straight at me, his jaw moving grimly from side to side.
"Eat, darling," says August, pushing a bowl of sugar toward Marlena's porridge. "There's
no point fretting. We've got a bona fide veterinarian here."
Water for E l e p h a n ts
I open my mouth to protest, then shut it again.
A'petite blonde approaches. "Marlena! Sweetie! You'll never guess what I heard!"
"Hi, Lottie," says Marlena. "I have no idea. What's up?"
Lottie slides in beside Marlena and talks nonstop, almost without pausing for breath.
She's an aerialist and she got the straight scoop from a good authority—her spotter heard
Uncle Al and the advance man exchanging heated words outside the big top. Before long
a crowd surrounds our table, and between Lottie and the tidbits tossed out by her
audience, I hear what amounts to a crash course on the history of Alan J. Bunkel and the
Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth.
Uncle Al is a buzzard, a vulture, an eater of carrion. Fifteen years ago
he was the manager of a mud show: a ragtag group of pellagra-riddled performers
dragged from town to town by miserable thrush-hoofed horses.
In August of 1918, through no fault of Wall Street, the Benzini Brothers Most
Spectacular Show on Earth collapsed. They simply ran out of money and couldn't make
the jump to the next town, never mind back to winter quarters. The general manager
caught a train out of town and left everything behind—people, equipment, and animals.
Uncle Al had the good fortune to be in the vicinity and was able to
score a sleeping car and two flats for a song from railroad officials desperate to free up
their siding. Those two flats easily held his few decrepit wagons, and because the train
cars were already emblazoned with BENZINI BROS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW
ON EARTH, Alan Bunkel retained the name and officially joined the ranks of train
circuses.
When the Crash came, larger circuses started going down and Uncle
Al could hardly believe his luck. It started with the Gentry Brothers and Buck Jones in
1929. The next year saw the end of the Cole Brothers, the Christy Brothers, and the
mighty John Robinson. And every time a show closed, there was Uncle Al, sopping up
the remains: a few train cars, a
handful of stranded performers, a tiger, or a camel. He had scouts everywherethe moment
a larger circus showed signs of trouble, Uncle Al
would get a telegram and race to the scene.
He grew fat off their carcasses. In Minneapolis, he picked up six parade S a r a G r u en
wagons and a toothless lion. In Ohio, a sword swallower and a flat car.
In Des Moines, a dressing tent, a hippopotamus and matching wagon,
and the Lovely Lucinda. In Portland, eighteen draft horses, two zebras, and a smithy. In
Seattle, two bunk cars and a bona fide freak—a bearded lady—and this made him happy,
for what Uncle Al craves above all else, what Uncle Al dreams of at night, are freaks. Not
made freaks: not men covered head to toe in tattoos, not women who regurgitate wallets
and lightbulbs on command, not moss-haired girls or men who pound stakes into their
sinus cavities. Uncle Al craves real freaks. Born freaks. And that is the reason for our
detour to Joliet.
The Fox Brothers Circus has just collapsed, and Uncle Al is ecstatic because they
employed the world-famous Charles Mansfield-Livingston, a handsome, dapper man
with a parasitic twin growing out of his chest. He calls it Chaz. It looks like an infant with
its head buried in his ribcage. He dresses it in miniature suits, with black patent shoes on
its feet, and when Charles walks, he holds its little hands in his. Rumor has it that Chaz's
tiny penis even gets erections.
Uncle Al is desperate to get there before someone else snaps him up.
And so, despite the fact that our posters are all over Saratoga Springs; despite the fact that
it was supposed to be a two-day stop and we've just had 2,200 loaves of bread, 116
pounds of butter, 360 dozen eggs, 1,570 pounds of meat, 11 cases of sauerkraut, 105
pounds of sugar, 24 crates of oranges,
52 pounds of lard, 1,200 pounds of vegetables, and 212 cans of coffee delivered to the
lot; despite the tons of hay and turnips and beets and other
food for the animals that is piled out back of the menagerie tent; despite the hundreds of
townspeople gathered at the edge of the lot right now, first in excitement, and then in
bewilderment, and now in fast-growing anger; despite all this, we are tearing down and
moving out.
