Water For Elephants (9 page)

cuff from the wall.

"So, do you want to have breakfast in the dining room this morning, Water for E l e p h a n ts

or would you like me to bring you something here?" she asks, wrapping the cuff around my arm and inflating it.

"I don't want breakfast."

"Come now, Mr. Jankowski," she says, pressing a stethoscope to the inside of my elbow and watching the gauge. "You've got to keep your strength up."

I try to catch sight of her name tag. "What for? So I can run a marathon?"

"So you don't catch something and miss the circus," she says. After the cuff deflates, she removes the apparatus from my arm and hangs it back on the wall.

Finally! I can see her name.

"I'll have it in here then, Rosemary," I say, thereby proving that I remembered her name.

Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work but important.

Anyway, I'm not really addled. I just have

more facts to keep track of than other people.

"I do declare you're as strong as a horse," she says, writing one last thing down before flipping my chart shut. "If you keep your weight up, I'll bet you could go on another ten years."

"Swell," I say.

WHEN ROSEMARY COMES to park me in the hallway, I ask her to take me to the window so I can watch the goings-on at the park.

It's a beautiful day, with the sun streaming down between puffy clouds. Just as well—I remember all too well what it's like to work on a circus lot when the weather is foul. Not that the work is anything like what it used to be. I wonder if they're even called roustabouts any more. And sleeping quarters sure have improved—just look at those RVs. Some of them even have portable satellite dishes attached to them.

Shortly after lunch, I spot the first nursing home resident being wheeled up the street by relatives. Ten minutes later there's a veritable wagon train. There's Ruthie—oh, and Nellie Compton, too, but what's the point? She's a turnip, she won't remember a thing.

And there's Doris—that must be her Randall she's always talking about. And there's that bastard McGuinty.

S a r a G r u en

Oh yes, cock-of-the-walk, with his family surrounding him and a plaid blanket spread over his knees. Spouting elephant stories, no doubt. There's a line of glorious Percherons behind the big top, every one of them gleaming white. Maybe they're for vaulting?

Horses in vaulting acts are always white so that the powdered rosin that makes the performer's feet stick to their backs won't show.

Even if it is a liberty act, it there's no reason to think it could hold a candle to Marlena's.

There's nothing and no one who could compare to Marlena. I look for an elephant, with equal parts dread and disappointment.

THE WAGON TRAIN RETURNS later in the afternoon with balloons tied to their chairs and silly hats on their heads. Some even hold bags

of cotton candy in their laps—bags! For all they know, the floss could be a week old. In my day it was fresh, spun from a drum onto a paper cone.

At five o'clock, a slim nurse with a horse face comes to the end of the hall. "Are you ready for your dinner, Mr. Jankowski?" she says, kicking off my brakes and spinning me around.

"Hrrmph" I say, cranky that she didn't wait for an answer.

When we get to the dining room, she steers me toward my usual table. "No, wait!" I say.

"I don't want to sit there tonight."

"Don't worry, Mr. Jankowski," she says. "I'm sure Mr. McGuinty has forgiven you for last night."

"Yeah, well, I haven't forgiven him. I want to sit over there," I say, pointing at another table.

"But there's nobody at that table," she says. "Exactly."

"Oh, Mr. Jankowski. Why don't you just let me—" "Just put me where I asked you to, damn it."

My chair stops and there is dead silence from behind it. After a few seconds we start moving again. The nurse parks me at my chosen table and leaves. When she returns to plunk a plate down in front of me, her lips are pursed primly.

The main difficulty with sitting at a table by yourself is that there's nothing to distract you from hearing other people's conversations. I'm not eavesW a t e r for E l e p h a n ts

dropping; I just can't help hearing it. Most of them are talking about the circus, and that's okay. What's not okay is Old Fart McGuinty sitting at my regular table, with my lady friends, and holding court like King Arthur. And that's not all—apparently he told someone who worked for the circus that he used to carry water for the elephants, and they upgraded his ticket to a ringside seat! Incredible! And there he sits, yammering on and on about the special treatment he received while Hazel, Doris, and Norma stare adoringly.

