Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

  Oh Lord. How am I going to survive that place when she's gone? The remembrance of her imminent departure wracks my old body with grief, but it's quickly displaced by joy--I am now close enough to hear the music thumping from the big top. Oh, the sweet, sweet sound of circus music. I lodge my tongue in the corner of my mouth and hurry. I'm almost there now. Just a few yards farther--

  "Yo, Gramps. Where do you think you're going?"

  I stop, startled. I look up. A kid sits behind the ticket wicket, his face framed by bags of pink and blue cotton candy. Flashing toys blink from the glass counter under his arms. There's a ring through his eyebrow, a stud through his bottom lip, a large tattoo on each shoulder. His hands are tipped with black nails.

  "Where does it look like I'm going?" I say querulously. I don't have time for this. I've missed enough of the show as it is.

  "Tickets are twelve bucks."

  "I don't have any money."

  "Then you can't go in."

  I am flabbergasted, still struggling for words when a man comes up beside me. He's older, clean-shaven, well dressed. The manager, I'm willing to bet.

  "What's going on here, Russ?"

  The kid jerks his thumb at me. "I caught this old guy trying to sneak in."

  "Sneak!" I exclaim in righteous indignation.

  The man takes one look at me and turns back to the kid. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

  Russ scowls and looks down.

  The manager stands in front of me, smiling graciously. "Sir, I'd be happy to show you in. Would it be easier if you had a wheelchair? Then we wouldn't have to worry about finding you a good seat."

  "That would be nice. Thank you," I say, ready to weep with relief. My altercation with Russ left me shaking--the idea that I could make it this far only to be turned away by a teenager with a pierced lip was horrifying. But all is okay. Not only have I made it, but I think maybe I'm going to get a ringside seat.

  The manager goes around the side of the big top and returns with a standard hospital-issue wheelchair. I let him help me into it and then relax my aching muscles as he pushes me toward the entrance.

  "Don't mind Russ," he says. "He's a good kid underneath all those holes, although it's a wonder he doesn't spring a leak when he drinks."

  "In my day they put the old fellows in the ticket booth. Kind of the end of the road."

  "You were on a show?" the man asks. "Which one?"

  "I was on two. The first was the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth," I say proudly, rolling each syllable off my tongue. "The second was Ringling."

  The chair stops. The man's face suddenly appears in front of mine. "You were with the Benzini Brothers? What years?"

  "The summer of 1931."

  "You were there for the stampede?"

  "Sure was!" I exclaim. "Hell, I was in the thick of it. In the menagerie itself. I was the show's vet."

  He stares at me, incredulous. "I don't believe this! After the Hartford fire and Hagenbeck-Wallace wreck, that's probably the most famous circus disaster of all time."

  "It was something, all right. I remember it like yesterday. Hell, I remember it better than yesterday."

  The man blinks and sticks his hand out. "Charlie O'Brien the third."

  "Jacob Jankowski," I say, taking his hand. "The first."

  Charlie O'Brien stares at me for a very long time, his hand spread on his chest as though he were pledging an oath. "Mr. Jankowski, I'm going to get you into the show now before there's nothing left to see, but it would be an honor and a privilege if you would join me for a drink in my trailer after the show. You're a living piece of history, and I'd surely love to hear about that collapse firsthand. I'd be happy to see you home afterward."

  "I'd be delighted," I say.

  He snaps to, and moves around to the back of the chair. "All righty then. I hope you enjoy our show."

  An honor and a privilege.

  I smile serenely as he wheels me right up to the ring curb.

  Twenty-five

  It's after the show--a damn good show, too, although not of the magnitude of either the Benzini Brothers or Ringling, but how could it be? For that you need a train.

  I'm sitting at a Formica table in the back of an impressively appointed RV sipping an equally impressive single malt--Laphroaig, if I'm not mistaken--and singing like a canary. I tell Charlie everything: about my parents, my affair with Marlena, and the deaths of Camel and Walter. I tell him about crawling across the train in the night with a knife in my teeth and murder on my mind. I tell him about the redlighted men, and the stampede, and about Uncle Al being strangled. And finally I tell him what Rosie did. I don't even think about it. I just open my mouth and the words tumble out.

