Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

  IT'S THE END of another long day in some damned city or other--they all look about the same from a railroad siding--and the Flying Squadron is preparing to pull out. I'm lounging on my bedroll reading Othello and Walter is on his cot reading Wordsworth. Queenie is tucked up against him.

  She lifts her head and growls. Both Walter and I jerk upright.

  Earl's large bald head pokes around the edge of the doorframe. "Doc!" he says, looking at me. "Hey! Doc!"

  "Hi, Earl. What's up?"

  "I need your help."

  "Sure. What is it?" I say, putting my book down. I shoot a glance at Walter, who has pinned the squirming Queenie against his side. She's still grumbling.

  "It's Camel," Earl says in a hushed voice. "He's got trouble."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "Foot trouble. They've gone all floppy. He kind of slaps them down. His hands aren't so great neither."

  "Is he drunk?"

  "Not at this particular moment. But it don't make no difference nohow."

  "Well damn, Earl," I say. "He's got to see a doctor."

  Earl's forehead crinkles. "Well, yeah. That's why I'm here."

  "Earl, I'm no doctor."

  "You're an animal doctor."

  "It's not the same."

  I glance at Walter, who is pretending to read.

  Earl blinks expectantly at me.

  "Look," I say finally, "if he's in bad shape, let me talk to August or Uncle Al and see if we can get a doctor out in Dubuque."

  "They won't get him a doctor."

  "Why not?"

  Earl straightens in righteous indignation. "Damn. You don't know nothin' at all, do you?"

  "If there's something seriously wrong with him, surely they'll--"

  "Throw him off the train, is what," says Earl definitively. "Now, if he was one of the animals . . ."

  I ponder this for only a moment before realizing he's right. "Okay. I'll arrange for a doctor myself."

  "How? You got money?"

  "Uh, well, no," I say, embarrassed. "Does he?"

  "If he had any money, do you think he'd be drinking jake and canned heat? Aw, come on, won't you at least have a look? The old feller went out of his way to help you."

  "I know that, Earl, I know that," I say quickly. "But I don't know what you expect me to do."

  "You're the doctor. Just have a look."

  In the distance, a whistle blows.

  "Come on," says Earl. "That's the five-minute whistle. We gotta move."

  I follow him to the car that carries the big top. The wedge horses are already in place, and all over the Flying Squadron men are lifting ramps, climbing aboard, and sliding doors shut.

  "Hey, Camel," Earl shouts into the open door. "I brought the doc."

  "Jacob?" croaks a voice from inside.

  I jump up. It takes me a moment to adjust to the darkness. When I do, I make out Camel's figure in the corner, huddled on a pile of feed sacks. I walk over and kneel down. "What's up, Camel?"

  "I don't rightly know, Jacob. I woke up a few days ago and my feet was all floppy. Jes' can't feel 'em right."

  "Can you walk?"

  "A bit. But I have to lift my knees real high 'cuz my feet are so floppy." His voice drops to a whisper. "It ain't just that, though," he says. "It's other stuff, too."

  "What other stuff?"

  His eyes grow wide and fearful. "Man's stuff. I can't feel nothing . . . in front."

  The train jolts forward, slowly, lurching as the couplings tighten.

  "We're pulling out. You gotta get off now," says Earl, tapping me on the shoulder. He moves to the open door and waves me toward him.

  "I'll ride this leg with you," I say.

  "You can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because someone'll hear you been fraternizing with roustabouts and chuck you--or more likely these guys--off this thing," he says.

  "Well damn, Earl, aren't you security? Tell them to get lost."

  "I'm on the main train. This here's Blackie's territory," he says, waving with increasing urgency. "Come on!"

  I look into Camel's eyes. They're fearful, pleading. "I've got to go," I say. "I'll catch up with you in Dubuque. You'll be okay. We'll get you to a doctor."

  "I ain't got no money."

  "It's okay. We'll find a way."

  "Come on!" shouts Earl.

  I lay a hand on the old man's shoulder. "We'll figure something out.

  Okay?"

  Camel's rheumy eyes flicker.

  "Okay?"

  He nods. Just once.

  I rise from my haunches and walk to the doorway. "Damn," I say, gazing out on the fast-moving scenery. "The train picked up speed faster than I thought."

