When My Heart Joins the Thousand
DEDICATION
To Joe
CONTENTS
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Back Ad
About the Author
Books by A. J. Steiger
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I was first introduced to the world of Watership Down as a child, through the 1978 animated film, which captures the brutality as well as the hope and beauty of the original book. I fell instantly in love with its world and characters. Decades later, I find its power undimmed.
Rabbits are survivors. Faced with a world of predators, they adapt, struggle, fight, and persevere. As individuals they are weak and short-lived, but as a species they are mighty. They represent the will to live, the deepest instinct burning within every creature of this world.
Alvie, too, is a survivor. Her emotional connection to rabbits—and to Watership Down, specifically—is the thing that first brought her to life in my mind, and a touchstone I returned to through revision after revision.
For that, I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to Richard Adams. He passed away in 2016, but his legacy will endure for generations. Far more than a fantasy, Watership Down is an anthem of life. It reminds us of our deep and intimate connection to the earth, to animals, and to each other.
PROLOGUE
For rabbits, the process of courtship and mating combined takes about thirty to forty seconds.
I am not a rabbit. If I were, my life would be simpler in many ways.
“Are you sure about this?” Stanley asks. “You can still change your mind, you know.”
I tug twice on my left braid. “If I didn’t want this, I wouldn’t have asked.” Though I didn’t expect him to say yes.
We are in a motel room with an ancient, rattling heater and a factory painting of a windmill. Stanley sits on the edge of the bed, fidgeting, his crutch leaning next to him. His hands are clasped tightly in his lap.
I take a few steps toward him. He lifts his hands, then stops. “No touching, right?”
“No touching,” I reply. That’s the agreement. I touch him. He doesn’t touch me.
His pulse beats in his throat. I count twenty beats in ten seconds. One hundred and twenty beats per minute.
This is, I suppose, very sudden. Technically we just met for the first time today. But I want to try. Just once. This should be instinctive. Any animal can do this. Surely I can, too. Even I am not that broken.
Slowly I reach out and take his hand in both of mine. He makes a sound like he’s about to sneeze—that sharp intake of breath. I study his fingers, which are long and slender. I don’t like being touched, because it hurts, but when I’m the one controlling it, it’s bearable. “You know,” I say, “all whiptail lizards are female. They reproduce themselves by cloning. Females will mount each other to stimulate egg production.”
He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me.
“With seahorses, the sex roles are reversed. The female injects her egg into the male, and he carries and bears the young.”
Stanley places his free hand on his stomach.
“Emperor penguins have only one mate per breeding season. The mated pair can locate each other by their distinct calls. The male stays in one place and bugles to the female until she finds him. They bow to each other, stand breast to breast, and sing.”
“They sing?”
“Yes.”
I wonder—what am I? A rabbit, a penguin, a hyena, a gibbon? Something else entirely? The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t identify very well with humans.
“Are you sure about this?”
It’s the second time he’s asked that question, but maybe he’s right to ask it. I wonder if I’ve gone crazy. This could easily turn into a disaster.
“Let’s proceed,” I say.
CHAPTER ONE
Three weeks earlier
During certain times of day, my apartment smells like rancid Gouda. Apparently no one else in the building has noticed. I’ve written four letters to Mrs. Schultz, my landlady, but I stopped when I learned she was putting them all in a file folder marked CRAZY, which I happened to glimpse when I went down to her office to pay my rent.
So now, when the smell gets too intense, I just go to the park and play online Go on my laptop.
It’s October 5, 5:59 p.m. The temperature in the park is roughly fifty-six degrees. Silence fills my ears. When I listen more deeply, I can hear the sounds woven into it—the dull roar of distant traffic, the shh-shh of leaves in the wind, the whoosh of my own blood through my veins—but no human voices.
I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, which offers the dual advantage of keeping my ears warm while hiding my face, giving me a sense of privacy. All around me, the park is quiet and still, an expanse of sleepy green grass. A few maples have already started to drop their bloodred leaves. Nearby, a small pond glimmers. Anas platyrhynchos glide across the water, and the heads of the males gleam like carved emerald studded with bright onyx eyes. When they rear up, wings spread, the iridescent blue-black of their speculum feathers catches the light.
I glance at the empty bench by the pond and check the time on my cell phone. I am waiting for the boy with the cane.
Every day, at precisely six o’clock, a boy about my age—perhaps a few years older—emerges from a salmon-colored building across the street, limps to the park, and sits on the bench. Sometimes he reads. Sometimes he just watches the ducks. For the past three weeks, this has been his routine.
