geriatric patients."
"I'm not deaf, you know!" I shout from my bed. "Just old!"
Dr. Rashid peers in at me and takes the nurse's elbow. They move down the hall and out
of earshot.
THAT NIGHT, A new pill appears in my paper cup. The pills are already in my palm
before I notice it.
"What's this?" I ask, pushing it around. I flip it over and inspect the other side.
"What?" says the nurse.
"This," I say, poking the offending pill. "This one right here. It's new." "It's called Elavil."
"What's it for?"
"It's going to help you feel better." "What's it for?" I repeat.
She doesn't answer. I look up. Our eyes meet. "Depression," she says finally.
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts Iwon t take it.
"Mr. Jankowski—" "I'm not depressed."
"Dr. Rashid prescribed it. It's going to—"
"You want to drug me. You want to turn me into a Jell-O-eating sheep. I won't take it, I
tell you."
"Mr. Jankowski. I have twelve other patients to take care of. Now please take your pills."
"I thought we were residents."
Every one of her pinched features hardens.
"I'll take the others but not this," I say, flicking the pill from my hand.
It flies through the air and lands on the floor. I toss the others into my mouth. "Where's
my water?" I say, my words garbled because I'm trying to keep the pills on the center of
my tongue.
She hands me a plastic cup, retrieves the pill from the floor, and goes into my bathroom. I
hear a flush. Then she comes back.
"Mr. Jankowski. I am going to go get another Elavil and if you won't take it, I will call
Dr. Rashid, and she will prescribe an injectable instead. Either way, you are taking the
Elavil. How you do so is up to you." When she brings the pill, I swallow it. A quarter of
an hour later, I also get an injection—not of Elavil, of something else, but still it doesn't
seem fair because I took their damned pill.
Within minutes, I am a Jell-O-eating sheep. Well, a sheep at any rate. But because I keep
reminding myself of the incident that brought this misfortune upon me, I realize that if
someone brought pockmarked Jell-O right now and told me to eat it, I would.
What have they done to me?
I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined
body, but it's no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact
when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It's been there awhile, biding its
time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has
become a formality, and make
a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there's
really no fighting it.
S ix
The train groans, straining against the increasing resistance of air brakes. After several
minutes and a final, prolonged shriek, the great iron beast shudders to a stop and exhales.
Kinko throws back his blanket and stands up. He's no more than four
feet tall, if that. He stretches, yawns, and smacks his lips, then scratches his head,
armpits, and testicles. The dog dances around his feet, her stump of a tail wagging
furiously.
"Come on, Queenie," he says, scooping her up. "You want to go outside? Queenie go
outside?" He plants a kiss in the middle of her brown
and white head and crosses the little room.
I watch from my crumpled horse blanket in the corner. "Kinko?" I say.
If it weren't for the vehemence with which he slams the door, I might think he didn't hear
me.
WE ARE ON A SIDE rail behind the Flying Squadron, which has
obviously been here a few hours. The tent city has already risen, to the delight of the
crowd of townspeople hanging around watching. Rows of children sit on top of the
Flying Squadron surveying the lot with shining eyes. Their parents congregate beneath,
holding the hands of younger siblings and pointing to various marvels appearing in front
of them.
The workmen from the main train climb down from the sleeper cars, light cigarettes, and
trek across the lot toward the cookhouse. Its blue and Sara Gruen
orange flag is already flying and the boiler beside it belches steam, bearing cheerful
witness to the breakfast within.
Performers emerge from sleepers closer to the back of the train and of obviously better
quality. There's a clear hierarchy: the closer to the back, the more impressive the quarters.
Uncle Al himself climbs from a car right in front of the caboose. I can't help but notice
that Kinko and I are the human occupants closest to the engine.
"Jacob!"
I turn. August strides toward me, his shirt crisp, his chin scraped
smooth. His slick hair bears the recent impression of a comb. "How are we this morning,
my boy?" he asks.
"All right," I say. "A little tired."
"Did that little troll give you any trouble?" "No," I say. "He was fine."
"Good, good." He claps his hands together. "Shall we have a look at
that horse then? I doubt it's anything serious. Marlena coddles them terribly. Oh, here's
the little lady now. Come here, darling," he calls brightly.
"I want you to meet Jacob. He's a fan of yours." I feel a blush creep across my face.
She comes to a stop beside him, smiling up at me as August turns
toward the stock car. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she says, extending her hand. Up close
she still looks remarkably like Catherine—delicate features, pale as porcelain, with a
smattering of freckles across the bridge of
her nose. Shimmering blue eyes, and hair just dark enough to disqualify as blonde.
"The pleasure is mine," I say, painfully aware that I haven't shaved in
two days, my clothes are stiff with manure, and that manure is not the only unpleasant
scent rising from my body.
She cocks her head slightly. "Say, you're the one I saw yesterday, aren't you? In the
menagerie?"
"I don't think so," I say, lying instinctively.
"Sure you are. Right before the show. When the chimp den slammed shut."
Water for E l e p h a n ts
I glance at August, but he's still facing the other way. She follows my gaze and seems to
understand.
"You're not from Boston, are you?" she says, her voice lowered. "No. I've never been."
"Huh," she says. "It's just you look familiar somehow. Oh well," she continues brightly.
"Auggie says you're a vet." At the sound of his name, August spins around.
"No," I say. "I mean, not exactly."
"He's being modest," says August. "Pete! Hey, Pete!"
A group of men stand in front of the stock car's door, attaching a ramp with built-in sides.
A tall one with dark hair turns. "Yeah, boss?" he says. "Get the others unloaded and bring
out Silver Star, will you?"
Sure.
