Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

  Marlena's horrified face looks back at me from the mirror.

  August turns and picks up Rosie's pink sequined headpiece. "And that's the trouble, isn't it? I see you. You think I don't, but I do. This was a nice touch, I must admit," he says, turning the shimmering headpiece over in his hands. "The devoted wife, hiding away in a closet, sewing up a storm. Or was it a closet? Maybe it was right here. Or maybe you went to that whore's tent. Whores look after each other, don't they?" He looks at me. "So, where did you do it, eh, Jacob? Where, exactly, have you fucked my wife?"

  I take Marlena's elbow. "Come on. Let's go," I say.

  "Aha! So you don't even deny it!" he screams. He clutches the headpiece in white-knuckled fists and pulls, screaming through gritted teeth, until a split zigzags across it.

  Marlena shrieks. She drops the flutes and claps a hand to her mouth.

  "You whore!" August screams. "You slut. You mangy bitch!" With each epithet, he rips the headpiece further.

  "August!" Marlena screams, stepping forward. "Stop it! Stop it!"

  The noise seems to shock him, because he stops. He looks at her and blinks. He looks at the headpiece. Then he looks back at her, confused.

  After a pause of several seconds, Marlena steps forward. "Auggie?" she says tentatively. She looks up at him, her eyes beseeching. "Are you all right now?"

  August stares at her, baffled, as though he's simply awakened and found himself here. Marlena approaches slowly. "Darling?" she says.

  His lower jaw moves. His forehead crumples, and the headpiece falls to the ground.

  I think I've stopped breathing.

  Marlena steps right up to him. "Auggie?"

  He looks down at her. His nose twitches. Then he shoves her so violently she crashes back onto the overturned platters and food. He takes one long step forward, leans down, and tries to rip the necklace from her throat. The clasp holds, so he ends up dragging her by the neck as she screams.

  I launch across the open space and tackle him. Rosie roars behind me as August and I fall backward onto broken plates and spilled gravy. First I'm on top of him, pounding his face. Then he's on top of me, cuffing me in the eye. I buck him off and yank him to his feet.

  "Auggie! Jacob!" shrieks Marlena. "Stop!"

  I shove him backward, but he grabs my lapels and so we crash into the vanity together. I am vaguely aware of tinkling as the mirror disintegrates around us. August thrusts me away, and we grapple in the center of the tent.

  We roll around, grunting, so close I can feel his breath on my face. Now I'm on top of him, landing punches. Now he's on top of me, banging my head against the ground. Marlena is hovering, screaming at us to stop, but we can't. Or at least I can't--all the rage and pain and frustration of the past few months is channeled into my fists.

  Now I'm facing the overturned table. Now I'm facing Rosie, who is pulling her leg chain and bellowing. Now we're standing up again, grasping at each other's collars and lapels, both blocking and landing blows. Eventually we fall against the entrance flap and land in the middle of the crowd that has gathered outside.

  Within seconds, I'm hauled off, pinioned by Grady and Bill. For a moment, August looks as though he's going to come after me, but then the expression on his mashed face shifts. He climbs to his feet and calmly dusts himself off.

  "You're crazy. Crazy!" I scream.

  He observes me coolly, straightens his sleeves, and goes back into the tent.

  "Let me go," I plead, jerking my head around first to Grady and then to Bill. "For Christ's sake, let me go! He's nuts! He'll kill her!" I struggle hard enough that I manage to pull them forward a few feet. From inside the tent I hear the crash of broken dishes and then Marlena screams.

  Grady and Bill are both grunting, bracing their legs to keep me from getting loose. "No he won't," says Grady. "Don't you worry about that."

  Earl blasts from the crowd and ducks into the tent. The crashing stops. There are two soft thuds, then a louder one, and then conspicuous silence.

  I freeze, staring at the blank expanse of canvas.

  "There. See?" says Grady, still gripping my arm tightly. "You okay? Can we let you go now?"

  I nod, continuing to stare.

  Grady and Bill release me, but in stages. First they loosen their grips. Then they let go, but stay close, keeping an eye on me.

  A hand appears on my waist. Walter is standing beside me.

  "Come on, Jacob," he says. "Walk away."

  "I can't," I say.

  "Yes. You can. Come on. Walk away."