I can stand it no longer. I look down at my plate. Stewed something under pale gravy with a side of pockmarked Jell-O.

"Nurse!" I bark. "Nurse!"

One of them looks up and catches my eye. Since it's clear I'm not dying, she takes her sweet time getting to me.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Jankowski?" "How about getting me some real food?" "I beg your pardon?"

"Real food. You know—that stufFpeople on the outside get to eat." "Oh, Mr.

Jankowski—"

"Don't you 'Oh, Mr. Jankowski' me, young lady. This is nursery food, and last I looked I wasn't five years old. I'm ninety. Or ninety-three." "It's not nursery food."

"Yes it is. There's no substance. Look—" I say, dragging my fork through the gravy-covered heap. It falls off in glops, leaving me holding a coated fork. "You call that food?

I want something I can sink my teeth into. Something that crunches. And what, exactly, is this supposed to be?" I say, poking the lump of red Jell-O. It jiggles outrageously, like a breast I once knew.

"It's salad."

"Salad? Do you see any vegetables? I don't see any vegetables." "It's fruit salad," she says, her voice steady but forced.

"Do you see any fruit?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact I do," she says, pointing at a pock. "There. And there. That's a piece of banana, and that's a grape. Why don't you try it?" "Why don't you try it?"

She folds her arms across her chest. The schoolmarm has run out of Sara Gruen patience. "This food is for the residents. It's designed specifically by a nutritionist who specializes in geriatric—"

"I don't want it. I want real food."

There's dead silence in the room. I look around. All eyes are trained on me. "What?" I say loudly. "Is that so much to ask? Doesn't anyone else here miss real food? Surely you can't all be happy with t h i s ... t h i s ... pap?" I put my hand on the edge of my plate and give it a shove.

Just a little one. Really.

My plate shoots across the table and crashes to the floor.

DR. RASHID IS summoned. She sits at my bedside and asks questions that I try to answer courteously, but I'm so tired of being treated as though I'm unreasonable that I'm afraid I may come off as a bit crotchety. After a half hour she asks the nurse to come into the hallway with her.

I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets: "serious, serious depression" and "manifesting as aggression, not uncommon in geriatric patients."

"I'm not deaf, you know!" I shout from my bed. "Just old!"

Dr. Rashid peers in at me and takes the nurse's elbow. They move down the hall and out of earshot.

THAT NIGHT, A new pill appears in my paper cup. The pills are already in my palm before I notice it.

"What's this?" I ask, pushing it around. I flip it over and inspect the other side.

"What?" says the nurse.

"This," I say, poking the offending pill. "This one right here. It's new." "It's called Elavil."

"What's it for?"

"It's going to help you feel better." "What's it for?" I repeat.

She doesn't answer. I look up. Our eyes meet. "Depression," she says finally.

W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts I won t take it.

"Mr. Jankowski—" "I'm not depressed."

"Dr. Rashid prescribed it. It's going to—"

"You want to drug me. You want to turn me into a Jell-O-eating sheep. I won't take it, I tell you."

"Mr. Jankowski. I have twelve other patients to take care of. Now please take your pills."

"I thought we were residents."

Every one of her pinched features hardens.

"I'll take the others but not this," I say, flicking the pill from my hand.

It flies through the air and lands on the floor. I toss the others into my mouth. "Where's my water?" I say, my words garbled because I'm trying to keep the pills on the center of my tongue.

She hands me a plastic cup, retrieves the pill from the floor, and goes into my bathroom. I hear a flush. Then she comes back.

"Mr. Jankowski. I am going to go get another Elavil and if you won't take it, I will call Dr. Rashid, and she will prescribe an injectable instead. Either way, you are taking the Elavil. How you do so is up to you." When she brings the pill, I swallow it. A quarter of an hour later, I also get an injection—not of Elavil, of something else, but still it doesn't seem fair because I took their damned pill.

