Water For Elephants (14 page)

"No. I had the audacity to complain about that pablum they feed us." I glance sideways at her. "And then my plate sort of slid off the table." She stops and looks at me. Then she bursts out laughing. "Oh, you're a live one, all right," she says, rubbing my wrists between her warm hands. "Oh my."

It comes to me in a flash: Rosemary! Ha. So I'm not senile after all. Rosemary.

Rosemary. Rosemary.

I must think of a way to commit it to memory, a rhyme or something. I may have remembered this morning, but that's no guarantee I'll remember it tomorrow or even later today.

She goes to the window and opens the blinds; "Do you mind?" I say.

"Do I mind what?" she replies.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this my room? What if I don't want the blinds open? I tell you, I'm getting mighty sick of everyone thinking they know better than I do about what I want."

S a r a G r u en

Rosemary gazes at me. Then she drops the blinds and marches from the room, letting the door shut behind her. My mouth opens in surprise.

A moment later there are three taps on the door. It opens a crack. "Good morning, Mr.

Jankowski, may I come in?"

What the hell game is she playing? "I said, may I come in?" she repeats. "Of course," I sputter.

"Thank you kindly," she says coming in and standing at the foot of my bed. "Now, would you like me to open the blinds and let the good Lord's sun shine in on you, or would you rather sit here in pitch darkness all day long?" "Oh, go ahead and open them. And stop it with that nonsense."

"It's not nonsense, Mr. Jankowski," she says, going to the window and opening the blinds. "Not a bit of it. I'd never thought of it that way before, and I thank you for opening my eyes."

Is she making fun of me? I narrow my eyes, examining her face for clues.

"Now, am I correct in thinking you'd like breakfast in your room?"

I don't answer, as I'm still undecided as to whether I smell a rat. You'd think they'd have that preference written on my chart by now, but they ask me the same damned question every morning. Of course I would rather take my breakfast in the dining room. Taking it in my bed makes me feel like an invalid. But breakfast follows the early-morning diaper change,

and the smell of feces fills the hallway and makes me retch. It's not until an hour or two after each and every one of the incapacitated folks has been cleaned, fed, and parked outside their doors that it's safe to poke your head out.

"Now, Mr. Jankowski—if you expect people to try to do things your way, you're going to have to give some hints as to what that way is." "Yes. Please. I'll have it in here," I say.

"All right, then. Would you like your shower before or after breakfast?"

"What makes you think I need a shower?" I say, thoroughly offended, even though I'm not at all sure I don't need a shower.

"Because this is the day your people visit," she says, flashing that big 106

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

smile again. "And because I thought you'd like to be nice and fresh for your outing this afternoon."

My outing? Ah, yes! The circus. I must say, waking up two days in a row and having the prospect of a visit to the circus ahead of me has been nice. "I think I'll take it before breakfast if you don't mind," I say pleasantly. ONE OF THE greatest indignities about being old is that people

insist on helping you with things like bathing and going to the washroom. I don't in fact require help with either, but they're all so afraid I'm

going to slip and break my hip again that I get a chaperone whether I like it or not. I always insist on walking into the washroom myself, but there's always someone there, just in case, and for some reason it's always a woman. I make whoever it is turn around while I drop my drawers and sit, and then I send her outside until I'm finished.

Bathing is even more embarrassing, because I have to strip down to my birthday suit in front of a nurse. Now, there are some things that never die, so even though I'm in my nineties my sap sometimes rises. I can't

help it. They always pretend not to notice. They're trained that way, I suppose, although pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing. It

means they consider me nothing more than a harmless old man sporting a harmless old penis that still gets uppity once in a while. Although if one of them took it seriously and tried to do something about it, the shock would probably kill me.

Rosemary helps me into the shower stall. "There, now you just hold on to that bar over there—"

"I know, I know. I've had showers before," I say, grabbing the bar and easing myself onto the bath chair. Rosemary runs the shower head down the pole so I can reach it.

"How's that for temperature, Mr. Jankowski?" she asks, waving her hand in and out of the stream and keeping her gaze discreetly averted. "Fine. Just give me some shampoo and go outside, will you?"

"Why, Mr. Jankowski, you are in a mood today, aren't you?" She opens the shampoo and squeezes a few drops onto my palm. It's all I need. I've

tropical

only got about a dozen hairs left. S a r a G r u en

"You give me a shout if you need anything," she says, pulling the curtain across. "I'll be right out here."

"Hrrrmph" I say.

Once she's gone I quite enjoy my shower. I take the shower head from its mount and spray my body from up close, aiming it over my shoulders and down my back and then over each of my skinny limbs. I even hold my head back witJi my eyes shut and let the spray hit my face full on. I pretend it's a

shower, shaking my head and reveling in it. I even enjoy the feel of it down there, on that shriveled pink snake that fathered five children so long ago. Sometimes, when I'm in bed, I close my eyes and remember the look—and especially the feel—of a woman's naked body. Usually it's my wife's, but not always. I was completely faithful to her. Not once in more than sixty years did I stray, except in my imagination, and I have a feeling she wouldn't have minded that. She was a woman of extraordinary understanding.

Dear Lord, I miss that woman. And not just because if she were still alive, I wouldn't be here, although that's the God's truth. No matter how decrepit we became, we would have looked after each other, like we always did. But after she was gone, I didn't stand a chance against the kids. The first time I took a fall, they had it sewn up as quick as you can say Cracker Jack.

But Dad, they said, you broke your hip, as though maybe I hadn't noticed. I dug in my heels. I threatened to cut them off without a cent until I remembered they already controlled my money. They didn't remind me—they just let me rail on like an old fool until I remembered of my own accord, and that made me even angrier because if they had any respect for me at all they would have at least made sure I had the facts straight. I felt like a toddler whose tantrum was being allowed to run its course.

