Then he stops, bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.
I try to help, but every time I get near, my diaphragm erupts in fresh spasms.
"I'm sorry," I say when Otis returns. I'm still gagging. "I cant do it. I just can't."
He shoots me a dirty look.
"My stomach's off," I say, feeling the need to explain. "I drank too much last night."
"Yeah, I'll bet you did," he says. "Have a seat, monkey boy. I'll take care of it."
Otis dumps the rest of the meat at the tree line, leaving it in a heap that buzzes with flies.
We leave the door to the camel car wide open, but it's clear a simple airing out won't be
sufficient.
Water for E l e p h a n ts
We lead the camels and llamas down the tracks and tie them to the side of the train. Then
we slosh buckets of water across the floorboards, using push brooms to sluice the
resulting muck from the car. The stench is still overwhelming, but it's the best we can do.
After we tend to the rest of the animals, I return to the ring stock car. Silver Star is lying
on his side, and Marlena is kneeling next to him, still wearing the rose dress from the
night before. I walk past the long line of open stall dividers and stand beside her.
Silver Star's eyes are barely open. He flinches and grunts in reaction to some unseen
stimulus.
"He's worse," Marlena says without looking at me. After a moment I say, "Yes."
"Is there any chance he'll recover? Any chance at all?"
I hesitate, because what's on the tip of my tongue is a lie and I find I can't utter it.
"You can tell me the truth," she says. "I need to know." "No. I'm afraid there's no chance
at all."
She lays a hand on his neck, holding it there. "In that case, promise me it will be quick. I
don't want him to suffer."
I understand what she's asking me, and shut my eyes. "I promise." She rises and stands
staring down at him. I'm marveling and not just
a little unnerved at her stoic reaction when a strange noise rises from her throat. It's
followed by a moan, and next thing I know she's bawling. She doesn't even try to wipe
the tears that slide down her cheeks, just stands hugging her arms with shoulders heaving,
gasping for breath. She looks like she's going to collapse in on herself.
I stare in horror. I have no sisters and my limited experience with comforting women has
always been over something a hell of a lot less devastating
than this. After a few moments of indecision, I lay a hand on her shoulder.
She turns and falls against me, pressing her wet cheek into myAugust's—tuxedo shirt. I
rub her back, making shushing noises until her tears finally subside into jerky hiccups.
Then she pulls away.
Her eyes and nose are swollen and pink, her face slick with mucus. She S a r a G r u en
sniffs and wipes her lower lashes with the back of each hand, as though
that will do any good. Then she straightens her shoulders and leaves without looking
back, her high heels tapping down the length of the car. "AUGUST," I SAY, standing
beside the bed and shaking his shoulder.
He flops limply, as responsive as a corpse. I lean and shout in his ear. "August!"
He grunts, irritated. "August! Wake up!"
Finally he shifts, rolling and placing a hand over his eyes. "Oh God,"
he says. "Oh God, I think my head is going to explode. Close the curtain, will you?"
"Do you have a gun?"
The hand drops from the eyes. He sits up. "What?"
"I have to put Silver Star down."
You can t. "I have to."
"You heard Uncle Al. If anything happens to that horse, you'll be redlighted."
"Which means what, exactly?"
"Chucked from the train. When it's moving. If you're lucky, within
sight of a train yard's red lights so you can find your way to town. If you're not, well,
you'd just better hope they don't open the door while the train's crossing a trestle."
Camel's remark about having an appointment with Blackie suddenly makes sense—as do
various comments from my first meeting with Uncle Al. "In that case I'll take my chances
and stay right here when the train pulls out. But either way, that horse needs putting
down."
August stares at me with black-ringed eyes.
"Shit," he says finally. He swings his legs around so that he's sitting at the edge of the
bed. He rubs his stubbled cheeks. "Does Marlena know?" he asks, leaning over to scratch
his black-socked toes.
Water for E l e p h a n ts "Yes."
"Fuck," he says, getting to his feet. He holds one hand to his head. "Al's going to have a
fit. Okay, meet me at the stock car in a few minutes. I'll bring the gun."
I turn to leave. "Oh, Jacob?" "Yes?" I say.
"Change out of my tux first, will you?"
WHEN I GET BACK to the stock car, the interior door is open. I
poke my head in with more than a little trepidation, but Kinko is gone. I go inside and
change into my regular clothes. A few minutes later, August shows up with a rifle.
"Here," he says, climbing the ramp. He hands me the gun and drops two shells into my
other palm.
I slip one into my pocket and hold the other one out. "I only need one."
"What if you miss?"
"For crying out loud, August, I'm going to be standing right next to him."
He stares at me, and then takes the extra shell. "Okay, fine. Take him a good ways from
the train to do it."
"You've got to be kidding. He can't walk."
"You can't do it here," he says. "The other horses are right outside." I just look at him.
"Shit," he says finally. He turns and leans against the wall, his fingers beating a tattoo
against the slats. "Okay. Fine."
He walks to the door. "Otis! Joe! Get the other horses out of here. Take them at least as
far up as the second section."
Someone outside mumbles.
"Yeah, I know," says August. "But they're just going to have to
wait. Yeah, I know that. I'll talk to Al and tell him we have a little ... complication."
S a r a G r u en
He turns back to me. "I'm going to find Al." "You better find Marlena, too."
"I thought you said she knew?"
"She does. But I don't want her to be alone when she hears that shot. Do you?"
August stares at me long and hard. Then he clomps down the ramp, planting his feet with
such force the boards bounce beneath him.
I WAIT A FULL fifteen minutes, both to give August time to find Uncle Al and Marlena
and also to let the other men move the rest of the animals far enough away.
