Water for Elephants (12 page)

The cook is apoplectic. The advance man is threatening to quit. The boss hostler is furious, whacking the beleaguered men of the Flying Squadron with flagrant abandon.

Everyone here has been down this route before. Mostly they’re worried they won’t be fed enough during the three-day journey to Joliet. The cookhouse
crew are doing their best, scrabbling to haul as much food as they can back to the main train and promising to hand out dukeys—apparently some kind of boxed meal—at the first opportunity.

W
HEN AUGUST LEARNS
we have a three-day jump in front of us, he lets loose a string of curses, then strides back and forth, damning Uncle Al to hell and barking orders at the rest of us. While we haul food for the animals back to the train, August goes off to try to persuade—and if necessary, to bribe—the cookhouse steward into parting with some of the food meant for humans.

Diamond Joe and I carry buckets of offal from behind the menagerie to the main train. It’s from the local stockyards, and is repulsive—smelly, bloody, and charred. We put the buckets just inside the entrance of the stock cars. The inhabitants—camels, zebras, and other hay burners—kick and fuss and make all manner of protest, but they are going to have to travel with the meat because there is no other place to put it. The big cats travel on top of the flat cars in parade dens.

When we’re finished, I go looking for August. He’s behind the cookhouse loading a wheelbarrow with the odds and ends he’s managed to beg off the cookhouse crew.

“We’re pretty much loaded,” I say. “Should we do anything about water?”

“Dump and refill the buckets. They’ve loaded the water wagon, but it won’t last three days. We’ll have to stop along the way. Uncle Al may be a tough old crow, but he’s no fool. He won’t risk the animals. No animals, no circus. Is all the meat on board?”

“As much as will fit.”

“Priority goes to the meat. If you have to toss off hay to make room, do it. Cats are worth more than hay burners.”

“We’re packed to the gills. Unless Kinko and I sleep somewhere else, there’s no room for anything else.”

August pauses, tapping his pursed lips. “No,” he says finally. “Marlena would never tolerate meat on board with her horses.”

At least I know where I stand. Even if it is somewhere below the cats.

T
HE WATER AT THE BOTTOM
of the horses’ buckets is murky and has oats floating in it. But it’s water all the same, so I carry the buckets outside, remove my shirt and dump what’s left over my arms, head, and chest.

“Feeling a little less than fresh, Doc?” says August.

I’m leaning over with water dripping from my hair. I wipe both eyes clear and stand up. “Sorry. I didn’t see any other water to use, and I was just going to dump it, anyway.”

“No, quite right, quite right. We can hardly expect our vet to live like a working man, can we? I’ll tell you what, Jacob. It’s a little late now, but when we get to Joliet I’ll arrange for you to start getting your own water. Performers and bosses get two buckets apiece; more, if you’re willing to grease the water man’s palm,” he says, rubbing his fingers and thumb. “I’ll also set you up with the Monday Man and see about getting you another set of clothes.”

“The Monday Man?”

“What day did your mother do the washing, Jacob?”

I stare at him. “Surely you don’t mean—”

“All that wash hanging up on lines. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“But—”

“Never you mind, Jacob. If you don’t want to know the answer to a question, don’t ask. And don’t use that slime to clean up. Follow me.”

He leads me back across the lot to one of only three tents left standing. Inside are hundreds of buckets, lined up two deep in front of trunks and clothes racks, with names or initials painted on the sides. Men in various states of undress are using them to bathe and shave.

“Here,” he says, pointing at a pair of buckets. “Use these.”

“But what about Walter?” I ask, reading the name from the side of one of them.

“Oh, I know Walter. He’ll understand. Got a razor?”

“No.”

“I have some back there,” he says, pointing across the tent. “At the far
end. They’re labeled with my name. Hurry up though—I’m guessing we’ll be out of here in another half an hour.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Don’t mention it,” he says. “I’ll leave a shirt for you in the stock car.”

W
HEN
I
RETURN
to the stock car, Silver Star is against the far wall in knee-deep straw. His eyes are glassy, his heart rate high.

The other horses are still outside, so I get my first good look at the place. It has sixteen standing stalls, which are formed by dividers that swing across after each horse is led in. If the car hadn’t been adulterated for the mysterious and missing goats, it would hold thirty-two horses.

