Water For Elephants (39 page)

I spin around to the Nesci Brothers general manager. His eyes widen in surprise.

"You don't want her," I say. "She's dumb as a bag of hammers. I can make her do a few things, but you won't get anything out of her." His eyebrows raise. "Eh?"

"Go on, make her do something," I urge.

He stares at me as though I've sprouted horns.

"I mean it," I say. "You got a bull man here? Try to make her do something. She's useless, stupid."

He continues staring for a moment. Then he turns his head. "Dick," he barks. "Make her do something."

A man with a bull hook steps forward.

I stare Rosie in the eye. Please, Rosie. Understand what's going on here.

Please.

"What's her name?" says Dick, looking over his shoulder at me. Sara Gruen

"Gertrude."

He turns to Rosie. "Gertrude, step up to me. Step up to me now." His voice is raised, sharp.

Rosie blows, and starts swinging her trunk. "Gertrude, step up to me now" he repeats.

Rosie blinks. She sweeps her trunk along the ground and then pauses. She curls its tip and pushes dirt onto it with her foot. Then she swings it around, throwing the collected dirt across her back and over the people around her. Several in the crowd laugh.

"Gertrude, lift your foot," says Dick, stepping forward so that he's right at her shoulder.

He taps the back of her leg with the bull hook. "Lift it!" Rosie swings her ears and sniffs him with her trunk.

"Lift it!" he says, tapping her leg harder.

Rosie smiles and checks his pockets. Her four feet remain firmly on the ground.

The bull man pushes her trunk away and turns to his boss. "He's right. She doesn't know a damned thing. How'd you even get her out here?" "This fella brought her," says the manager, pointing at Greg. He turns back to me. "So what does she do?"

"She stands in the menagerie and takes candy." "That's it?" he asks incredulously.

"Yup," I answer.

"No wonder the damned show collapsed," he says, shaking his head. He turns back to the sheriff. "So, what else you got?"

I don't hear anything after that because my ears are buzzing. What the hell have I done?

I STARE FORLORNLY at the windows of car 48, wondering how

to break the news to Marlena that we now own an elephant, when she suddenly comes flying out the door, leaping from the platform like a gazelle.

She hits the ground running, her arms and legs pumping.

I turn to follow her trajectory and immediately see why. The sheriff and Water for E l e p h a n ts

the general manager of the Nesci Brothers are standing beside the menagerie tent, shaking hands and smiling. Her horses are lined up behind them, held by Nesci Brothers men.

The manager and sheriff whip around when she reaches them. I'm too far away to make out much, but snatches of her diatribe—the bits in the uppermost register—cut through.

Things like "how dare you," "appalling nerve," and "unspeakable gall." She gesticulates wildly, arms flailing. "Grand theft" and "prosecution" make their way across the lot. Or was that "prison"?

The men stare, astonished.

Finally she stops. She crosses her arms, scowls, and taps her foot. The men look at each other, wide-eyed. The sheriff turns and opens his mouth, but before he has time to utter a word Marlena explodes again, shrieking like a banshee, poking a finger in his face. He takes a step backward but she moves with him. He stops and braces, his chest puffed and eyes closed. When she stops wagging her finger, she crosses her arms again. The foot taps, the head bobs.

The sheriff's eyes open, and he turns to look at the general manager.

After a pregnant pause, he shrugs feebly. The general manager frowns and turns to Marlena.

He lasts approximately five seconds before stepping backward with hands raised in surrender. His face has "Uncle" written all over it. Marlena puts her hands on her waist and waits, glaring. Eventually he turns, red-faced, and barks something to the men holding her horses.

Marlena watches until all eleven have been returned to the menagerie. Then she marches back to car 48.

Dear God. Not only am I unemployed and homeless, but I also have a pregnant woman, bereaved dog, elephant, and eleven horses to take care of.

I RETURN TO THE post office and call Dean Wilkins. He is silent for even longer this time. He finally stammers out an apology: he's really — = • 317

Sara Grucn

very sorry—he wishes he could help—I'm still welcome to sit my final exams, of course, but he hasn't the faintest idea what I should do with the elephant.

