Water For Elephants (18 page)

clean again. And the worst part is that I don't even know what I did. I have only snippets, and as horrifying as those are it's even more horrifying not knowing what happened in between.

It suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea whether I'm still a virgin. I reach inside the dressing gown and scratch my stubbly balls. KINKO COMES IN a few minutes later. I'm lying on my bedroll, my arms over my head.

"You'd better get your ass out there," he says. "He's still looking for

» you.

Something snuffles in my ear. I lift my head and bang into a wet nose. Queenie leaps backward as though launched from a catapult. She surveys W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts me from a distance of three feet, sniffing cautiously. Oh, I bet I'm just a medley of smells this morning. I drop my head again.

"You want to get fired, or what?" Kinko says. "At this point, I really don't care," I mumble. "What?"

"I'm leaving anyway."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

I can't answer. I can't tell him that not only have I disgraced myself beyond belief or redemption, but I have also failed at my first opportunity to have sex—something I've thought about pretty much constantly for the last eight years. Not to mention throwing up on one of the women who was offering and then passing out and having somebody shave my balls and paint my face and stuff me into a trunk. Although he must know at least parts of it, since he knew where to find me this morning. Perhaps he was even involved in the festivities.

"Don't be a pussy," he says. "You want to end up walking the tracks like those poor bums out there? Now get on out there before you get yourself fired."

I remain inert. "I said get up!"

"What do you care?" I grumble. "And stop shouting. My head hurts." "Just get the hell up or I'll hurt the rest of you, too!"

"All right! Just stop yelling!"

I drag myself upright and throw him a dirty look. My head pounds and it feels as though lead weights are tied to each of my joints. Since he continues watching me, I turn toward the wall, keeping the red gown on until I pull my pants up in an effort to hide my hairlessness. Nevertheless, my face burns.

"Oh, and a word to the wise?" says Kinko. "Some flowers for Barbara wouldn't go amiss.

The other one's just a whore, but Barbara's a friend." I am so flooded with shame my consciousness flickers. After the urge to faint passes, I stare at the ground, sure I'll never bring myself to look anyone in the eyes again.

S a r a G r u en

THE FOX BROTHERS train has been moved off the siding,

and the hotly disputed elephant car is now hitched directly behind our engine, where the ride will be smoothest. It has vents instead of slats and is made of metal. The boys from the Flying Squadron are busy tearing down tents—they've already dropped most of the larger ones, revealing the buildings of Joliet in the background. A small crowd of towners has gathered to watch the activity.

I find August in the menagerie tent, standing in front of the elephant.

"Move!" he screams, waving the bull hook around her face. She swings her trunk and blinks.

"I said mover He steps behind her and thwacks her in the back of the leg. "Move, goddammit!" Her eyes narrow and her enormous ears flatten against her head.

August catches sight of me and freezes. He drops the bull hook to his side. "Rough night?" he sneers.

A blush prickles up the back of my neck and spreads over my entire head.

"Never mind. Get a stick and help me move this stupid beast." Pete comes up behind him, twisting his hat in his hands. "August?" August turns, furious. "Oh, for Christ's sake.

What is it, Pete? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"The cat meat is here."

"Good. Take care of it. We don't have much time." "What exactly do you want me to do with it?"

"What the hell do you think I want you to do with it?" "But, boss—" says Pete, clearly distressed.

"Goddammit!" says August. The vein on his temple bulges dangerously. "Do I have to do every damned thing myself? Here," he says, thrusting the bull hook at me. "Teach the brute something. Anything will do. As far as I can tell, all she knows how to do is shit and eat."

I take the bull hook and watch as he storms from the tent. I'm still staring after him when the elephant's trunk sweeps past my face, blowing Water for E l e p h a n ts warm air into my ear. I spin and find myself looking into an amber eye. It blinks at me.

My gaze shifts from that eye to the bull hook in my hand.

I look back up at the eye and again it blinks. I lean over and lay the bull hook on the ground.

She swings her trunk across the ground in front of her, fanning her ears like enormous leaves. Her mouth opens in a smile.

"Hi," I say. "Hi, Rosie. I'm Jacob."

