Portfolio usually brings you pictures: paintings, photographs, images. This issue, we offer you words. Author Joe Meno is a double alum (B.A. and M.A.) of Columbia’s fiction writing department, where he is now on faculty. His forthcoming book, Demons in the Spring, is a collection of 20 short stories, with illustrations from 20 different artists. It will be released in August 2008, with proceeds benefiting 826 CHI, part of the national organization of learning and tutoring centers. Here is one of those stories.

Miniature Elephants are Popular / By: Joe Meno
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Miniature elephants are very popular: there are ads for these tiny pets on the radio and on television and in the pages of a number of up-to-the-minute magazines. Miniature elephants are quite affectionate and the most quiet of all household pets, or so their advertising suggests. Sadly, at this point, miniature elephants are the only elephants left.

Mr. Larchmont, an umbrella salesman and widower, is often lonely: his associates and loved ones sensibly convince him to buy a miniature elephant. There is something about his disposition that suggests he may enjoy a miniature elephant: his face is long and wrinkled and his movements are often quite slow.

At the pet store, Mr. Larchmont, black umbrella in hand, stands curiously before the tiny tanks of glass. At the moment, he is looking for the smallest, weakest-looking elephant he can find: he is looking for a miniature animal to match the exact size of his heart. He spots a tiny elephant, more miniature than the rest, in the corner of the cage: it is sleeping in a nest of old newspapers and is white with narrow, pinkish toes. It blinks its bashful eyes as the pet store employee pinches it by the wrinkly skin behind its neck and hands it to Mr. Larchmont in a tiny white box.

... We’re going to be dear friends, says Mr. Larchmont.

... We hope so, the pet store employee says. But it doesn’t always work out. These
miniature elephants, well, they're very sensitive. They die quite frequently. If you're
looking for a poet for your kid, well, we have some miniature horses that are very
nice.

... That’s okay, says Mr. Larchmont. This elephant and I, we’re going to be dear
friends.

So they are: Mr. Larchmont and his miniature elephant often walk thoughtfully through the city, enjoying the summer afternoon, the animal stalking clumsily along the sidewalk, Mr. Larchmont reading that day’s newspaper, carrying his black umbrella, his black bowler riding atop his head, as he tip-toes slowly behind his pet. Bravo, Mr. Larchmont says, as the miniature elephant splashes in a puddle, the remnant of a city always keeping itself air-conditioned. Carry on, old friend, he says.

The miniature elephant often sleeps in a bureau drawer among Mr. Larchmont’s old ties, underwear, socks, and dress shirts. It drinks water from a broken pipe beneath the bathroom sink. It will only eat miniature vegetables, which Mr. Larchmont buys from a strange foreign store at the end of his street. The miniature elephant enjoys stopping on the sidewalk in front of the city’s oldest bakery, where the baker, a kindly old man with a white beard, will often serve him a very tiny pink cake.

People will see Mr. Larchmont and the miniature elephant strolling about and will often ask these questions:

... How old is it?

... What’s its name?

... How does it stay so tiny?

Usually, Mr. Larchmont does not answer, pretending to be very busy reading his newspaper.

One day, strolling along the pavement, the miniature elephant stops and suddenly refuses to keep walking.

Mr. Larchmont smiles and stares down, urging it kindly with the toe of his wingtip. But the miniature elephant does not move. Mr. Larchmont hunches beside it and notices the tiny creature has closed its eyes and its tiny white head is bowed, like a statue of an old man in serious thought.

... What has you troubled, old chum?

Mr. Larchmont asks, but the miniature elephant does not respond. It is then, turning, staring into an open garbage bin that Mr. Larchmont spies a human hand: he shudders as he notices the wrinkles and a pink ring on one of its narrow fingers. Curiously saddened, the miniature elephant stands before the abandoned hand and only bows his head further. Mr. Larchmont, touched by his companion’s sympathy, gently lifts the animal into his palm and steps away from the trying scene in a hurry.

On their walks then, the miniature elephant will often stop, sadly bowing its head, whenever they traipse into the silent shadow of unmarked death. Mr. Larchmont will search about and after some time discover the cause of the elephant’s malady: a dead pigeon lying belly-up beside the curb, a yellowed roach motel hidden in the corner of a doorstep, a bouquet of plastic flowers marking the spot where a traffic accident occurred. The miniature elephant’s sense of grief is quite uncanny. Once, the miniature elephant stops at a grimy alley which is filled with several dozen, bright yellow mousetraps.