I find a clean white shirt laid across the end of Kinko’s cot. I strip out of my old one and toss it onto the horse blanket in the corner. Before I put the new shirt on, I bring it to my nose, grateful for the scent of laundry soap.

As I’m buttoning it, Kinko’s books catch my eye. They’re sitting on the crate beside the kerosene lamp. I tuck in my shirt, sit on the cot, and reach for the top one.

It’s the complete works of Shakespeare. Underneath is a collection of Wordsworth poems, a Bible, and a book of plays by Oscar Wilde. A few small comic books are hidden inside the front cover of the Shakespeare. I recognize them immediately. They’re eight-pagers.

I flip one open. A crudely drawn Olive Oyl lies on a bed with her legs open, naked but for her shoes. She spreads herself with her fingers. Popeye appears in a thought bubble above her head, with a bulging erection that reaches to his chin. Wimpy, with an equally enormous erection, peers through the window.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I drop the comic, then bend quickly to retrieve it.

“Just leave it the hell alone!” says Kinko, storming over and snatching it from my hands. “And get the hell off my bed!”

I leap up.

“Look here, pal,” he says, reaching up to jab his finger into my chest. “I’m not exactly thrilled about having to bunk with you, but apparently
I don’t have a choice in the matter. But you better believe I have a choice about whether you mess with my stuff.”

He is unshaven, his blue eyes burning in a face that is the color of beets.

“You’re right,” I stammer. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched your things.”

“Listen, pisshead. I had a nice gig going here until you came along. Plus I’m in a bad mood anyway. Some asshole used my water today, so you’d best stay out of my way. I may be short, but don’t think I can’t take you.”

My eyes widen. I recover but not soon enough.

His eyes narrow to slits. He scans the shirt, my clean-shaven face. He chucks the eight-pager onto his cot. “Aw hell. Haven’t you done enough already?”

“I’m sorry. Honest to God, I didn’t know it was yours. August said I could use it.”

“Did he also say you could go through my stuff?”

I pause, embarrassed. “No.”

He gathers his books and stuffs them into the crate.

“Kinko—Walter—I’m sorry.”

“That’s Kinko to you, pal. Only my friends call me Walter.”

I walk to the corner and sink down on my horse blanket. Kinko helps Queenie onto the bed and lies down beside her, staring so pointedly at the ceiling I half-expect it to start smoldering.

B
EFORE LONG, THE TRAIN
pulls out. A few dozen angry men chase us for a while, swinging pitchforks and baseball bats, although it’s mostly for the benefit of the tale they’ll get to tell at dinner tonight. If they had really wanted a fight there was plenty of time before we pulled out.

It’s not that I can’t see their point—their wives and children had been looking forward to the circus for days, and they themselves had probably been looking forward to some of the other entertainments rumored to be available in the back of our lot. And now, instead of sampling the charms of the magnificent Barbara, they’ll have to content themselves with their eight-pagers. I can see why a guy might get steamed.

Kinko and I clatter along in hostile silence as the train gets up to speed.
He lies on his cot, reading. Queenie rests her head on his socks. Mostly she sleeps, but whenever she’s awake, she watches me. I sit on the horse blanket, bone-weary but not yet tired enough to lie down and suffer the indignities of vermin and mildew.

At what should be dinnertime, I get up and stretch. Kinko’s eyes dart over from behind his book, and then back to the text.

I walk out to the horses and stand looking over their alternating black and white backs. When we reloaded them, we moved everyone up to give Silver Star all four empty stalls’ worth of space. Even though the rest of the horses are now in unfamiliar slots, they seem largely unperturbed, probably because we loaded them in the same order. The names scratched into the posts no longer match the occupants, but I can extrapolate who’s who. The fourth horse in is Blackie. I wonder if his personality is anything like his human namesake’s.

I can’t see Silver Star, which means he must be lying down. That’s both good and bad: good, because it keeps the weight off his feet, and bad because it means he’s in enough pain he doesn’t want to stand. Because of the way the stalls are constructed, I can’t check on him until we stop and unload the other horses.