The cook is apoplectic. The advance man is threatening to quit. The
boss hostler is furious, whacking the beleaguered men of the Flying Squadron with
flagrant abandon.
Everyone here has been down this route before. Mostly they're worried
they won't be fed enough during the three-day journey to Joliet. The cookWater for E l e
p h a n ts
house crew are doing their best, scrabbling to haul as much food as they can back to the
main train and promising to hand out dukeys—apparently some kind of boxed meal—at
the first opportunity.
WHEN AUGUST LEARNS we have a three-day jump in front of
us, he lets loose a string of curses, then strides back and forth, damning Uncle Al to hell
and barking orders at the rest of us. While we haul food for the animals back to the train,
August goes off to try to persuade—and if necessary, to bribe—the cookhouse steward
into parting with some of the food meant for humans.
Diamond Joe and I carry buckets of offal from behind the menagerie
to the main train. It's from the local stockyards, and is repulsive—smelly, bloody, and
charred. We put the buckets just inside the entrance of the stock cars. The inhabitants—
camels, zebras, and other hay burners—kick and fuss and make all manner of protest, but
they are going to have to travel with the meat because there is no other place to put it.
The big cats travel on top of the flat cars in parade dens.
When we're finished, I go looking for August. He's behind the cookhouse loading a
wheelbarrow with the odds and ends he's managed to beg
off the cookhouse crew.
"We're pretty much loaded," I say. "Should we do anything about water?" "Dump and
refill the buckets. They've loaded the water wagon, but it won't last three days. We'll have
to stop along the way. Uncle Al may be a tough old crow, but he's no fool. He won't risk
the animals. No animals, no circus. Is all the meat on board?"
"As much as will fit."
"Priority goes to the meat. If you have to toss off hay to make room, do it. Cats are worth
more than hay burners."
"We're packed to the gills. Unless Kinko and I sleep somewhere else, there's no room for
anything else."
August pauses, tapping his pursed lips. "No," he says finally. "Marlena would never
tolerate meat on board with her horses."
At least I know where I stand. Even if it is somewhere below the cats. Sara Gruen
THE WATER AT THE BOTTOM of the horses' buckets is murky
and has oats floating in it. But it's water all the same, so I carry the buckets outside,
remove my shirt and dump what's left over my arms, head,
and chest.
"Feeling a little less than fresh, Doc?" says August.
I'm leaning over with water dripping from my hair. I wipe both eyes clear and stand up.
"Sorry. I didn't see any other water to use, and I was just going to dump it, anyway."
"No, quite right, quite right. We can hardly expect our vet to live like
a working man, can we? I'll tell you what, Jacob. It's a little late now, but
when we get to Joliet I'll arrange for you to start getting your own water. Performers and
bosses get two buckets apiece; more, if you're willing to grease the water man's palm," he
says, rubbing his fingers and thumb. "I'll also set you up with the Monday Man and see
about getting you another set of clothes."
"The Monday Man?"
"What day did your mother do the washing, Jacob?" I stare at him. "Surely you don't
mean—"
"All that wash hanging up on lines. It would be a shame to let it go to waste."
"But—"
"Never you mind, Jacob. If you don't want to know the answer to a question, don't ask.
And don't use that slime to clean up. Follow me." He leads me back across the lot to one
of only three tents left standing. Inside are hundreds of buckets, lined up two deep in
front of trunks and clothes racks, with names or initials painted on the sides. Men in
various states of undress are using them to bathe and shave.
"Here," he says, pointing at a pair of buckets. "Use these."
"But what about Walter?" I ask, reading the name from the side of one of them.
"Oh, I know Walter. He'll understand. Got a razor?" "No."
"I have some back there," he says, pointing across the tent. "At the far W a t e r for E l e p
h a n ts
end. They're labeled with my name. Hurry up though—I'm guessing we'll be out of here
in another half an hour."
"Thanks," I say.