  The relief is instant and palpable. All these years it's been pent up inside me. I thought I'd feel guilty, like I betrayed her, but what I feel--particularly in light of Charlie's sympathetic nodding--is more like absolution. Redemption, even.

  I was never entirely sure whether Marlena knew--there was so much going on in the menagerie at that moment that I have no idea what she saw, and I never brought it up. I couldn't, because I couldn't risk changing how she felt about Rosie--or, if it comes right down to it, how she felt about me. Rosie may have been the one who killed August, but I also wanted him dead.

  At first, I stayed silent to protect Rosie--and there was no question she needed protecting, in those days elephant executions were not uncommon--but there was never any excuse for keeping it from Marlena. Even if it caused her to harden toward Rosie, she'd never have caused her harm. In the entire history of our marriage, it was the only secret I kept from her, and eventually it became impossible to fix. With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.

  Having heard my story, Charlie looks not in the least bit shocked or judgmental, and my relief is so great that when I finish telling him about the stampede, I keep going. I tell him about our years with Ringling and how we left after the birth of our third child. Marlena had simply had enough of being on the road--kind of a nesting thing, I figure--and besides, Rosie was getting on in years. Fortunately, the staff veterinarian at Brookfield Zoo in Chicago chose that spring to drop dead, and I was a shoo-in--not only did I have seven years of experience with exotics and a damned good degree, but I also came with an elephant.

  We bought a rural property far enough from the zoo that we could keep the horses but close enough that the drive to work wasn't that bad. The horses more or less retired, although Marlena and the kids still rode them occasionally. They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter. Bobo came with us, of course. He got into more trouble over the years than all the kids put together, but we loved him just the same.

  Those were the salad days, the halcyon years! The sleepless nights, the wailing babies; the days the interior of the house looked like it had been hit by a hurricane; the times I had five kids, a chimpanzee, and a wife in bed with fever. Even when the fourth glass of milk got spilled in a single night, or the shrill screeching threatened to split my skull, or when I was bailing out some son or other--or, in one memorable instance, Bobo--from a minor predicament at the police station, they were good years, grand years.

  But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were in it up to our eyeballs, and next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and alone.

  Charlie, bless his heart, is actually interested in my story. He picks up the bottle and leans forward. As I push my glass toward him, there's a knock on the door. I yank my hand back as though it's been singed.

  Charlie slides off the bench and leans toward a window, pulling the plaid curtain back with two fingers.

  "Shit," he says. "It's the heat. I wonder what's up?"

  "They're here for me."

  He glances at me, hard and precise. "What?"

  "They're here for me," I say, trying to kee
p my eyes level with his. It's hard--I have nystagmus, the result of a long-ago concussion. The harder I try to look steadily at someone, the more my eyes jerk back and forth.

  Charlie lets the curtain fall and goes to the door.

  "Good evening," says a deep voice from the doorway. "I'm looking for a Charlie O'Brien. Someone said I could find him here."

  "You can and did. What can I do for you, officer?"

  "I was hoping you could help us out. An elderly man went missing from a nursing home just down the street. The staff seems to think he probably came here."

  "Wouldn't be surprised. Folks of all ages enjoy the circus."

  "Sure. Of course. Thing is, this guy is ninety-three and pretty frail. They were hoping he'd come back on his own after the show, but it's been a couple of hours and he still hasn't showed up. They're mighty worried about him."

  Charlie blinks pleasantly at the cop. "Even if he did come here, I doubt he's still around. We're fixing to leave real soon."

  "Do you remember seeing anyone fitting that description tonight?"

  "Sure. Lots. All sorts of families brought their old folks."

  "How about an old man on his own?"

  "I didn't notice, but then again we get so many people coming through I kind of tune out after a while."

  The cop pokes his head inside the trailer. His eyes light on me with obvious interest. "Who's that?"

