Water for Elephants (41 page)

Uncle Al strides around in his black and white checked pants and scarlet waistcoat, slapping the head of anyone who isn’t quick enough to jump out of his way. At one point he catches sight of me and stops cold. We face each other, eighty yards apart. I stare and stare, trying to focus all my hatred through my eyes. After a few seconds, his lips form a cold smile. Then he makes a sharp right turn and continues on his way, his grovelers straggling behind.

I watch from a distance when the flag goes up over the cookhouse at lunchtime. Marlena is there, dressed in street clothes and lined up for food. Her eyes scan the crowd; I know she’s looking for me, and I hope she knows I’m okay. Almost as soon as she sits down, August comes out of nowhere and sits opposite. He has no food. He says something and then reaches across and grabs her wrist. She pulls backward, spilling her coffee. The people around them turn to watch. He lets go and rises so quickly the bench falls backward onto the grass. Then he storms out. As soon as he’s gone, I sprint to the cookhouse.

Marlena looks up, sees me, and goes pale.

“Jacob!” she gasps.

I set the bench upright and sit on its edge.

“Did he hurt you? Are you okay?” I say.

“I’m fine. But what about you? I heard—” Her words catch in her throat, and she covers her mouth with her hand.

“We’re getting out today. I’ll watch you. Just leave the lot when you can and I’ll follow.”

She stares at me, pale. “What about Walter and Camel?”

“We’ll go back and see what we can find out.”

“I need a couple of hours.”

“What for?”

Uncle Al stands at the perimeter of the cookhouse, snapping his fingers in the air. From across the tent, Earl approaches.

“There’s some money in our room. I’ll go in when he’s not there,” she says.

“No. It’s not worth the risk,” I say.

“I’ll be careful.”

“No!”

“Come on, Jacob,” says Earl, taking hold of my upper arm. “The boss wants you to move along.”

“Give me just a second, Earl,” I say.

He sighs deeply. “Fine. Struggle a bit. But only for a couple of seconds, and then I gotta take you out of here.”

“Marlena,” I say desperately, “promise me you won’t go in there.”

“I have to. The money’s half mine, and if I don’t get it we won’t have a cent to our names.”

I break free of Earl’s grasp and stand facing him. Or his chest, anyway.

“Tell me where it is and I’ll get it,” I growl, poking my finger into Earl’s chest.

“Under the window seat,” Marlena whispers urgently. She rises and comes around the table so that she’s beside me. “The bench opens. It’s in a coffee can. But it’s probably easier for me—”

“Okay, I gotta take you out now,” says Earl. He turns me around and
bends my arm behind my back. He pushes me forward so I’m bent in the middle.

I turn my head to Marlena. “I’ll get it. You stay away from that train car. Promise me!”

I wriggle a bit, and Earl lets me.

“I said promise me!” I hiss.

“I promise,” Marlena says. “Be careful!”

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!” I shout at Earl. For effect, of course.

He and I make a great spectacle of leaving the tent. I wonder if anyone can tell that he’s not bending my arm far enough for it to hurt. But he makes up for that detail by chucking me a good ten feet across the grass.

I
SPEND THE ENTIRE
afternoon peering around corners, slipping behind tent flaps, and ducking under wagons. But not once can I get near car 48 without being seen—and besides, I haven’t laid eyes on August since lunchtime, so it’s entirely possible that he’s in there. So I bide my time.

There is no matinée. At about three in the afternoon, Uncle Al stands on a box in the middle of the lot and informs everyone that the evening show better be the best of their lives. He doesn’t say what will happen if it isn’t, and no one asks.

And so an impromptu parade is thrown together, after which the animals are led to the menagerie and the candy butchers and other concessionaires set up their wares. The crowd that followed the parade back from town gathers in the midway, and before long Cecil is working the suckers in front of the sideshow.

I
’M PRESSED UP AGAINST
the outside of the menagerie tent, pulling the laced seam open so I can peek through.

I see August inside, bringing in Rosie. He swings the silver-tipped cane under her belly and behind her front legs, essentially threatening her with it. She follows obediently, but her eyes are glazed with hostility. He leads
her to her usual spot and chains her foot to a stake. She gazes upon his bent back with flattened ears and then seems to adjust her attitude, swinging her trunk and investigating the ground in front of her. She finds some tidbit on the ground and picks it up. She curls her trunk inward and rubs the object on it, testing it for texture. Then she pops it in her mouth.

