Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

  But my final thoughts are tactile: the underside of my forearm lying above the swell of her breasts. Her lips under mine, soft and full. And the one detail I can neither fathom nor shake, the one that haunts me into sleep: the feel of her fingertips tracing the outline of my face.

  KINKO--WALTER--WAKES me a few hours later.

  "Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he says, shaking me. "Flag's up."

  "Okay. Thanks," I say without moving.

  "You're not getting up."

  "You're a genius, you know that?"

  Walter's voice rises by about an octave. "Hey, Queenie--here girl! Here girl! Come on, Queenie. Give him a lick. Come on!"

  Queenie launches herself onto my head.

  "Hey, stop it!" I say, raising an arm protectively because Queenie's tongue is rooting in my ear and she's dancing on my face. "Stop it! Come on now!"

  But she is unstoppable, so I jerk upright. This sends Queenie flying to the floor. Walter looks at me and laughs. Queenie wriggles onto my lap and stands on her hind legs, licking my chin and neck.

  "Good girl, Queenie. Good baby," says Walter. "So, Jacob--you look like you had another . . . er . . . interesting evening."

  "Not exactly," I reply. Since Queenie is on my lap anyway, I stroke her. It's the first time she's let me touch her. Her body is warm, her hair wiry.

  "You'll find your sea legs soon. Come get some breakfast. Food'll help settle your stomach."

  "I wasn't drinking."

  He looks at me for a moment. "Ah," he says, nodding sagely.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" I say.

  "Woman trouble," he says.

  "No."

  "Yes."

  "No, it isn't!"

  "I'm surprised Barbara forgave you already. Or did she?" He watches my face for a few seconds and then resumes nodding. "Uh-huh. I do believe I'm starting to get the picture. You didn't get her flowers, did you? You need to start taking my advice."

  "Why don't you mind your own business?" I snap. I set Queenie on the floor and stand up.

  "Sheesh, you're a first-class grump. You know that? Come on. Let's get some grub."

  AFTER WE FILL OUR PLATES, I try to follow Walter to his table.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he says, coming to a stop.

  "I thought I'd sit with you."

  "You can't. Everyone has assigned spots. Besides, you'd be coming down in the world."

  I hesitate.

  "What's wrong with you, anyway?" he says. He looks over at my usual table. August and Marlena eat in silence, staring at their plates. Walter's eyelids flicker.

  "Oh man--don't tell me."

  "I didn't tell you a damned thing," I say.

  "You didn't need to. Listen, kid, that's somewhere you just don't want to go, you hear me? I mean in the figurative sense. In the literal sense, you get your ass over to that table and act normal."

  I glance again at August and Marlena. They're clearly ignoring each other.

  "Jacob, you listen to me," says Walter. "He's the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met, so whatever the hell is going on--"

  "There's nothing going on. Absolutely nothing--"

  "--it better stop now or you're going to find yourself dead. Red-lighted, if you're lucky, and probably off a trestle. I mean it. Now get on over there."

  I glare down at him.

  "Shoo!" he says, flicking his hand toward the table.

  August looks up as I approach.

  "Jacob!" he cries. "Good to see you. Wasn't sure if you'd found your way back last night. Wouldn't have looked very good if I'd had to bail you out of jail, you know. Might have caught some heat."

  "I was worried about you two as well," I say, taking a seat.

  "Were you?" he says with exaggerated surprise.

  I look up at him. His eyes are glowing. His smile has a peculiar tilt.

  "Oh, but we found our way back all right, didn't we, darling?" he says, shooting Marlena a look. "But do tell me, Jacob--how on earth did you two manage to get separated anyway? You were so . . . close on the dance floor."

  Marlena looks up quickly, red spots burning on her cheeks. "I told you last night," she says. "We got pushed apart by the crowd."

  "I was asking Jacob, darling. But thank you." August lifts a piece of toast with flourish, smiling broadly with closed lips.

  "There was quite a crush," I say, picking up my fork and sliding it under my eggs. "I tried to keep track of her but couldn't. I looked for both of you out back, but after a while I figured I'd better just get out of there."

  "Wise choice, my boy."

