Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

  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 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 their shepherd, their protector. And it's more than a duty. It's a covenant with my father.

  One of the chimps needs a cuddle, so I let him ride on my hip as I make my way around the tent. I reach a wide empty spot, and realize it's for the elephant. August must be having trouble getting her out of her car. If I were feeling at all kindly toward him, I'd see if I could help. But I'm not.

  "Hey, Doc," says Pete. "Otis thinks one of the giraffes has a cold. You wanna take a look?"

  "Sure," I say.

  "Come on, Bobo," says Pete, reaching for the chimp.

  The chimp's hairy arms and legs tighten around me.

  "Come on now," I say, trying to pluck his arms free. "I'll come back."

  Bobo moves not a muscle.

  "Come on now," I say.

  Nothing.

  "All right. One last hug and that's it," I say, pressing my face against his dark fur.

  The chimp flashes a toothy smile and kisses me on the cheek. Then he climbs down, slips his hand inside Pete's, and ambles off on bowed legs.

  There's a small amount of pus flowing down the giraffe's long nasal passage. It's not something I'd find alarming in a horse, but since I don't know giraffes I decide to play it safe and fit her with a neck poultice, an operation that requires a stepladder with Otis at the bottom, handing me supplies.

  The giraffe is timid and beautiful and quite possibly the strangest creature I've ever seen. Her legs and neck are delicate, her body sloped and covered with markings like puzzle pieces. Strange furry knobs poke out from the top of her triangular head, above her large ears. Her eyes are huge and dark, and she has the velvet-soft lips of a horse. She's wearing a halter and I hold on to it, but mostly she stays still as I swab out her nostrils and swaddle her throat in flannel. When I'm finished, I climb down.

  "Can you cover for me for a bit?" I ask Otis, wiping my hands on a rag.

  "Sure. Why?"

  "I've got somewhere to go," I say.

  Otis's eyes narrow. "You ain't moping off, are you?"

  "What? No. Of course not."

  "You better tell me now, 'cuz if you're moping off, I ain't covering for you while you do it."

  "I'm not moping off. Why would I mope off?"

  "On account of . . . Well, you know. Certain events."

  No! I'm not moping off. Just let it drop, would you?"

  Is there no one who hasn't heard the details of my disgrace?

  I HEAD OUT ON FOOT and after a couple of miles find myself in a residential area. The houses are in disrepair, and many have boards over their windows. I pass a breadline--a long row of shabby dispirited people leading to the door of a mission. A black boy offers to shine my shoes, and while I'd like to let him, I don't have a cent to my name.

  Finally I see a Catholic church. I sit in a pew near the back for a long time, staring at the stained glass behind the altar. Although I want absolution dearly, I am unable to face confession. Eventually I leave the pew and go to light votive candles for my parents.

  As I turn to leave, I catch sight of Marlena--she must have come in while I was in the alcove. I can only see her back, but it's definitely her. She's in the front pew, wearing a pale yellow dress and matching hat. Her throat is delicate, her shoulders square. A few curls of light brown hair peek from beneath the brim of her hat.

  She kneels on a cushion to pray, and a vice grip tightens around my heart.

  I retreat from the church before I can further damage my soul.

  WHEN I RETURN to the lot, Rosie has been installed in the menagerie tent. I don't know how, and I don't ask.

  She smiles when I approach and then rubs her eye, curling the tip of her trunk like a fist. I watch her for a couple of minutes and then step over the rope. Her ears flatten and her eyes narrow. My heart sinks, because I think she's responding to me. Then I hear his voice.

  "Jacob?"

  I watch Rosie for a few seconds longer and then turn to face him.

  "Look here," says August, scrubbing the toe of his boot in the dirt. "I know I've been a bit rough on you the last couple of days."

  I'm supposed to say something here, something to make him feel better, but I don't. I'm not feeling particularly conciliatory.

  "What I'm trying to say is that I went a bit far. Pressures of the job, you know. They can get to a man." He holds out his hand. "So, friends again?"

