Water For Elephants (13 page)

"Ringling has a vet," Marlena continues, "and being like Ringling makes Uncle Al happy."

"I thought he hated Ringling." "Darling, he wants to be Ringling."

I lean my head back and shut my eyes, but this results in disastrous W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts

spinning, so I open them again and try to focus on the feet dangling from the end of the bed.

WHEN I WAKE UP, the train has stopped—can I really have slept through the screeching brakes? The sun is shining on me through the window, and my brain pounds against my skull. My eyes ache and my mouth

tastes like a sewer.

I stagger to my feet and glance into the bedroom. August is curled around Marlena, his arm lying across her. They are on top of the bedspread, still fully dressed.

I get a few odd looks when I emerge from car 48 dressed in a tux with my other clothes tucked under my arm. At this end of the train, where most of the onlookers are performers, I am regarded with frosty amusement. As I pass the working men's sleepers, the glances become harder, more suspicious.

I climb gingerly into the stock car and push open the door of the little room.

Kinko is sitting on the edge of his cot, an eight-pager in one hand and his penis in the other. He stops midstroke, its slick purple head extending beyond his fist. There's a heartbeat of silence followed by the whoosh of an empty Coke bottle flying at my head. I duck.

"Get out!" Kinko screams as the bottle explodes against the doorframe behind me. He leaps up, causing his erection to bounce wildly. "Get the hell out!" He lobs another bottle at me.

I turn to the door, shielding my head and dropping my clothes. I hear a zipper running up, and a moment later the complete works of Shakespeare

smash into the wall beside me. "Okay, okay!" I shout. "I'm leaving!" I pull the door shut behind me and lean against the wall. The curses continue unabated.

Otis appears outside the stock car. He looks in alarm at the closed door and then shrugs.

"Hey, fancy boy," he says. "You gonna help us with these animals or what?"

"Sure. Of course." I jump to the ground. Sara Gruen He stares at me. "What?" I say.

"Ain't you gonna change out of the monkey suit first?"

I glance back at the closed door. Something heavy slams against the interior wall. "Uh, no. I think I'll stay like I am for the time being." "Your call. Clive's cleaned out the cats.

He wants us to bring the meat."

THERE'S EVEN MORE noise coming from the camel car this morning.

"Them hay burners sure don't like traveling with meat," says Otis.

"Wish they'd stop kicking up such a fuss, though. We got a fair bit farther to go."

I slide the door open. Flies explode outward. I see the maggots just as the smell hits. I manage to stagger a few feet away before vomiting. Otis joins me, doubled over, clasping his hands to his gut.

After he finishes throwing up, he takes a few deep breaths and pulls a filthy handkerchief from his pocket. He clasps it over his mouth and nose, and returns to the car. He grabs a bucket, runs to the tree line and dumps it. He holds his breath until he's halfway back.

Then he stops, bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.

I try to help, but every time I get near, my diaphragm erupts in fresh spasms.

"I'm sorry," I say when Otis returns. I'm still gagging. "I cant do it. I just can't."

He shoots me a dirty look.

"My stomach's off," I say, feeling the need to explain. "I drank too much last night."

"Yeah, I'll bet you did," he says. "Have a seat, monkey boy. I'll take care of it."

Otis dumps the rest of the meat at the tree line, leaving it in a heap that buzzes with flies.

We leave the door to the camel car wide open, but it's clear a simple airing out won't be sufficient.

Water for E l e p h a n ts

We lead the camels and llamas down the tracks and tie them to the side of the train. Then we slosh buckets of water across the floorboards, using push brooms to sluice the resulting muck from the car. The stench is still overwhelming, but it's the best we can do.

After we tend to the rest of the animals, I return to the ring stock car. Silver Star is lying on his side, and Marlena is kneeling next to him, still wearing the rose dress from the night before. I walk past the long line of open stall dividers and stand beside her.

Silver Star's eyes are barely open. He flinches and grunts in reaction to some unseen stimulus.

"He's worse," Marlena says without looking at me. After a moment I say, "Yes."

"Is there any chance he'll recover? Any chance at all?"

I hesitate, because what's on the tip of my tongue is a lie and I find I can't utter it.

