Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

  The patch smiles brightly. "Oh yes. It's an honor indeed. I'm willing to bet no one else in your neighborhood--heck, probably the whole city--can say they've had an elephant in their backyard. Our men here will remove her--naturally, we'll fix up your garden and compensate you for your produce, too. Would you like us to arrange for a photograph of you and Rosie? Something to show your family and friends?"

  "I . . . I . . . What?" she stammers.

  "If I may be so bold, ma'am," the patch says with the slightest hint of a bow. "Perhaps it would be easier if we discussed this inside."

  After a reluctant pause the door swings open. He disappears inside the house and I turn back to Rosie.

  The other man stands directly in front of her, holding the bucket.

  She is rapt. Her trunk hovers over its top, sniffing and trying to squirm its way around his arms into the clear liquid.

  he says, brushing her away. "Nie!"

  My eyes widen.

  "You got a fucking problem?" he says.

  "No," I say quickly. "No. I'm Polish, too."

  "Oh. Sorry." He waves the ever-present trunk away, wipes his right hand on his thigh, and offers it to me. "Grzegorz Grabowski," he says. "Call me Greg."

  "Jacob Jankowski," I say, shaking his hand. He pulls his away to protect the contents of the bucket.

  "Nie! Teraz nie!" he says crossly, pushing at the insistent trunk. "Jacob Jankowski, huh? Yeah, Camel told me about you."

  "What is that anyway?" I ask.

  "Gin and ginger ale," he says.

  "You're kidding."

  "Elephants love alcohol. See? One whiff of this and she doesn't care about cabbages anymore. Ah!" he says, batting the trunk away. "Powiedzialem Pozniej!"

  "How the hell did you know that?"

  "The last show I was on had a dozen bulls. One of them used to fake a bellyache every night trying to get a dose of whiskey. Say, go get the bull hook, will you? She'll probably follow us back to the lot just to get at this gin--isn't that right, moj mlutki paczuszek?--but better get it just in case."

  "Sure," I say. I remove my hat and scratch my head. "Does August know this?"

  "Know what?"

  "That you know so much about elephants? I bet he'd hire you on as a--"

  Greg's hand shoots up. "Nuh-uh. No way. Jacob, no offense to you personally, but there's no way in hell I'll work for that man. None. Besides, I'm no bull man. I just like the big beasts. Now, you want to run and get that hook, please?"

  When I return with the hook, Greg and Rosie are gone. I turn, scanning the lot.

  In the distance, Greg walks toward the menagerie. Rosie plods along a few feet behind. Every once in a while he stops and lets her slip her trunk into the bucket. Then he yanks it away and keeps walking. She follows like an obedient puppy.

  WITH ROSIE SAFELY restored to the menagerie, I return to Barbara's tent, still clutching the bull hook.

  I pause outside the closed flap. "Uh, Barbara?" I say. "Can I come in?"

  "Yup," she says.

  She's alone, sitting in her chair with her bare legs crossed.

  "They've gone back to the train to wait for the doctor," she says, taking a drag from her cigarette. "If that's what you came for."

  I feel my face turn red. I look at the sidewall. I look at the ceiling. I look at my feet.

  "Ah heck, ain't you cute," she says, tapping the cigarette over the grass. She brings it to her mouth and takes a deep drag. "You're blushing."

  She stares at me for a long time, clearly amused.

  "Ah, go on," she says finally, blowing smoke from the side of her mouth. "Go on. Get out of here before I decide to give you another go."

  I SCRAMBLE OUT OF Barbara's tent and run smack into August. His face is dark as thunder.

  "How is she?" I ask.

  "We're waiting for the doctor," he says. "Did you catch the bull?"

  "She's back in the menagerie," I say.

  "Good," he says. He rips the bull hook from my hand.

  "August, wait! Where are you going?"

  "I'm going to teach her a lesson," he says without stopping.

  "But August!" I shout after him. "Wait! She was good! She came back of her own accord. Besides, you can't do anything now. The show is still going!"

  He stops so abruptly a cloud of dust temporarily obscures his feet. He stands absolutely still, staring at the ground.

  After a long while he speaks. "Good. The band will drown out the noise."

