Water For Elephants (28 page)

Our eyes meet. "No," I say.

"Well, I wouldn't mind knowing what in blazes you're talking about," says Camel. "But it seems I don't count for squat here. Hey, ain't it dinnertime?"

"I'm not hungry," I say. 1 2 }

Sara Gruen

"Me either," says Walter.

"Well, I am," says Camel, disgruntled. "But I bet neither one of you thought of that. And I bet neither one of you picked up so much as a piece of bread for an old man."

Walter and I look at each other. "Well, I was there," he says, his eyes full of accusation.

"You wanna know what I heard?" he says.

"No," I say, staring at Queenie. She meets my gaze and whacks the blanket a few times with her stump.

"You sure?" "Yes I'm sure."

"Thought you might be interested, you being the vet and all."

"I am interested," I say loudly. "But I'm also afraid of what it might make me do."

Walter looks at me for a long time. "So who's going to get that old git some grub? You or me?"

"Hey! Mind your manners!" cries the old git. "I'll go," I say. I turn and leave the stock car.

Halfway to the cookhouse, I realize I'm grinding my teeth.

WHEN I COME BACK with Camel's food, Walter is gone. A few minutes later he returns, carrying a large bottle of whiskey in each hand. "Well, God bless your soul,"

cackles Camel, who is now propped up in the corner. He points at Walter with a limp hand. "Where in tarnation did you come up with that?"

"A friend on the pie car owed me a favor. I figured we could all use a little forgetting tonight."

"Well, go on then," says Camel. "Stop yapping and hand it over." Walter and I turn in unison to glare.

The lines on Camel's grizzled face furrow deeper. "Well, jeez, you two sure are a couple of sourpusses, ain't you? What's the matter? Someone

spit in your soup?"

"Here. Pay him no mind," says Walter, shoving a bottle of whiskey against my chest.

Water for E l e p h a n ts

"What do you mean, 'pay him no mind'? In my day, a boy was taught to respect his elders."

Instead of answering, Walter carries the other bottle over and crouches down beside him.

When Camel reaches for it, Walter bats his hand away. "Hell no, old man. You spill that and we'll all three be sourpusses."

He raises the bottle up to Camel's lips and holds it as he swallows a half-dozen times. He looks like a baby taking a bottle. Walter turns on his heels and leans against the wall.

Then he takes a long swig himself. "What's the matter—don't like the whiskey?" he says, wiping his

mouth and gesturing at the unopened bottle in my hand.

"I like it just fine. Listen, I don't have any money so I don't know when or if I can ever make it up to you, but can I have this?"

"I already gave it to you."

"No, I mean... can I take it for someone else?"

Walter looks at me for a moment, his eyes crinkled at the edges. "It's a woman, isn't it?"

"Nope." "You're lying." "No I'm not."

"I'll bet you five bucks it's a woman," he says, taking another drink. His Adam's apple bobs up and down and the brown liquid lowers by almost an inch. It's astounding how quickly he and Camel manage to get hard liquor down their gullets.

"She is female," I say.

"Ha!" snorts Walter. "You better not let her hear you say that. Although whoever or whatever she is, she's more suitable than where your mind's been lately."

"I've got some making up to do," I say. "I let her down today." Walter looks up in sudden understanding.

"How 'bout a little more of that?" Camel says irritably. "Maybe he don't want none, but I do. Not that I blame the boy for wanting a little action. You're only young once. You gotta get it while you can, I says. Yessir, get it while you can. Even if it costs you a bottle of sauce."

1Z5 rSara Gruen

Walter smiles. He holds the bottle up to Camel's lips again and lets him have several long swallows. Then he caps it, leans across, still on his haunches, and hands it to me.

"Take her this one, too. You tell her I'm also sorry. Real sorry, in fact." "Hey!" shouts Camel. "There ain't no woman in the world worth two bottles of whiskey! Come on now!"

I rise to my feet and slip a bottle in each pocket of my jacket.

"Aw, come on now!" Camel pleads. "Aw, that just ain't no fair." His wheedling and complaining follow me until I'm out of earshot.

IT'S DUSK, AND several parties have already started at the performers' end of the train, including—I can't help but notice—one in

Marlena and August's car. I wouldn't have gone, but it's significant that I wasn't invited. I guess August and I are on the outs again; or rather, since I already hate him more than I've ever hated anyone or anything in my life, I guess I'm on the outs with him.