  "So, did you two manage to hook up?" I ask, lifting my fork to my mouth and trying to sound casual.

  "No, we arrived in separate taxis. Twice the expense, but I'd pay it a hundred times over to make sure my darling wife was safe--wouldn't I, darling?"

  Marlena stares at her plate.

  "I said wouldn't I, darling?"

  "Yes, of course you would," she says flatly.

  "Because if I thought she was in any danger at all, there's no knowing what I might do."

  I look up quickly. August is staring right at me.

  COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA

  Twelve

  As soon as I can do it without attracting attention, I flee to the menagerie.

  I replace the giraffe's neck poultice, cold-soak a camel for a suspected hoof abscess, and survive my first cat procedure--treating Rex for an ingrown claw while Clive strokes his head. Then I swing by to pick up Bobo while I check the rest. The only animals I don't run my eyes or hands over are the baggage stock, and that's only because they're in constant use and I know someone would alert me at the first sign of trouble.

  By late morning, I'm just another menagerie man: cleaning dens, chopping food, and hauling manure with the rest of them. My shirt is soaked, my throat parched. When the flag finally goes up, Diamond Joe, Otis, and I trudge out of the great tent and toward the cookhouse.

  Clive falls into stride beside us.

  "Keep your distance from August if you can," he says. "He's in a right state."

  "Why? What now?" says Joe.

  "He's steamed because Uncle Al wants the bull in the parade today, and he's taking it out on anyone who crosses his path. Like that poor sod over there," he says, pointing at three men crossing the field.

  Bill and Grady are dragging Camel across the lot to the Flying Squadron. He's suspended between them, his legs dragging behind.

  I jerk around to Clive. "August didn't hit him, did he?"

  "Naw," says Clive. "Gave him a good tongue lashing, though. It's not even noon, and he's already skunked. But that guy who looked at Marlena--whooeeee, he won't make that mistake again soon." Clive shakes "That damned bull ain't gonna walk in no parade," says Otis. "He can't get her to walk in a straight line from her car to the menagerie."

  "I know that, and you know that, but apparently Uncle Al does not," says Clive.

  "Why is Al so set on having her in the parade?" I ask.

  "Because he's been waiting his whole life to say 'Hold your horses! Here come the elephants!'" says Clive.

  "The hell with that," Joe says. "There ain't no horses to hold anymore these days, and we don't have elephants, anyway. We have elephant."

  "Why does he want to say that so badly?" I ask.

  They turn in unison to stare at me.

  "Fair question," says Otis finally, although it's clear he thinks I'm braindamaged. "It's because that's what Ringling says. Course, he actually has elephants."

  I WATCH FROM a distance as August attempts to line Rosie up among the parade wagons. The horses leap sideways, dancing nervously in their hitches. The drivers hold tight to the reins, shouting warnings. The result is a kind of contagion of panic, and before long the men leading the zebras and llamas are struggling to maintain control.

  After several minutes of this, Uncle Al approaches. He gesticulates wildly toward Rosie, ranting without pause. When his mouth f
inally closes, August's opens, and he also gesticulates toward Rosie, waving the bull hook and thumping her on the shoulder for good measure. Uncle Al turns to his entourage. Two of them turn tail and sprint across the lot.

  Not long after, the hippopotamus wagon pulls up beside Rosie, drawn by six highly doubtful Percherons. August opens the door and whacks Rosie until she enters.

  Not long after, someone starts up the calliope and the parade begins.

  THEY RETURN AN HOUR later with a sizable crowd. The towners hang around the edges of the lot, growing in numbers as word spreads.

  Rosie is driven right up to the back end of the big top, which is already connected to the menagerie. August takes her through and to her spot. It is only after she is behind her rope with one foot chained to a stake that the menagerie is opened to the public.

  I watch in awe as she is rushed by children and adults alike. She is easily the most popular animal. Her big ears flap back and forth as she accepts candy and popcorn and even chewing gum from delighted circus-goers. One man is brave enough to lean forward and dump a box of Cracker Jack into her open mouth. She rewards him by removing his hat, placing it on her head, and then posing with her trunk curled in the air. The crowd roars and she calmly hands the delighted patron his hat. August stands beside her with his bull hook, beaming like a proud father.