  I stare after him, my mouth open in horror.

  I RETURN TO THE ring stock car and lie on my bedroll, sickened beyond belief by the thought of what's going on in the menagerie and even more sickened that I'm doing nothing to prevent it.

  A few minutes later, Walter and Queenie come back. He's still in costume--a billowing white affair with multicolored polka dots, a triangular hat, and Elizabethan ruff. He's wiping his face with a rag.

  "What the hell was that?" he says, standing so that I'm looking at his oversized red shoes.

  "What?" I say.

  "In the Spec. Was that part of the act?"

  "No," I say.

  "Holy cow," he says. "Holy cow. In that case, what a save. Marlena's really something. But you already knew that, didn't you?" He clicks his tongue and leans over to poke my shoulder.

  "Would you knock if off?"

  "What?" he says, spreading his hands in feigned innocence.

  "It's not funny. She's hurt, okay?"

  He drops the goofy grin. "Oh. Hey, man, I'm sorry. I didn't know. She gonna be okay?"

  "I don't know yet. They're waiting for the doctor."

  "Shit. I'm sorry, Jacob. I really am." He turns toward the door and takes a deep breath. "But not half as sorry as that poor bull's gonna be."

  I pause. "She's already sorry, Walter. Trust me."

  He stares out the door. "Ah jeez," he says. He puts his hands on his hips and looks across the lot. "Ah jeez. I'll just bet."

  I STAY IN THE stock car through dinner, and then through the evening show as well. I'm afraid that if I see August I'll kill him.

  I hate him. I hate him for being so brutal. I hate that I'm beholden to him. I hate that I'm in love with his wife and something damned close to that with the elephant. And most of all, I hate that I've let them both down. I don't know if the elephant is smart enough to connect me to her punishment and wonder why I didn't do anything to stop it, but I am and I do.

  "Bruised heels," says Walter when he returns. "Come on, Queenie, up! Up!"

  "What?" I mumble. I haven't moved since he left.

  "Marlena bruised her heels. She'll be out a couple of weeks. Thought you might want to know."

  "Oh. Thanks," I say.

  He sits on his cot and looks at me for a long time.

  "So, what's the story with you and August, anyway?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Are you guys tight, or what?"

  I haul my body into a sitting position and lean against the wall. "I hate the bastard," I say finally.

  "Ha!" Walter snorts. "Okay, so you do have some sense. So why do you spend all your time with them?"

  I don't answer.

  "Oh, sorry. I forgot."

  "You've got it all wrong," I say, hauling myself upright.

  "Yeah?"

  "He's my boss and I have no choice."

  "That's true. But it's also about the woman, and you know it."

  I raise my head and glare at him.

  "Okay, okay," he says, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll shut up. You know the score." He turns and rummages in his crate. "Here," he says, tossing me an eight-pager. It skids across the floor and stops beside me. "It's not Marlena, but it's better than nothing."

  After he turns away, I pick it up and thumb through it. But despite the explicit and exaggerated drawings, I can't muster any interest whatever in Mr. Big Studio Director boning the skinny would-be starlet with the horse face.

  Thirteen

  I blink rapidly, trying to get my bea
rings--that skinny nurse with the horse face has dropped a tray of food at the end of the hall, and it's woken me up. I wasn't aware of dozing, but that's how it goes these days. I seem to slip in and out of time and space. Either I'm finally going senile, or else it's my mind's way of coping with being entirely unchallenged in the present.

  The nurse crouches down, collecting the spilled food. I don't like her--she's the one who's always trying to keep me from walking. I think I'm just too wobbly for her nerves, because even Dr. Rashid admits that walking is good for me as long as I don't overdo it or get stranded.

  I'm parked in the hallway just outside my door, but it's still several hours before my family comes and I think I'd like to look out the window.

  I could just call the nurse. But what fun would that be?

  I shift my bottom to the edge of my wheelchair, and reach for my walker.

  One, two, three--

  Her pale face thrusts itself in front of mine. "Can I help you, Mr. Jankowski?"

  Heh. That was almost too easy.

  "Why, I'm just going to look out the window for a while," I say, feigning surprise.

  "Why don't you sit tight and let me take you?" she says, planting both hands firmly on the arms of my chair.