"You can tell me the truth," she says. "I need to know." "No. I'm afraid there's no chance at all."

She lays a hand on his neck, holding it there. "In that case, promise me it will be quick. I don't want him to suffer."

I understand what she's asking me, and shut my eyes. "I promise." She rises and stands staring down at him. I'm marveling and not just

a little unnerved at her stoic reaction when a strange noise rises from her throat. It's followed by a moan, and next thing I know she's bawling. She doesn't even try to wipe the tears that slide down her cheeks, just stands hugging her arms with shoulders heaving, gasping for breath. She looks like she's going to collapse in on herself.

I stare in horror. I have no sisters and my limited experience with comforting women has always been over something a hell of a lot less devastating

than this. After a few moments of indecision, I lay a hand on her shoulder.

She turns and falls against me, pressing her wet cheek into myAugust's—tuxedo shirt. I rub her back, making shushing noises until her tears finally subside into jerky hiccups.

Then she pulls away.

Her eyes and nose are swollen and pink, her face slick with mucus. She S a r a G r u en sniffs and wipes her lower lashes with the back of each hand, as though that will do any good. Then she straightens her shoulders and leaves without looking back, her high heels tapping down the length of the car. "AUGUST," I SAY, standing beside the bed and shaking his shoulder.

He flops limply, as responsive as a corpse. I lean and shout in his ear. "August!"

He grunts, irritated. "August! Wake up!"

Finally he shifts, rolling and placing a hand over his eyes. "Oh God,"

he says. "Oh God, I think my head is going to explode. Close the curtain, will you?"

"Do you have a gun?"

The hand drops from the eyes. He sits up. "What?"

"I have to put Silver Star down."

You can t. "I have to."

"You heard Uncle Al. If anything happens to that horse, you'll be redlighted."

"Which means what, exactly?"

"Chucked from the train. When it's moving. If you're lucky, within sight of a train yard's red lights so you can find your way to town. If you're not, well, you'd just better hope they don't open the door while the train's crossing a trestle."

Camel's remark about having an appointment with Blackie suddenly makes sense—as do various comments from my first meeting with Uncle Al. "In that case I'll take my chances and stay right here when the train pulls out. But either way, that horse needs putting down."

August stares at me with black-ringed eyes.

"Shit," he says finally. He swings his legs around so that he's sitting at the edge of the bed. He rubs his stubbled cheeks. "Does Marlena know?" he asks, leaning over to scratch his black-socked toes.

Water for E l e p h a n ts "Yes."

"Fuck," he says, getting to his feet. He holds one hand to his head. "Al's going to have a fit. Okay, meet me at the stock car in a few minutes. I'll bring the gun."

I turn to leave. "Oh, Jacob?" "Yes?" I say.

"Change out of my tux first, will you?"

WHEN I GET BACK to the stock car, the interior door is open. I poke my head in with more than a little trepidation, but Kinko is gone. I go inside and change into my regular clothes. A few minutes later, August shows up with a rifle.

"Here," he says, climbing the ramp. He hands me the gun and drops two shells into my other palm.

I slip one into my pocket and hold the other one out. "I only need one."

"What if you miss?"

"For crying out loud, August, I'm going to be standing right next to him."

He stares at me, and then takes the extra shell. "Okay, fine. Take him a good ways from the train to do it."

"You've got to be kidding. He can't walk."

"You can't do it here," he says. "The other horses are right outside." I just look at him.

"Shit," he says finally. He turns and leans against the wall, his fingers beating a tattoo against the slats. "Okay. Fine."

He walks to the door. "Otis! Joe! Get the other horses out of here. Take them at least as far up as the second section."

Someone outside mumbles.

"Yeah, I know," says August. "But they're just going to have to wait. Yeah, I know that. I'll talk to Al and tell him we have a little ... complication."

S a r a G r u en

He turns back to me. "I'm going to find Al." "You better find Marlena, too."

"I thought you said she knew?"

"She does. But I don't want her to be alone when she hears that shot. Do you?"

August stares at me long and hard. Then he clomps down the ramp, planting his feet with such force the boards bounce beneath him.