  There's something wrong here. This animal isn't stupid.

  AS THE LAST of the crowd goes through to the big top and performers line up for the Grand Spec, Uncle Al pulls August aside. I watch from across the menagerie as August's mouth opens in shock, then outrage, and then vociferous complaint. His face darkens and he waves his top hat and hook. Uncle Al gazes on, completely impervious. Eventually he lifts a hand, shakes his head, and walks away. August stares after him, stunned.

  "What the heck do you suppose happened there?" I say to Pete.

  "God only knows," he says. "But I have the feeling we're going to find out."

  It turns out that Uncle Al was so delighted by Rosie's popularity in the menagerie that not only is he insisting she take part in the Spec but also that she put on a full elephant act in the center ring immediately after the show begins. By the time I hear about it, the outcome of said events is already the source of furious wagering in the back end.

  My only thoughts are of Marlena.

  I sprint around back to where the performers and ring stock are lined up behind the big top in preparation for the Spec. Rosie heads up the line. Marlena straddles her head, clad in pink sequins and grasping Rosie's ugly leather head harness. August stands beside her left shoulder, grim-faced, his fingers alternately clutching and releasing the bull hook.

  The band falls quiet. The performers make last-minute adjustments to their costumes, and the animal handlers give their charges one last check. And then the music for the Spec starts.

  August leans forward and bellows into Rosie's ear. The elephant hesitates, in response to which August strikes her with the bull hook. This sends her flying through the back end of the big top. Marlena ducks flat against her head to avoid being scraped off by the pole that runs across the top.

  I gasp and run forward, curling around the edge of the sidewall.

  Rosie comes to a stop about twenty feet down the hippodrome track and Marlena undergoes a change that defies belief. One moment she is askew on Rosie's head, lying flat. The next, she yanks herself upright, turns on a smile, and thrusts an arm into the air. Her back is arched, her toes pointed. The crowd goes crazy--standing on the bleachers, clapping, whistling, and tossing peanuts onto the track.

  August catches up. He lifts the bull hook high and then freezes. He turns his head and scans the audience. His hair flops over his forehead. He grins as he lowers the bull hook, and removes his top hat. He bows deeply, three times, aiming at different segments of the audience. When he turns back to Rosie, his face hardens.

  By poking the bull hook in and around her underarms and legs, he persuades her to make a tour of sorts around the hippodrome. They go in fits and starts, stopping so many times the rest of the Spec is forced to continue around them, parting like water around a stone.

  The audience loves it. Each time Rosie trots ahead of August and stops, they roar with laughter. And each time August approaches, red-faced and waving his bull hook, they explode with glee. Finally, about three-quarters of the way around, Rosie curls her trunk in the air and takes off at a run, leaving a series of thunderous farts in her wake as she barrels toward the back end of the tent. I am pressed against the bleachers, right by the entrance. Marlena grasps the head halter with both hands, and as they approach I catch my breath. Unless she bails, she is going to be knocked off.

  A couple of feet from the entrance, Marlena lets go of the halter and leans hard to the left. Rosie disappears from the tent, and Marlena is left clinging to the top pole. The crowd falls silent, no longer sure that this is part of the act.

  Marlena hangs limply, not a dozen feet from me. She's breathing hard, with eyes closed and head down. I'm just about to step forward and lift her down when she opens her eyes, removes her left hand from the pole, and in one graceful movement swings around so she's facing the audience.

  Her face lights up and she points those toes. The band leader, watching from his post, signals furiously for a drum roll. Marlena begins swinging.

  The drum roll mounts as she gains momentum. Before long she's swinging parallel to the ground. I wonder how long she's going to keep this up and just what the heck she's planning to do when she suddenly releases the pole. She sails through the air, tucking her body into a ball and rolling forward twice. She uncurls for one sideways rotation, and lands firmly in a burst of sawdust. She looks at her feet, straightens up, and thrusts both arms into the air. The band launches into victory music and the crowd goes wild. Moments later, coins rain down on the hippodrome track.