  I stare at the silent tent. After another few seconds, I tear my eyes from the billowing flap and walk away.

  WALTER AND I CLIMB into the stock car. Queenie emerges from behind the trunks, where Camel is snoring. She wags her stump and then stops, sniffing the air.

  "Sit," Walter orders, pointing at the cot.

  Queenie sits in the center of the floor. I sit on the edge of the cot. Now that my adrenaline is fading, I'm beginning to realize how badly I'm hurt. My hands are lacerated, I sound like I'm breathing through a gas mask, and I'm looking through a slit formed by the puffed lids of my right eye. When I touch my face, my hand comes away bloody.

  Walter leans over an open trunk. When he turns around, he's got a jug of moonshine and a handkerchief. He stands in front of me and pulls the cork.

  "Eh? Is that you? Walter?" Camel calls from behind the trunks. Trust him to wake up at the sound of a cork being pulled.

  "You're a bloody mess," Walter says, completely ignoring Camel. He holds the hankie against the neck of the jug and tips the whole thing upside down. He brings the wet cloth toward my face. "Hold still. This is going to sting."

  That was the understatement of the century--when the alcohol encounters my face, I jerk back with a yelp.

  Walter waits, hankie poised. "You need something to bite on?" He bends down to retrieve the cork. "Here."

  "No," I say, clenching my teeth. "Just give me a second." I hug my chest, rocking back and forth.

  "I've got a better idea," says Walter. He hands me the jug. "Go on. It burns like hell going down, but after a few swallows you don't notice so much. What the hell happened, anyway?"

  I take the jug and use both my battered hands to raise it to my face. I feel clumsy, like I'm wearing boxing gloves. Walter steadies it. The alcohol burns my bruised lips, rips a path down my throat, and explodes in my stomach. I gasp and push the jug away so quickly liquid sloshes from its neck.

  "Yeah. It's not the smoothest," says Walter.

  "You guys gonna get me outta here and share, or what?" cries Camel.

  "Shut it, Camel," says Walter.

  "Hey now! That ain't no way to talk to a sick old--"

  "I said shut it, Camel! I'm dealing with a situation here. Go on," he says, pushing the jug back at me. "Have some more."

  "What kind of a situation?" says Camel.

  "Jacob's messed up."

  "What? How? Was there a Hey Rube?"

  "No," Walter says grimly. "Worse."

  "What's a Hey Rube?" I mumble through fat lips.

  "Drink," he says, pushing the jug at me again. "A fight between us and them. Show folk and rubes. You ready?"

  I take another sip of the moonshine, which, despite Walter's assurances, still goes down like mustard gas. I set the jug on the floor and close my eyes. "Yeah. I think so."

  Walter holds my chin in one hand and turns my head left and right, assessing the damage. "Holy hell, Jacob. What on earth happened?" he says, picking through the hair at the back of my head. Apparently he has found some new atrocity.

  "He pushed Marlena."

  "You mean physically?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why?"

  "He just went nuts. I don't know how else to describe it."

  "There's glass all through your hair. Hold still." His fingers investigate my scalp, lifting and separating the hair. "So, why did he go nuts?" he says, depositing glass shards on top of the nearest book.

  "Damned
if I know."

  "Like hell you don't. Did you mess with her?"

  "No. Absolutely not," I say, although I'm pretty sure I'd be blushing if my face weren't already ground beef.

  "I hope not," says Walter. "For your sake, I sure hope not."

  There's shuffling and banging to my right. I try to look, but Walter holds my chin tight. "Camel, what the hell are you up to?" he barks, his breath hot on my face.

  "I wanna see if Jacob's all right."

  "For Christ's sake," says Walter. "Just stay put, will ya? I wouldn't be surprised if we had company in a bit. It may be Jacob they're after, but don't think they won't take you, too."

  When Walter has finished cleaning my cuts and removing glass from my hair, I creep over to the bedroll and try to find a comfortable place for my head, which is battered both front and back. My right eye is swollen completely shut. Queenie comes over to investigate, sniffing tentatively. She backs up a few feet and lies down, keeping an eye on me.

  Walter puts the jug back in the trunk and then stays bent over, riffling through the bottom. When he straightens up again, he's holding a large knife.