After a moment's hesitation, I extend my hand, just a bit. The trunk whooshes past, blowing. Emboldened, I reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder. Her skin is rough and stubbly and surprisingly warm.

"Hi," I say again, giving her an experimental pat.

Her windsail of an ear moves forward and then back, and the trunk returns. I touch it tentatively, and then stroke it. I am entirely enamored, and so engrossed that I don't see August until he comes to an abrupt stop in front of me.

"What the hell is wrong with you people this morning? I should fire every goddamned one of you, what with Pete not wanting to take care of business and you pulling a disappearing act and then playing kissy-face with the bull. Where's the damned bull hook?"

I lean over and retrieve it. August snatches it from my hand, and the elephant's ears settle back against her head.

"Here, princess," says August, addressing me. "I have a job you might be able to handle.

Go find Marlena. Make sure she doesn't go behind the menagerie for a bit."

"Why?"

August takes a deep breath and grips the bull hook so hard his knuckles whiten. "Because I said so. All right?" he says through clenched teeth. Naturally, I head behind the menagerie to find out what Marlena's

not supposed to see. I round the corner just as Pete slits the throat of a decrepit gray horse. The horse screams as blood shoots six feet from the gaping hole in its neck.

"Jesus Christ!" I yelp, taking a step backward.

The horse's heart slows, and the spurts weaken. Eventually the horse Sara Gruen drops to its knees and crashes forward. It scrapes the ground with its front hooves and then falls still. Its eyes are open wide. A lake of dark blood spreads from its neck.

Pete glances up at me, still leaning over the twitching animal.

An emaciated bay horse is tethered to a stake beside him, out of its head with terror. Its nostrils are flared, showing red, its muzzle straight in the air. The lead rope is so taut it looks like it's going to snap. Pete steps across the dead horse, grabs the rope near the bay's head, and slices its throat. More spurting blood, more death throes, another collapsing body.

Pete stands with his arms slack at his sides, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, still holding the bloody knife. He watches the horse until it dies and then raises his face to me.

He wipes his nose, spits, and gets back to the task at hand. "MARLENA? YOU IN

THERE?" I say, rapping on the door of their stateroom.

"Jacob?" calls a small voice from inside. "Yes," I say.

Come in.

She's standing by one of the open windows, looking toward the front of the train. As I enter, she turns her head. Her eyes are wide, her face drained of blood.

"Oh, J a c o b ... " Her voice is wavering. She's on the verge of tears. "What is it? What's the matter?" I say, crossing the room.

She presses her hand to her mouth and turns back to the window. August and Rosie are making their noisy way to the front of the train. Their progress is excruciating, and everyone on the lot has stopped to watch.

August smacks her from behind, and Rosie hurries a few steps forward. When August catches up, he whacks her again, this time hard enough that she raises her trunk, bellows, and scampers sideways. August lets loose a long string of curses and runs up beside her, swinging the bull hook and driving the pick end into her shoulder. Rosie whimpers and

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

this time doesn't move an inch. Even from this distance, we can see that she's trembling.

Marlena chokes back a sob. On impulse I reach for her hand. When I find it, she clutches my fingers so tightly they hurt.

After a few more thumps and whacks, Rosie catches sight of the elephant car at the front of the train. She lifts her trunk and trumpets, taking

off at a thunderous run. August disappears in a cloud of dust behind her, and panicked roustabouts dive out of her way. She climbs aboard with obvious relief.

The dust subsides and August reappears, shouting and waving his arms. Diamond Joe and Otis trudge up to the elephant car, slowly, matter-of-factly, and set about shutting it.

Eleven

inko spends the first few hours of the jump to Chicago using bits of beefjerky to teach Queenie, who has apparently recovered from her diarrhea, to walk on her hind legs.

"Up! Up, Queenie, up! Atta girl. Good girl!"

I'm lying on my bedroll, curled up and facing the wall. My physical state is every bit as sorry as my mental one, and that's saying something. My head is crammed with visions, all jumbled up like a ball of string:

My parents alive, depositing me at Cornell. My parents dead, and the green and white floor tiles beneath them. Marlena, waltzing with me

in the menagerie. Marlena this morning, fighting tears at the window. Rosie and her snuffing, inquisitive trunk. Rosie, ten feet tall and solid as a mountain, whimpering under August's blows. August, tap-dancing across the roof of a moving train. August as a bull-hook-wielding madman. Barbara, swinging those melons onstage. Barbara and Nell, and their expert ministrations.