  "Oh, well then. Yes, that's very kind of you," I say. I lean back in my seat, lift my feet onto the footrests, and fold my hands in my lap.

  The nurse looks puzzled. Dear Lord, that's an impressive overbite. She straightens up and waits, I guess to see if I'm going to make a run for it. I smile pleasantly and train my gaze on the window at the end of the hall. Finally, she goes behind me and takes the handles of my wheelchair.

  "Well, I must say, Mr. Jankowski, I'm a little surprised. You're normally . . . uh . . . rather adamant about walking."

  "Oh, I could have made it. I'm only letting you push me because there aren't any chairs by the window. Why is that, anyway?"

  "Because there's nothing to see, Mr. Jankowski."

  "There's a circus to see."

  "Well, this weekend, maybe. But normally there's just a parking lot."

  "What if I want to look at a parking lot?"

  "Then you shall, Mr. Jankowski," she says, pushing me up to the window.

  My brow furrows. She was supposed to argue with me. Why didn't she argue with me? Oh, but I know why. She thinks I'm just an addled old man. Don't upset the residents, oh no--especially not that old Jankowski fellow. He'll fling pockmarked Jell-O at you and then call it an accident.

  She starts to walk away.

  "Hey!" I call after her. "I haven't got my walker!"

  "Just call me when you're ready," she says. "I'll come get you."

  "No, I want my walker! I always have my walker. Get me my walker."

  "Mr. Jankowski--" says the girl. She folds her arms and sighs deeply.

  Rosemary appears from a side hall like an angel from heaven.

  "Is there a problem?" she says, looking from me to the horse-faced girl and then back again.

  "I want my walker and she won't get it," I say.

  "I didn't say I wouldn't. All I said was--"

  Rosemary holds up a hand. "Mr. Jankowski likes to have his walker beside him. He always does. If he asked for it, please bring it."

  "But--"

  "But nothing. Get his walker."

  Outrage flashes across the horse girl's face, replaced almost instantly by hostile resignation. She throws a murderous glance my direction and goes back for my walker. She holds it conspicuously in front of her, storming down the hall. When she reaches me, she slams it in front of me. Which would be more impressive if it didn't have rubber leg caps, making it land with a squeak rather than a bang.

  I smirk. I can't help it.

  She stands there, arms akimbo, staring at me. Waiting for a thank you, no doubt. I turn my head slowly, chin raised like an Egyptian pharaoh, training my gaze on the magenta and white striped big top.

  I find the stripes jarring--in my day, only the concession stands were striped. The big top was plain white, or at least started out that way. By the end of the season it may have been streaked with mud and grass, but it was never striped. And that's not the only difference between this show and the shows from my past--this one doesn't even have a midway, just a big top with a ticket gate at the door and concession and souvenir stand beside it. It looks like they still sell the same old fare--popcorn, candy, and balloons--but the children also carry flashing swords, and other moving, blinking toys I can't make out at this distance. Bet their parents paid an arm and a leg for them, too. Some things never change. Rubes are still rubes, and you can still tell the performers from the workers.

  "MR. JANKOWSKI?"

  Rosemary is leaning over me, seeking my eyes with hers.

  "Eh?"

  "Are you ready for lunch, Mr. Jankowski?" she says.

  "It can't be lunchtime. I only just got here."

  She looks at her watch--a real one, with arms. Those digital ones came and went, thank God. When will people learn that just because you can make something doesn't mean you should?

  "It's three minutes to twelve," she says.

  "Oh. All right then. What day is it, anyway?"

  "Why, it's Sunday, Mr. Jankowski. The Lord's Day. The day your people come."

  "I know that. I meant what's for lunch?"

  "Nothing you'll like, I'm sure," she says.

  I raise my head, prepared to be angry.

  "Oh, come now, Mr. Jankowski," she says, laughing. "I was only joking."

  "I know that," I say. "What, now I have no sense of humor?"

  But I'm grumpy, because maybe I don't. I don't know anymore. I'm so used to being scolded and herded and managed and handled that I'm no longer sure how to react when someone treats me like a real person.

