Water For Elephants (16 page)

Marlena stares down at him. "How am I supposed to sit here and eat when they've had nothing for two days?"

"You are not giving that to him," says August. "Now sit down"

People from several other tables turn to look. August smiles nervously at them and leans toward Marlena. "Darling," he says urgently, "I know this is hard on you. But if you give that man food, it will encourage him to hang around, and then what?

Uncle Al's already made his picks. He wasn't one of them. He's got to move on, that's all—and the sooner the better.

It's for his own good. It's a kindness, really."

Marlena's eyes narrow. She sets her plate down, stabs a pork chop with Water for E l e p h a n ts

her fork, and slaps it on a piece of bread. She swipes August's bread, slaps it on the other side of the pork chop, and storms off.

"What do you think you're doing?" shouts August.

She walks straight to the gaunt man, picks up his hand, and plants the sandwich in it.

Then she marches off to scattered applause and whistles from the working men's side of the tent.

August vibrates with anger, a vein pulsing at his temple. After a moment he rises, taking his plate. He tilts its contents into the trash and leaves.

I stare at my plate. It's piled high with pork chops, collard greens, mashed potatoes, and baked apples. I worked like a dog all day, but I can't eat a thing.

ALTHOUGH IT'S NEARLY SEVEN, the sun is still high and the air heavy. The terrain is very different from what we left behind in the northeast. It's flat here, and dry as a bone. The lot is covered in long grass, but it's brown and trampled, crispy as hay. At the edges, near the tracks, tall weeds have taken over—tough plants with stringy stalks, small leaves, and compact flowers.

Designed to waste energy on nothing but getting their blooms up toward the sun.

As I pass the stable tent, I see Kinko standing in its scant shade.

Queenie squats in front of him, defecating loosely, scootching a few inches forward after each fresh burst of liquid.

"What's up?" I say, coming to a stop beside him.

Kinko glares at me. "What the hell does it look like? She's got the trots."

"What did she eat?" "Who the fuck knows?"

I step forward and peer closely at one of the small puddles, checking for signs of parasites. She seems clear. "See if the cookhouse has any honey." "Huh?" Kinko says, straightening up and squinting at me.

"Honey. If you can get hold of any slippery elm powder, add a bit of that as well. But a spoonful of honey should help on its own," I say.

He frowns at me for a moment, arms akimbo. "Okay," he says doubtfully. Then turns back to his dog.

Sara Gruen

I walk on, eventually settling on a patch of grass some distance from the Fox Brothers menagerie. It stands in ominous desertion, as though

there's a minefield around it. No one comes within twenty yards. The conditions inside must be deadly, but short of tying up Uncle Al and August

and hijacking the water wagon, I can't think of a damned thing to do. I grow more and more desperate, until I can sit still no longer. I climb to my feet and go instead to our menagerie.

Even with the benefit of full water troughs and a cross-breeze, the animals are in a heat-induced stupor. The zebras, giraffes, and other hay burners remain on their feet but with their necks extended and eyes half-closed. Even the yak is motionless, despite the flies that buzz mercilessly around his ears and eyes. I swat a few away, but they land again immediately. It's hopeless.

The polar bear lies on his stomach, head and snout stretched in front of him. In repose he looks harmless—cuddly even, with most of his bulk concentrated in the lower third of his body. He takes a deep, halting breath and then exhales a long, rumbling groan. Poor thing. I doubt the temperature in the Arctic ever climbs anywhere close to this.

The orangutan lies flat on her back, arms and legs spread out. She turns her head to look at me, blinking mournfully as though apologizing for not making more of an effort.

It's okay, I say with my eyes. / understand.

She blinks once more and then turns her face so she's looking at the ceiling again.

When I get to Marlena's horses, they snort in recognition and flap their lips against my hands, which still smell like baked apples. When they find

I have nothing for them, they lose interest and drift back into their semiconscious state.

The cats lie on their sides, perfectly still, their eyes not quite closed. If it weren't for the steady rise and fall of their rib cages, I might think they were dead. I press my forehead up against the bars and watch them for a

long time. Finally I turn to leave. I'm about three yards away when I suddenly turn back.

