under the shiny fresh paint, is another name: CHRISTY BROS CIRCUS. "Jacob!"
Marlena's voice floats from a window. A few seconds later she appears on the platform at
the end, swinging out from the handrail so
that her skirt swirls around her. "Jacob! Oh, I'm so glad you could make it. Please come
in!"
"Thanks," I say, glancing around. I climb up and follow her down the interior
passageway and through the second door.
Stateroom 3 is glorious as well as a misnomer—it constitutes half the car, and contains at
least one additional room, which is cordoned off with a thick velvet curtain. The main
room is paneled in walnut and outfitted with damask furniture, a dinette, and a Pullman
kitchen.
"Please make yourself comfortable," says Marlena, waving me toward one of the chairs.
"August will be along in a minute."
"Thank you," I say. She sits opposite me.
"Oh," she says leaping up again. "Where are my manners? Would you like a beer?"
"Thank you," I say. "That would be swell." She flutters past me to an icebox.
"Mrs. Rosenbluth, can I ask you something?" Sara Gruen
"Oh, please, call me Marlena," she says, popping the bottle cap. She tips
a tall glass and pours beer slowly down its side, avoiding a foam head. "And yes, by all
means. Ask away." She hands me the glass, and then returns to get another.
"How is it that everyone on this train has so much alcohol?"
"We always head to Canada at the beginning of the season," she says, taking her seat
again. "Their laws are much more civilized. Cheers," she says, holding out her glass.
I touch mine to hers and take a sip. It's a cold, clean lager. Magnificent. "Don't the border
guards check?"
"We put the booze in with the camels," she says.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," I say. "Camels spit."
I nearly spurt beer through my nose. She giggles too, and brings a hand demurely to her
mouth. Then she sighs and puts her beer down. "Jacob?" "Yes?"
"August told me about what happened this morning." I glance at my bruised arm.
"He feels terrible. He likes you. He really does. It's j u s t ... Well, it's complicated." She
looks into her lap, blushing.
"Hey, it's nothing," I say. "It's fine."
"Jacob!" shouts August from behind me. "My dear fellow! So glad you could join our
little soiree. I see Marlena has set you up with a drinky-poo; has she shown you the
dressing room yet?"
"The dressing room?"
"Marlena," he says, turning and shaking his head sadly. He waggles a finger in
reprimand. "Tsk tsk, darling."
"Oh!" she says, leaping to her feet. "I completely forgot!" August walks to the velvet
curtain and whisks it aside. "Ta-dah!"
There are three outfits lying side by side on the bed. Two tuxedos, complete with shoes,
and a beautiful rose silk dress with beading on its neck
and hemline.
Water for E l e p h a n ts
Marlena squeals, clapping her hands in delight. She rushes to the bed and grabs the dress,
pressing it to her body and twirling.
I turn to August. "These aren't from the Monday Man—"
"A tux on a wash line ? No, Jacob. Being equestrian director has the odd perk. You can
clean up in there," he says, pointing to a polished wooden door. "Marlena and I will
change out here. Nothing we haven't seen before, eh darling?" he says.
She grabs a rose silk shoe by the heel and chucks it at him.
The last thing I see as I shut the bathroom door is a tangle of feet toppling forward onto
the bed.
When I come back out, Marlena and August are the picture of dignity, hovering in the
background as three white-gloved waiters fuss with a small wheeled table and silver-
domed platters.
The neckline of Marlena's dress barely covers her shoulders, exposing
her collarbone and a slim bra strap. She follows my gaze and tucks the strap back under
the material, blushing once again.
The dinner is sublime: We start with oyster bisque and follow with prime rib, boiled
potatoes, and asparagus in cream. Then comes lobster salad. By the time dessert
appears—English plum pudding with brandy sauce—I don't think I can take another bite.
And yet a few minutes later I find myself scraping my plate with my spoon.
"Apparently Jacob doesn't find dinner up to snuff," August says in a slow drawl.
