bye to Sampson. On one side of me on the zoo bench this morning is Mary Lane. (We have to call her by her first and last name like that because around here if you just shout out “Mary” you could get trampled to death since it is the most popular name there is due to the Blessed Virgin.) Mary Lane is wearing her usual high-top tennis shoes and just like us, shorts and a T-shirt. She smells like stale potato chips. She always does. On my other side is my sister. Troo couldn’t care less about saying au revoir to Sampson if she tried. She only came along so she can bug Mary Lane. My sister’s got on her navy blue beret. It’s a flat hat perched high on top of her hair, which our beautifying half sister, Nell, has shown her how to put into a French twist.
“Just ’cause they’re movin’ the zoo doesn’t mean ya ain’t never gonna see Sampson again,” Mary Lane tells me.
She doesn’t take up much room on the bench. Even after Doc Sullivan pulled that tapeworm out of her, she is still the skinniest kid you’ve ever seen. She’d probably go invisible if her zookeeper father didn’t give her bananas for free. She is also a peeper. She lights fires, too. And I secretly think that she is the cat burglar that’s been prowling around the neighborhood for over two months now. (This is not a person who steals pets, which is what most people think until somebody sets them straight. A cat burglar is what you call somebody who gets dressed in black and comes into your house sneaky to steal something precious.) Mary Lane could easily slip through a barely open kitchen window, especially if she smelled a pot roast cooking on the other side, and she spends a ton of time at the zoo so she knows how tigers and leopards move like they’re doing you a big favor by setting their feet down and really, she is sort of hard up and doesn’t have a very big conscience so it makes sense that she is the one breaking one of the Commandments and coveting her neighbors’ valuables out of their houses. She could hock them at Gerald’s Pawnshop on North Avenue to get money for food.
I haven’t told my suspicions about Mary Lane to Troo. She would find some way to use that against her and make fun of my imagination while she was doing it. I know I should, but I haven’t told Dave either. He’s the cop in charge of hunting the cat burglar down. Mary Lane is one of my two best friends and I’m no stool pigeon, but even if I was, what a waste of time that’d be. Even if Dave caught her and threw her in jail, how would they ever keep her skinny self behind bars?
Mary Lane says, “My dad’s been goin’ out to the new zoo every day to get things set up for when it opens. He told me that Bluemound Road is pretty far away, but not that far.”
Mr. Lane, who works at the zoo feeding the animals and doing other odd jobs, told us that they will all be packed up by tomorrow and then the bulldozers will come and knock down the buildings to put in a new expressway. The birds are already gone. Of course, the swans put up a fuss. They always remind me of Troo. Gorgeous to look at, but what a mouth they got on ’em. While we were away at camp, the chimps got taken away from Monkey Island in black zipper bags after they got sleeping shots. The reptile house has been boarded up for a while, which is no skin offa my nose. Mary Lane kept telling me last summer that Bobby Brophy reminded her of a boa constrictor, which is a kind of snake that can swallow a kid whole. If only I’d listened to her.
“Hey,” Mary Lane says, flicking me on the arm. “Ya havin’ one a your flights of imagination?”
This is one of the reasons she is my best friend. Mary Lane understands that my mind flies around sometimes without me and I understand that she’s got a problem with getting her facts straight when she tells a story, so that works out good for both of us.
“Sorry?” I answer.
“I was just sayin’ that you’d probably need to take at least three buses to get out to the new zoo to see Sampson.”
“Really?” I ask. I’m never sure if what she’s telling me is the whole truth or not. You really do have to be careful with her. I used to think she was the biggest, fattest liar around, but she isn’t. Not exactly. Mary Lane is what my other best friend, Ethel Jenkins, describes as “a no-tripper.” That’s what Mississippi folks call somebody who doesn’t let the truth trip them up when they’re telling you a story.
“Yeah, at least three buses,” Mary Lane says, picking at a scab on her knee. “Maybe four, but it could be as many as seven.”
“What do ya think?” I ask Troo, who isn’t really paying attention.
Now that she’s done one-upping Mary Lane about getting to go to Camp Towering Pines this summer, going so far as to bring her Golden Tomahawk talent trophy in a shopping bag so she can shove it in our best friend’s face, my sister is paging through a book she got yesterday from the Finney Library. She’s not actually reading Around the World in Eighty Days because according to her, books are for boneheads like me. Troo’s looking at the pictures to get the idea of the story so she can tell it to Mrs. Kambowski. You can’t hardly go anywhere these days without hearing a joke about how dumb the Polacks are, so that’s why there’s not a doubt in my mind the librarian will fall for my sister’s plan. Troo wants to win the Billy the Bookworm prize this summer in the worst way. She got the free movie passes to the Uptown Theatre last summer even though she didn’t really win them fair and square; Mary Lane did. For some dopey reason, Mrs. Kambowski gave my sister the prize anyway.
“What do I think about what?” Troo says, turning the page.
“Could we take three buses or more to visit Sampson out on Bluemound Road?” I say, trying, but not able, to keep the shakiness out of my voice.
“H-E-double hockey sticks,” Troo says, slamming the book down on the bench. “I knew this was gonna happen. I just knew it! You bein’ a wet blanket at camp wasn’t bad enough, now you’re gonna be cryin’ and worryin’ about that dumb ape… and anything else you can dream up for the rest of the summer, aren’t you?” Troo laughs mean out of her nose that funny French way she does now. “Hunh… hunh… hunh. You’re goin’ loonier by the second, Sally.”