Rosie is at the far end of the menagerie, and as my eyes adjust to the twilight I see someone standing beside her. It's Greg, the man from the cabbage patch.

"Hey," I say as I approach.

He turns his head. He's holding a tube of zinc ointment in one hand and is dabbing Rosie's punctured skin. There are a couple of dozen white spots on this side alone.

"Jesus," I say, surveying her. Droplets of blood and histamine ooze up under the zinc.

Her amber eyes seek mine. She blinks those outrageously long lashes and sighs, a great whooshing exhalation that rattles all through her trunk.

I'm flooded with guilt.

"What do you want?" grunts Greg, continuing with his task. "I just wanted to see how she was."

"Well, you can see that, can't you? Now, if you'll excuse me," he says, dismissing me. He turns back to her. "Nogp, " he says. "No, daj nog$!v 2.2,6

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

After a moment, the elephant lifts her foot and holds it in front of her. Greg kneels down and rubs some ointment in her armpit, right in front of her strange gray breast, which hangs from her chest, like a woman's. "Jestes dobrq dziewczynkq, " he says, standing up and screwing the cap back on the ointment. "Poioz nogg."

Rosie sets her foot back on the ground. "Masz, mojapi^kna^ he says, digging in his pocket. Her trunk swings around, investigating. He pulls out a mint, brushes off the lint, and hands it to her. She plucks it nimbly from his fingers and pops it in her mouth.

I stare in shock—I think my mouth may even be open. In the space of two seconds, my mind has zigzagged from her unwillingness to perform, to her history with the elephant tramp, to her lemonade thievery,

and back to the cabbage patch. "Jesus Christ," I say.

"What?" says Greg, fondling her trunk. "She understands you."

"Yes, so what?"

"What do you mean, 'so what?' My God, do you have any idea what this means?"

"Now wait just a cotton-pickin' minute," Greg says as I come up to Rosie. He forces his shoulder between us, his face hard.

"Humor me," I say. "Please. About the last thing in the world I'd do is hurt this bull."

He continues to stare at me. I'm still not entirely sure he won't clobber me from behind, but I turn to Rosie, anyway. She blinks at me. "Rosie, nogg!" I say.

She blinks again and opens her mouth in a smile. "Nogf, Rosie!"

She fans her ears and sighs. "Proszg?" I say.

She sighs again. Then she shifts her weight and lifts her foot.

"Dear Mother of God." I hear my voice as though from outside of my body. My heart is pounding, my head spinning. "Rosie," I say, laying a S a r a G r u en hand on her shoulder. "Just one more thing." I look her straight in the eye, pleading with her. Surely she knows how important this is. Please God please God please God

"Do tylu, Rosie! Do tylu!"

Another deep sigh, another subtle shifting of weight, and then she takes a couple of steps backward.

I yelp with delight and turn to an astonished Greg. I leap forward, grab him by the shoulders, and kiss him full on the mouth.

"What the hell!"

I sprint for the exit. About fifteen feet away I stop and turn around. Greg is still spitting, wiping his mouth in disgust.

I dig the bottles out of my pockets. His expression changes to one of interest, the back of his hand still raised to his mouth.

"Here, catch!" I say, sending a bottle flying at him. He snags it from the air, looks at its label, and then glances up hopefully at the other. I toss it to him.

"Give those to our new star, will you?"

Greg cocks his head thoughtfully and turns to Rosie, who is already smiling and reaching for the bottles.

FOR THE NEXT TEN DAYS, I serve as August's personal Polish

coach. In each city he has a practice ring set up in the back end, and day after day, the four of us—August, Marlena, Rosie, and I—spend the hours between our arrival in town and the start of the matinee working on Rosie's act. Although she already takes part in the daily parade and Spec, she has yet to perform in the show.

Although the wait is killing Uncle Al, August doesn't want to unveil her act until it's perfect.

I spend my days sitting on a chair just outside the ring curb with a knife in one hand and a bucket between my legs, cutting fruit and vegetables into chunks for the primates and shouting Polish phrases as required. August's accent is appalling, but Rosie—perhaps because August is usually repeating something I've just yelled—obeys without fail. He hasn't

touched her with the bull hook since we discovered the language barrier. Z28

Water for E l e p h a n ts

He just walks beside her, waving it under her belly and behind her legs, but never—not once—does it make contact.