  "And it ain't gonna get any slower," says Earl, placing a hand square in the middle of my back and shoving me out the door.

  "What the hell!" I shout, flailing my arms like a windmill. I hit the gravel and roll onto my side. There's a thunk as another body hits behind me.

  "See?" Earl says, getting up and wiping off his backside. "I told you he was bad."

  I stare in amazement.

  "What?" he says, looking baffled.

  "Nothing," I say. I get up and brush the dust and gravel from my clothes.

  "Come on. You better get back before anyone sees you up here."

  "Just tell them I was checking out the baggage stock."

  "Oh. Good one. Yeah. Guess that's why you're the doc and I'm not, huh?"

  My head swivels, but his expression is completely without guile. I give up and start walking toward the main train.

  "What's the matter?" Earl calls after me. "Why are you shaking your head, Doc?"

  "WHAT WAS ALL that about?" says Walter as I walk in the door.

  "Nothing," I say.

  "Yeah, right. I was here for most of it. Spill the beans, 'Doc.'"

  I hesitate. "It's one of the guys from the Flying Squadron. He's in a bad way."

  "Well, that much was obvious. How did he seem to you?"

  "Scared. And quite frankly, I don't blame him. I want to get him to a doctor, but I'm flat broke and so is he."

  "You won't be for long. Tomorrow's payday. But what are his symptoms?"

  "Loss of feeling in his legs and arms, and . . . well, other stuff, too."

  "What other stuff?"

  I glance downward. "You know . . ."

  "Aw, shit," says Walter. He sits upright. "That's what I thought. You don't need a doctor. He's got jake leg."

  "He's got what?"

  "Jake leg. Jake walk. Limber leg. Whatever--it's all the same thing."

  "Never heard of it."

  "Someone made a big batch of bad jake--put plasticizers in it or something. It went out all over the country. One bad bottle, and you're done for."

  "What do you mean, 'done for'?"

  "Paralyzed. It can start anytime within two weeks of drinking the shit."

  I am horrified. "How the hell do you know this?"

  He shrugs. "It's in the papers. They only just figured out what it was, but there's lots been affected. Maybe tens of thousands. Mostly in the South. We passed through there on our way up to Canada. Maybe that's where he picked up the jake."

  I pause before asking my next question. "Can they fix it?"

  "Nope."

  "They can't do anything at all?"

  "I already told you. He's done for. But if you want to waste your money on a doctor to tell you that, be my guest."

  Black and white fireworks explode across my field of vision, a shifting, shimmering pattern that blanks out everything else. I drop onto my bedroll.

  "Hey, you okay?" says Walter. "Whoa, pal. You're looking a little green there. You're not going to throw up, are you?"

  "No," I say. My heart pounds. Blood whooshes through my ears. I have just remembered the small bottle of brackish liquid Camel offered me my first day on the show. "I'm okay. Thank God."

  THE NEXT DAY, right after breakfast, Walter and I line up in front of the red t
icket wagon along with everyone else. At nine on the nose, the man in the wagon beckons forth the first person, a roustabout. Moments later he stalks off, cursing and spitting on the ground. The next one--another roustabout--also leaves in a fit of pique.

  The people in the line turn to each other, muttering behind their hands.

  "Uh-oh," says Walter.

  "What's going on?"

  "It looks like he's holding back Uncle Al-style."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Most shows hold back some pay till end of season. But when Uncle Al runs out of money he holds it all back."

  "Damn!" I say, as a third man storms off. Two other working men--grim-faced and with hand-rolled cigarettes between their lips--leave the lineup. "Why are we bothering then?"

  "It only applies to working men." Walter says. "Performers and bosses always get paid."

  "I'm neither of those."

  Walter regards me for a couple of seconds. "No, you're not. I don't actually know what the heck you are, but anyone who sits at the same table as the equestrian director is not a working man. That much I know."

  "So, does this happen often?"

  "Yup," says Walter. He's bored, scuffing the ground with his foot.

  "Does he ever make it up to them?"

  "Don't think anyone's ever tested the theory. The general wisdom is that if he owes you more than four weeks pay, you better stop showing up on payday."