  "Who--him?" says Charlie, waving in my direction.

  "Yes."

  "That's my dad."

  "Do you mind if I come in for a moment?"

  After just the slightest pause, Charlie steps aside. "Sure, be my guest."

  The cop climbs inside the trailer. He's so tall he has to stoop. He has a jutting chin and fiercely hooked nose. His eyes are set too close together, like an orangutan's. "How are you doing, sir?" he asks, coming closer. He squints, examining me closely.

  Charlie shoots me a look. "Dad can't talk. He had a major stroke a few years ago."

  "Wouldn't he better off staying at home?" says the officer.

  "This is home."

  I drop my jaw and let it quaver. I reach for my glass with a trembling hand and nearly knock it over. Nearly, because it would be a shame to waste such good scotch.

  "Here, Pops, let me help you," says Charlie, rushing over. He slides onto the bench beside me and reaches for my glass. He lifts it to my lips.

  I point my tongue like a parrot's, letting it touch the ice cubes that tumble toward my mouth.

  The cop watches. I'm not looking directly at him, but I can see him in my peripheral vision.

  Charlie sets my glass down and gazes placidly at him.

  The cop watches us for a while, then scans the room with narrowed eyes. Charlie's face is blank as a wall, and I do my best to drool.

  Finally the cop tips his cap. "Thank you, gentlemen. If you see or hear anything, please let us know right away. This old guy is in no shape to be out on his own."

  "I surely will," says Charlie. "Feel free to have a look around the lot. I'll have my guys keep an eye out for him. It would be a terrible shame if something happened to him."

  "Here's my number," says the cop, handing Charlie a card. "Give me a call if you hear anything."

  "You bet."

  The cop takes one final look around and then steps toward the door. "Well, good night then," he says.

  "Good night," says Charlie, following him to the door. After he shuts it, he comes back to the table. He sits and pours us each another whiskey. We each take a sip and then sit in silence.

  "Are you sure about this?" he finally asks.

  "Yup."

  "What about your health? You need any medicine?"

  "Nope. There's nothing wrong with me but old age. And I reckon that will take care of itself eventually."

  "What about your family?"

  I take another sip of whiskey, swirl the remaining liquid around the bottom, and then drain the glass. "I'll send them postcards."

  I look at his face and realize that didn't come out right.

  "I didn't mean it like that. I love them and I know they love me, but I'm no longer really a part of their lives. I'm more like a duty. That's why I had to find my own way over here tonight. They plum forgot about me."

  Charlie's brow is furrowed. He looks dubious.

  I barrel on, desperate. "I'm ninety-three. What have I got to lose? I can still mostly take care of myself. I'll need some help for some things, but nothing like what you're thinking." I feel my eyes grow moist and try to rearrange my ruined face into some semblance of toughness. I'm no wimp, by God. "Let me come along. I can sell tickets. Russ can do anything--he's young. Give me his job. I can still count, and I don't short-change. I know you don't run a grift show."

  Charlie's eyes mist over. I swear to God they do.

  I continue, on a roll. "If they catch up with me, they catch up with me. If they don't, well, then at end of season I'll call and go back. And if something goes wrong in the meantime, just call and they'll come get me. What's the harm in that?"

  Charlie stares at me. I've never seen a man look more serious.

  One, two, three, four, five, six--he's not going to answer--seven, eight, nine--he's going to send me back there, and why shouldn't he, he doesn't know me from Adam--ten, eleven, twelve--

  "All right," he says.

  "All right?"

  "All right. Let's give you something to tell your grandkids about. Or great-grandkids. Or great-great-grandkids."

  I snort with glee, delirious with excitement. Charlie winks and pours me another finger's worth of whiskey. Then, on second thought, he tips the bottle again.

  I reach out and grab its neck. "Better not," I say. "Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip."

  And then I laugh, because it's so ridiculous and so gorgeous and it's all I can do to not melt into a fit of giggles. So what if I'm ninety-three? So what if I'm ancient and cranky and my body's a wreck? If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

  It's like Charlie told the cop. For this old man, this is home.