When he first started coming here, I resented his encroachment on my territory. I didn’t want to talk to him—I dislike talking to people—but I didn’t want to abandon my park, either. So I hid. After a while, something shifted. He became a part of the scenery, like the ducks, and his presence ceased to annoy me. The clockwork regularity of his visits became—almost comforting.
Sure enough, at six o’clock, the door opens, and he emerges, looking the same as ever: slender, pale, and not too tall, with light brown hair that looks like it hasn’t been trimmed for some time. His open blue windbreaker flaps in the breeze. I watch him make his way to the bench, leaning on his cane. He sits. I turn away, satisfied. Leaning back against a tree, I open my laptop, prop it against my knees, and start a game of Go with a random opponent.
The boy is unaware of my presence. I’m careful to keep it that way.
By the time I leave the park, it’s almost night. On the way home I stop at the Quik-Mart, grab two packages of ramen, a loaf of white bread, a jug of orange soda, and a cellophane-wrapped vanilla cupcake.
I buy the same thing every time, so I know exactly how much it costs: six dollars and ninety-seven cents. I count out exact change before approaching the counter and quickly slide the money, along with my purchases, toward the clerk.
“Anything else?” he asks. I shake my head.
My apartment is just down the street. It stands on the corner, a squat brick building with a single scrawny tree out front. A blue condom hangs from one of the topmost branches like a tiny flag; it’s been there as long as I can remember. Amber shards of broken glass glitter on the pavement.
As I approach the door to the lobby, I freeze. A thin, balding, fortyish man in round glasses and a sweater vest is waiting for me outside, briefcase at his feet, arms crossed over his chest.
“Dr. Bernhardt,” I blurt out.
“Glad I caught you. I’ve been buzzing your apartment. I was about to give up.”
I clutch my groceries to my chest. “Our meeting is on Wednesday. It’s Monday. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I needed to reschedule. I called you several times, but you never answer your phone. I realize you hate surprises, but that being the case, maybe you should try checking your voice mails now and again.” His tone holds a slant that I’ve come to identify as wry.
Dr. Bernhardt is a social worker. He’s also the reason I’m able to live on my own, despite being a minor.
“So,” he says, “are you going to let me in?”
I breathe a tense sigh and unlock the door. “Fine.”
We enter the building and climb the threadbare steps to the second floor. The hallway carpet is a faded shade between beige and blue, with a dark, sprawling stain that could be a spilled drink or dried blood. Like the tree condom, it’s been there ever since I moved in. Dr. Bernhardt wrinkles his nose as he steps over it, into my apartment.
He surveys the inside. A pair of unwashed jeans lies on the floor next to a pile of sudoku books. A half-empty glass of orange soda stands on the coffee table with crumbs strewn around it. A sports bra lies draped over the top of the TV.
“You know,” he says, “for someone who loves order and routine, I’d think you would be a little more concerned about hygiene.”
“I was planning to clean before you came over,” I mutter. Messes don’t bother me, as long as they’re my messes. The chaos of my apartment is familiar and easy to navigate.
As I enter the kitchen, an earwig scuttles into the sink and vanishes down the drain. I drop my purchases onto the kitchen counter, open the refrigerator, and slide the orange soda inside.
Dr. Bernhardt peers over my shoulders, surveying the contents of the fridge—a paper carton of leftover Chinese food, the moldy remains of a ham sandwich, a tub of Cool Whip, and some mustard. He raises his eyebrows. “Is there anything in here with nutrients?”
I shut the door. “I’m going grocery shopping tomorrow.”
“You really ought to buy a fruit or vegetable once in a while.”
“Are you obligated to report on my eating habits.”
“Remember, rising inflection for questions. Otherwise people can’t tell when you’re asking them something.”
I think the sentence structure makes it obvious, but I repeat myself, placing emphasis on the last two words: “Are you obligated to report on my eating habits?”
“No. I’m just giving you a piece of advice. You do realize that’s part of my job?”
“Are you asking me a question.”
“It’s rhetorical.” He walks into the living room. “May I sit?”
I nod.
He lowers himself to the couch and laces his fingers together, studying me over the rims of his small, round glasses. “Still working at the zoo?”
“Yes.”
“Have you given any thought to the possibility of college?”
He’s asked me this a few times, and I always give him the same answer: “I can’t afford it.” And I’m unlikely to get a scholarship, since I dropped out of high school—not because I was failing any classes, but simply because I hated being there. I have a GED, but most colleges view an actual diploma as superior. “Anyway, I like my job at the zoo.”
“You’re satisfied with your current situation, then?”
“Yes.” At least, it’s preferable to the alternative.