  "Why?" I say, watching as yet another filthy man stomps off in a maelstrom of curses. Three other working men leave the line from in front of us. They head back to the train with stooped shoulders.

  "Basically you don't want Uncle Al to start thinking of you as a financial liability. 'Cuz if he does, you disappear one night."

  "What? You get redlighted?"

  "Damn right."

  "That seems a bit extreme. I mean, why not just leave them behind?"

  "'Cuz he owes them money. How well do you think that would go over?"

  I'm second in line now, behind Lottie. Her blonde hair gleams in the sun, arranged into neat finger curls. The man at the window of the red wagon waves her forward. They chat pleasantly as he peels a few bills off his stack. When he hands them to her, she licks her forefinger and counts them. Then she rolls them up and slips them inside the top of her dress.

  "Next!"

  I step forward.

  "Name?" says the man without looking up. He's a small, bald fellow with a fringe of thin hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He stares at the ledger book in front of him.

  "Jacob Jankowski," I say, peering past him. The wagon's interior is lined with carved wood panels and a painted ceiling. There's a desk and a safe at the back and a sink along one wall. On the opposite wall is a map of the United States with colored pins stuck in it. Our route, presumably.

  The man runs his finger down the ledger. It comes to a stop and then moves to the far right column. "Sorry," he says.

  "What do you mean, 'sorry'?"

  He looks up at me, the picture of sincerity. "Uncle Al doesn't like anyone to finish the season broke. He always holds back four weeks pay. You'll get it at the end of season. Next!"

  "But I need it now."

  He fixes his eyes upon me, his face implacable. "You'll get it at the end of season. Next!"

  As Walter approaches the open window, I stalk off, pausing just long enough to spit in the dust.

  THE ANSWER COMES to me as I'm chopping fruit for the orangutan. It's a mental flash, a vision of a sign.

  Don't have money?

  What have you got?

  We'll take anything!

  I walk back and forth in front of car 48 at least five times before I finally climb inside and knock on the door of stateroom 3.

  "Who is it?" says August.

  "It's me. Jacob."

  There's a slight pause. "Come in," he says.

  I open the door and step inside.

  August stands by one of the windows. Marlena is in one of the plush chairs, her bare feet resting on an ottoman.

  "Hi," she says, blushing. She pulls her skirt over her knees and then smoothes it across her thighs.

  "Hello, Marlena," I say. "How are you?"

  "Doing better. I'm walking a bit now. Won't be long before I'm back in the saddle, as it were."

  "So what brings you here?" August interjects. "Not that we're not delighted to see you. We've missed you. Haven't we, darling?"

  "Uh . . . yes," says Marlena. She raises her eyes to mine and I flush.

  "Oh, where are my manners? Would you like a drink?" says August. His eyes are unnaturally hard, set above a stern mouth.

  "No. Thank you." I'm caught off-guard by his hostility. "I can't stay. I just wanted to ask you something."

  "And what's that?"

  "I need to arrange to get a doctor out here."

  "Why?"

  I hesitate. "I'd rather not say."

  "Ah," he says, winking at me. "I understand."

  "What?" I say, horrified. "No. It's nothing like that." I glance at Marlena, who turns quickly toward the window. "It's for a friend of mine."

  "Yes, of course it is," says August, smiling.

  "No, it really is. And it's not . . . Look, I just wondered if you knew of anyone. Never mind. I'll walk into town and see what I can find." I turn to leave.

  "Jacob!" Marlena calls after me.

  I stop in the doorway, staring out the window across the narrow hall. I take a couple of breaths before turning to face her.

  "There's a doctor coming to see me in Davenport tomorrow," she says quietly. "Shall I send for you when we're finished?"

  "I'd be much obliged," I say. I tip my hat and leave.

  THE NEXT MORNING, the line in the cookhouse is buzzing.

  "It's because of that damned bull," says the man in front of me. "She can't do nothing, anyway."

  "Poor buggers," says his friend. "It's a shame when a man's worth less than a beast."

  "Excuse me," I say. "What do you mean, it's because of the bull?"

  The first man stares at me. He's large across the shoulders, wearing a dirty brown jacket. His face is deeply creased, weathered and brown as a raisin. "'Cuz she costs so much. Plus they bought that elephant car."