  AS SOON AS SHE TURNS, I can see that she's hurt. She limps from the big top and I rush out behind her.

  "Marlena--" I say.

  She turns and collapses against me. I grasp her around the waist, holding her upright.

  August rushes out. "Darling--my darling! You were brilliant. Brilliant! I've never seen anything more--"

  He stops cold when he sees my arms around her.

  Then she lifts her head and wails.

  August and I lock eyes. Then we lock arms, beneath and behind her, forming a chair. Marlena whimpers, leaning against August's shoulder. She tucks her slippered feet under our arms, clenching her muscles in pain.

  August presses his mouth into her hair. "It's okay, darling. I've got you now. Shhh. . . It's okay. I've got you."

  "Where should we go? Her dressing tent?" I ask.

  "There's nowhere to lie down."

  "The train?"

  "Too far. Let's go to the cooch girl's tent."

  "Barbara's?"

  August shoots me a look over Marlena's head.

  We enter Barbara's tent without any warning. She's sitting in a chair in front of her vanity, dressed in a midnight blue negligee and smoking a cigarette. Her expression of bored disdain drops immediately.

  "Oh my God. What's going on?" she says, stubbing out her cigarette and leaping up. "Here. Put her on the bed. Here, right here," she says, rushing in front of us.

  When we lay Marlena down, she rolls onto her side, clutching her feet. Her face is contorted, her teeth clenched.

  "My feet--"

  "Hush, sweetie," Barbara says. "It's going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay." She leans over and loosens the ribbons on Marlena's slippers.

  "Oh God, oh God, they hurt . . ."

  "Get the scissors from my top drawer," says Barbara, glancing back at me.

  When I return with them, Barbara cuts the toes off Marlena's tights and rolls them up her legs. Then she lifts her bare feet into her lap.

  "Go to the cookhouse and get some ice," she says.

  After a second, both she and August turn to look at me.

  "I'm already there,
" I say.

  I'm barreling toward the cookhouse when I hear Uncle Al shouting behind me. "Jacob! Wait!"

  I pause while he catches up.

  "Where are they? Where did they go?" he says.

  "They're in Barbara's tent," I gasp.

  "Eh?"

  "The cooch girl."

  "Why?"

  "Marlena's hurt. I've got to get ice."

  He turns and barks at a follower. "You, go get ice. Take it to the cooch girl's tent. Go!" He turns back to me. "And you, go retrieve our goddamned bull before we get run out of town."

  "Where is she?"

  "Munching cabbages in someone's backyard, apparently. The lady of the house is not amused. West side of the lot. Get her out of there before the cops come."

  ROSIE STANDS IN A trampled vegetable patch, running her trunk lazily across the rows. When I approach she looks me straight in the eye and plucks a purple cabbage. She drops it in her shovel-scoop of a mouth and then reaches for a cucumber.

  The lady of the house opens the door a crack and shrieks, "Get that thing out of here! Get it out of here!"

  "Sorry, ma'am," I say. "I'll surely do my best."

  I stand at Rosie's shoulder. "Come on, Rosie. Please?"

  Her ears wave forward, she pauses, and then she reaches for a tomato.

  "No!" I say. "Bad elephant!"

  Rosie pops the red globe in her mouth and smiles as she chews it. Laughing at me, no doubt.

  "Oh Jesus," I say, at a complete loss.

  Rosie wraps her trunk around some turnip greens and rips them from the ground. Still looking at me, she pops them in her mouth and begins munching. I turn and smile desperately at the still-gawking housewife.

  Two men approach from the lot. One is wearing a suit, a derby hat, and a smile. To my immense relief, I recognize him as one of the patches. The other man wears filthy overalls and carries a bucket.

  "Good afternoon, ma'am," says the patch, tipping his hat and picking his way carefully across the ruined garden. It looks as though a tank has plowed through it. He climbs the cement stairs to the back door. "I see you've met Rosie, the largest and most magnificent elephant in the world. You're lucky--she doesn't normally make house calls."

  The woman's face is still in the crack of the door. "What?" she says, dumbfounded.