I RETURN TO T H E lot rigid with panic. I can't leave Marlena and the animals here while I return to Ithaca to write my exams. What if the sheriff sells the menagerie in the meantime? The horses we can board, and we can afford for Marlena and Queenie to stay in a hotel for a while, but Rosie?

I cross the lot, making a wide arc around scattered piles of canvas. Workmen from the Nesci Brothers show are unrolling various pieces of the big top under the watchful eye of the boss canvasman. It looks like they're checking for tears before making an offer.

As I mount the stairs to car 48, my heart is pounding, my breath coming fast. I need to calm down—my mind is spinning in ever smaller circles. This is no good, no good at all.

I push open the door. Queenie comes to my feet and stares up at me with a pathetic combination of bewilderment and gratitude. She wags her stump uncertainly. I lean down and scratch her head.

"Marlena?" I say, straightening up.

She comes out from behind the green curtain. She looks apprehensive, twisting her fingers and avoiding making eye contact. "Jacob—oh, Jacob, I've done something really stupid."

"What?" I ask. "Do you mean the horses? It's okay. I already know." She looks up quickly. "You do?"

"I was watching. It was pretty obvious what was going on."

She blushes. "I'm sorry. I j u s t ... reacted. I wasn't thinking about what we'd do with them afterward. It's just that I love them so much and I couldn't stand to let him take them. He's no better than Uncle Al."

"It's okay. I understand." I pause. "Marlena, I have something to tell you, too."

"You do?"

My jaw opens and closes, but no words come out. Water for E l e p h a n ts She looks worried. "What is it? What's going on? Is it something bad?" "I called the Dean at Cornell, and he's willing to let me sit my

exams."

Her face lights up. "That's wonderful!" "And we've also got Rosie."

"We've what?"

"It was the same as with you and the horses," I say quickly, rushing to explain myself. "I don't like the look of their bull man and I couldn't let him take her—God only knows where she'd end up. I love that bull. I couldn't let her go. So I pretended she belonged to me. And now I guess she does."

Marlena stares at me for a long time. Then—to my enormous relief she nods, saying, "You did right. I love her, too. She deserves better than what she's had.

But it does mean we're in a pickle." She looks out the window, her eyes narrowed in thought. "We've got to get on another show,"

she says finally. "That's all there is to it." "How? Nobody's hiring."

"Ringling is always hiring, if you're good enough." "Do you think we actually have a shot?"

"Sure we do. We've got one hell of an elephant act, and you're a Cornelleducated veterinarian. We have a definite shot. We'll have to be married, though. They're a real Sunday School outfit."

"Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate."

The blood drains from her face.

"Oh, Marlena. I'm so sorry," I say. "That came out all wrong. I just meant that there's never been an instant of doubt that I'm going to marry you."

After a moment's pause, she reaches up and lays her hand on my cheek. Then she grabs her purse and hat.

"Where are you going?" I say.

She rolls forward onto her toes and kisses me. "To make that phone call. Wish me luck."

Sara Gruen

"Good luck," I say.

I follow her outside and sit on the metal platform watching as she recedes into the distance. She walks with such certainty, placing each foot directly in front of the other and holding her shoulders square. As she passes, all the men on the lot turn to look. I watch until she disappears around the corner of a building.

As I rise to return to the stateroom, there's a shout of surprise from the men unrolling the canvas. One man takes a long step backward, clutching

his stomach. Then he doubles over, vomiting onto the grass. The rest continue to stare at the thing they've uncovered. The boss canvasman removes

his hat and clutches it to his chest. One by one, the others do the same. I walk over, staring at the darkened bundle. It's large, and as I get closer I make out bits of scarlet, gold brocade, and black and white checks. It's Uncle Al. A makeshift garrote is tightened around his blackened neck.

LATER THAT NIGHT, Marlena and I sneak into the menagerie and bring Bobo back to our stateroom.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Twenty- four

So this is what it boils down to, is it? Sitting alone in a lobby waiting for family that's not going to come?

I can't believe Simon forgot. Especially today. Especially Simon—that boy spent the first seven years of his life on the Ringling show.

To be fair, I suppose the boy is seventy-one. Or is that sixty-nine? Dammit, I'm tired of not knowing. When Rosemary comes back I'll ask her

what year it is and settle the matter once and for all. She's very kind to me, that Rosemary. She won't make me feel foolish even if I am. A man ought to know how old he is.

