Water For Elephants (20 page)

I watch until she turns the corner. Her hand remains beside her face, presumably in case I'm still there.

IT TAKES ME SEVERAL hours to find my way back to the lot.

I pass legs sticking out of doorways, and signs advertising breadlines. I pass signs in windows that say CLOSED, and it's clear they don't mean for the night. I pass signs that say NO MEN WANTED and signs in second-story windows that say TRAINING FOR THE CLASS STRUGGLE. I pass a sign in a grocery store that says

DON'T HAVE MONEY? WHAT HAVE YOU GOT? WE'LL TAKE ANYTHING!

I pass a newspaper box, and the headline reads PRETTY BOY FLOYD STRIKES

AGAIN: MAKES OFF WITH $4,000 AS CROWDS CHEER. Less than a mile from the lot, I pass a hobo jungle. There's a fire in

the center and people stretched out around it. Some are awake, sitting forward and staring into the fire. Some are lying back on folded clothes.

I'm close enough to see their faces and to register that most of them are young—younger than me. There are some girls there, too, and one couple is copulating. They're not even in the bushes, just a little farther from the fire than the others. One or two of the boys watch in a disinterested manner. The ones who are asleep have taken off their shoes but tied

them to their ankles. 154 < =

Water for E l e p h a n ts

An older man sits by the fire, his jaw covered with stubble, scabs, or both. He has the sunken face of a person with no teeth. We make eye contact and hold it for a long time. I wonder why he's looking at me with such hostility until I remember I'm wearing an evening suit. He has no way of knowing that it's about the only thing separating us. I fight an illogical

urge to explain this and continue on my way.

When I finally reach the lot, I stop and gaze at the menagerie tent. It's huge, outlined against the night sky. A few minutes later I find myself standing in front of the elephant. I can only see her in silhouette and even then only after my eyes have adjusted to the light.

She's sleeping, her great body still but for her slow, slumbered breathing. I want to touch her, to lay my hands on that rough, warm skin, but I can't bring myself to wake her up.

Bobo is lying in the corner of his den, with one arm stretched out over his head and the other resting on his chest. He sighs deeply, smacks his lips, and then rolls onto his side.

So human.

Eventually I make my way back to the ring stock car and settle on the bedroll. Queenie and Walter both sleep through my arrival.

I LIE AWAKE UNTIL DAWN, listening to Queenie snore and feeling utterly miserable.

Less than a month ago, I was within days of an Ivy League degree and a career at my father's side. Now I'm one step away from being a bum—a circus worker who has disgraced himself not once, but twice, in as many days.

Yesterday, I wouldn't have thought it possible to top throwing up on Nell, but I believe that last night I managed to do just that. What the hell

was I thinking?

I wonder if she will tell August. I have brief visions of the bull hook flying at my head and then even briefer visions of getting up right now, this minute, and walking back to the hobo camp. But I don't, because I can't bear the thought of abandoning Rosie, Bobo, and the others.

I'll pull myself together. I'll stop drinking. I'll make sure I'm never alone with Marlena again. I'll go to confession.

I use the corner of my pillow to wipe tears from my eyes. Then I Sara Gruen squeeze them shut and conjure up an image of my mother. I try to hang on to it, but before long Marlena has replaced her. Coolly distant, when she was watching the band and jiggling that foot. Glowing, while we were spinning around the dance floor.

Hysterical—and then horrified—in

the alley.

But my final thoughts are tactile: the underside of my forearm lying above the swell of her breasts. Her lips under mine, soft and full. And the one detail I can neither fathom nor shake, the one that haunts me into sleep: the feel of her fingertips tracing the outline of my face. KINKO—WALTER—WAKES me a few hours later.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he says, shaking me. "Flag's up." "Okay. Thanks," I say without moving.

"You're not getting up."

"You're a genius, you know that?"

Walter's voice rises by about an octave. "Hey, Queenie—here girl! Here girl! Come on, Queenie. Give him a lick. Come on!"

Queenie launches herself onto my head.

"Hey, stop it!" I say, raising an arm protectively because Queenie's tongue is rooting in my ear and she's dancing on my face. "Stop it! Come on now!"