Before I got this apartment, I stayed in a group home for troubled teenagers. There, I shared a room with a girl who chewed her fingers bloody and woke me up at odd hours by screaming in my ear. The food was terrible, the smells worse.
I ran away on three separate occasions. On the third, I was caught sleeping on a park bench and was dragged to court for vagrancy. When asked why I kept running, I told the judge that homelessness was preferable to living in a place like that. I asked her to grant me legal emancipation—which I had been researching—so that I could live on my own.
She agreed, but only under the condition that someone check up on me regularly. Hence, Dr. Bernhardt became my guardian, at least on paper. He’s obligated to meet with me at least twice a month, but outside of that we have very little to do with each other, which suits me fine.
Still, there’s always an awareness in the back of my mind that he has the power to send me back to the group home. Or worse.
“May I ask you a personal question, Alvie?”
“If I say no, will that make a difference.”
He frowns at me, brows knitting together. He’s frustrated. Or maybe hurt; I can’t tell. I avert my gaze. “Fine. Ask.”
“Do you have any friends?”
“I have the animals at work.”
“Any friends who can talk? And parrots don’t count.”
I hesitate. “I don’t need any.”
“Are you happy?”
It’s another rhetorical question; obviously I’m not what most people would describe as happy. But that has nothing to do with anything. Happiness is not a priority. Survival is. Staying sane is. Pointing out that I’m not happy is like pointing out to a starving homeless man that he doesn’t have a sensible retirement plan. It might be true, but it’s entirely beside the point. “I’m stable. I haven’t had a meltdown for several months.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t understand the point of this question, Dr. Bernhardt.”
He sighs. “I’m not a therapist, I know, but I have been charged with looking after your well-being. I realize you like your independence, but I’d feel a lot better about your situation if you had at least one friend to rely on. When was the last time you actually started a conversation with someone outside of work?”
Until now, he’s been content to ignore my social life, or lack thereof. Why is it suddenly an issue? I rock back and forth on my heels. “I’m not like other people. You know that.”
“I think you overestimate how different you really are. Maybe to start with you could, I don’t know, try a chat room? Online communication is often easier for people with social difficulties. And it might be a good way to meet people with similar interests.”
I don’t respond.
“Look. Alvie. I’m on your side, whether you realize it or not—”
That’s a line I’ve heard before, from many adults. I’ve long since stopped believing it.
“—but the way you’re living now . . . it’s not healthy. If things don’t change, I’ll have to recommend to the judge that, as a condition of your continued independence, you start seeing a counselor.”
Panic leaps in my chest, but I keep my expression carefully neutral. “Are we done.”
He sighs. “I suppose we are.” He picks up his briefcase and walks toward the door. “See you in two weeks.” As he steps out into the hall, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
The door closes.
/>
After he’s gone, I stand in the center of the room for a few minutes, waiting for the tightness in my chest to subside.
I unwrap the cupcake I bought from the convenience store, set it on the coffee table, and stick a candle on top. At exactly 7:45 p.m., I light the candle and then blow it out.
One more year to go, and I won’t have to deal with Dr. Bernhardt or any interfering adult from the state. All I have to do is make it to eighteen without losing my job or missing rent. Then I’ll be fully emancipated. I’ll be free.
CHAPTER TWO
At the Hickory Park Zoo, there’s a sign standing next to the hyena exhibit: Happy? Sad? Mad? And beneath that, in smaller letters: Attributing human feelings to animals is called anthropomorphizing. Instead of asking, “What is it feeling?” ask, “What is it doing?”
I see this sign every day when I come to work. I hate it.
Elephants grieve for their dead. Apes can learn to use sign language as skillfully as a five-year-old human child. Crows are magnificent problem solvers; in laboratory experiments, they will use and modify tools, such as pebbles or short pieces of straw, in order to obtain food. When animals do these things, it’s rationalized away as instinct or a conditioned response. When humans do these same things, it’s accepted unquestionably as evidence of our superiority. Because animals can’t vocalize their thoughts and feelings, some people assume they don’t have them.
I sometimes fantasize about breaking into the zoo at night, stealing the sign, and throwing it into the nearest river.
I sit on a bench in my khaki-colored uniform, eating a bologna sandwich with mustard, the same thing I always eat on my lunch break. The hyenas snuffle around inside the cave-like enclosure, scratching at the rock-textured walls. Kiki, the dominant female, is chewing the bars.
A woman hurries past me, dragging a chubby little boy along with her. He’s around seven years old and eating an ice-cream cone.
“Hi!” the mother trills, smiling. Her mouth is wide and smeared with candy-red lipstick. “Can you look after him a few minutes? I’m going to use the restroom.” She dashes off before I can say anything.