Part of me wants this to be a “Once upon a time” story. But it might not have a legitimate beginning, middle, and end, so I’m not sure if it qualifies. Maybe it’s more a patchwork quilt of words, made of leftover bits of “this” and “that.” If there is a beginning, though, it would have to start with Joey.

Before I introduce this interesting and self-reliant youngster, let me first tell you something about myself. My name is Arthur Riggs. My mother was a huge romantic, so I was named after the boy who pulled the sword out of the stone. I am retired now, but I was once a copyright attorney, the major advantage of which was that I didn’t have clients who were murderers, arsonists, or thieves.

I met my late wife Emily when she came to me for help about a book written by her father, and it took us about four-tenths of a second to fall in love. She and I had 30 very happy years together before she died.

Now I’ll tell you a little story. Off the trodden path, as it were, but part of the patchwork.

About four weeks after I asked Emily to dinner for the first time, I suggested that we spend the weekend in Montauk, at the northernmost tip of Long Island. I drove for about three hours before I took an unmarked turnoff, and we found ourselves in an isolated area with tall pines, no cars, no people, and a lot of sand. Enchanted by our surroundings, we got out of the car and started to walk, hand-in-hand, toward the beach. Before we left the road, though, we looked down and saw that our path was blocked by the most magnificent turtle either of us had ever seen.

Its shell was a glossy reddish-brown, with golden yellow, light green, and black accents arranged in a complicated mosaic. We looked down at it.

The turtle looked up at us; it met our eyes.

Stunned by the magic of the moment, we stared. Then the turtle lowered its head, turned, and disappeared into the reeds. We continued to stare for another long moment at the patch of grass where it has been. Then Emily and I looked at each other, and simultaneously said – I’m not making this up – “I think we just got married.”

Back to my narrative.

I closed my law office about 15 years after Emily died, and I now live only 10 minutes from the zoo. In good weather, I make myself a sandwich, tuck it in the pocket of my tweed jacket, and walk to a comfortable bench in the shade of a maple tree across from where Hercules, the red panda, prowls, climbs, paces, and naps in his commodious cage.

I like watching Hercules. Mostly because he is beautiful. His coat is a bright, burnished orange, with white ears and muzzle, patches of black, and a luxuriant feather-boa-like tail. He has piercing, intelligent black eyes, which I observed only in passing, as they never once alit on mine, but ceaselessly moved up-and-down and side-to-side in their quest for visual information.

To my mind, Hercules was an impersonal creature. Interested in his environment. Yes. But not in the man across from him, eating a sandwich while sitting on a park bench in the zoo.

Enter Joey.

Most irregularly, I might add, as he was on a rusty bicycle with a basket attached to the handlebars. I also noticed – the entrance to the zoo was just 100 feet away – that the boy rode straight through the gate without stopping first to buy a ticket at the booth.

At that time, Joey was 11 years old. He was your basic Huckleberry Finn-looking kid. Skinny. Light skin. Freckles. Straw-colored hair. Every day at around 3:00 p.m., he would skid his bike to a stop in front of the red panda cage, let it drop to the grass, approach the cage, stand 12 inches away, and stare at Hercules.

Listen up, now. Because this is the odd part. Not on the first day. And not on the second day. But on the third day and every day thereafter, whenever Joey stood in front of that cage, the red panda would stick his nose in a very small opening between the bars, and stare right back at him.

Eyeball to eyeball, so to speak.

Since my park bench was on the other side of the wide zoo path, I was too far away to hear what Joey and the red panda were saying to each other. Or, rather, to hear what Joey said Hercules. But that something was transpiring between them was undeniable.

Hercules, the zoo’s star attraction, never paid attention to anyone else. He remained aloof to animal feeders, veterinarians, visitors, and even to other animals. When birds and butterflies flew into his cage, he ignored them. But five to 10 minutes before Joey came to visit, the red panda was responsive, attentive, and fully engaged.

This mutual admiration society went on for a few years. I’m not saying that I was always sitting at my bench in the zoo to mark the passage of time, but I was there often enough to notice enough.

One overcast Thursday afternoon, when there were very few visitors at the zoo, I stalled while checking in (even members have to present themselves for admission), and started to chat with Olivia. Over the years, she and I had exchanged pleasantries, but never anything that approached conversation. But that day, I began with “I didn’t see our friend on his bicycle here today.”

“Bicycles aren’t allowed,” Olivia said. Deadpan.

I laughed. It was more of a snort, because we both knew that she always let him in.

“You mean Joey?” she asked.

“Is that the boy’s name?”

“Yes. Joey Mark Hathaway.”

“So you know him?” I asked.

Olivia nodded. “Very well. He’s a neighbor. He lives across the street from my house.”

It was coming on her lunch break, so she told me to wait for her at my usual bench, and she would tell me more about the boy. Five minutes later, Olivia joined me across from the red panda’s cage, and said, “Joey will be leaving town this Saturday, and he won’t be coming back.”

The short version of the story is this. Joey tragically lost both of his parents: his father in an airplane crash when he was five years old, and his mother to cancer when he was seven. He had lived most of his life with Grandpa Leo, a well-respected Jack-of-all-trades who did everything from install new roofs to rewire houses to renovate bathrooms to build a garage. Although not rich, Grandpa Leo was able to pay his bills and give Joey a good home.

From the time that he was six years old, Joey spent most of his free time (except when he was at the zoo) with his grandfather. To make extra money, he did chores for neighbors, which is why his dilapidated bicycle had a basket attached to the handlebars. In an earlier decade, he would have had a newspaper route, but since newspapers disappeared, he mowed, raked, and watered lawns, delivered groceries, weeded gardens, and walked dogs.

Grandpa Leo, although a kind and loving man, was not a talker. And as Joey – particularly after his mother died – had no one else to talk to, he became a non-talker, too.

“I think he’s lonesome,” Olivia told me.

“Is that why you let him ride his bicycle into the zoo, even though bikes are not allowed?”

She smiled, but she said nothing.

“And is that why doesn’t he never pays for a ticket?”

“Oh,” Olivia responded. “He pays to get in. I pay for him.”

I returned to our original subject.

“You say he is moving away this Saturday? I’m sorry to hear that. Where? Why?”

“Where? To live with an aunt and uncle in New Mexico. Why? Because his grandfather had a stroke and is in a nursing home.”

After this revelation, Olivia returned to her ticket booth.

I didn’t see Joey later at the panda cage that day. But he arrived at his usual time on Friday afternoon, which, according to Olivia, would be his last visit before he moved to the Southwest.

As always, the red panda was standing right up against the cage, waiting. This time, though, Joey did not maintain his usual 12-inch distance. He went right up to the cage. His back was facing me, so after I saw him stick out his hand, and saw Hercules tuck his nose between the bars, the rest of their interaction was blocked from my view.

About 15 minutes later, Joey turned away from the cage. His eyes were moist, but his face looked oddly … serene is the only word I can think of.

I continued to sit on that bench over the ensuing weeks and years, glancing occasionally across the path to observe Hercules. As always, the red panda snubbed zoo keepers and veterinarians, ignored visitors, and remained dignified but aloof. On occasion … frequently, in truth …as I watched him, my mind drifted back to that day in Montauk with Emily, when we got lost on an isolated beach road and were blessed by a beautiful turtle.

I also thought often about those equally significant weeks during the Summer of Joey, when a brave and lonely boy who had lost too much, too soon, became more than friends with a red panda named Hercules, who somehow gave him courage.

And blessed him, too.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit: www.shellyreuben.com.