Water for Elephants (38 page)

“Yes, quite,” says Uncle Al, bringing a finger to his lips. He scrutinizes me for what feels like a very long time. “So, tell me,” he says, “what changed your mind since yesterday?”

I lift my glass and swirl the brandy, staring at the point where the stem meets the glass. “Let’s just say that the way things are suddenly became very clear to me.”

His eyes narrow.

“To August and Marlena,” I say, thrusting my glass upward. The brandy sloshes up the sides.

He lifts his glass slowly.

I toss back the rest of my brandy and smile.

He lowers his glass without drinking. I cock my head and keep smiling. Let him examine me. Just let him. Today I am invincible.

He starts to nod, satisfied. He takes a drink. “Yes. Good. I have to admit I wasn’t so sure about you after yesterday. I’m glad you’ve come around. You won’t be sorry, Jacob. It’s the best thing for everyone. And especially you,” he says, pointing at me with his snifter. He tips it back and drains it. “I look after those who look after me.” He smacks his lips, stares at me, and adds, “I also look after those who don’t.”

T
HAT EVENING, MARLENA
conceals her black eye with pancake makeup and does her liberty act. But August’s face is not so easily fixed, so there will be no elephant act until he looks like a human being again. The townsfolk—who have been staring at poster after poster of Rosie balancing on a ball for the last two weeks—are unhappy in the extreme when the show ends and they realize that the pachyderm who cheerfully accepted candy, popcorn, and peanuts in the menagerie tent never made an appearance in the big top at all. A handful of men wanting their money back are hustled away to be mollified by the patches before their train of thought has an opportunity to spread.

A few days later, the sequined headpiece reappears—mended carefully with pink thread—and so Rosie looks glamorous as she charms the crowd in the menagerie. But she still doesn’t perform, and after every show there are complaints.

Life goes on with fragile normalcy. I perform my usual duties in the morning and retire to the back end when the crowd comes in. Uncle Al does not consider battered rotten tomatoes to be good ambassadors for the show, and I can’t say I blame him. My wounds look significantly worse before they start to look better, and when the swelling subsides it’s clear that my nose will be off-kilter for life.

Except for mealtimes, we don’t see August at all. Uncle Al reassigns him to Earl’s table, but after it becomes clear that all he will do is sit and sulk and stare at Marlena, he is ordered to take his meals in the dining car
with Uncle Al. And so it happens that three times a day, Marlena and I sit across from each other, strangely alone in the most public of places.

Uncle Al tries to keep up his end of the deal, I’ll give him that. But August is too far gone to be controlled. The day after his extraction from the cookhouse, Marlena turns and sees him ducking behind a tent flap. An hour later, he accosts her in the midway, drops to his knees, and wraps his arms around her legs. When she wrestles to get free, he knocks her onto the grass and pins her there, trying to force her ring back on her finger, alternately murmuring entreaties and spitting threats.

Walter sprints to the menagerie to get me, but by the time I get there Earl has already hauled August away. Fuming, I head for the privilege car.

When I tell Uncle Al that August’s outburst has just returned us to square one, he vents his frustration by smashing a decanter against the wall.

August disappears entirely for three days, and Uncle Al begins whacking heads again.

A
UGUST IS NOT
the only one consumed by thoughts of Marlena. I lie on my horse blanket at night wanting her so badly I ache. A part of me wishes she would come to me—but not really, because it’s too dangerous. I also can’t go to her, because she’s sharing a bunk in the virgin car with one of the bally broads.

We manage to make love twice in the space of six days—ducking behind sidewalls and grappling frantically, rearranging our clothing because there is no time to remove it. These encounters leave me both exhausted and recharged, desperate and fulfilled. The rest of the time we interact with focused formality in the cookhouse. We are so careful to maintain the facade that even though no one could possibly hear our conversations, we conduct them as though others were sitting at our table. Even so, I wonder whether our affair isn’t obvious. It seems to me that the bonds between us must be visible.