The memory of last night hits me like a wrecking ball. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force my mind to go blank, but it won't. The more distressing the memory, the more persistent its presence.

Eventually Queenie's excited yipping stops. After a few seconds, the springs on Kinko's cot squeak. Then there's silence. He's watching me. I can feel it. I roll over to face him.

He's on the edge of the cot, his bare feet crossed and his red hair K

S a r a G r u en

mussed. Queenie creeps into his lap, leaving her hind legs sticking straight out, like a frog.

"So, what's your story, anyway?" says Kinko.

The sunlight flashes like knives through the slats behind him. I cover my eyes and grimace.

"No, I mean it. Where'd you come from?"

"Nowhere," I say, rolling back to the wall. I pull my pillow over my head.

"What are you so sore about? Last night?"

The mere mention causes bile to rise in my throat. "You embarrassed or something?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, would you just leave me alone?" I snap.

He is quiet. After a few seconds I roll over again. He's still looking at me, fingering Queenie's ears. She licks his other hand, wagging her stump.

"Sorry," I say. "I've never done anything like that before." "Well, yeah—I think that was pretty obvious."

I grasp my pounding head with both hands. What I wouldn't give for about a gallon of water

"Look, it's no big deal," he continues. "You'll learn to hold your liquor. As for the other stuff—well, I had to get you back for the other day. The way I see it, this makes us even.

In fact, I may even owe you one. That honey stopped Queenie up like a cork. So, you know how to read?"

I blink a few times. "Huh?" I say.

"You wanna read maybe, instead ofjust lying there stewing?"

"I think I'll just lie here stewing." I squeeze my eyes shut and cover them with my hand. My brain feels too big for my skull, my eyes hurt, and I may throw up. And my balls itch.

"Suit yourself," he says. "Maybe some other time," I say. "Sure. Whatever."

A pause. "Kinko?" 144

Water for E l e p h a n ts "Yeah?"

"I appreciate the offer." Sure.

A longer pause. "Jacob?" "Yeah?"

"You can call me Walter if you want." Under my hand, my eyes open wide.

His cot squeaks as he rearranges himself. I sneak a look through splayed fingers. He folds his pillow in half, lies back, and grabs a book from the crate. Queenie settles at his feet, watching me. Her eyebrows twitch with worry.

THE TRAIN APPROACHES Chicago in the late afternoon. Despite

my pounding head and aching body, I stand in the open door of the stock car craning my neck to get a good look. After all, this is the city of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, ofjazz, gangsters, and speakeasies.

I can see a handful of tall buildings in the distance, and just as I'm trying to make out which one of them is the fabled Allerton we reach the stockyards. There are miles of them, and we slow to a crawl as we pass. The buildings are flat and ugly, and the pens, crammed with panicked, lowing cattle and filthy, snuffing pigs, butt right up against the tracks. But that is nothing compared to the noises and smells coming from the buildings: within minutes the bloody stench and piercing shrieks send me flying back to the goat room to press my nose against the mildewed horse blanket—anything to replace the smell of death.

My stomach is fragile enough that even though the lot is well beyond the stockyards, I stay inside the stock car until everything's been set up. Afterward, seeking the company of animals, I enter the menagerie and tour the perimeter.

It's impossible to describe how tenderly I suddenly feel toward them—hyenas, camels, and all. Even the polar bear, who sits on his backside chewing his four-inch claws with his four-inch teeth. A love for S a r a G r u en

these animals wells up in me suddenly, a flash flood, and there it is, solid as an obelisk and viscous as water.

My father felt it his duty to continue to treat animals long after he stopped getting paid.

He couldn't stand by and watch a horse colic or a

cow labor with a breech calf even though it meant personal ruin. The parallel is undeniable. There is no question that I am the only thing standing between these animals and the business practices of August and Uncle Al, and what my father would do—what my father would want me to do—is look after them, and I am filled with that absolute and unwavering conviction. No matter what I did last night, I cannot leave these animals. I am