  "No, but what's because of her?"

  "A bunch of men went missing overnight. Six at least, maybe more."

  "What, from the train?"

  "Yup."

  I set my half-full plate down on the steam table and walk toward the Flying Squadron. After a few strides I break into a run.

  "Hey, pal!" the man calls after me. "You ain't even et yet!"

  "Leave him alone, Jock," says his friend. "He probably needs to lay eyes on someone."

  "CAMEL! CAMEL, YOU IN THERE?" I stand in front of the train car, trying to see into its musty interior. "Camel! You in there?"

  There's no answer.

  "Camel!"

  Nothing.

  I spin around, facing the lot. "Shit!" I kick the gravel, and then kick it again. "Shit!"

  Just then, I hear a mewling from inside the car.

  "Camel, is that you?"

  A muffled noise comes from one of the darkened corners. I hop inside. Camel is lying up against the far wall.

  He's passed out cold, holding an empty bottle. I lean over and pluck it from his hand. Lemon extract.

  "Who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you're doing?" says a voice from behind me. I turn. It's Grady. He's standing on the ground in front of the open door, smoking a ready-made. "Oh--hey. Sorry, Jacob. Didn't recognize you from the back."

  "Hi, Grady," I say. "How's he been?"

  "Kind of hard to tell," he answers. "He's been tight since last night."

  Camel snorts and tries to roll over. His left arm flops limply across his chest. He smacks his lips and starts snoring.

  "I'm getting a doctor out today," I say. "Keep an eye on him in the meantime, will you?"

  "Of course I will," says Grady, affronted. "What the hell do you think
I am? Blackie? Who the hell do you think kept him safe last night?"

  "Of course I don't think you're--aw, hell, just forget it. Look, if he sobers up, try to keep him that way, okay? I'll catch up with you later with the doctor."

  THE DOCTOR HOLDS my father's pocket watch in his pudgy hand, turning it over and inspecting it through his pince-nez. He pops it open to examine the face.

  "Yes. This will do. So, what is it then?" he says, slipping it into his vest pocket.

  We're in the hallway just outside August and Marlena's stateroom. The door is still open.

  "We need to go somewhere else," I say, lowering my voice.

  The doctor shrugs. "Fine. Let's go."

  As soon as we're outside, the doctor turns to me. "So where are we going to perform this examination?"

  "It's not me. It's a friend of mine. He's having problems with his feet and hands. And other stuff. He'll tell you when we get there."

  "Ah," says the doctor. "Mr. Rosenbluth led me to believe that you were having difficulties of a . . . personal nature."

  The doctor's expression changes as he follows me down the track. By the time we leave the shiny painted cars of the first section behind, he looks alarmed. By the time we reach the battered cars of the Flying Squadron, his face is pinched in disgust.

  "He's in here," I say, hopping into the car.

  "And how, pray tell, am I supposed to get in?" he says.

  Earl emerges from the shadows with a wooden crate. He jumps down, sets it in front of the doorway, and gives it a loud pat. The doctor gazes upon it for a moment and then climbs up, clutching his black bag primly in front of him.

  "Where's the patient?" he says, squinting and scanning the interior.

  "Over there," says Earl. Camel is huddled against a corner. Grady and Bill hover over him.

  The doctor walks over to them. "Some privacy, please," he says.

  The other men scatter, murmuring in surprise. They move to the other end of the car and crane their necks, trying to see.

  The doctor approaches Camel and crouches beside him. I can't help noticing that he keeps the knees of his suit off the floorboards.

  A few minutes later, he straightens up and says, "Jamaica ginger paralysis. No question about it."

  I suck my breath in through my teeth.

  "What? What's that?" Camel croaks.

  "You get it from drinking Jamaica ginger extract." The doctor puts great emphasis on the final three words. "Or jake, as it's commonly known."

  "But . . . How? Why?" says Camel, his eyes desperately seeking the doctor's face. "I don't understand. I've been drinking it for years."

  "Yes. Yes. I would have guessed that," says the doctor.

  Anger rises like bile in my throat. I step up beside the doctor. "I don't believe you answered the question," I say as calmly as I can.