The night after our third unexpected and frenzied encounter, while the
taste of her is still on my lips, I have a vivid dream. The train is stopped in the forest, for no reason I can make out because it’s the middle of the night and nobody stirs. There’s yelping outside, insistent and distressed. I leave the stock car, following the noise to the edge of a steep bank. Queenie struggles at the bottom of a ravine, a badger hanging from her leg. I call to her, frantically scanning the bank for a way to get down. I grab a ropy branch and clutch it while I try to descend, but the mud slips under my feet and I end up hauling myself back up.

In the meantime, Queenie breaks free and scrabbles up the hill. I scoop her up and check her for injuries. Incredibly, she is fine. I tuck her under my arm and turn toward the stock car. An eight-foot alligator blocks its entrance. I head for the next car over, but the alligator turns as well, shambling beside the train, its blunt, toothy snout open, grinning. I turn in panic. Another huge alligator approaches from the other direction.

There are noises behind us, leaves crackling and twigs snapping. I spin around to find that the badger has come up the bank and multiplied.

Behind us, a wall of badgers. In front of us, a dozen alligators.

I wake up in a cold sweat.

The situation is entirely untenable, and I know it.

I
N
P
OUGHKEEPSIE, WE
are raided, and for once the social strata are bridged: working men, performers, and bosses alike weep and snizzle as all that scotch, all that wine, all that fine Canadian whiskey, all that beer, all that gin, and even moonshine is poured onto the gravel by straight-armed, sour-faced men. It winnows through the stones as we watch, bubbling into the undeserving earth.

And then we are run out of town.

In Hartford, a handful of patrons take serious exception to Rosie’s nonperformance, as well as the continued presence of the Lovely Lucinda sideshow banner despite the unfortunate absence of the Lovely Lucinda. The patches aren’t fast enough, and before we know it disgruntled men swarm
the ticket wagon demanding refunds. With the police closing in on one side and townsfolk on the other, Uncle Al is forced to refund the whole day’s proceeds.

And then we are run out of town.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
is payday, and the employees of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth line up in front of the red ticket wagon. The working men are in a foul humor—they know which way the wind is blowing. The first person to approach the red wagon is a roustabout, and when he leaves empty-handed the line buzzes with angry curses. The rest of the working men stalk off, spitting and swearing, leaving only performers and bosses in line. A few minutes later, another angry buzz runs down the line, this one tinged with surprise. For the first time in the show’s history, there is no money for performers. Only the bosses are getting paid.

Walter is outraged.

“What the
fuck
is this?” he shouts as he enters the stock car. He throws his hat into the corner and then drops onto the bedroll.

Camel whimpers from the cot. Ever since the raid, he spends his time either staring at the wall or crying. The only time he speaks is when we’re trying to feed or clean him, and even then it’s only to beg us not to deliver him to his son. Walter and I take turns muttering placating things about family and forgiveness, but we both have misgivings. Whatever he was when he wandered away from his family, he is incalculably worse now, damaged beyond repair and probably even recognition. And if they’re not in a forgiving frame of mind, what will it be like for him to be so helpless in their hands?

“Calm down, Walter,” I say. I’m sitting on my horse blanket in the corner, brushing away the flies that have been tormenting me all morning, flitting from scab to scab.

“No, I will not
fucking calm down
. I’m a performer! A performer! Performers get paid!” Walter shouts, thumping his chest. He pulls off a shoe
and heaves it against the wall. He stares at it for a moment, then pulls off the other and slams it into the corner. It lands on his hat. Walter brings his fist down on the blanket beneath him and Queenie scurries behind the row of trunks that used to hide Camel.

“We don’t have much longer,” I say. “Just hang on for a few more days.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because that’s when Camel gets picked up”—there’s a keening wail from the cot—“and we get the hell out of here.”

“Yeah?” says Walter. “And just what the hell are we going to do? Have you figured that out yet?”

I meet his gaze and hold it for a few seconds. Then I turn my head.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. That’s why I needed to get paid. We’re going to end up as fucking
hoboes,”
he says.

“No we won’t,” I say unconvincingly.

“You better think of something, Jacob. You’re the one who got us into this mess, not me. You and your girlfriend might be able to take to the road, but I can’t. This may be all fun and games for you—”

“It is
not
fun and games!”