It's hard to reconcile this August with the other one, and to be honest I don't try very hard.

I've seen flashes of this August before—this brightness, this conviviality, this generosity of spirit—but I know what he's capable of, and I won't forget it. The others can believe what they like, but I don't believe for a second that this is the real August and the other an aberration. And yet I can see how they might be fooled

He is delightful. He is charming. He shines like the sun. He lavishes attention on the great storm-colored beast and her tiny rider from the moment we meet in the morning until the moment they disappear for the parade. He is attentive and tender toward Marlena, and kindly and paternal toward Rosie.

He seems unaware that there ever was any bad blood between us, despite my reserve. He smiles broadly; he pats me on the back. He notices that my clothes are shabby and that very afternoon the Monday Man arrives with more. He declares that the show's vet should not have to bathe with buckets of cold water and invites me to shower in the stateroom. And when he finds out that Rosie likes gin and ginger ale better than anything in the world except perhaps watermelon, he ensures that she gets both, every single day. He cozies up to her. He whispers in her ear, and she basks in the attention, trumpeting happily at the sight of him.

Doesn't she remember?

I scrutinize him, watching for chinks, but the new August persists.

Before long, his optimism permeates the entire lot. Even Uncle Al is affectedhe stops each day to observe our progress and within a couple of

days orders up new posters that feature Rosie with Marlena sitting astride her head. He stops whacking people, and shortly thereafter people stop ducking. He becomes positively jolly. Rumors circulate that there may actually be money on payday, and even the working men begin to crack smiles. It's only when I catch Rosie actually purring under August's loving ministrations that my conviction starts to crumble. And what I'm left looking at in its place is a terrible thing.

2.29

S a r a G r u en

Maybe it was me. Maybe I wanted to hate him because I'm in love with his wife, and if that's the case, what kind of a man does that make me? IN PITTSBURGH, I FINALLY

go to confession. I break down in

the confessional and sob like a baby, telling the priest about my parents, my night of debauchery, and my adulterous thoughts. The somewhat startled priest mutters a few there-theres and then tells me to pray the rosary and forget about Marlena. I am too ashamed to admit that I haven't got a rosary, so when I return to the stock car I ask Walter and Camel if either

of them has one. Walter looks at me strangely, and Camel offers me a green elk-tooth necklace.

I'm well aware of Walter's opinion. He still hates August beyond all expression, and although he doesn't say anything I know exactly what he thinks of my shifting opinion.

We still share the care and feeding of Camel, but the three of us no longer exchange stories during the long nights spent on the rails. Instead, Walter reads Shakespeare and Camel gets drunk and cranky and increasingly demanding.

IN MEADVILLE, AUGUST DECIDES that tonight is the night.

When he delivers the good news, Uncle Al is rendered speechless. He clasps his hand to his breast and looks starward with tear-filled eyes. Then, as his grovelers duck for cover, he reaches out and claps August on the shoulder. He gives him a manly shake and then, because he's clearly too overwhelmed to actually say anything, gives him another.

I 'M EXAMINING A CRACKED hoof in the blacksmith tent when August sends for me.

"August?" I say, placing my face near the opening of Marlena's dressing tent. It billows slightly, snapping in the wind. "You wanted to see me?" "Jacob!" he calls out in a booming voice. "So glad you could come! Please, come in! Come in, my boy!"

Marlena is in costume. She sits in front of her vanity with one foot up on its edge, wrapping the long pink ribbon from one of her slippers around Water for E l e p h a n ts

her ankle. August sits nearby, in top hat and tails. He twirls a silver-tipped cane. Its handle is bent, like a bull hook.

"Please take a seat," he says, rising from his chair and patting its seat. I hesitate for a fraction of a second and then cross the tent. Once I am seated, August stands in front of us. I glance over at Marlena.

"Marlena, Jacob—my dearest dear, and my dearest friend," says August, removing his hat and gazing upon us with moist eyes. "This last week has been amazing in so many ways. I think it would not be an exaggeration to call it a journey of the soul. Just two weeks ago, this show was on the brink of collapse. The livelihood—and indeed, in this financial climate,