Katherine Applegate - The One and Only Ivan

I pop my finger into my mouth. It’s not exactly ripe mango, but it’s not bad.

Julia laughs. “You don’t eat it. You paint with it.” She grabs a piece of paper and presses her finger on it. “See? Like this.”

I place my finger on a piece of paper. I lift it, and a red mark is there.

I get a bigger glob from the pot and slap my hand down on the page. When I pull my hand off the paper, its red twin stays behind.

This isn’t like the ghostly handprints on my glass, the ones my visitors leave behind.

This handprint can’t be so easily wiped away.

a bad dream

I lie awake, peeling dried red paint off my fingertips. Bob, who accidentally walked on one of my paintings, is licking his red paws.

Every so often, I glance over at the empty ring. The claw-stick glints in the moonlight.

“Stop! No!” Ruby’s frantic cries startle me.

“Ruby,” I call, “you’re having a bad dream. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“Where’s Stella?” she asks, gulping air. Before I can answer, she says, “Never mind. I remember now.”

“Go back to sleep, Ruby,” I say. “You’ve had a hard day.”

“I can’t go back to sleep,” she says. “I’m afraid I’ll have the same dream. There was a sharp stick, and it hurt…”

I look at Bob, and he looks back at me.

“Oh,” Ruby says. “Oh. Mack.” She puts her trunk between the bars. “Do you think—” She hesitates. “Do you think Mack is mad because I hurt him today?”

I consider lying, but gorillas are terrible liars. “Probably,” I finally say.

“He ran away after that,” Ruby says.

Bob gives a scornful laugh. “Crawled away is more like it.”

We are quiet for a while. Branches claw at the roof. A light rain drums. One of the parrots murmurs something in her sleep.

Ruby breaks the silence. “Ivan? I smell something funny.”

“He can’t help it,” Bob says.

“I believe she’s referring to the finger paints Julia gave me,” I say.

“What are finger paints?” Ruby asks.

“You make pictures with them,” I explain.

“Could you make a picture of me?”

“Maybe someday.” I remember Julia’s picture, the one that will be worth a million dollars. I hold it up to the glass. “Look. It’s you. Julia made it.”

“It’s hard to see,” Ruby says. “There’s not much moonlight. Why do I have two trunks?”

I examine the picture. “Those are feet.”

“Why do I have two feet?”

“That’s called artistic license,” Bob says.

Ruby sighs. “Could you tell me another story?” she asks. “I don’t think I can ever go back to sleep.”

“I told you all I remember,” I say with a helpless shrug.

“Then tell me a new story,” she says. “Make something up.”

I try to think, but my thoughts keep returning to Mack and his claw-stick.

“Anything yet?” Ruby asks.

“I’m working on it.”

“Ivan?” Ruby presses. “Bob said you are going to save me.”

“I…” I search for true words. “I’m working on that, too.”

“Ivan?” Ruby says in a voice so low I can barely hear her. “I have another question.”

I can tell from the sound of her voice that this will be a question I don’t want to answer.

Ruby taps her trunk against the rusty iron bars of her door. “Do you think,” she asks, “that I’ll die in this domain someday, like Aunt Stella?”

Once again I consider lying, but when I look at Ruby, the half-formed words die in my throat. “Not if I can help it,” I say instead.

I feel something tighten in my chest, something dark and hot. “And it’s not a domain,” I add.

I pause, and then I say it. “It’s a cage.”

the story

I look at the ring, layered with fresh sawdust. I look at the skylight, at the half-hidden moon.

“I just thought of a story,” I say.

“Is it a made-up story or a true one?” Ruby asks.

“True,” I say. “I hope.”

Ruby leans against the bars. Her eyes hold the pale moon in them, the way a still pond holds stars.

“Once upon a time,” I say, “there was a baby elephant. She was smart and brave, and she needed to go to a place called a zoo.”

“What’s a zoo?” Ruby asks.

“A zoo, Ruby, is a place where humans make amends. A good zoo is a place where humans care for animals and keep them safe.”

“Did the baby elephant get to the zoo?” Ruby asks softly.

I don’t answer right away. “Yes,” I say at last.

“How did she get there?” Ruby asks.

“She had a friend,” I say. “A friend who made a promise.”

how

It takes a long time, but finally Ruby returns to sleep.

“Ivan,” Bob whispers, yawning, “what you said … about the zoo. How are you going to do it?”

Suddenly I feel as if I could sleep for a thousand days. “I don’t know,” I admit.

“You’ll think of something,” Bob says confidently, his voice trailing off as his eyes close.

“What if I don’t?” I ask, but Bob is already asleep.

His little red feet dance, and I know he’s running in his dreams.

remembering

Bob and Ruby sleep on.

I don’t sleep. I think about the promise I made to Stella, and the pictures I’ve made for Ruby. And I remember.

I remember it all.

what they did

We were clinging to our mother, my sister and I, when the humans killed her.

They shot my father next.

Then they chopped off their hands, their feet, their heads.

something else to buy

There is a cluttered, musty store near my cage.

They sell an ashtray there. It is made from the hand of a gorilla.

another ivan

When morning comes and the parking lot glimmers with dew, I see the billboard on the highway.

There I am: the One and Only Ivan, bathed in the pink light of dawn. I look so angry, with my furrowed brow and clenched fists.

I look the way my father did, the day the men came.

I am, I suppose, a peaceful sort. Mostly I watch the world go by and think about naps and bananas and yogurt raisins.

But inside me, hidden, is another Ivan.

He could tear a grown man’s limbs off his body.

In the flicker of time it takes a snake’s tongue to taste the air, he could taste revenge.

He is the Ivan on the billboard.

I stare at the One and Only Ivan, at the faded picture of Stella, and I remember George and Mack on their ladders, adding the picture of Ruby to bring new visitors to the Exit 8 Big Top Mall and Video Arcade.

I remember the story Ruby told, the one where the villagers came to her rescue.

I hear Stella’s kind, wise voice: Humans can surprise you sometimes .

I look at my fingers, coated in red paint the color of blood, and I know how to keep my promise.

days

During the days, I wait. During the nights, I paint.

I worry when Mack takes Ruby into the ring.

He carries the claw-stick with him all the time now. He doesn’t use it. He doesn’t have to.

Ruby isn’t fighting back anymore. She does whatever Mack asks.

nights

I close my eyes. I dip my fingers into the paint.

When I’m done with one piece of paper, I set it aside to dry.

It’s so small, just one sheet. And I’m going to need so many.

I move on to the next, and the next, and the next.

It’s a giant puzzle, and I’m making the pieces one by one.

By morning, my floor is covered with paintings.

I hide the paintings under my pool of dirty water before Mack can see them. I don’t want them to end up in the gift store, selling for twenty dollars apiece (twenty-five with frame).