Water For Elephants (38 page)

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 sideshowprobably 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. "Bills one of them."

Water for E l e p h a n ts

"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."

> 307 Sara Gruen

"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.

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

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 S a r a G r u en

passes, the thing that was August is a tangled mass of flesh, innards, and straw.

Marlena stares at it, wide-eyed. Then she crumples to the ground.

Rosie fans her ears, opens her mouth, and steps sideways so she's standing directly over top of Marlena.

Although the stampede continues unabated, at least I know Marlena won't be trampled before I can navigate the perimeter of the tent. INEVITABLY, PEOPLE TRY to exit the big top the way they entered it—through the menagerie. I'm kneeling beside Marlena, cradling her head in my hands when people spew forth from the connection. They are a few feet in before they realize what's going on.

The ones at the front come to a dead stop and are flung to the ground by the people behind them. They would be trampled except that the people behind them have now also seen the stampede.

The mass of animals suddenly changes direction, an interspecies flocklions, llamas, and zebras running side by side with orangutans and chimps; a hyena shoulder to shoulder with a tiger. Twelve horses and a giraffe with a spider monkey hanging from its neck.

The polar bear, lumbering on all fours. And all of them headed for the knot of people.

The crowd turns, shrieking, and trying to recede into the big top. The people at the very back, shoved so recently to the ground, dance in desperation, pounding the backs and shoulders of the people in front of them. The

clog bursts free, and people and animals flee together in a great squealing mass. It's hard to say who is more terrified—certainly the only thing any

of the animals have in mind is saving their own hides. A Bengal tiger forces itself between a woman's legs, sweeping her from the ground. She looks down and faints. Her husband grabs her by the armpits, lifting her off the tiger and dragging her into the big top.

In a matter of seconds, there are only three living creatures in the menagerie besides me: Rosie, Marlena, and Rex. The mangy old lion has crept back into his den and is huddled in the corner, quivering.

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

Marlena moans. She lifts a hand and drops it. I glance quickly at the thing that was August and decide I cannot let her see it again. I scoop her up and carry her out through the ticket gate.

The lot is nearly empty, the outer perimeter defined by people and animals, all running as far and as fast as they can, expanding and dispersing

like a ring on the surface of a pond.

Twe n t y - t h r e e Post-stampede, day one.

We're still finding and retrieving animals. We've caught

a great many, but the ones that lend themselves to catching

are not the ones the townsfolk are concerned about. Most of the cats are still missing, as is the bear.

Immediately after lunch we are summoned to a local restaurant. When we arrive, we find Leo hiding under the kitchen sink, shivering in terror. Wedged in beside him is an equally terrified dishwasher. Man and lion, cheek by jowl.

Uncle Al is also missing, but no one is surprised. The lot is crawling with police.

August's body was found and removed last night, and they're performing an investigation.

It will be perfunctory, since it's clear he was trampled. The word is that Uncle Al is keeping away until he's sure he won't be charged with anything.

POST-STAMPEDE, DAY TWO.

Animal by animal, the menagerie fills. The sheriff returns to the lot with railroad officials and makes noises about vagrancy laws. He wants us off the siding.

He wants to know who's in charge here.

In the evening, the cookhouse runs out of food. POST-STAMPEDE, DAY THREE.

In late morning, the Nesci Brothers Circus train pulls up on a siding next to ours. The sheriff and the railroad officials return and greet the S a r a G r u en general manager as though he were visiting royalty. They stroll the lot together and finish up with hearty handshakes and booming laughter. When Nesci Brothers men start moving Benzini Brothers animals and equipment into their tents and onto their train, even the most fervently optimistic among us can no longer deny the obvious.

Uncle Al has done a runner. Each and every one of us is out of work. THINK, JACOB.

THINK.

We have enough money to get ourselves out of here, but what good is that with nowhere to go? We have a baby coming. We need a plan. I need a job.

I walk into town to the post office and call Dean Wilkins. I had been afraid that he wouldn't remember me, but he sounds relieved to hear from me. He says he's often wondered where I went and whether I was okay, and by the way, what had I been up to for the last three and a half months?

I take a deep breath and even as I'm thinking about how hard it will be to explain everything, the words start spilling out of me. They tumble forth, competing for precedence and sometimes coming out so tangled I have to back up and pick up a different thread. When I finally fall quiet, Dean Wilkins is silent for so long I wonder if the line has gone dead. "Dean Wilkins? Are you there?" I say. I take the earpiece from my ear and look at it. I consider tapping it against the wall but don't, because the postmistress is watching. Staring at me agog, in fact, because she's been listening to every word. I turn toward the wall and bring the phone back to my ear.

Dean Wilkins clears his throat, stammers for a second, and then says that yes, by all means, I am welcome to return and sit my exams. WHEN I GET BACK to the lot, Rosie is standing some distance

from the menagerie with the general manager of the Nesci Brothers, the sheriff, and a railroad official. I break into a jog.

"What the hell is going on?" I say, coming to a stop by Rosie's shoulder. W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts

The sheriff turns to me. "Are you in charge of this show?" "No," I say.

"Then it's none of your business," he says. "This is my bull. That makes it my business."

"This animal is part of the chattel of the Benzini Brothers circus, and as sheriff I am authorized on behalf of—"

"The hell she is. She's mine."

A crowd is gathering, mostly made up of displaced Benzini Brothers roustabouts. The sheriff and railroad official exchange nervous glances. Greg steps forward. We lock eyes.

Then he addresses the sheriff. "It's true. She's his. He's an elephant tramp. He's been traveling with us, but the bull's his."

"I assume you can prove this."

My face burns. Greg stares at the sheriff with blunt hostility. After a couple of seconds, he starts grinding his teeth.

"In that case," the sheriff says with a tight smile, "please leave us to conduct our business."