It's just dawned on me that the floors of their deris are conspicuously clean.

Water for E l e p h a n ts

MARLENA AND AUGUST are arguing so loudly I can hear them twertty yards off. I pause outside her dressing tent, not at all sure I want to interrupt. But neither do I want to listen—I finally steel myself and press my mouth to the flap.

"August! Hey, August!"

The voices drop. There's a shuffling, and someone shushing someone. "What is it?" calls August.

"Did Clive feed the cats?"

His face appears in the crack of the flap. "Ah. Yes. Well, that presented a bit of difficulty, but I've worked something out."

"What?"

"It's coming tomorrow morning. Don't worry. They'll be fine. Oh Lord," he says, craning his neck to see beyond me. "What now?"

Uncle Al strides toward us in red waistcoat and top hat, his plaidswaddled legs swallowing the ground. His grovelers follow, jogging in nervous spurts to keep up.

August sighs and holds the flap open for me. "You might as well come in and have a seat. Looks like you're about to get your first business lesson." I duck inside. Marlena sits at her vanity, her arms folded and legs crossed. Her foot jiggles in anger.

"My dear," says August. "Collect yourself."

"Marlena?" says Uncle Al from just behind the tent flap. "Marlena? May I come in, dear?

I need a word with August."

Marlena smacks her lips and rolls her eyes. "Yes, Uncle Al. Of course, Uncle Al. Won't you please come in, Uncle Al," she intones.

The tent flap opens, and Uncle Al enters, perspiring visibly and beaming from ear to ear.

"The deal is done," he says, coming to a stop in front of August. "So you got him, then,"

says August.

"Eh? What?" replies Uncle Al, blinking in surprise. "The freak," says August. "Charles Whatsit."

"No, no, no, never mind about him."

"What do you mean, 'never mind about him'?" says August. "I thought he was the whole reason we came here. What happened?"

S a r a G r u en

"What?" says Uncle Al vaguely. Heads pop out from behind him, shaking vehemently.

One man makes the motion of slitting his throat.

August looks at them and sighs. "Oh. Ringling got him."

"Never mind that," says Uncle Al. "I have news—big news! You might even say jumbo-sized news!" He looks back at his followers, and is met with hearty guffaws. He swings around again. "Guess."

"I have no idea, Al," says August. He turns expectantly toward Marlena. "I don't know,"

she says crossly.

"We scored a bull!" Uncle Al shouts, spreading his arms wide in jubilation. His cane smacks a groveler, who leaps backward.

August's face freezes. "What?" "A bull! An elephant!"

"You have an elephant?"

"No, August—you have an elephant. Her name is Rosie, she's fiftythree, and she's perfectly brilliant. The best bull they had. I can't wait to see the act you come up with—" He closes his eyes, the better to summon up an image. His fingers wriggle in front of his face. He smiles in closed-eyed ecstasy. "I'm thinking it involves Marlena. She can ride her during the parade and Grand Spec, and then you can follow with a feature act in the center ring. Oh, here!" He turns around and snaps his fingers. "Where is it? Come on, come on, you idiots!"

A bottle of champagne appears. He presents it for Marlena's inspection with a deep bow.

Then he unwinds the wire top and pops the cork. Fluted glasses appear from somewhere behind him and are set up on Marlena's vanity.

Uncle Al pours a small amount into each and passes one to Marlena, August, and me.

He lifts the final one high. His eyes mist over. He sighs deeply and clasps a hand to his breast.

"It is my great pleasure to celebrate this momentous occasion with you—my dearest friends in the world." He rocks forward on his spatted feet and squeezes out a real tear. It rolls over his fat cheek. "Not only do we i i 4

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

have a veterinarian—and a Cornell-educated one at that—we have a bull. A bull!" He sniffs with happiness and pauses, overcome. "I have waited for this day for years. And this is just the beginning, my friends. We are in the big leagues now. A show to be reckoned with."

There is scattered clapping from behind him. Marlena balances her glass on her knee. August holds his stiffly in front of him. Except for grasping the glass, he hasn't moved a muscle.

Uncle Al thrusts his champagne into the air. "To the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth!" he shouts.