  He closes the interior door, and wedges it shut with a chunk of wood. Then he sits with his back to the wall and the knife at his side.

  Some time later, we hear the clip-clopping of horses' hooves on the ramp. Pete, Otis, and Diamond Joe speak in hushed voices in the other part of the car, but no one knocks and no one tries the door. After a while, we hear them dismantle the ramp and slide the outside door shut.

  When the train finally chugs forward, Walter sighs audibly. I look over at him. He drops his head between his knees and remains there for a moment. Then he climbs to his feet and slides the big knife behind the trunk.

  "You're a lucky bastard," he says, working the chunk of wood free. He swings the door open and walks to the row of trunks that obscures Camel.

  "Me?" I say, through a haze of moonshine.

  "Yeah, you. So far."

  Walter hauls the trunks away from the wall and retrieves Camel. Then he drags the old man out to the other part of the car to take care of the evening's ablutions.

  I DOZE, FLATTENED by a combination of trauma and moonshine.

  I'm vaguely aware of Walter helping Camel with his dinner. I remember propping myself up to accept a drink of water and then collapsing back on the bedroll. The next time I surface, Camel is lying flat on the cot, snoring, and Walter sits on the horse blanket in the corner with the lamp beside him and a book in his lap.

  I hear footsteps on the roof, and a moment later there's a soft thud outside our door. My whole body snaps into awareness.

  Walter scrambles across the floor, crablike, and grabs the knife from behind the trunk. Then he moves to beside the door, gripping the knife's handle tightly. He gestures to me, waving me toward the lamp. I dive across the room, but with one eye swelled shut I have no depth perception and come up short.

  The door creaks inward. Walter's fingers clench and unclench around the knife's handle.

  "Jacob?"

  "Marlena!" I cry.

  "Jesus Christ, woman!" Walter shouts, dropping the knife to his side. "I nearly killed you." He grabs the edge of the door. His head bobs as he tries to see around her. "You alone?"

  "Yes," she says. "I'm sorry. I need to talk to Jacob."

  Walter opens the door a bit more. Then his face falls. "Aw jeez," he says. "You'd better come in."

  When she steps inside I lift the kerosene lamp. Her left eye is purple and swollen.

  "Jesus Christ!" I say. "Did he do that to you?"

  "Oh God, look at you," she says, reaching out. Her fingertips hover near my face. "You need to see a doctor."

  "I'm fine," I say.

  "Who in blazes is that?" says Camel. "Is that a dame? I can't see a thing. Someone turn me around."

  "Oh, I beg your pardon," says Marlena, startled by the sight of the crippled body on the cot. "I thought there were only the two of you . . . Oh, I'm so sorry. I'll go back now."

  "No you won't," I say.

  "I didn't mean . . . to him."

  "I don't want you walking around on the top of moving train cars, never mind leaping between them."

  "I agree with Jacob," says Walter. "We'll move out there with the horses and give you some privacy."

  "No, I couldn't possibly," says Marlena.

  "Then let me take the bedroll out there for you," I say.

  "No. I didn't mean to . . ." She shakes her head. "Oh God. I shouldn't have come." She cups her hands over her face. A moment later she starts to cry.

  I hand the lamp to Walter and pull her against me. She sinks into me, sobbing, her face pressed to my shirt.

  "Aw jeez," Walter says again. "This probably makes me an accomplice."

  "Let's go talk," I say to Marlena.

  She sniffs and pulls away. She walks out to the horses and I follow, pulling the door shut behind us.

  There's a soft nicker of recognition. Marlena wanders over and strokes Midnight's flank. I sink down against the wall, waiting for her. After a while she joins me. As we round a curve, the floorboards jerk beneath us, throwing us together so our shoulders touch.

  I speak first. "Has he ever hit you before?"

  "No."

  "If he does it again, I swear to God I'll kill him."

  "If he does it again, you won't have to," she says quietly.

  I look over at her. The moonlight comes through the slats behind her, and her profile is black, featureless.

  "I'm leaving him," she says, dropping her chin.

  Instinctively, I reach for her hand. Her ring is gone.

  "Have you told him?" I ask.

  "In no uncertain terms."

  "How did he take it?"

  "You saw his answer," she says.