“—but my life is at stake here. You’ve at least got the option of hopping trains and moving around. I don’t.”

He is quiet. I stare at his short, compact limbs.

He nods curtly, bitterly. “Yeah. That’s right. And like I said before, I’m not exactly cut out for farmwork, either.”

M
Y MIND CHURNS
as I go through the line in the cookhouse. Walter is absolutely right—I got us into this mess, and I’ve got to get us out. Damned if I know how, though. Not one of us has a home to go to. Never mind that Walter can’t hop trains—hell will freeze over before I let Marlena spend a single night in a hobo jungle. I’m so preoccupied that I’m almost at the table before I look up. Marlena is already there.

“Hi,” I say, taking my seat.

“Hi,” she says after a slight pause, and I know immediately that something is wrong.

“What is it? What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“No. I’m fine,” she whispers, staring at her plate.

“No you’re not. What is it? What did he do?” I say. Other diners start to look.

“Nothing,” she hisses. “Keep your voice down.”

I straighten up and, with a great show of restraint, spread my napkin across my lap. I pick up my cutlery and carefully slice my pork chop. “Marlena, please talk to me,” I say quietly. I concentrate on making my face look as though we’re discussing the weather. Slowly, the people around us return to their meals.

“I’m late,” she says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m late.”

“For what?”

She raises her head and turns beet red. “I think I’m going to have a baby.”

W
HEN EARL COMES
to fetch me, I’m not even surprised. It’s just the way the day is going.

Uncle Al is sitting in his chair, his face pinched and sour. There is no brandy today. He gnaws on the end of a cigar and stabs his cane repeatedly into the carpet.

“It’s been almost three weeks, Jacob.”

“I know,” I say. My voice is shaky. I’m still absorbing Marlena’s news.

“I’m disappointed in you. I thought we had an understanding.”

“We did. We do.” I shift restlessly. “Look, I’m doing my best, but August isn’t helping. She’d have gone back to him a long time ago if he’d just leave her the hell alone for a while.”

“I’ve done what I could,” says Uncle Al. He takes the cigar from his lips, looks at it, and then picks a piece of tobacco from his tongue. He flicks it against the wall, where it sticks.

“Well, it’s not enough,” I say. “He follows her around. He yells at her. He cries outside her window. She’s
scared
of him. Having Earl follow him around and haul him off whenever he gets out of hand is not enough. Would you go back to him if you were her?”

Uncle Al stares at me. I suddenly realize I’ve been yelling.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll work on her. I swear, if you can just get him to leave her alone for a few more days—”

“No,” he says quietly. “We’re going to do it my way now.”

“What?”

“I said we’re going to do it my way. You can leave now.” He flicks the ends of his fingers toward the door. “Go.”

I stare at him, blinking stupidly. “What do you mean, your way?”

Next thing I know, Earl’s arms encircle me like a steel band. He lifts me from the chair and carries me to the door. “What do you mean, Al?” I shout over Earl’s shoulder. “I want to know what you mean! What are you going to do?”

Earl handles me significantly more gently once he’s closed the door. When he finally sets me on the gravel, he brushes off my jacket.

“Sorry, pal,” he says. “I really did try.”

“Earl!”

He stops and turns back to me, his face grim.

“What’s he got in mind?”

He looks at me but says nothing.

“Earl, please. I’m begging you. What’s he going to do?”

“I’m sorry, Jacob,” he says. He climbs back inside the train.

Q
UARTER TO SEVEN
, fifteen minutes to showtime. The crowd mills around the menagerie, viewing the animals on their way to the big top. I’m standing by Rosie, supervising as she accepts donations of candy,
gum, and even lemonade from the crowd. From the corner of my eye I see a tall man stride toward me. It’s Diamond Joe.

“You gotta get out of here,” he says, stepping over the rope.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“August’s on his way. The bull’s performing tonight.”

“What? You mean with Marlena?”

“Yeah. And he don’t want to see you. He’s in one of those moods. Go on, get out.”