Within minutes, I am a Jell-O-eating sheep. Well, a sheep at any rate. But because I keep reminding myself of the incident that brought this misfortune upon me, I realize that if someone brought pockmarked Jell-O right now and told me to eat it, I would.

What have they done to me?

I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined body, but it's no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It's been there awhile, biding its time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make

a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there's really no fighting it.

S ix

The train groans, straining against the increasing resistance of air brakes. After several minutes and a final, prolonged shriek, the great iron beast shudders to a stop and exhales.

Kinko throws back his blanket and stands up. He's no more than four feet tall, if that. He stretches, yawns, and smacks his lips, then scratches his head, armpits, and testicles. The dog dances around his feet, her stump of a tail wagging furiously.

"Come on, Queenie," he says, scooping her up. "You want to go outside? Queenie go outside?" He plants a kiss in the middle of her brown

and white head and crosses the little room.

I watch from my crumpled horse blanket in the corner. "Kinko?" I say.

If it weren't for the vehemence with which he slams the door, I might think he didn't hear me.

WE ARE ON A SIDE rail behind the Flying Squadron, which has

obviously been here a few hours. The tent city has already risen, to the delight of the crowd of townspeople hanging around watching. Rows of children sit on top of the Flying Squadron surveying the lot with shining eyes. Their parents congregate beneath, holding the hands of younger siblings and pointing to various marvels appearing in front of them.

The workmen from the main train climb down from the sleeper cars, light cigarettes, and trek across the lot toward the cookhouse. Its blue and Sara Gruen orange flag is already flying and the boiler beside it belches steam, bearing cheerful witness to the breakfast within.

Performers emerge from sleepers closer to the back of the train and of obviously better quality. There's a clear hierarchy: the closer to the back, the more impressive the quarters.

Uncle Al himself climbs from a car right in front of the caboose. I can't help but notice that Kinko and I are the human occupants closest to the engine.

"Jacob!"

I turn. August strides toward me, his shirt crisp, his chin scraped smooth. His slick hair bears the recent impression of a comb. "How are we this morning, my boy?" he asks.

"All right," I say. "A little tired."

"Did that little troll give you any trouble?" "No," I say. "He was fine."

"Good, good." He claps his hands together. "Shall we have a look at that horse then? I doubt it's anything serious. Marlena coddles them terribly. Oh, here's the little lady now. Come here, darling," he calls brightly.

"I want you to meet Jacob. He's a fan of yours." I feel a blush creep across my face.

She comes to a stop beside him, smiling up at me as August turns toward the stock car. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she says, extending her hand. Up close she still looks remarkably like Catherine—delicate features, pale as porcelain, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of

her nose. Shimmering blue eyes, and hair just dark enough to disqualify as blonde.

"The pleasure is mine," I say, painfully aware that I haven't shaved in two days, my clothes are stiff with manure, and that manure is not the only unpleasant scent rising from my body.

She cocks her head slightly. "Say, you're the one I saw yesterday, aren't you? In the menagerie?"

"I don't think so," I say, lying instinctively.

"Sure you are. Right before the show. When the chimp den slammed shut."

Water for E l e p h a n ts

I glance at August, but he's still facing the other way. She follows my gaze and seems to understand.

"You're not from Boston, are you?" she says, her voice lowered. "No. I've never been."

"Huh," she says. "It's just you look familiar somehow. Oh well," she continues brightly.

"Auggie says you're a vet." At the sound of his name, August spins around.

"No," I say. "I mean, not exactly."

"He's being modest," says August. "Pete! Hey, Pete!"

A group of men stand in front of the stock car's door, attaching a ramp with built-in sides.

A tall one with dark hair turns. "Yeah, boss?" he says. "Get the others unloaded and bring out Silver Star, will you?"

Sure.

Eleven horses later—five white and six black—Pete goes inside the stock car once again.

A moment later he's back. "Silver Star don't want to move, boss."

"Make him," says August.

"Oh no you don't," says Marlena, shooting August a dirty look. She marches up the ramp and disappears.