I freeze midscrape.
Then he and Marlena dissolve into fits of giggles. I set my spoon down, mortified.
"No, no, my boy, I'm joking—obviously," he chortles, leaning over to pat my hand. "Eat.
Enjoy yourself. Here, have some more," he says. "No, I couldn't possibly."
"Well, have some more wine then," he says, refilling my glass without waiting for a
response.
August is gracious, charming, and mischievous—so much so that as
the evening wears on I begin to think the incident with Rex was just a joke S a r a G r u
en
gone awry. His face glows with wine and sentiment as he regales me with the tale of how
he wooed Marlena. Of how he recognized her powerful way with horses the very moment
she entered his menagerie tent three years before—sensed it from the horses themselves.
And how, to the great distress of Uncle Al, he refused to budge until he had swept her off
her feet and married her.
"It took some doing," says August, emptying the remains of one champagne bottle into
my glass and then reaching for another. "Marlena's no
pushover, plus she was practically engaged at the time. But this beats being the wife of a
stuffy banker, doesn't it, darling? At any rate, it's what she was born to do. Not everyone
can work with liberty horses. It's a God-given talent, a sixth sense, if you will. This girl
speaks horse, and believe me, they listen."
Four hours and six bottles into the evening, August and Marlena dance
to "Maybe It's the Moon," while I lounge in an upholstered chair with my right leg draped
over its arm. August twirls Marlena around and then stops with her extended from the
end of his straightened arm. He's weaving, his dark hair tousled. His bow tie trails from
either side of his collar and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone. He stares at
Marlena with such intensity he looks like a different man.
"What's the matter?" says Marlena. "Auggie? Are you all right?"
He continues to stare into her face, cocking his head as though evaluating her. The edge
of his lip curls. He starts to nod, slowly, barely moving
his head.
Marlena's eyes grow wide. She tries to step backward, but he catches her chin with his
hand.
I sit forward, suddenly on full alert.
August stares for a moment longer, his eyes shiny and hard. Then his face transforms
again, becoming so sloppy that for a moment I think he's going to burst into tears. He
pulls her to him by the chin and kisses her full on the lips. Then he steers himself into the
bedroom and collapses face first onto the bed.
"Excuse me a moment," Marlena says. W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
She goes into the bedroom and rolls him over so he's sprawled across
the center of the bed. She removes his shoes and drops them to the floor. When she
comes out, she pulls the velvet curtain shut and immediately changes her mind. She pulls
it open again, turns off the radio, and sits opposite me.
A snore of kingly proportions rumbles from the bedroom. My head is buzzing. I am
entirely drunk.
"What the hell was that?" I ask.
"What?" Marlena kicks off her shoes, crosses her legs, and leans forward to rub the arch
of her foot. August's fingers have left red marks on
her chin.
"That," I sputter. "Just now. When you were dancing."
She looks up sharply. Her face contorts, and for a moment I'm afraid she's going to cry.
Then she turns to the window and holds a finger to her lips. She is silent for almost half a
minute.
"You have to understand something about Auggie," she says, "and I don't quite know
how to explain it."
I lean forward. "Try."
"He's ... mercurial. He's capable of being the most charming man on earth. Like tonight."
I wait for her to continue. "And... ?"
She leans back in her chair. "And, well, he has ... moments. Like today."
"What about today?"
"He nearly fed you to a cat."
"Oh. That. I can't say I was thrilled, but I was hardly in danger. Rex has no teeth."
"No, but he's four hundred pounds and he has claws," she says quietly.
I set my wineglass on the table as the enormity of this sinks in.
Marlena pauses, then lifts her eyes to meet mine. "Jankowski is a Polish name, isn't it?"
"Yes. Of course."S a r a G r u en
"Poles do not, in general, like Jews." "I didn't realize August was Jewish."
"With a name like Rosenbluth?" she says. She looks at her fingers, twisting them in her
lap. "My family is Catholic. They disowned me when they found out."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Although I'm not surprised." She looks up sharply.