As the enormity of my helplessness dawned on me, my position began to slip.

You're right, I conceded. I guess I could use some help. I suppose having someone come in during the day wouldn't be so bad, just to help out with the cooking and cleaning. No?

Well, how about a live-in? I know I've let things slip a little since your mother died ... But I thought you said ... Okay, then one of you can move in with m e ... But I don't understand... Well, Simon, your house is large. Surely I could... ?

108

W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts It was not to be.

I remember leaving my house for the last time, bundled up like a cat on the way to the vet. As the car pulled away, my eyes were so clouded by tears I couldn't look back.

It's not a nursing home, they said. It's assisted living—progressive, you see. You'll only have help for the things you need, and then when you get older...

They always trailed off there, as though that would prevent me from following the thought to its logical conclusion.

For a long time, I felt betrayed that not one of my five children offered to take me in. No longer. Now that I've had time to mull it over, I see they've got enough problems without adding me into the mix.

Simon is around seventy and has had at least one heart attack. Ruth has diabetes, and Peter has prostate trouble. Joseph's wife ran off with a cabana boy when they were in Greece, and while Dinah's breast cancer seems to have gone into remission—thank God—now she's got her granddaughter living with her, trying to get the girl back on track after two illegitimate children and an arrest for shoplifting.

And those are just the things I know about. There are a host of others they don't mention because they don't want to upset me. I've caught wind of several, but when I ask questions they clam right up. Mustn't upset Grandpa, you know.

Why? That's what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don't know what's going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation? I've decided it's not about me at all. It's a protective mechanism for

them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home. When Simon turned sixteen and got belligerent, I thought it

was just him. By the time Dinah got there, I knew it wasn't her fault—it was programmed into her.

But despite bowdlerizing content, my family has been entirely faithful about visiting.

Someone comes every single Sunday, come hell or high water. They talk and they talk and they talk, about how fine/foul/fair the

•^ 109 Sara Gruen

weather is, and what they did on vacation, and what they ate for lunch, and then at five on the nose they look gratefully at the clock and leave. Sometimes they try to get me to go to the bingo game down the hall

on their way out, like the batch from two weeks ago. Wouldn't you like to join in? they said. We could take you there on our way out. Doesn't it sound like fun?

Sure, I said. Maybe if you're a rutabaga. And they laughed, which pleased me even though I wasn't joking. At my age, you take credit for whatever you can. At least it proved they were listening.

My platitudes don't hold their interest and I can hardly blame them for that. My real stories are all out of date. So what if I can speak firsthand about the Spanish flu, the advent of the automobile, world wars, cold wars, guerrilla wars, and Sputnik—that's all ancient history now. But what else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That's the reality of getting old, and I guess that's really the crux of the matter. I'm not ready to be old yet. But I shouldn't complain, this being circus day and all.

ROSEMARY RETURNS W I T H a breakfast tray, and when she pulls off the brown plastic lid I see that she's put cream and brown sugar on my porridge.

"Now don't you go telling Dr. Rashid about the cream," she says. "Why not? I'm not supposed to have cream?"

"Not you specifically. It's part of the specialized diet. Some of our residents can't digest rich things the way they used to."

"What about butter?" I'm outraged. My mind skips back over the last weeks, months, and years, trying to remember the last appearance of cream or butter in my life. Dang it, she's right. Why didn't I notice? Or maybe I

did, and that's why I dislike the food so much. Well, it's no wonder. I suppose we're on reduced salt as well.

"It's supposed to keep you healthier for longer," she says, shaking her head. "But why you folks shouldn't enjoy a bit of butter in your golden years, I don't know." She looks up sharply. "You still have your gallbladder, don't you?"

"Yes."

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

Her face softens again. "Well, in that case you enjoy that cream, Mr. Jankowski. Do you want your TV on while you eat?"

"No. There's nothing but garbage on these days, anyway," I say.

"I couldn't agree more," she says, refolding the blanket at the foot of my bed. "You give me a buzz if you need anything else."

After she leaves, I resolve to be nicer. I'll have to think of a way of reminding myself. I suppose I could wrap a bit of napkin around my finger since I don't have any string.

People were always doing that in movies when I was younger. Wrapping strings around their fingers to remember things, that is.

I reach for the napkin, and as I do I catch sight of my hands. They are knobby and crooked, thin-skinned, and—like my ruined face—covered with liver spots.

My face. I push the porridge aside and open my vanity mirror. I should know better by now, but somehow I still expect to see myself. Instead, I find an Appalachian apple doll, withered and spotty, with dewlaps and bags and long floppy ears. A few strands of white hair spring absurdly from its spotted skull.

I try to brush the hairs flat with my hand and freeze at the sight of my old hand on my old head. I lean close and open my eyes very wide, trying to see beyond the sagging flesh.

It's no good. Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes, I can't find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?

I'm too sickened to eat. I put the brown lid back on the porridge and then, with considerable difficulty, locate the pad that controls my bed.

I press the button that flattens its head, leaving the table hovering over me like a vulture. Oh wait, there's a control here that lowers the bed, too. Good. Now I can roll onto my side without hitting the damned table and spilling the porridge. Don't want to do that again—they may call it a display

businessmen

of temper and summon Dr. Rashid.

Once my bed is flat and as low as it will go, I roll onto my side and stare out the Venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I'm lulled into a sort of peace.

The sky, the sky—same as it always was.

Nine

I'm daydreaming, staring out the open door at the sky when the brakes start their piercing shriek and everything lurches forward. I brace myself against the rough floor and then, after

I regain my balance, run my hands through my hair and tie my shoes. We must have finally reached Joliet.