Finally I pick up the rifle, slide the shell into the chamber, and throw
the bolt. Silver Stars muzzle is pressed up against the end of his stall, his ears twitching. I
lean over and run my fingers down his neck. Then I place the muzzle of the gun under his
left ear and pull the trigger.
There's an explosion of sound and the butt of the rifle bucks into my
shoulder. Silver Star's body seizes, his muscles responding to one last synaptical spasm
before finally falling still. From far away, I hear a single desperate whinny.
My ears are ringing as I climb down from the stock car, but even so
it seems to me that the scene is eerily silent. A small crowd of people has gathered. They
stand motionless, their faces long. One man pulls his hat from his head and presses it to
his chest.
I walk a few dozen yards from the train, climb the grassy bank, and sit rubbing my
shoulder.
Otis, Pete, and Earl enter the stock car and then reappear, hauling Silver Star's lifeless
body down the ramp by a rope tied to his hind feet. Upside down his belly looks huge and
vulnerable, a smooth expanse of snowy white dotted by black-skinned genitals. His
lifeless head nods in agreement with each yank of the rope.
I sit for close to an hour, staring at the grass between my feet. I pluck a few blades and
roll them in my fingers, wondering why the hell it's taking them so long to pull out.
Water for E l e p h a n ts
After a while August approaches. He stares at me, and then leans over to pick up the rifle.
I hadn't been aware of bringing it with me.
"Come on, pal," he says. "Don't want to get left behind." "I think I do."
"Don't worry about what I said earlier—I talked to Al, and no one's getting redlighted.
You're fine."
I stare sullenly at the ground. After a while, August sits beside me. "Or are you?" he says.
"How's Marlena?" I respond.
August watches me for a moment and then digs a package of Camels from his shirt
pocket. He shakes one loose and offers it to me.
"No thanks," I say.
"Is that the first time you've shot a horse?" he says, plucking the cigarette from the
package with his teeth.
"No. But it doesn't mean I like it." "Part of being a vet, my boy." "Which, technically, I'm
not."
"So you missed the exams. Big deal." "It is a big deal."
"No it isn't. It's just a piece of paper, and nobody here gives a damn about that. You're on
a show now. The rules are different."
"How so?"
He waves toward the train. "Tell me, do you honestly think this is the most spectacular
show on earth?"
I don't answer.
"Eh?" he says, leaning into me with his shoulder. "I don't know."
"No. It's nowhere near. It's probably not even the fiftieth most spectacular show on earth.
We hold maybe a third of the capacity Ringling does. You already know that Marlena's
not Romanian royalty. And Lucinda? Nowhere near eight hundred and eighty-five
pounds. Four hundred, tops. And do you really think Frank Otto got tattooed by angry
headhunters
in Borneo? Hell no. He used to be a stake driver on the Flying Squadron. ' 103
Sara Gruen
He worked on that ink for nine years. And you want to know what Uncle Al did when the
hippo died? He swapped out her water for formaldehyde and kept on showing her. For
two weeks we traveled with a pickled hippo. The whole thing's illusion, Jacob, and there's
nothing wrong with that. It's what people want from us. It's what they expect."
He stands up and holds out a hand. After a moment, I take it and let him pull me to my
feet.
We walk toward the train.
"Damn, August," I say. "I almost forgot. The cats haven't eaten. We had to dump their
meat."
"It's all right, my boy," he says. "It's already been taken care of." "What do you mean,
taken care of?"
I stop in my tracks.
"August? What do you mean it's been taken care of?"
August continues walking, the gun slung casually over his shoulder. Eight
Wake up, Mr. Jankowski. You're having a bad dream." My eyes snap open. Where am I?
Oh, hell and damnation.
"I wasn't dreaming," I protest.
"Well, you were talking in your sleep, sure enough," says the nurse. It's the nice black girl
again. Why do I have such trouble remembering her name? "Something about feeding
stars to cats. Now don't you go fretting about those cats—I'm sure they got fed, even if it
was after you woke up. Now why did they go and put these on you?" she muses, ripping
open my Velcro wrist restraints. "You didn't try to run off now, did you?"
"No. I had the audacity to complain about that pablum they feed us." I glance sideways at
her. "And then my plate sort of slid off the table." She stops and looks at me. Then she
bursts out laughing. "Oh, you're a live one, all right," she says, rubbing my wrists
between her warm hands. "Oh my."
It comes to me in a flash: Rosemary! Ha. So I'm not senile after all. Rosemary.
Rosemary. Rosemary.
I must think of a way to commit it to memory, a rhyme or something. I may have
remembered this morning, but that's no guarantee I'll remember it tomorrow or even later
today.
She goes to the window and opens the blinds; "Do you mind?" I say.
"Do I mind what?" she replies.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this my room? What if I don't want the blinds open? I
tell you, I'm getting mighty sick of everyone thinking they know better than I do about
what I want."
S a r a G r u en
Rosemary gazes at me. Then she drops the blinds and marches from the room, letting the
door shut behind her. My mouth opens in surprise.
A moment later there are three taps on the door. It opens a crack. "Good morning, Mr.
Jankowski, may I come in?"
What the hell game is she playing? "I said, may I come in?" she repeats. "Of course," I
sputter.
"Thank you kindly," she says coming in and standing at the foot of my
bed. "Now, would you like me to open the blinds and let the good Lord's sun shine in on
you, or would you rather sit here in pitch darkness all day long?" "Oh, go ahead and open
them. And stop it with that nonsense."
"It's not nonsense, Mr. Jankowski," she says, going to the window and opening the
blinds. "Not a bit of it. I'd never thought of it that way before, and I thank you for
opening my eyes."
Is she making fun of me? I narrow my eyes, examining her face for clues.
"Now, am I correct in thinking you'd like breakfast in your room?"
I don't answer, as I'm still undecided as to whether I smell a rat. You'd think they'd have