Marlena’s horses are already lined up, but she’s not there yet. Most of the rubes have already filed through on their way to the big top. She ought to be here by now.
Come on, come on, where are you—

It occurs to me that despite her promise, she’s probably gone to their stateroom.
Damn it, damn it, damn it
. August is still fussing with Rosie’s chain, but it won’t be long before he notices Marlena’s absence and investigates.

There’s a tug on my sleeve. I spin around with fists clenched.

Grady raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whoa there, fella. Take it easy.”

I drop my fists. “I’m a bit jittery. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well. You got reason,” he says, glancing around. “Say, you eaten yet? I saw you get tossed from the cookhouse.”

“No,” I say.

“Come on. We’ll go around to the grease joint.”

“No. I can’t. I’m flat broke,” I say, desperate for him to leave. I turn back to the seam and pry its edges apart. Marlena’s still not there.

“I’ll spot you,” says Grady.

“I’m okay, really.” I keep my back to him, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.

“Listen, we gotta talk,” he says quietly. “It’s safer on the midway.”

I turn my head and lock eyes with him.

I follow him through to the midway. From inside the big top, the band launches into the music for the Spec.

We join the lineup in front of the grease joint. The man behind the counter flips and assembles burgers at lightning speed, catering to the few but anxious stragglers.

Grady and I work our way to the front of the line. He holds up two fingers. “A couple of burgers, Sammy. No rush.”

Within seconds, the man behind the counter holds out two tin plates. I take one, and Grady takes the other. He also extends a rolled bill.

“Get outta here,” says the cook, waving his hand. “Your money’s no good here.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” says Grady, pocketing the bill. “Sure do appreciate it.”

He goes to a battered wooden table and swings his leg over the bench. I go around to the other side.

“So, what’s up?” I say, fingering a burl in the wood.

Grady looks around furtively. “A few of the guys that got done last night caught up again,” he says. He lifts his burger and waits as three drops of grease fall onto his plate.

“What, they’re here now?” I say, straightening up and scanning the midway. With the exception of a handful of men in front of the sideshow—probably waiting to be led to Barbara—all the rubes are in the big top.

“Keep it down,” says Grady. “Yeah, five of ’em.”

“Is Walter . . .?” My heart is beating fast. No sooner do I get his name out than Grady’s eyes flicker and I have my answer.

“Oh Jesus,” I say, turning my head. I blink back tears and swallow. It takes me a moment to compose myself. “What happened?”

Grady sets his burger on his plate. There are a full five seconds of silence before he answers, and when he does, it’s quietly, without inflection. “They got tossed over the trestle, all of them. Camel’s head hit the rocks. He died right away. Walter’s legs were smashed up bad. They had to leave him.” He swallows and adds, “They don’t reckon he lasted the night.”

I stare into the distance. A fly lands on my hand. I flick it away. “What about the others?”

“They survived. A couple moped off, and the rest caught up.” His eyes sweep from side to side. “Bill’s one of them.”

“What are they going to do?” I ask.

“He didn’t say,” says Grady. “But one way or another, they’re taking Uncle Al down. I aim to help if I can.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“To give you a chance to steer clear. You were a pal to Camel, and we won’t forget that.” He leans forward so his chest is pressed against the table. “Besides,” he continues quietly, “it seems to me you’ve got a lot to lose right now.”

I look up sharply. He’s staring right into my eyes, one eyebrow cocked.

Oh God. He knows. And if he knows, everyone knows. We’ve got to leave now, this very minute.

Thunderous applause explodes from the big top, and the band slides seamlessly into the Gounod waltz. I turn toward the menagerie. It’s a reflex, because Marlena is either preparing to mount or else is already astride Rosie’s head.

“I’ve got to go,” I say.

“Sit,” says Grady. “Eat. If you’re thinking of clearing out, it may be a while before you see food again.”

He plants his elbows on the rough gray wood of the table and picks up his burger.

I stare at mine, wondering if I can choke it down.

