that preference written on my chart by now, but they ask me the same damned question
every morning. Of course I would rather take my breakfast in the dining room. Taking it
in my bed makes me feel like an invalid. But breakfast follows the early-morning diaper
change,
and the smell of feces fills the hallway and makes me retch. It's not until an hour or two
after each and every one of the incapacitated folks has been cleaned, fed, and parked
outside their doors that it's safe to poke your head out.
"Now, Mr. Jankowski—if you expect people to try to do things your way, you're going to
have to give some hints as to what that way is." "Yes. Please. I'll have it in here," I say.
"All right, then. Would you like your shower before or after breakfast?"
"What makes you think I need a shower?" I say, thoroughly offended, even though I'm
not at all sure I don't need a shower.
"Because this is the day your people visit," she says, flashing that big 106
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
smile again. "And because I thought you'd like to be nice and fresh for your outing this
afternoon."
My outing? Ah, yes! The circus. I must say, waking up two days in a row and having the
prospect of a visit to the circus ahead of me has been nice. "I think I'll take it before
breakfast if you don't mind," I say pleasantly. ONE OF THE greatest indignities about
being old is that people
insist on helping you with things like bathing and going to the washroom. I don't in fact
require help with either, but they're all so afraid I'm
going to slip and break my hip again that I get a chaperone whether I
like it or not. I always insist on walking into the washroom myself, but there's always
someone there, just in case, and for some reason it's always a woman. I make whoever it
is turn around while I drop my drawers and sit, and then I send her outside until I'm
finished.
Bathing is even more embarrassing, because I have to strip down to my birthday suit in
front of a nurse. Now, there are some things that never die, so even though I'm in my
nineties my sap sometimes rises. I can't
help it. They always pretend not to notice. They're trained that way, I suppose, although
pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing. It
means they consider me nothing more than a harmless old man sporting a harmless old
penis that still gets uppity once in a while. Although if one of them took it seriously and
tried to do something about it, the shock would probably kill me.
Rosemary helps me into the shower stall. "There, now you just hold on to that bar over
there—"
"I know, I know. I've had showers before," I say, grabbing the bar and easing myself onto
the bath chair. Rosemary runs the shower head down the pole so I can reach it.
"How's that for temperature, Mr. Jankowski?" she asks, waving her hand in and out of the
stream and keeping her gaze discreetly averted. "Fine. Just give me some shampoo and
go outside, will you?"
"Why, Mr. Jankowski, you are in a mood today, aren't you?" She opens the shampoo and
squeezes a few drops onto my palm. It's all I need. I've
tropical
only got about a dozen hairs left. S a r a G r u en
"You give me a shout if you need anything," she says, pulling the curtain across. "I'll be
right out here."
"Hrrrmph" I say.
Once she's gone I quite enjoy my shower. I take the shower head from its mount and
spray my body from up close, aiming it over my shoulders and down my back and then
over each of my skinny limbs. I even hold my head back witJi my eyes shut and let the
spray hit my face full on. I pretend it's a
shower, shaking my head and reveling in it. I even enjoy the feel of it down there, on that
shriveled pink snake that fathered five children so long ago. Sometimes, when I'm in bed,
I close my eyes and remember the look—and especially the feel—of a woman's naked
body. Usually it's my wife's, but not always. I was completely faithful to her. Not once in
more than sixty years did I stray, except in my imagination, and I have a feeling she
wouldn't have minded that. She was a woman of extraordinary understanding.
Dear Lord, I miss that woman. And not just because if she were still alive,
I wouldn't be here, although that's the God's truth. No matter how decrepit we became,
we would have looked after each other, like we always did. But after she was gone, I
didn't stand a chance against the kids. The first time I took a fall, they had it sewn up as
quick as you can say Cracker Jack.
But Dad, they said, you broke your hip, as though maybe I hadn't
noticed. I dug in my heels. I threatened to cut them off without a cent
until I remembered they already controlled my money. They didn't remind me—they just
let me rail on like an old fool until I remembered of my own accord, and that made me
even angrier because if they had any respect for me at all they would have at least made
sure I had the facts straight. I felt like a toddler whose tantrum was being allowed to run
its course.
As the enormity of my helplessness dawned on me, my position began to slip.
You're right, I conceded. I guess I could use some help. I suppose having someone come
in during the day wouldn't be so bad, just to help out with the cooking and cleaning. No?
Well, how about a live-in? I know I've let things slip a little since your mother died ... But
I thought you said ... Okay, then one of you can move in with m e ... But I don't
understand... Well, Simon, your house is large. Surely I could... ?
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts It was not to be.
I remember leaving my house for the last time, bundled up like a cat
on the way to the vet. As the car pulled away, my eyes were so clouded by tears I couldn't
look back.
It's not a nursing home, they said. It's assisted living—progressive, you see. You'll only
have help for the things you need, and then when you get older...
They always trailed off there, as though that would prevent me from following the
thought to its logical conclusion.
For a long time, I felt betrayed that not one of my five children offered to take me in. No
longer. Now that I've had time to mull it over, I see they've got enough problems without
adding me into the mix.
Simon is around seventy and has had at least one heart attack. Ruth has diabetes, and
Peter has prostate trouble. Joseph's wife ran off with a cabana boy when they were in
Greece, and while Dinah's breast cancer seems to have gone into remission—thank
God—now she's got her granddaughter living with her, trying to get the girl back on track
after two illegitimate children and an arrest for shoplifting.