I sit across from the open door and watch the landscape pass until it gets dark. Eventually I slide down and fall asleep.

It seems like only minutes later when the brakes begin screeching. Almost immediately, the door to the goat room opens and Kinko and Queenie come out into the rough foyer. Kinko leans one shoulder against the wall, hands pushed deep in his pockets and ignoring me studiously. When we finally come to a stop, he jumps to the ground, turns, and claps twice. Queenie leaps into his arms and they disappear.

I climb to my feet and peer out the open door.

We’re on a siding in the middle of nowhere. The other two sections of train are also stopped, stretched out before us on the track, a half mile between each.

People climb down from the train in the early morning light. The performers stretch grumpily and gather in groups to talk and smoke as the workmen drop ramps and unload stock.

August and his men arrive within minutes.

“Joe, you deal with the monkeys,” says August. “Pete, Otis, unload the hay burners and get them watered, will you? Use the stream instead of troughs. We’re conserving water.”

“But don’t unload Silver Star,” I say.

There’s a long silence. The men look first at me and then at August, whose gaze is steely.

“Yes,” August finally says. “That’s right. Don’t unload Silver Star.”

He turns and walks away. The other men regard me with wide eyes.

I jog a little to catch up with August. “I’m sorry,” I say, falling into stride beside him. “I didn’t mean to give orders.”

He stops in front of the camel car and slides the door open. We’re greeted by the grunts and complaints of distressed dromedaries.

“That’s all right, my boy,” August says cheerily, slinging a bucket of meat at me. “You can help me feed the cats.” I catch the bucket’s thin metal handle. A cloud of angry flies rises from it.

“Oh my God,” I say. I set the bucket down and turn away, retching. I wipe tears from my eyes, still gagging. “August, we can’t feed them this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s gone off.”

There’s no answer. I turn and find that August has set a second bucket beside me and left. He’s marching up the tracks carting another two buckets. I grab mine and catch up.

“It’s putrid. Surely the cats won’t eat this,” I continue.

“Let’s hope they do. Otherwise, we’ll have to make some hard decisions.”

“Huh?”

“We’re still a long way from Joliet, and, alas, we’re out of goats.”

I am too stunned to answer.

When we reach the second section of the train, August hops up onto a flat car and props open the sides of two cat dens. He opens the padlocks, leaves them hanging on the doors, and jumps down to the gravel.

“Go on then,” he says, thumping me on the back.

“What?”

“They get a bucket each. Go on,” he urges.

I climb reluctantly onto the bed of the flat car. The odor of cat urine is overwhelming. August hands me the buckets of meat, one at a time. I set them on the weathered wooden boards, trying not to breathe.

The cat dens have two compartments each: to my left is a pair of lions. To my right, a tiger and a panther. All four are massive. They lift their heads, sniffing, their whiskers twitching.

“Well, go on then,” says August.

“What do I do, just open the door and toss it in?”

“Unless you can think of a better way.”

The tiger rises, six hundred glorious pounds of black, orange, and white. His head is huge, his whiskers long. He comes to the door, swings around, and walks away. When he returns, he growls and swipes at the latch. The padlock rattles against the bars.

“You can start with Rex,” says August, pointing at the lions, which are also pacing. “That’s him on the left.”

Rex is considerably smaller than the tiger, with mats in his mane and ribs showing under his dull coat. I steel myself and reach for a bucket.

“Wait,” says August, pointing at a different bucket. “Not that one. This one.”

I can’t see the difference, but since I’ve already ascertained that it’s a bad idea to argue with August, I oblige.

When the cat sees me coming, he lunges at the door. I freeze.

“What’s the matter, Jacob?”

I turn around. August’s face is glowing.

“You’re not afraid of Rex, are you?” he continues. “He’s just a
widdle kitty cat”

Rex pauses to rub his mangy coat against the bars at the front of the cage.

With fumbling fingers, I remove the padlock and lay it by my feet. Then I lift the bucket and wait. The next time Rex turns away from the door, I swing it open.

Before I can tip the meat out, his huge jaws chomp down on my arm. I scream. The bucket crashes to the floor, splattering chopped entrails everywhere. The cat drops off my arm and pounces on the meat.