In each mousetrap is a small brown or gray mouse, its tawny sides crushed by the aching jaws of the traps. Each of the twelve mice is dead. The elephant blinks its eyes and turns away, ashamed. Another afternoon, strolling before the shambles of fresh meat hanging in the window of a Chinese butcher shop, the miniature elephant pauses and lets out a long, baleful sound, like a broken trumpet being blown from a very old steeple.

An entirely awful incident takes place when Mr. Larchmont, reading the day’s headlines, forgets the direction he is traveling and looks up, finding he is in front of the city’s oldest cemetery. The miniature elephant only closes its eyes and curls itself into a small, compact stone, before Mr. Larchmont picks the animal up and hurries away, apologizing.

At a dinner party, a young woman mentions to Mr. Larchmont that her pet cat is lost. It must be hiding somewhere in the apartment, or so the young woman suggests. Mr. Larchmont frowns, staring at the young woman’s face. He touches the wrist of the lovely hostess, hurries off, and soon returns with his miniature elephant. The entire party is amused as they travel down the hall to the young woman’s apartment. Mr. Larchmont places the miniature elephant on the soft gray carpet and pets its forehead gently. The miniature elephant stumbles about at first, happily taking interest in the young woman’s white orchids, and then slowly, sadly, it turns, small step after step, drawing closer to the young woman’s gray sofa. The miniature elephant lifts its trunk for a moment, sniffing about, and then becomes still, an old drawing of itself.

Mr. Larchmont frowns.The young woman lets out a nervous laugh.

... Of course, I looked under the sofa, she says.

Mr. Larchmont says nothing.

... Of course, I looked under there.

The young woman takes to her knees and searches beneath the sofa.

... See, there’s nothing there.

Mr. Larchmont kneels beside the young woman and feels around. It is empty. He turns and stares at the miniature elephant, who sits unmoved, its head sadly bowing. The young woman, upset now, looks beneath the sofa one more time.

... Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no.

The young woman feels about and finds a small hole, a tear in the bottom of the sofa.

... Oh, no. She used to climb up inside there when she was a kitten. She…

Mr. Larchmont frowns, gently lifting the miniature elephant, carefully placing it within his pocket. The young woman begins to sob. The party is quickly over.

The miniature elephant may remain sad for many days: after discovering the missing pet cat, the miniature elephant will not eat for a week. Mr. Larchmont offers it a miniature head of lettuce, but the elephant only frowns, blinking its great blue eyes, turning on its other side in Mr. Larchmont’s bureau drawer. After a week of listlessness and a general ennui, Mr. Larchmont takes the miniature elephant to the vet.

... He looks very sad, the vet says.

... That’s what I thought, too, says Mr. Larchmont.

... Did he come across any other dead animals lately? That will put them in terrible
humors.

... He did, as a matter of fact.

... Oh, no, that’s no good at all. It can kill them.

... It can kill them? Mr. Larchmont asks.

... Sure, sure. They’re very sensitive, the vet says. You have to be very careful not to
let them get depressed or, well (here he whispers) it can kill them.

... Well, what can I do for him? Mr. Larchmont asks.

... You have to cheer him up. You have to cheer him up or he’ll stop eating altogether.

... OK, Mr. Larchmont says. Well then, how do I cheer him up?

... Here, the vet says. He reaches into his white smock and removes a small red
rubber ball. This should do the trick.

The rubber ball does wonders for the miniature elephant: it soon forgets the sadness of death lurking in the quiet corners of every room, every building, every city. Mr. Larchmont is careful when they stroll about town: he avoids cemeteries, hospitals,
fancy restaurants where rare steaks are served.

The miniature elephant seems to return to good humors and Mr. Larchmont, strolling
behind, smiles as it splashes beside a leaky fire hydrant, blowing a trunk full of water into the air of the summertime.

... Carry on, Mr. Larchmont says. Enjoy yourself, dear friend.

A girl from the city goes missing suddenly: Larchmont reads the news and stares sadly at the youngster’s picture in the paper. The girl has short brown hair and a white bow above her left ear.

... Oh, no. What a terrible world, Mr. Larchmont says, reading the story for a third
time that morning.

Strolling about the city that afternoon, the miniature elephant instinctively leads Mr. Larchmont near the apartment building where the missing girl was last seen. The apartment building is gray brick, the shades of its windows all drawn closed, its façade a weepy face.

... Oh, no, my dear friend. We ought to turn now and alter course.

But the miniature elephant pays no heed to Mr. Larchmont’s words, stumbling on, slowing with each step, until Mr. Larchmont and his pet stand near a cordoned off area, peopled by policemen, onlookers, and busybodies. The miniature elephant ignores the nervous crowd, trampling right past their feet.