"I didn't mean it like that," I say. "I'm n o t ... like that." An uncomfortable silence
stretches between us.
"So why am I here?" I finally ask. My drunken brain is unable to process all this.
"I wanted to smooth things over." "You did? He didn't want me here?"
"No, of course he did. He wanted to make it up to you, too, but it's
harder for him. He can't help his little moments. They embarrass him. The best thing to
do is pretend they didn't happen." She sniffs and turns to me with a tight smile. "And we
had a lovely time, didn't we?"
"Yes. Dinner was lovely. Thank you."
As yet another silence engulfs us, it dawns on me that unless I want to
try leaping across train cars drunk and in the dead of night, I'll be sleeping right where I
am.
"Please, Jacob," says Marlena. "I do so want things to be all right between us. August is
simply delighted you've joined us. And so is Uncle AL"
"And why is that, exactly?"
"Uncle Al was touchy about not having a vet, and then out of blue, here you are, from an
Ivy League school no less."
I stare, still trying to comprehend.
"Ringling has a vet," Marlena continues, "and being like Ringling makes Uncle Al
happy."
"I thought he hated Ringling." "Darling, he wants to be Ringling."
I lean my head back and shut my eyes, but this results in disastrous W a t e r for E l e p h
a n ts
spinning, so I open them again and try to focus on the feet dangling from the end of the
bed.
WHEN I WAKE UP, the train has stopped—can I really have slept
through the screeching brakes? The sun is shining on me through the window, and my
brain pounds against my skull. My eyes ache and my mouth
tastes like a sewer.
I stagger to my feet and glance into the bedroom. August is curled
around Marlena, his arm lying across her. They are on top of the bedspread, still fully
dressed.
I get a few odd looks when I emerge from car 48 dressed in a tux with my other clothes
tucked under my arm. At this end of the train, where most of the onlookers are
performers, I am regarded with frosty amusement. As I pass the working men's sleepers,
the glances become harder, more suspicious.
I climb gingerly into the stock car and push open the door of the little room.
Kinko is sitting on the edge of his cot, an eight-pager in one hand and his penis in the
other. He stops midstroke, its slick purple head extending beyond his fist. There's a
heartbeat of silence followed by the whoosh of an empty Coke bottle flying at my head. I
duck.
"Get out!" Kinko screams as the bottle explodes against the doorframe behind me. He
leaps up, causing his erection to bounce wildly. "Get the hell out!" He lobs another bottle
at me.
I turn to the door, shielding my head and dropping my clothes. I hear a zipper running up,
and a moment later the complete works of Shakespeare
smash into the wall beside me. "Okay, okay!" I shout. "I'm leaving!" I pull the door shut
behind me and lean against the wall. The curses continue unabated.
Otis appears outside the stock car. He looks in alarm at the closed door and then shrugs.
"Hey, fancy boy," he says. "You gonna help us with these animals or what?"
"Sure. Of course." I jump to the ground. Sara Gruen
He stares at me. "What?" I say.
"Ain't you gonna change out of the monkey suit first?"
I glance back at the closed door. Something heavy slams against the interior wall. "Uh,
no. I think I'll stay like I am for the time being." "Your call. Clive's cleaned out the cats.
He wants us to bring the meat."
THERE'S EVEN MORE noise coming from the camel car this morning.
"Them hay burners sure don't like traveling with meat," says Otis.
"Wish they'd stop kicking up such a fuss, though. We got a fair bit farther to go."
I slide the door open. Flies explode outward. I see the maggots just as the smell hits. I
manage to stagger a few feet away before vomiting. Otis joins me, doubled over, clasping
his hands to his gut.
After he finishes throwing up, he takes a few deep breaths and pulls a filthy handkerchief
from his pocket. He clasps it over his mouth and nose, and returns to the car. He grabs a
bucket, runs to the tree line and dumps it. He holds his breath until he's halfway back.