Eleven horses later—five white and six black—Pete goes inside the stock car once again.
A moment later he's back. "Silver Star don't want to move, boss."
"Make him," says August.
"Oh no you don't," says Marlena, shooting August a dirty look. She marches up the ramp
and disappears.
August and I wait outside, listening to passionate entreaties and tongue
clicks. After several minutes she reappears in the doorway with the silvermaned
Arabian.
Marlena steps out in front of him, clicking and murmuring. He
raises his head and pulls back. Eventually he follows her down the ramp, his head
bobbing deeply with each step. At the bottom he pulls back so hard he almost sits on his
haunches.
"Jesus, Marlena—I thought you said he was a bit off," says August. Marlena is ashen.
"He was. He wasn't anything like this bad yesterday. He's been a bit lame for a few days,
but nothing like this."
She clicks and tugs until the horse finally steps onto the gravel. He
stands with his back hunched, his hind legs bearing as much weight as they can. My heart
sinks. It's the classic walking-on-eggshells stance.
"What do you think it is?" says August. Sara Gruen
"Give me a minute," I say, although I'm already ninety-nine percent sure. "Do you have
hoof testers?"
"No. But the smithy does. Do you want me to send Pete?" "Not yet. I might not need
them."
I crouch beside the horse's left shoulder and run my hands down his
leg, from shoulder to fetlock. He doesn't flinch. Then I lay my hand across the front of his
hoof. It's radiating heat. I place my thumb and forefinger on the back of his fetlock. His
arterial pulse is pounding.
"Damn," I say.
"What is it?" says Marlena.
I straighten up and reach for Silver Star's foot. He leaves it firmly on the ground.
"Come on, boy," I say, pulling on his hoof.
Eventually he lifts it. The sole is bulging and dark, with a red line running around the
edge. I set it down immediately.
"This horse is foundering," I say.
"Oh dear God!" says Marlena, clapping a hand to her mouth. "What?" says August. "He's
what?"
"Foundering," I say. "It's when the connective tissues between the hoof and the coffin
bone are compromised and the coffin bone rotates toward the sole of the hoof."
"In English, please. Is it bad?"
I glance at Marlena, who is still covering her mouth. "Yes," I say. "Can you fix it?"
"We can bed him up real thick, and try to keep him off his feet. Grass hay only and no
grain. And no work."
"But can you fix it?"
I hesitate, glancing quickly at Marlena. "Probably not." August stares at Silver Star and
exhales through puffed cheeks.
"Well, well, well!" booms an unmistakable voice from behind us. "If it isn't our very own
animal doctor!"
Uncle Al floats toward us in black and white checked pants and a crimson vest. He
carries a silver-topped cane, which he swings extravagantly
with each step. A handful of people straggle behind him. Water for E l e p h a n ts
"So what says the croaker? Did you sort out the horse?" he asks jovially, coming to a stop
in front of me.
"Not exactly," I say. "Why not?"
"Apparently he's foundering," says August. "He's what?" says Uncle Al.
"It's his feet."
Uncle Al bends over, peering at Silver Star's feet. "They look fine to me."
"They're not," I say.
He turns to me. "So what do you propose to do about it?"
"Put him on stall rest and cut his grain. Other than that, there's not much we can do."
"Stall rest is out of the question. He's the lead horse in the liberty M
act.
"If this horse keeps working, his coffin bone will rotate until it punctures his sole, and
then you'll lose him," I say unequivocally.
Uncle Al's eyelids flicker. He looks over at Marlena. "How long will he be out?"
I pause, choosing my next words carefully. "Possibly for good." "Goddammit!" he
shouts, stabbing his cane into the earth. "Where
the hell am I supposed to get another liberty horse midseason?" He looks around at his
followers.
They shrug, mumble, and avert their gazes.
"Useless sons of bitches. Why do I even keep you? Okay, you—" He points his cane at
me. "You're on. Fix this horse. Nine bucks a week. You answer to August. Lose this
horse and you're out of here. In fact, first hint of trouble and you're out of here." He steps
forward to Marlena and pats
her shoulder. "There, there, my dear," he says kindly. "Don't fret. Jacob here will take
good care of him. August, go get this little girl some breakfast, will you? We have to hit
the road."
August's head jerks around. "What do you mean, 'hit the road'?" "We're tearing down,"
says Uncle Al, gesturing vaguely. "Moving along."
Sara Gruen
"What the hell are you talking about? We just got here. We're still setting up!"
"Change of plans, August. Change of plans."
Uncle Al and his followers walk away. August stares after them, his mouth open wide.
RUMORS ABOUND IN THE COOKHOUSE. In front of the hash browns:
"Carson Brothers got caught short-changing a few weeks ago. Burned
the territory."
"Ha," snorts someone else. "That's usually our job." In front of the scrambled eggs:
"They heard we was carrying booze. There's gonna be a raid."
"There's gonna be a raid, all right," comes the reply. "But it's on account of the cooch
tent, not the booze."
In front of the oatmeal:
"Uncle Al stiffed the sheriff on the lot fee last year. Cops say we got two hours before
they run us out."
Ezra is slouched in the same position as yesterday, his arms crossed and his chin pressed
into his chest. He pays me no attention whatever. "Whoa there, big fella," says August as
I head for the canvas divider. "Where do you think you're going?"
"To the other side."
"Nonsense," he says. "You're the show's vet. Come with me. Although
I must say, I'm tempted to send you over there just to find out what they're saying."
I follow August and Marlena to one of the nicely dressed tables. Kinko sits a few tables
over, with three other dwarves and Queenie at his feet. She looks up hopefully, her
tongue lolling off to the side. Kinko ignores her and everyone else at his table. He stares