  I pause a few seconds longer, and then take his hand. He is my boss, after all. Having made the decision to stay, it would be stupid to get myself fired.

  "Good man," he says, grasping it firmly and clapping me on the shoulder with his other hand. "I'll take you and Marlena out tonight. Make it up to you both. I know a great little place."

  "What about the show?"

  "There's no point in doing a show. No one knows we're here yet. That's what happens when you blow your route and wildcat all over the damned place." He sighs. "But Uncle Al knows best. Apparently."

  "I don't know," I say. "Last night was kind of . . . rough."

  "Hair of the dog, Jacob! Hair of the dog. Come by at nine." He smiles brightly and marches off.

  I watch him leave, struck by how very much I don't want to spend any time with him--and by how very much I'd like to spend time with Marlena.

  THE DOOR TO THE STATEROOM swings open, revealing Marlena, gorgeous in red satin.

  "What?" she says, looking down at herself. "Is there something on my dress?" She twists, inspecting her body and legs.

  "No," I say. "You look swell."

  She raises her eyes to mine.

  August comes out from behind the green curtain, wearing white tie. He takes one look at me and says, "You can't go like that."

  "I don't have anything else."

  "Then you'll have to borrow. Go on. Hurry up, though. The taxi's waiting."

  WE ZIP THROUGH a maze of parking lots and back alleys before coming to an abrupt stop at a corner in an industrial area. August climbs out and hands the driver a rolled bill.

  "Come on," he says, extracting Marlena from the backseat. I follow.

  We're in an alley surrounded by large redbrick warehouses. The streetlights illuminate the asphalt's rough texture. On one side of the alley trash is blown up against the wall. On the other are parked cars--roadsters, coupes, sedans, even limousines--all flashy, all new.

  August stops in front of a recessed wooden door. He raps sharply and then stands, tapping his foot. A rectangular peephole slides open, revealing male eyes under a single bushy brow. The sounds of a party pulse from behind him.

  "Yeah?"

  "We're here for the show," says August.

  "What show?"

  "Why, Frankie's, of course," August says, smiling.

  The peephole shuts. There's clicking and clanking followed by the unmistakable sound of a deadbolt. The door swings open.

  The man looks us over quickly. Then he beckons us inside and slams the door. We step through a tiled foyer, past a coat check wit
h uniformed clerks, and descend a few steps into a marble-floored dance hall. Elaborate crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceiling. A band plays on a raised platform, and the dance floor is jammed with couples. Tables and U-shaped booths surround the dance floor. Up a few steps and along the back wall is a wood-paneled bar with tuxedoed bartenders and hundreds of bottles lined up on shelves in front of a smoky mirror.

  Marlena and I wait in one of the leather-lined booths while August goes to get the drinks. Marlena watches the band. Her legs are crossed and that foot is bobbing again. She moves it in time with the music, rolling her ankle.

  A glass is plunked in front of me. A second later August drops down beside Marlena. I investigate the glass and find it contains ice cubes and scotch.

  "You okay?" says Marlena.

  "Fine," I say.

  "You look a little green," she continues.

  "Our Jacob here is suffering from a teensy hangover," says August. "We're trying the hair of the dog."

  "Well, make sure you let me know if I need to get out of the way," Marlena says dubiously, turning back to the band.

  August lifts his glass. "To friends!"

  Marlena looks back just long enough to locate her frothy drink and then holds it over the table while we clink. She sips daintily from her straw, fingering it with lacquered nails. August tosses his scotch back. The second mine hits my lips, my tongue instinctively blocks its progress. August is watching, so I pretend to swallow before setting the glass down.

  "There you are, my boy. A few more of those and you'll be right as rain."

  I don't know about me, but after a second brandy alexander Marlena certainly comes to life. She drags August onto the dance floor. As he twirls her around, I lean over and tip the contents of my scotch into a potted palm.

  Marlena and August return to the booth, flushed from dancing. Marlena sighs and fans herself with a menu. August lights a cigarette.