  ROSEMARY TRIES TO steer me toward my usual table, but I'm having none of that. Not with Old Fart McGuinty there. He's wearing his clown hat again--must have asked the nurses to put it on him again first thing this morning, the damned fool, or maybe he slept in it--and he's still got helium balloons tied to the back of his chair. They're not really floating anymore, though. They're starting to pucker, hovering above limp lengths of string.

  When Rosemary turns my chair toward him I bark, "Oh no you don't. There! Over there!" I point at an empty table in the corner. It's the one farthest from my usual table. I just hope it's out of earshot.

  "Oh, come now, Mr. Jankowski," Rosemary says. She stops my chair and comes around to face me. "You can't keep this up forever."

  "I don't see why not. Forever might be next week for me."

  She puts her hands on her hips. "Do you even remember why you're so angry?"

  "Yes, I do. Because he's lying."

  "Are you talking about the elephants again?"

  I purse my lips by way of an answer.

  "He doesn't see it that way, you know."

  "That's cockamamie. When you're lying, you're lying."

  "He's an old man," she says.

  "He's ten years younger than me," I say, straightening up indignantly.

  "Oh, Mr. Jankowski," Rosemary says. She sighs and gazes toward heaven as though asking for help. Then she crouches in front of my chair and places her hand on mine. "I thought you and I had an understanding."

  I frown. This is not part of the usual nurse/Jacob repertoire.

  "He may be wrong in the details, but he's not lying," she says. "He really believes that he carried water for the elephants. He does."

  I don't answer.

  "Sometimes when you get older--and I'm not talking about you, I'm talking generally, because everyone ages differently--things you think on and wish on start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they're a part of your history, and if someone challenges you on them and says they're not true--why, then you get offended. Because you don't remember the first part. All you know is that you've been called a liar. So even if you're right about the technical details, can you understand why Mr. McGuinty might be ups
et?"

  I scowl into my lap.

  "Mr. Jankowski?" she continues softly. "Let me take you to the table with your friends. Go on, now. As a favor to me."

  Well, isn't that just dandy. The first time in years a woman wants a favor from me, and I can't stomach the idea.

  "Mr. Jankowski?"

  I look up at her. Her smooth face is two feet from mine. She looks me in the eye, waiting for an answer.

  "Oh, all right. But don't expect me to talk to anyone," I say, waving a hand in disgust.

  And I don't. I sit and listen as Old Liar McGuinty talks about the wonders of the circus and his experiences as a boy and I watch as the blue-haired old ladies lean toward him and listen, their eyes growing misty with admiration. It drives me completely berserk.

  Just as I open my mouth to say something, I catch sight of Rosemary. She's on the opposite end of the room, bending over an old woman and tucking a napkin into her collar. But her eyes are on me.

  I close my mouth again. I just hope she appreciates how hard I'm trying.

  She does. When she comes to retrieve me after the tan-colored pudding with edible-oil-product topping has made its appearance, sat for a while, and been removed, she leans down and whispers, "I knew you could do it, Mr. Jankowski. I just knew it."

  "Yes. Well. It wasn't easy."

  "But it's better than sitting alone at a table, isn't it?"

  "Maybe."

  She rolls her eyes toward heaven again.

  "All right. Yes," I say grudgingly. "I suppose it's better than sitting alone."

  COURTESY OF THE PFENING ARCHIVES, COLUMBUS, OHIO

  Fourteen

  It's been six days since Marlena's accident, and she has yet to reappear. August no longer comes to the cookhouse for meals, so I sit conspicuously alone at our table. When I run across him in the course of looking after the animals, he is polite but distant.

  For her part, Rosie is carted out through each town in the hippopotamus wagon and then displayed in the menagerie. She has learned to follow August from the elephant car to the menagerie tent, and in return for this he has stopped beating the hell out of her. Instead, she trudges alongside him, and he walks with the bull hook snagged firmly in the flesh behind her front leg. Once in the menagerie, she stands behind her rope, happily charming the crowds and accepting candy. Uncle Al hasn't actually said so, but there don't appear to be any immediate plans to attempt another elephant act.

  As the days pass I grow more anxious about Marlena. Each time I approach the cookhouse I hope that I'll find her there. And each time I don't, my heart sinks.