  Author's Note

  The idea for this book came unexpectedly: In early 2003 I was gearing up to write an entirely different book when the Chicago Tribune ran an article on Edward J. Kelty, a photographer who followed traveling circuses around America in the 1920s and '30s. The photograph that accompanied the article so fascinated me that I bought two books of old-time circus photographs: Step Right This Way: The Photographs of Edward J. Kelty and Wild, Weird, and Wonderful: The American Circus as Seen by F. W. Glasier. By the time I'd thumbed through them, I was hooked. I abandoned the book I'd planned to write and dove instead into the world of the train circus.

  I started by getting a bibliography of suggested reading from the archivist at Circus World, in Baraboo, Wisconsin, which is the original winter quarters of the Ringling Brothers. Many of the books were out of print, but I managed to get them through rare booksellers. Within weeks I was off to Sarasota, Florida, to visit the Ringling Circus Museum, which happened to be selling off duplicates of books in its rare book collection. I came home poorer by several hundred dollars and richer by more books than I could carry.

  I spent the next four and a half months acquiring the knowledge necessary to do justice to this subject, including taking three additional research trips (a return to Sarasota, a visit to Circus World in Baraboo, and a weekend trip to the Kansas City Zoo with one of its former elephant handlers to learn about elephant body language and behavior).

  The history of the American circus is so rich that I plucked many of this story's most outrageous details from fact or anecdote (in circus history, the line between the two is famously blurred). These include the display of a hippo pickled in formaldehyde, a deceased four-hundred-pound "strong lady" being paraded around town in an elephant cage, an elephant who repeatedly pulled her stake and stole the lemonade, another elephant who ran off and was retrieved from a backyard vege
table patch, a lion and a dishwasher wedged together under a sink, a general manager who was murdered and his body rolled up in the big top, and so on. I also incorporated the horrific and very real tragedy of Jamaica ginger paralysis, which devastated the lives of approximately one hundred thousand Americans between 1930 and 1931.

  And finally, I'd like to draw attention to two old-time circus elephants, not just because they inspired major plot points, but also because these old girls deserve to be remembered.

  In 1903 an elephant named Topsy killed her trainer after he fed her a lit cigarette. Most circus elephants at the time were forgiven a killing or two--as long as they didn't kill a rube--but this was Topsy's third strike. Topsy's owners at Coney Island's Luna Park decided to turn her execution into a public spectacle, but the announcement that they were going to hang her met with uproar--after all, wasn't hanging a cruel and unusual punishment? Ever resourceful, Topsy's owners contacted Thomas Edison. For years, Edison had been "proving" the dangers of rival George Westinghouse's alternating current by publicly electrocuting stray dogs and cats, along with the occasional horse or cow--but nothing as ambitious as an elephant. He accepted the challenge. Because the electric chair had replaced the gallows as New York's official method of execution, the protests stopped.

  Accounts differ as to whether Topsy was fed cyanide-laced carrots in an early, failed, execution attempt or whether she ate them immediately before she was electrocuted, but what is not disputed is that Edison brought a movie camera, had Topsy strapped into copper-lined sandals, and shot sixty-six hundred volts through her in front of fifteen hundred spectators, killing her in about ten seconds. Edison, convinced that this feat discredited alternating current, went on to show the film to audiences across the country.

  On to a less sobering note. Also in 1903, an outfit in Dallas acquired an elephant named Old Mom from Carl Hagenbeck, a circus legend who declared her to be the smartest elephant he'd ever had. Their hopes thus raised, Old Mom's new trainers were dismayed to find they could persuade her to do nothing more than shuffle around. Indeed, she was so useless she "had to be pushed and pulled from one circus lot to another." When Hagenbeck later visited Old Mom at her new home, he was aggrieved to hear her described as stupid and said so--in German. It suddenly dawned on everyone that Old Mom only understood German. After this watershed, Old Mom was retrained in English and went on to an illustrious career. She died in 1933 at the ripe old age of eighty, surrounded by her friends and fellow troupers.