I reach for it, but before I can pick it up the music crashes to a halt. There’s an ungodly collision of brass that finishes with a cymbal’s hollow clang. It wavers out of the big top and across the lot, leaving nothing in its wake.

Grady freezes, crouched over his burger.

I look from left to right. No one moves a muscle—all eyes point at the big top. A few wisps of hay swirl lazily across the hard dirt.

“What is it? What’s going on?” I ask.

“Shh,”
Grady says sharply.

The band starts up again, this time playing “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

“Oh Christ. Oh shit,” Grady jumps up and backward, knocking over the bench.

“What? What is it?”

“The Disaster March!” he shouts, turning and bolting.

Everyone associated with the show is barreling toward the big top. I dismount the bench and stand behind it, stunned, not understanding. I jerk around to the fry cook, who struggles with his apron. “What the hell’s he talking about?” I shout.

“The Disaster March,” he says, wrestling the apron over his head. “It means something’s gone bad—real bad.”

Someone thumps my shoulder as he passes. It’s Diamond Joe. “Jacob—it’s the menagerie,” he screams over his shoulder. “The animals are loose. Go, go,
go!
”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. As I approach the menagerie, the ground rumbles beneath my feet and it scares the hell out of me because it’s not noise. It’s motion, the vibration of hooves and paws on hard dirt.

I throw myself through the flap and then immediately up against the sidewall as the yak thunders past, his crooked horn just inches from my chest. A hyena clings to his back, its eyes spinning in terror.

I’m facing a full-fledged stampede. The animal dens are all open, and the center of the menagerie is a blur; staring into it, I see bits of chimp, orangutan, llama, zebra, lion, giraffe, camel, hyena, and horse—in fact, I see dozens of horses, including Marlena’s, and every one of them is mad with terror. Creatures of every sort zigzag, bolt, scream, swing, gallop, grunt, and whinny; they are everywhere, swinging on ropes and slithering up poles, hiding under wagons, pressed against sidewalls, and skidding across the center.

I scan the tent for Marlena and instead see a panther slide through the connection into the big top. As its lithe, black body disappears, I brace myself. It takes several seconds to come, but come it does—one prolonged scream, followed by another, and then another, and then the whole place explodes with the thunderous sound of bodies shoving past other bodies and off the stands.

Please God let them leave by the back end. Please God don’t let them try to come through here
.

Beyond the roiling sea of animals, I catch sight of two men. They’re swinging ropes, stirring the animals into an ever-higher frenzy. One of them is Bill. He catches my gaze and holds it for a moment. Then he slips into the big top with the other man. The band screeches to a halt again and this time stays silent.

My eyes sweep the tent, desperate to the point of panic.
Where are you? Where are you? Where the hell are you?

I catch sight of pink sequins and my head jerks around. When I see Marlena standing beside Rosie, I cry out in relief.

August is in front of them—of course he is, where else would he be? Marlena’s hands cover her mouth. She hasn’t seen me yet, but Rosie has. She stares at me long and hard, and something about her expression stops me cold. August is oblivious—red-faced and bellowing, flapping his arms and swinging his cane. His top hat lies in the straw beside him, punctured, as though he’d put a foot through it.

Rosie stretches out her trunk, reaching for something. A giraffe passes between us, its long neck bobbing gracefully even in panic, and when it’s gone I see that Rosie has pulled her stake from the ground. She holds it loosely, resting its end on the hard dirt. The chain is still attached to her foot. She looks at me with bemused eyes. Then her gaze shifts to the back of August’s bare head.

“Oh Jesus,” I say, suddenly understanding. I stumble forward and bounce off a horse’s passing haunch. “Don’t do it!
Don’t do it!
”

She lifts the stake as though it weighs nothing and splits his head in a single clean movement—
ponk
—like cracking a hardboiled egg. She continues to hold the stake until he topples forward, and then she slides it almost lazily back into the earth. She takes a step backward, revealing Marlena, who may or may not have seen what just happened.

Almost immediately a herd of zebras passes in front of them. Flailing human limbs flash between pounding black and white legs. Up and down, a hand, a foot, twisting and bouncing bonelessly. When the herd
passes, the thing that was August is a tangled mass of flesh, innards, and straw.