"Benzini Brothers! Benzini Brothers!" cry voices from behind him. Marlena and August are silent.

Al drains his glass and tosses it to the nearest member of his entourage, who drops it into a jacket pocket and follows Al from the tent. The flap closes, and once again it's just the three of us.

There is a moment of utter stillness. Then August's head jerks, as though he's coming to.

"I guess we'd better go see this rubber mule," he says, draining his glass in a single gulp.

"Jacob, you can see to those damned animals now. You happy?"

I look at him, wide-eyed. Then I also drain my glass. From the corner of my eye, I see Marlena do the same.

THE FOX BROTHERS menagerie is now swarming with Benzini Brothers men. They run back and forth, filling troughs, tossing hay, and hauling away dung. Some sections of sidewall have been raised, creating a cross-breeze. I scan the tent as we enter, looking for animals in distress. Fortunately, they all look very much alive.

The elephant looms against the far sidewall, an enormous beast the color of storm clouds.

We push through the workmen and stop in front of her. She is gargantuanat least ten feet tall at the shoulder. Her skin is mottled and

cracked like a scorched riverbed from the tip of her trunk all the way down to her wide feet. Only her ears are smooth. She peers out at us with Sara Gruen eerily human eyes. They're amber, set deep in her head, and fringed with outrageously long lashes.

"Good God," says August.

Her trunk reaches out to us, moving like an independent creature. It waves in front of August, then Marlena, and finally, me. At the end of it, a fingerlike protrusion wiggles and grasps. The nostrils open and close, snuffing and blowing, and then the trunk retreats.

It swings in front of her like a pendulum, an enormous and muscled worm. Its finger grasps stray pieces of hay from the ground and then drops them again. I watch the swaying trunk and wish it would come back. I hold my hand out in offering, but it doesn't return.

August stares in consternation, and Marlena simply stares. I don't know what to think.

I've never encountered an animal this large. She rises almost four feet above my head.

"You the bull man?" says a man approaching from the right. His shirt is filthy and untucked, puffing out from behind his suspenders.

"I am the equestrian director and superintendent of animals," replies August, drawing himself up to full height.

"Where's your bull man?" says the man, squirting a wad of tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth.

The elephant reaches out with her trunk and taps him on the shoulder.

He whacks her and steps out of reach. The elephant opens her shovelshaped mouth in what can only be described as a smile and starts to sway,

keeping time with the movement of her trunk. "Why do you want to know?" asks August.

"Just want a word with him, is all."

"Why?"

"To let him know what he's in for," says the man. "How do you mean?"

"Show me your bull man, and I'll tell you."

August grabs my arm and swings me forward. "Him. This is my bull man. So what are we in for?"

The man looks at me, pushes his wad of tobacco deep in his cheekj and continues to address August.

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

"This here's the stupidest goddamned animal on the face of the earth."

August looks stunned. "I thought she was supposed to be the best bull. Al said she was the best bull."

The man snorts and squirts a stream of brown saliva toward the great beast. "If she was the best bull, why was she the only one left? You think you're the first show to turn up picking the bones? You didn't even get here for three days. Well, good luck on ya." He turns to leave.

"Wait," August says quickly. "Tell me more. Is she a rogue?" "Naw, just dumb as a bag of hammers."

"Where did she come from?"

"An elephant tramp—some dirty Polack who dropped dead in Liber tyville. City gave her up for a song. Wasn't no bargain though, cuz she ain't done a damned thing since but eat."

August stares at him, pale. "You mean she wasn't even with a circus?" The man steps over the rope and disappears behind the elephant. He returns with a wooden rod about three feet long with a four-inch metal pick coming off the end.

"Here's your bull hook. You're gonna need it. Good luck on ya. As for me, if I never see another bull as long as I live it'll be too soon." He spits again and walks away.

August and Marlena stare after him. I look back just in time to see the elephant pull her trunk from the trough. She lifts it, aims, and blasts the man with such force his hat sails offhis head on a stream of water.

He stops, his hair and clothes dripping. He is still for a moment. Then he wipes his face, leans over to retrieve his hat, bows to the astonished audience of menagerie workers, and continues on his way.