... Oh, dear, Mr. Larchmont says again.

The miniature elephant pauses, its small gray trunk curled in a knot. It begins to fuss and sniff about, its blue eyes blinking excitedly as a well-shined loafer belonging to a police officer hurries by. The miniature elephant pauses, then takes off at a clip, Mr. Larchmont breathing quickly to keep up.

... Dear friend, he calls. Dear friend, do wait.

But the miniature elephant cannot: with its small, column-shaped legs it canters along, its tiny ears flapping with each miniature gallop. Up the boulevard, down the avenue, around a corner, Mr. Larchmont holds his black bowler atop his head, nearly tripping over his umbrella. He follows his tiny pet about the city until he spots, just up ahead, the miniature elephant has stopped at the entrance to an abandoned doll factory: the tendrils of strange-looking, angular shadows lurk gravely within. The miniature elephant has become as still as a statue, its ears drooping sadly.

... Oh, no. Oh, dear, Mr. Larchmont says.

Through the broken glass and boarded-up doors, Mr. Larchmont quietly climbs: the miniature elephant is trembling in Mr. Larchmont’s pocket as the widower disappears into the fog of the gloomy dark. His best shoes sink in the heavy dust, his hands grasping at the rusted limbs of old machines: somewhere, beneath a thatch of crossed iron beams, somewhere in the desolate formations of red and green and gray, Mr. Larchmont stumbles upon a pair of tiny black mary janes. His breath immediately goes dull. There is a doll beside the shoes, missing its head, lying beside a formidable stack of great white boxes. The boxes explode with life as Mr. Larchmont approaches, a flurry of scurrying rats sprawl about.

... Oh, dear.

Mr. Larchmont’s knees are now shaking wildly as he trundles on, spotting an enormous vat, and beside it a deep exhaust shaft, which glows and echoes with eerie green light. Mr. Larchmont stops, his heart beating as quickly as the miniature elephant’s, one large thump followed by a thump one thousand times smaller in size. Together, however, the thumps muddle on. Mr. Larchmont finds his way to the grimy edge of the shaft, and gripping a metal support beam, he peers down.

There is nothing: only black. Too slowly, his old eyes adjust to the light, and several small shapes begin to drift into place at the bottom of the fount. The shaft is filled with hundreds and hundreds of tiny dolls, their blue eyes flashing up in sorrow. Mr. Larchmont places his hand beside his mouth and shouts into the darkness.

... Hello? Hello?

What he hears in response is only the factory watching him quietly.

Perhaps it would be best if we paused here.

Perhaps it would be best if we suddenly became silent and instead considered the sound of the city as it whispers in unfamiliar shadows behind us. We could stand here and become silent, counting the moments of our lifetimes with the heartbeats on our wrists. We could wait, lost in the city, in this quiet, in this silence. We may come to know the sound of one particular second. We may take this moment to stop and wonder what will become of us after our deaths.

The factory begins to grow darker still. Mr. Larchmont calls out. There is no reply but an echo.

... Hello? he calls once more.

Only silence again.

Mr. Larchmont peers, blinking hard, down into the dark, then holding his breath: he is sure he can hear something whimpering.

... Hello! he shouts. Hello! Is anyone down there?

A pebble moves. A sound rises like a tiny insect trying not to weep.

... Hello?

... Yes? comes an eek, from what may be the smallest voice in the world.

... Is someone down there? Mr. Larchmont asks.

... Yes, comes the answer. I am. And I am scared.

Old Mr. Larchmont, joyous, hurries from the well, like a madman, he is crashing through the factory, his legs and neck ache with panic as he very nearly collapses. Somewhere, oh he must hurry now, somewhere there is help. He staggers out towards the boulevard, the boarded-up doors parting before him: a policeman, if only he could spot a policeman, if only a policeman, and as he stumbles about, the city rising before him, he notices the sound of his pulse in his head, middle, and wrist, is now, sadly, hurrying on alone. He places his hand beside his suit coat pocket and is startled by its stillness. He chokes back a startled sob, unable to breathe. The miniature elephant in his pocket, as strange a weight as the heart in his chest, is dead.

People in the city, glancing at the newspapers that evening, see a large photo of a young girl smiling, her face bandaged, lying happily in a large hospital bed. As soon as they read her amazing story, they agree to build a miniature statue in tribute to the tiny elephant.

The monument is only four inches high and is placed before the city’s oldest bakery, beside a miniature plaster cake. Pigeons nest near it and children, often curious, put the miniature elephant in all of their chalk drawings