  His eyes land on my empty glass. "Oh--I see I've been neglectful," he says. He stands up. "Same again?"

  "Oh, what the hell," I say without enthusiasm. Marlena simply nods, once again absorbed by what's happening on the dance floor.

  August is gone about thirty seconds when she leaps up and grabs my hand.

  "What are you doing?" I say, laughing as she yanks my arm.

  "Come on! Let's dance!"

  "What?"

  "I love this song!"

  "No--I--"

  But it's no use. I'm already on my feet. She drags me onto the dance floor, jiving and snapping her fingers. When we're surrounded by other couples she turns to me. I take a deep breath and then take her in my arms. We wait a couple of beats and then we're off, floating around the dance floor in a swirling sea of people.

  She's light as air--doesn't miss a step, and that's a feat considering how clumsy I am. And it's not as though I don't know how to dance, because I do. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. I'm sure as hell not drunk.

  She spins away from me and then returns, passing beneath my arm so her back is pressed against me. My forearm rests on her collarbone, skin to skin. Her chest rises and falls under my arm. Her head is under my chin, her hair fragrant, her body warm from exertion. And then she's gone again, unwinding herself like a ribbon.

  When the music stops, the dancers whistle and clap with their hands above their heads, and none more enthusiastically than Marlena. I glance over at our booth. August is staring with his arms crossed, seething. Startled, I step away from Marlena.

  "Raid!"

  There is one frozen moment, and then the second cry goes up.

  "RAID! Everybody get out!"

  I'm swept forward in a crush of bodies. People scream, shoving past each other in a frenzied attempt to reach the exit. Marlena is a few people in front of me, looking back through bobbing heads and desperate faces.

  "Jacob!" she cries. "Jacob!"

  I struggle toward her, launching myself through bodies.

  I clasp a hand in a sea of flesh and know it's Marlena's from the look on her face. I grip her tightly, scanning the crowd for August. All I see are strangers.

  Marlena and I are ripped apart at the doorway. Seconds later I'm expelled into an alley. People are screaming, piling into cars. Engines start, horns bleat, and tires squeal.

  "Come on! Come on! Get the hell out of here!"

  "Move it!"

  Marlena appears from nowhere and grabs my hand. We flee as sirens blare and whistles blow. When the crackle of gunfire rings out, I grab Marlena and duck into a smaller alley.

  "Hang on," she gasps, pausing and hopping on one foot as she removes a shoe. She grasps my arm as she pulls off the other. "Okay," she says, holding both shoes in one hand.

  We run until the sirens and crowds and screeching tires are out of earshot, winding our way through back streets and alleys. Finally, we stop under an iron fire escape, gasping for air.

  "Oh my Lord," says Marlena. "Oh my Lord, that was close. I wonder if August got out."

  "I sure hope so," I say, also struggling for air. I lean over, resting my hands on my thighs.

  After a moment, I look up at Marlena. She's staring straight at me, breathing through her mouth. She starts laughing hysterically.

  "What?" I say.

  "Oh, nothing," she says. "Nothing." She continues to laugh, but looks perilously close to tears.

  "What is it?" I say.

  "Oh," she says, sniffing and bringing a finger to the corner of her eye. "It's just a crazy damned life, that's all. Do you have a handkerchief?"

  I pat my pockets, and retrieve one. She takes it and wipes her forehead, then dabs the rest of her face. "Oh, but I'm a mess. And just look at my stockings!" she shrieks, pointing at her shoeless feet. Her toes poke through their ruined ends. "Oh, and they're silk, too!" Her voice is high and unnatural.

  "Marlena?" I say gently. "Are you all right?"

  She presses her fist to her mouth and moans. I reach for her arm but she turns away. I expect her to stay facing the wall, but instead she continues turning, spinning in some kind of dervish. On the third rotation, I take her by the shoulders and press my mouth to hers. She stiffens and gasps, sucking air from between my lips. A moment later she softens. Her fingertips rise to my face. Then she yanks away, taking several steps backward and staring at me with stricken eyes.