I remember so many things as clear as a bell. Like the day of Simon's birth. God, such joy. Such relief! The vertigo as I approached the bed, the trepidation. And there was my angel, my Marlena, smiling up at me, tired, radiant, with a blanketed bundle nestled in the crook of her arm. His face was so dark and scrunched he hardly looked like a person at all. But then when Marlena pulled the blanket back from his hair and I saw that it was red, I thought I might actually faint from joy. I never really doubted—not really, and I would have loved and raised him, anyway—but still. I damn near dropped over when I saw that red hair.

I glance at the clock, antsy with despair. The Spec is over for sure. Oh, it's just not fair!

All those decrepit old people who won't even know what they're looking at, and here's me! Trapped in this lobby!

Or am I? Sara Gruen

I furrow my brow and blink. What, exactly, makes me think I'm trapped?

I glance from side to side. No one. I turn and look toward the hall. A nurse whizzes past, clutching a chart and looking at her shoes.

I scootch to the edge of my seat and reach for my walker. By my estimation, I'm only eighteen feet from freedom. Well, there's an entire city block to traverse after that, but if I hoof it I bet I can catch the last few acts. And the finale—it won't make up for missing the Spec, but it's something. A warm glow tingles through me and I snort back a giggle. I may be in my nineties, but who says I'm helpless?

The glass door slides open as I approach. Thank God for that—I don't think I could manage the walker and a regular door. No, I'm wobbly, all right. But that's okay. I can work with wobbly.

I reach the sidewalk and stop, blinded by the sun.

I've been away from the real world for so long that the combination of engines running, dogs barking, and horns honking brings a lump to my throat. The people on the sidewalk part and pass me like I'm a stone in a stream. Nobody seems to think it odd that an old man is standing in his slippers on the sidewalk right outside an old folks' home. But it occurs to me that I'm still in plain sight if one of the nurses comes into the lobby.

I lift my walker, twist it a couple of inches to the left, and plunk it down again. Its plastic wheels scrape the concrete, and the sound makes me giddy. It's a real noise, a gritty noise, not the squeak or patter of rubber. I shuffle around behind it, savoring the way my slippers scuffle. Two more manipulations like that, and I'm facing the right way. A perfect threepoint turn. I grab hold and shuffle off, concentrating on my feet.

I mustn't go too fast. Falling would be disastrous in so many ways.

There are no floor tiles, so I measure my progress in feet—my feet. Each time I take a step, I bring the heel of one foot parallel to the toes of the other. And so it goes, ten inches at a time. I stop occasionally to gauge my progress. It's slow but steady. The magenta and white tent is a little bigger each time I look up.

It takes me half an hour and I have to stop twice, but I'm practically 32.2. • = -

Water for E l e p h a n ts

there and already feeling the thrill of victory. I'm huffing a little, but my legs are still steady. There was that one woman I thought might make trouble, but I managed to get rid of her. I'm not proud of it—I don't normally speak to people in that manner, and especially women—but damned if I was going to let some busybody do-gooder foil my outing. I'm not setting foot in that facility again until I've seen what's left of the show, and woe

to the person who tries to make me. Even if the nurses catch up with me right now, I'll make a scene. I'll make noise. I'll embarrass them in public and make them fetch Rosemary. When she realizes how determined I am, she'll take me to the show. Even if she misses the rest of her shift, she'll take me—it is her last shift, after all.

Oh Lord. How am I going to survive that place when she's gone? The remembrance of her imminent departure wracks my old body with grief, but it's quickly displaced by joy—I am now close enough to hear the music thumping from the big top. Oh, the sweet, sweet sound of circus music. I lodge my tongue in the corner of my mouth and hurry. I'm almost there now. Just a few yards farther

"Yo, Gramps. Where do you think you're going?"

I stop, startled. I look up. A kid sits behind the ticket wicket, his face framed by bags of pink and blue cotton candy. Flashing toys blink from the glass counter under his arms.

There's a ring through his eyebrow, a stud through his bottom lip, a large tattoo on each shoulder. His hands are tipped with black nails.