And those are just the things I know about. There are a host of others they don't mention
because they don't want to upset me. I've caught wind of several, but when I ask
questions they clam right up. Mustn't upset Grandpa, you know.
Why? That's what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion,
because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don't know what's going on in their
lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation? I've decided it's not about
me at all. It's a protective mechanism for
them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers
distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home. When Simon
turned sixteen and got belligerent, I thought it
was just him. By the time Dinah got there, I knew it wasn't her fault—it was programmed
into her.
But despite bowdlerizing content, my family has been entirely faithful about visiting.
Someone comes every single Sunday, come hell or high water. They talk and they talk
and they talk, about how fine/foul/fair the
.^ 109 Sara Gruen
weather is, and what they did on vacation, and what they ate for lunch, and then at five on
the nose they look gratefully at the clock and leave. Sometimes they try to get me to go to
the bingo game down the hall
on their way out, like the batch from two weeks ago. Wouldn't you like to join in? they
said. We could take you there on our way out. Doesn't it sound like fun?
Sure, I said. Maybe if you're a rutabaga. And they laughed, which pleased me even
though I wasn't joking. At my age, you take credit for whatever you can. At least it
proved they were listening.
My platitudes don't hold their interest and I can hardly blame them for
that. My real stories are all out of date. So what if I can speak firsthand about the Spanish
flu, the advent of the automobile, world wars, cold wars, guerrilla wars, and Sputnik—
that's all ancient history now. But what else do I have
to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That's the reality of getting old, and I guess
that's really the crux of the matter. I'm not ready to be old yet. But I shouldn't complain,
this being circus day and all.
ROSEMARY RETURNS W I T H a breakfast tray, and when she pulls
off the brown plastic lid I see that she's put cream and brown sugar on my porridge.
"Now don't you go telling Dr. Rashid about the cream," she says. "Why not? I'm not
supposed to have cream?"
"Not you specifically. It's part of the specialized diet. Some of our residents can't digest
rich things the way they used to."
"What about butter?" I'm outraged. My mind skips back over the last weeks, months, and
years, trying to remember the last appearance of cream or butter in my life. Dang it, she's
right. Why didn't I notice? Or maybe I
did, and that's why I dislike the food so much. Well, it's no wonder. I suppose we're on
reduced salt as well.
"It's supposed to keep you healthier for longer," she says, shaking her
head. "But why you folks shouldn't enjoy a bit of butter in your golden years, I don't
know." She looks up sharply. "You still have your gallbladder, don't you?"
"Yes."
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
Her face softens again. "Well, in that case you enjoy that cream, Mr. Jankowski. Do you
want your TV on while you eat?"
"No. There's nothing but garbage on these days, anyway," I say.
"I couldn't agree more," she says, refolding the blanket at the foot of my bed. "You give
me a buzz if you need anything else."
After she leaves, I resolve to be nicer. I'll have to think of a way of reminding myself. I
suppose I could wrap a bit of napkin around my finger since I don't have any string.
People were always doing that in movies when I was younger. Wrapping strings around
their fingers to remember things, that is.
I reach for the napkin, and as I do I catch sight of my hands. They are knobby and
crooked, thin-skinned, and—like my ruined face—covered with liver spots.
My face. I push the porridge aside and open my vanity mirror. I should know better by
now, but somehow I still expect to see myself. Instead, I find an Appalachian apple doll,
withered and spotty, with dewlaps and bags and long floppy ears. A few strands of white
hair spring absurdly from its spotted skull.
I try to brush the hairs flat with my hand and freeze at the sight of my
old hand on my old head. I lean close and open my eyes very wide, trying to see beyond
the sagging flesh.
It's no good. Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes, I can't find myself
anymore. When did I stop being me?
I'm too sickened to eat. I put the brown lid back on the porridge and
then, with considerable difficulty, locate the pad that controls my bed.
I press the button that flattens its head, leaving the table hovering over
me like a vulture. Oh wait, there's a control here that lowers the bed, too. Good. Now I
can roll onto my side without hitting the damned table and spilling the porridge. Don't
want to do that again—they may call it a display
businessmen
of temper and summon Dr. Rashid.
Once my bed is flat and as low as it will go, I roll onto my side and stare out the Venetian
blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I'm lulled into a sort of peace.
The sky, the sky—same as it always was.
Nine
I'm daydreaming, staring out the open door at the sky when the brakes start their piercing
shriek and everything lurches forward. I brace myself against the rough floor and then,
after
I regain my balance, run my hands through my hair and tie my shoes. We must have
finally reached Joliet.
The rough-hewn door beside me squeaks open and Kinko comes out.
He leans against the frame of the main door with Queenie at his feet, staring intently at
the passing landscape. He hasn't looked at me since yesterday's incident, and to be frank,
I find it difficult to look at him, vacillating
as I do from feeling the deepest empathy for his mortification to being barely able not to
laugh. When the train finally chugs to a stop and sighs, Kinko and Queenie disembark
with the usual clap-clap and flying leap.
The scene outside is eerily quiet. Although the Flying Squadron pulled
in a good half hour ahead of us, its men stand around silently. There is no ordered chaos.
There is no clatter of runs or chutes, no cursing, no flying coils of rope, no hitching of
teams. There are simply hundreds of disheveled men staring in bafflement at the pitched
tents of another circus.
It's like a ghost town. There is a big top, but no crowd. A cookhouse, but no flag. Wagons
and dressing tents fill the back end, but the people who are left mill about aimlessly or sit
idly in the shade.
I jump down from the stock car just as a black and beige Plymouth roadster pulls into the