But she is unstoppable, so I jerk upright. This sends Queenie flying to the floor. Walter looks at me and laughs. Queenie wriggles onto my lap and stands on her hind legs, licking my chin and neck.

"Good girl, Queenie. Good baby," says Walter. "So, Jacob—you look like you had another... e r ... interesting evening."

"Not exactly," I reply. Since Queenie is on my lap anyway, I stroke her. It's the first time she's let me touch her. Her body is warm, her hair wiry.

"You'll find your sea legs soon. Come get some breakfast. Food'll help settle your stomach."

"I wasn't drinking."

W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts

He looks at me for a moment. "Ah," he says, nodding sagely. "What's that supposed to mean?" I say.

"Woman trouble," he says. "No."

"Yes."

"No, it isn't!"

"I'm surprised Barbara forgave you already. Or did she?" He watches my face for a few seconds and then resumes nodding. "Uh-huh. I do believe I'm starting to get the picture.

You didn't get her flowers, did you? You need to start taking my advice."

"Why don't you mind your own business?" I snap. I set Queenie on the floor and stand up.

"Sheesh, you're a first-class grump. You know that? Come on. Let's get some grub."

AFTER WE FILL OUR PLATES, I try to follow Walter to his table.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he says, coming to a stop. "I thought I'd sit with you."

"You can't. Everyone has assigned spots. Besides, you'd be coming down in the world."

I hesitate.

"What's wrong with you, anyway?" he says. He looks over at my usual table. August and Marlena eat in silence, staring at their plates. Walter's eyelids flicker.

"Oh man—don't tell me."

"I didn't tell you a damned thing," I say.

"You didn't need to. Listen, kid, that's somewhere you just don't want to go, you hear me? I mean in the figurative sense. In the literal sense, you get your ass over to that table and act normal."

I glance again at August and Marlena. They're clearly ignoring each other.

Sara Gruen

"Jacob, you listen to me," says Walter. "He's the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met, so whatever the hell is going on—"

"There's nothing going on. Absolutely nothing—"

"—it better stop now or you're going to find yourself dead. Redlighted, if you're lucky, and probably off a trestle. I mean it. Now get on

over there."

I glare down at him.

"Shoo!" he says, flicking his hand toward the table. August looks up as I approach.

"Jacob!" he cries. "Good to see you. Wasn't sure if you'd found your way back last night.

Wouldn't have looked very good if I'd had to bail you out ofjail, you know. Might have caught some heat."

"I was worried about you two as well," I say, taking a seat. "Were you?" he says with exaggerated surprise.

I look up at him. His eyes are glowing. His smile has a peculiar tilt.

"Oh, but we found our way back all right, didn't we, darling?" he says, shooting Marlena a look. "But do tell me, Jacob—how on earth did you two manage to get separated anyway? You were so ... close on the dance floor."

Marlena looks up quickly, red spots burning on her cheeks. "I told you last night," she says. "We got pushed apart by the crowd."

"I was asking Jacob, darling. But thank you." August lifts a piece of toast with flourish, smiling broadly with closed lips.

"There was quite a crush," I say, picking up my fork and sliding it under my eggs. "I tried to keep track of her but couldn't. I looked for both of you out back, but after a while I figured I'd better just get out of there."

"Wise choice, my boy."

"So, did you two manage to hook up?" I ask, lifting my fork to my mouth and trying to sound casual.

"No, we arrived in separate taxis. Twice the expense, but I'd pay it a hundred times over to make sure my darling wife was safe—wouldn't I, darling?"

Marlena stares at her plate. W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts "I said wouldn't I, darling?"

"Yes, of course you would," she says flatly.

"Because if I thought she was in any danger at all, there's no knowing what I might do."

I look up quickly. August is staring right at me. 159

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As soon as I can do it without attracting attention, I flee to the menagerie.

I replace the giraffe's neck poultice, cold-soak a camel

for a suspected hoof abscess, and survive my first cat procedure—treating Rex for an ingrown claw while Clive strokes his head. Then I swing by to pick up Bobo while I check the rest. The only animals I don't run my eyes

or hands over are the baggage stock, and that's only because they're in constant use and I know someone would alert me at the first sign of trouble.

