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with him, but I’ll be more of a liability than an asset, at least in the beginning.”
    “He says if you can work with elephants, you can work with killer whales.”
    Neva pressed Truman’s arm across the desktop. “In that case, of course I’ll come back. You know there’s no one I’d rather share a frying pan with than you.”
    F ROM W OOF!, T RUMAN drove to the Oat Maiden, a cheerful garage sale of a café in downtown Bladenham. It had gouged and rippling old floorboards, silvering mirrors, mismatched chairs, and heavy wooden tables brightly painted with celestial, aquatic, safari, and Bicycle-playing-card motifs in primary colors. Sitting at a back table waiting for him was Samson Brown, a seventy-one-year-old black man, tall and trim, his lined face testifying to a life of hard work cheerfully undertaken, including forty-one years of caring for Hannah. Truman shook his hand before sitting down.
    “So what’s this all about?” said Sam. “You got yourself a whale now?”
    “Maybe. Yes. And he’s right up our alley,” Truman said wryly. “He’s sick, he’s needy, he’s in a terrible facility, and bringing him here might kill him. Oh, and once he’s here he’ll be alone, just like Hannah. On the other hand, he’ll certainly die if he’s left where he is now.”
    “I don’t believe the good Lord ever meant for death to be the right choice if there’s an alternative,” said Sam. “You got a way to move him?”
    “Yes.”
    “You got a place to put him once you move him?”
    “Yes.”
    “Somebody got the know-how to take care of him once he’s here?”
    “Yes.”
    “Anybody else want to do the same thing?”
    “Evidently not.”
    “Sounds like you got your answer.”
    Truman smiled. “It sure does. The reason I asked you to meet me is, I want to know whether you’d consider helping.”
    “Be glad to help, but I don’t know a thing about killer whales. Come to that, I’ve never even seen one except on TV. Can’t swim, either.”
    “I’m sure there are ways you can help that won’t involve heavy physical work. Or swimming. You could be more of an observer. And you could work strictly on an as-needed basis. The main thing is, I’d feel a lot better about all this if I knew we could tap into your experience.”
    “You don’t even need to ask that. It’s yours anytime you want it.”
    “Thank you,” Truman said. “From my heart.”
    A young girl approached the table wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m so sorry. We’re backed up in the kitchen. Can I get you something?”
    “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” Truman said, indicating Sam’s glass of iced tea and pizza slice. “And tell your boss we said hi.” Johnson Johnson was another member of Hannah’s band of schemers, a man of infinite shyness, few words, and great artistry, who had also recently taken over the Oat Maiden. The round table at which they were sitting was a piece of his work, painted with bright animals from the African veldt and Serengeti Plain in a never-ending circle.
    “Perfect,” said the girl and trotted away.
    “He’s doing a good job with the place,” said Sam. “Who’d of thunk? Your mom and dad still helping him?”
    “From time to time,” said Truman. “Mostly it’s Neva, though. She does the books, helps him order things if he gets too busy, generally keeps an eye on him.”
    “She’s a good woman.”
    “That she is,” Truman agreed. “That she is.” The waitress set Truman’s drink and a slice of pepperoni pizza in front of him and trotted off again. Truman absently rubbed his thumb through the condensation on the side of the glass. “You know, you said once that Max Biedelman thought the worst thing she’d ever done was to bring Hannah here. I keep thinking about that.”
    “She didn’t feel bad about giving shug a home,” Sam corrected him. “What she felt bad about was not being able to give her another elephant. She gave her me—that’s the best she could do