  "Jacob," she says, her voice cracking. "Oh God--Jacob."

  "Marlena." I step forward and then stop. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

  She stares at me with a hand pressed to her mouth. Her eyes are dark hollows. Then she leans against the wall, pulling on her shoes and looking at the asphalt.

  "Marlena, please." I hold my hands out helplessly.

  She adjusts her second shoe and rushes off. She stumbles and wobbles forward.

  "Marlena!" I say, running a few steps.

  Her speed increases and she brings a hand up alongside her face, shielding it from my view.

  I stop.

  She keeps walking, tap-tapping down the alley.

  "Marlena! Please!"

  I watch until she turns the corner. Her hand remains beside her face, presumably in case I'm still there.

  IT TAKES ME SEVERAL hours to find my way back to the lot.

  I pass legs sticking out of doorways, and signs advertising breadlines. I pass signs in windows that say CLOSED, and it's clear they don't mean for the night. I pass signs that say NO MEN WANTED and signs in second-story windows that say TRAINING FOR THE CLASS STRUGGLE. I pass a sign in a grocery store that says DON'T HAVE MONEY?

  WHAT HAVE YOU GOT?

  WE'LL TAKE ANYTHING!

  I pass a newspaper box, and the headline reads PRETTY BOY FLOYD STRIKES AGAIN: MAKES OFF WITH $4,000 AS CROWDS CHEER.

  Less than a mile from the lot, I pass a hobo jungle. There's a fire in the center and people stretched out around it. Some are awake, sitting forward and staring into the fire. Some are lying back on folded clothes. I'm close enough to see their faces and to register that
most of them are young--younger than me. There are some girls there, too, and one couple is copulating. They're not even in the bushes, just a little farther from the fire than the others. One or two of the boys watch in a disinterested manner. The ones who are asleep have taken off their shoes but tied them to their ankles.

  An older man sits by the fire, his jaw covered with stubble, scabs, or both. He has the sunken face of a person with no teeth. We make eye contact and hold it for a long time. I wonder why he's looking at me with such hostility until I remember I'm wearing an evening suit. He has no way of knowing that it's about the only thing separating us. I fight an illogical urge to explain this and continue on my way.

  When I finally reach the lot, I stop and gaze at the menagerie tent. It's huge, outlined against the night sky. A few minutes later I find myself standing in front of the elephant. I can only see her in silhouette and even then only after my eyes have adjusted to the light. She's sleeping, her great body still but for her slow, slumbered breathing. I want to touch her, to lay my hands on that rough, warm skin, but I can't bring myself to wake her up.

  Bobo is lying in the corner of his den, with one arm stretched out over his head and the other resting on his chest. He sighs deeply, smacks his lips, and then rolls onto his side. So human.

  Eventually I make my way back to the ring stock car and settle on the bedroll. Queenie and Walter both sleep through my arrival.

  I LIE AWAKE UNTIL DAWN, listening to Queenie snore and feeling utterly miserable. Less than a month ago, I was within days of an Ivy League degree and a career at my father's side. Now I'm one step away from being a bum--a circus worker who has disgraced himself not once, but twice, in as many days.

  Yesterday, I wouldn't have thought it possible to top throwing up on Nell, but I believe that last night I managed to do just that. What the hell was I thinking?

  I wonder if she will tell August. I have brief visions of the bull hook flying at my head and then even briefer visions of getting up right now, this minute, and walking back to the hobo camp. But I don't, because I can't bear the thought of abandoning Rosie, Bobo, and the others.

  I'll pull myself together. I'll stop drinking. I'll make sure I'm never alone with Marlena again. I'll go to confession.

  I use the corner of my pillow to wipe tears from my eyes. Then I squeeze them shut and conjure up an image of my mother. I try to hang on to it, but before long Marlena has replaced her. Coolly distant, when she was watching the band and jiggling that foot. Glowing, while we were spinning around the dance floor. Hysterical--and then horrified--in the alley.