I WAIT A FULL fifteen minutes, both to give August time to find Uncle Al and Marlena and also to let the other men move the rest of the animals far enough away.

Finally I pick up the rifle, slide the shell into the chamber, and throw the bolt. Silver Stars muzzle is pressed up against the end of his stall, his ears twitching. I lean over and run my fingers down his neck. Then I place the muzzle of the gun under his left ear and pull the trigger.

There's an explosion of sound and the butt of the rifle bucks into my shoulder. Silver Star's body seizes, his muscles responding to one last synaptical spasm before finally falling still. From far away, I hear a single desperate whinny.

My ears are ringing as I climb down from the stock car, but even so it seems to me that the scene is eerily silent. A small crowd of people has gathered. They stand motionless, their faces long. One man pulls his hat from his head and presses it to his chest.

I walk a few dozen yards from the train, climb the grassy bank, and sit rubbing my shoulder.

Otis, Pete, and Earl enter the stock car and then reappear, hauling Silver Star's lifeless body down the ramp by a rope tied to his hind feet. Upside down his belly looks huge and vulnerable, a smooth expanse of snowy white dotted by black-skinned genitals. His lifeless head nods in agreement with each yank of the rope.

I sit for close to an hour, staring at the grass between my feet. I pluck a few blades and roll them in my fingers, wondering why the hell it's taking them so long to pull out.

Water for E l e p h a n ts

After a while August approaches. He stares at me, and then leans over to pick up the rifle.

I hadn't been aware of bringing it with me.

"Come on, pal," he says. "Don't want to get left behind." "I think I do."

"Don't worry about what I said earlier—I talked to Al, and no one's getting redlighted.

You're fine."

I stare sullenly at the ground. After a while, August sits beside me. "Or are you?" he says.

"How's Marlena?" I respond.

August watches me for a moment and then digs a package of Camels from his shirt pocket. He shakes one loose and offers it to me.

"No thanks," I say.

"Is that the first time you've shot a horse?" he says, plucking the cigarette from the package with his teeth.

"No. But it doesn't mean I like it." "Part of being a vet, my boy." "Which, technically, I'm not."

"So you missed the exams. Big deal." "It is a big deal."

"No it isn't. It's just a piece of paper, and nobody here gives a damn about that. You're on a show now. The rules are different."

"How so?"

He waves toward the train. "Tell me, do you honestly think this is the most spectacular show on earth?"

I don't answer.

"Eh?" he says, leaning into me with his shoulder. "I don't know."

"No. It's nowhere near. It's probably not even the fiftieth most spectacular show on earth.

We hold maybe a third of the capacity Ringling does. You already know that Marlena's not Romanian royalty. And Lucinda? Nowhere near eight hundred and eighty-five pounds. Four hundred, tops. And do you really think Frank Otto got tattooed by angry headhunters

in Borneo? Hell no. He used to be a stake driver on the Flying Squadron. ' 103

Sara Gruen

He worked on that ink for nine years. And you want to know what Uncle Al did when the hippo died? He swapped out her water for formaldehyde and kept on showing her. For two weeks we traveled with a pickled hippo. The whole thing's illusion, Jacob, and there's nothing wrong with that. It's what people want from us. It's what they expect."

He stands up and holds out a hand. After a moment, I take it and let him pull me to my feet.

We walk toward the train.

"Damn, August," I say. "I almost forgot. The cats haven't eaten. We had to dump their meat."

"It's all right, my boy," he says. "It's already been taken care of." "What do you mean, taken care of?"

I stop in my tracks.

"August? What do you mean it's been taken care of?"

August continues walking, the gun slung casually over his shoulder. Eight Wake up, Mr. Jankowski. You're having a bad dream." My eyes snap open. Where am I?

Oh, hell and damnation.

"I wasn't dreaming," I protest.

"Well, you were talking in your sleep, sure enough," says the nurse. It's the nice black girl again. Why do I have such trouble remembering her name? "Something about feeding stars to cats. Now don't you go fretting about those cats—I'm sure they got fed, even if it was after you woke up. Now why did they go and put these on you?" she muses, ripping open my Velcro wrist restraints. "You didn't try to run off now, did you?"