"Don't mention it," he says. "I'll leave a shirt for you in the stock car." WHEN I
RETURN to the stock car, Silver Star is against the far
wall in knee-deep straw. His eyes are glassy, his heart rate high.
The other horses are still outside, so I get my first good look at the place. It has sixteen
standing stalls, which are formed by dividers that swing across after each horse is led in.
If the car hadn't been adulterated for the mysterious and missing goats, it would hold
thirty-two horses.
I find a clean white shirt laid across the end of Kinko's cot. I strip out of my old one and
toss it onto the horse blanket in the corner. Before I put the new shirt on, I bring it to my
nose, grateful for the scent of laundry soap. As I'm buttoning it, Kinko's books catch my
eye. They're sitting on the crate beside the kerosene lamp. I tuck in my shirt, sit on the
cot, and reach for the top one.
It's the complete works of Shakespeare. Underneath is a collection of Wordsworth
poems, a Bible, and a book of plays by Oscar Wilde. A few small comic books are hidden
inside the front cover of the Shakespeare. I recognize them immediately. They're eight-
pagers.
I flip one open. A crudely drawn Olive Oyl lies on a bed with her legs open, naked but
for her shoes. She spreads herself with her fingers. Popeye
appears in a thought bubble above her head, with a bulging erection that reaches to his
chin. Wimpy, with an equally enormous erection, peers through the window.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I drop the comic, then bend quickly to retrieve it.
"Just leave it the hell alone!" says Kinko, storming over and snatching it from my hands.
"And get the hell off my bed!"
I leap up.
"Look here, pal," he says, reaching up to jab his finger into my chest. "I'm not exactly
thrilled about having to bunk with you, but apparently S a r a G r u en
I don't have a choice in the matter. But you better believe I have a choice about whether
you mess with my stuff."
He is unshaven, his blue eyes burning in a face that is the color of beets. "You're right," I
stammer. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched your things."
"Listen, pisshead. I had a nice gig going here until you came along. Plus I'm in a bad
mood anyway. Some asshole used my water today, so you'd best stay out of my way. I
may be short, but don't think I can't take you." My eyes widen. I recover but not soon
enough.
His eyes narrow to slits. He scans the shirt, my clean-shaven face. He chucks the eight-
pager onto his cot. "Aw hell. Haven't you done enough already?"
"I'm sorry. Honest to God, I didn't know it was yours. August said I could use it."
"Did he also say you could go through my stuff?" I pause, embarrassed. "No."
He gathers his books and stuffs them into the crate. "Kinko—Walter—I'm sorry."
"That's Kinko to you, pal. Only my friends call me Walter."
I walk to the corner and sink down on my horse blanket. Kinko helps Queenie onto the
bed and lies down beside her, staring so pointedly at the ceiling I half-expect it to start
smoldering.
BEFORE LONG, THE TRAIN pulls out. A few dozen angry men
chase us for a while, swinging pitchforks and baseball bats, although it's mostly for the
benefit of the tale they'll get to tell at dinner tonight. If they had really wanted a fight
there was plenty of time before we pulled out. It's not that I can't see their point—their
wives and children had been looking forward to the circus for days, and they themselves
had probably been looking forward to some of the other entertainments rumored to be
available in the back of our lot. And now, instead of sampling the charms of the
magnificent Barbara, they'll have to content themselves with their eight-pagers. I can see
why a guy might get steamed.
Kinko and I clatter along in hostile silence as the train gets up to speed. Water for E l e p
h a n ts
He lies on his cot, reading. Queenie rests her head on his socks. Mostly she
sleeps^ but whenever she's awake, she watches me. I sit on the horse blanket, bone-weary
but not yet tired enough to lie down and suffer the indignities
of vermin and mildew.
At what should be dinnertime, I get up and stretch. Kinko's eyes dart over from behind
his book, and then back to the text.
I walk out to the horses and stand looking over their alternating black
and white backs. When we reloaded them, we moved everyone up to give Silver Star all
four empty stalls' worth of space. Even though the rest of the horses are now in
unfamiliar slots, they seem largely unperturbed, probably because we loaded them in the