  We sit listening to the clacking of the ties beneath us. I stare over the backs of the sleeping horses and at the snatches of night visible through the slats.

  "What are you going to do?" I ask.

  "I guess I'll talk to Uncle Al when we get to Erie and see if he can set me up with a bunk in the girls' sleeper."

  "And in the meantime?"

  "In the meantime, I'll stay at a hotel."

  "You don't want to go back to your family?"

  A pause. "No. I don't think they'd have me, anyway."

  We lean against the wall in silence, still holding hands. After about an hour she falls asleep, sliding down until her head rests on my shoulder. I remain awake, every fiber of my body aware of her proximity.

  Nineteen

  Mr. Jankowski? It's time to get ready."

  My eyes snap open at the voice's proximity. Rosemary hovers over me, framed by ceiling tiles.

  "Eh? Oh, right," I say, struggling up onto my elbows. Joy surges through me when I realize that not only do I remember where I am and who she is but also that it's circus day. Perhaps what happened earlier was just a brain belch?

  "Stay put. I'll raise the head of your bed," she says. "Do you need to use the washroom?"

  "No, but I want my good shirt. And my bow tie."

  "Your bow tie!" she hoots, throwing her head back and laughing.

  "Yes, my bow tie."

  "Oh dear, oh dear. You are a funny one," she says, going to my closet.

  By the time she returns, I have managed to undo three buttons on my other shirt. Not bad for gnarled fingers. I'm rather pleased with myself. Brain and body, both in working order.

  As Rosemary helps me out of my shirt, I look down at my skinny frame. My ribs show, and the few hairs left on my chest are white. I remind myself of a greyhound, all sinews and skinny rib cage. Rosemary guides my arms into my good shirt, and few minutes later leans over me, tugging the edges of my bow tie. She stands back, cocks her head, and makes a final adjustment.

  "Well, I do declare the bow tie was a fine decision," she says, nodding in approval. Her voice is deep and honeyed, lyrical. I could listen to her all day long. "Would you like to have a look?"

 
; "Did you get it straight?" I say.

  "Of course I did!"

  "Then no. I don't like the mirror much these days," I grumble.

  "Well, I think you look very handsome," she says, placing her hands on her hips and surveying me.

  "Oh, psshhh." I wave a bony hand at her.

  She laughs again, and the noise is like wine, warm in my veins. "So, do you want to wait for your family here, or shall I take you out to the lobby?"

  "What time does the show start?"

  "It starts at three," she says. "It's two now."

  "I'll wait in the lobby. I want to leave straightaway when they get here."

  Rosemary waits patiently while I lower my creaking body into the wheelchair. As she wheels me out to the lobby, I clasp my hands in my lap, fiddling nervously.

  The lobby is full of other old folks in wheelchairs, lined up in front of the bucket seats meant for visitors. Rosemary parks me at the end, beside Ipphy Bailey.

  She is hunched over, her dowager's hump forcing her to face her lap. Her hair is wispy and white, and someone--obviously not Ipphy--has combed it carefully to obscure the bald spots. She turns suddenly toward me. Her face lights up.

  "Morty!" she cries, reaching out a skeletal hand and clapping it around my wrist. "Oh, Morty, you came back!"

  I yank my arm away, but the hand comes with it. She pulls me toward her as I recoil.

  "Nurse!" I yell, trying to wrench free. "Nurse!"

  A few seconds later, someone pries me loose from Ipphy, who is convinced I am her dead husband. Furthermore, she is convinced I don't love her anymore. She leans over the arm of her chair, weeping, waving her arms in a desperate attempt to reach me. The horse-faced nurse backs me up, moves me some distance away, and then places my walker between us.

  "Oh, Morty, Morty! Don't be like that!" Ipphy wails. "You know it didn't mean anything. It was nothing--a terrible mistake. Oh, Morty! Don't you love me anymore?"

  I sit rubbing my wrist, incensed. Why can't they have a separate wing for people like that? That old bird is clearly out of her head. She could have hurt me. Of course, if they did have a separate wing, I'd probably end up in it after what happened this morning. I sit up straight as an idea occurs to me. Maybe it was the new drug that caused the brain belch--oh, I must ask Rosemary about that. Or maybe not. The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang on to that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.