By late morning, I'm just another menagerie man: cleaning dens, chopping food, and hauling manure with the rest of them. My shirt is soaked,

my throat parched. When the flag finally goes up, Diamond Joe, Otis, and I trudge out of the great tent and toward the cookhouse.

Clive falls into stride beside us.

"Keep your distance from August if you can," he says. "He's in a right state."

"Why? What now?" says Joe.

"He's steamed because Uncle Al wants the bull in the parade today, and he's taking it out on anyone who crosses his path. Like that poor sod over there," he says, pointing at three men crossing the field.

Bill and Grady are dragging Camel across the lot to the Flying Squadron. He's suspended between them, his legs dragging behind.

I jerk around to Clive. "August didn't hit him, did he?"

"Naw," says Clive. "Gave him a good tongue lashing, though. It's not even noon, and he's already skunked. But that guy who looked at Sara Gruen Marlena—whooeeee, he won't make that mistake again soon." Clive shakes his head.

"That damned bull ain't gonna walk in no parade," says Otis. "He can't get her to walk in a straight line from her car to the menagerie."

"I know that, and you know that, but apparently Uncle Al does not," says Clive.

"Why is Al so set on having her in the parade?" I ask.

"Because he's been waiting his whole life to say 'Hold your horses! Here come the elephants!'" says Clive.

"The hell with that," Joe says. "There ain't no horses to hold anymore these days, and we don't have elephants, anyway. We have elephant." "Why does he want to say that so badly?" I ask.

They turn in unison to stare at me.

"Fair question," says Otis finally, although it's clear he thinks I'm braindamaged. "It's because that's what Ringling says. Course, he actually has

elephants."

I WATCH FROM a distance as August attempts to line Rosie up

among the parade wagons. The horses leap sideways, dancing nervously in their hitches.

The drivers hold tight to the reins, shouting warnings. The result is a kind of contagion of panic, and before long the men leading the zebras and llamas are struggling to maintain control.

After several minutes of this, Uncle Al approaches. He gesticulates wildly toward Rosie, ranting without pause. When his mouth finally closes, August's opens, and he also gesticulates toward Rosie, waving the bull hook and thumping her on the shoulder for good measure. Uncle Al turns to his entourage. Two of them turn tail and sprint across the lot. Not long after, the hippopotamus wagon pulls up beside Rosie, drawn by six highly doubtful Percherons. August opens the door and whacks Rosie until she enters.

Not long after, someone starts up the calliope and the parade begins. THEY RETURN

AN HOUR later with a sizable crowd. The towners hang around the edges of the lot, growing in numbers as word spreads. W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts Rosie is driven right up to the back end of the big top, which is already connected to the menagerie. August takes her through and to her spot. It is only after she is behind her rope with one foot chained to a stake that the menagerie is opened to the public.

I watch in awe as she is rushed by children and adults alike. She is easily the most popular animal. Her big ears flap back and forth as she accepts candy and popcorn and even chewing gum from delighted circus-goers. One man is brave enough to lean forward and dump a box of Cracker Jack into her open mouth. She rewards him by removing his hat, placing it on her head, and then posing with her trunk curled in the air. The crowd roars and she calmly hands the delighted patron his hat. August stands beside her with his bull hook, beaming like a proud father. There's something wrong here.

This animal isn't stupid.

As THE LAST of the crowd goes through to the big top and performers line up for the Grand Spec, Uncle Al pulls August aside. I watch

from across the menagerie as August's mouth opens in shock, then outrage, and then vociferous complaint. His face darkens and he waves his top hat and hook. Uncle Al gazes on, completely impervious. Eventually he lifts a hand, shakes his head, and walks away. August stares after him, stunned. "What the heck do you suppose happened there?"

I say to Pete.

"God only knows," he says. "But I have the feeling we're going to find out.

It turns out that Uncle Al was so delighted by Rosie's popularity in the menagerie that not only is he insisting she take part in the Spec but also that she put on a full elephant act in the center ring immediately after

the show begins. By the time I hear about it, the outcome of said events is already the source of furious wagering in the back end.

My only thoughts are of Marlena.

I sprint around back to where the performers and ring stock are lined up behind the big top in preparation for the Spec. Rosie heads up the line. Marlena straddles her head, clad in pink sequins and grasping Rosie's ugly leather head harness.