I edge up to the glass and raise my face, squinting against the sunlight.
It's so bright it takes a moment for me to make out what's happening. Then the forms take
shape.
In the park at the end of the block is an enormous canvas tent, thickly striped in white and
magenta with an unmistakable peaked topMy ticker lurches so hard I clutch a fist to my
chest.
"Jacob! Oh, Jacob!" cries Hazel. "Oh dear! Oh dear!" Her hands flutter in confusion, and
she turns toward the hall. "Nurse! Nurse! Hurry!
It's Mr. Jankowski!"
"I'm fine," I say, coughing and pounding my chest. That's the problem with these old
ladies. They're always afraid you're about to keel over. "Hazel! I'm fine!"
But it's too late. I hear the squeak-squeak-squeak of rubber soles, and
moments later I'm engulfed by nurses. I guess I won't have to worry about getting back to
my chair after all.
"So WHAT'S ON the menu tonight?" I grumble as I'm steered into
the dining room. "Porridge? Mushy peas? Pablum? Oh, let me guess, it's tapioca isn't it?
Is it tapioca? Or are we calling it rice pudding tonight?" "Oh, Mr. Jankowski, you are a
card," the nurse says flatly. She doesn't need to answer, and she knows it. This being
Friday, we're having the usual nutritious but uninteresting combination of meat loaf,
creamed corn, reconstituted mashed potatoes, and gravy that may have been waved over
a piece of beef at some point in its life. And they wonder why I lose weight.
I know some of us don't have teeth, but I do, and I want pot roast. My Sara Gruen
wife's, complete with leathery bay leaves. I want carrots. I want potatoes boiled in their
skins. And I want a deep, rich cabernet sauvignon to wash it all down, not apple juice
from a tin. But above all, I want corn on the cob.
Sometimes I think that if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a
woman, I'd choose the corn. Not that I wouldn't love to have a final roll in the hay—I am
a man yet, and some things never die—but the thought of those sweet kernels bursting
between my teeth
sure sets my mouth to watering. It's fantasy, I know that. Neither will happen. I just like
to weigh the options, as though I were standing in front
of Solomon: a final roll in the hay or an ear of corn. What a wonderful dilemma.
Sometimes I substitute an apple for the corn.
Everyone at every table is talking about the circus—those who can
talk, that is. The silent ones, the ones with frozen faces and withered limbs or whose
heads and hands shake too violently to hold utensils, sit around the edges of the room
accompanied by aides who spoon little bits of food into their mouths and then coax them
into masticating. They remind me
of baby birds, except they're lacking all enthusiasm. With the exception of a slight
grinding of the jaw, their faces remain still and horrifyingly vacant. Horrifying because
I'm well aware of the road I'm on. I'm not there yet,
but it's coming. There's only one way to avoid it, and I can't say I much care for that
option either.
The nurse parks me in front of my meal. The gravy on the meat loaf
has already formed a skin. I poke experimentally with my fork. Its meniscus jiggles,
mocking me. Disgusted, I look up and lock eyes with Joseph McGuinty.
He's sitting opposite, a newcomer, an interloper—a retired barrister
with a square jaw, pitted nose, and great floppy ears. The ears remind me of Rosie,
although nothing else does. She was a fine soul, and he's—well, he's a retired lawyer. I
can't imagine what the nurses thought a lawyer and a veterinarian would have in
common, but they wheeled him on over to sit opposite me that first night, and here he's
been ever since..
He glares at me, his jaw moving back and forth like a cow chewing cud.
Incredible. He's actually eating the stuff. Water for E l e p h a n ts
The old ladies chatter like schoolgirls, blissfully unaware.
"They're here until Sunday," says Doris. "Billy stopped to find out." "Yes, two shows on
Saturday and one on Sunday. Randall and his girls are taking me tomorrow," says Norma.
She turns to me. "Jacob, will you be going?"
I open my mouth to answer, but before I can Doris blurts out, "And
did you see those horses? My word, they're pretty. We had horses when I was a girl. Oh,
how I loved to ride." She looks into the distance, and for a split second I can see how
lovely she was as a young woman.
"Do you remember when the circus traveled by train?" says Hazel.
"The posters would appear a few days ahead—they'd cover every surface in town! You
couldn't see a brick in between!"
"Golly, yes. I certainly do," Norma says. "They put posters on the side of our barn one
year. The men told Father they used a special glue that would dissolve two days after the
show, but darned if our barn wasn't still plastered with them months later!" She chuckles,
shaking her head. "Father
was fit to be tied!"
"And then a few days later the train would pull in. Always at the crack of dawn."
"My father used to take us down to the tracks to watch them unload. Gosh, that was
something to see. And then the parade! And the smell of peanuts roasting—"
"And Cracker Jack!"
"And candy apples, and ice cream, and lemonade!" "And the sawdust! It would get in
your nose!"
"I used to carry water for the elephants," says McGuinty.
I drop my fork and look up. He is positively dripping with self-satisfaction, just waiting
for the girls to fawn over him.
"You did not," I say. There is a beat of silence.
"I beg your pardon?" he says.
"You did not carry water for the elephants." "Yes, I most certainly did."
"No you didn't."S a r a G r u en
"Are you calling me a liar?" he says slowly.
"If you say you carried water for elephants, I am."
The girls stare at me with open mouths. My heart's pounding. I know I shouldn't do this,
but somehow I can't help myself.
"How dare you!" McGuinty braces his knobby hands on the edge of the table. Stringy
tendons appear in his forearms.
"Listen pal," I say. "For decades I've heard old coots like you talk about carrying water
for elephants and I'm telling you now, it never happened." "Old coot? Old coot?"
McGuinty pushes himself upright, sending his
wheelchair flying backward. He points a gnarled finger at me and then drops as though
felled by dynamite. He vanishes beneath the edge of the table, his eyes perplexed, his
mouth still open.
"Nurse! Oh, Nurse!" cry the old ladies.
There's the familiar patter of crepe-soled shoes and moments later
two nurses haul McGuinty up by the arms. He grumbles, making feeble attempts to shake
them off.
A third nurse, a pneumatic black girl in pale pink, stands at the end
of the table with her hands on her hips. "What on earth is going on?" she asks.
"That old S-O-B called me a liar, that's what," says McGuinty, safely restored to his
chair. He straightens his shirt, lifts his grizzled chin, and crosses his arms in front of him.
"And an old coot."
"Oh, I'm sure that's not what Mr. Jankowski meant," the girl in pink says.
"It most certainly is," I say. "And he is, too. Pffjffi. Carried water for the elephants
indeed. Do you have any idea how much an elephant drinks?" "Well, I never," says
Norma, pursing her lips and shaking her head. "I'm sure I don't know what's gotten into
you, Mr. Jankowski."
Oh, I see, I see. So that's how it is.
"It's an outrage!" says McGuinty, leaning slightly toward Norma now
that he sees he's got the popular vote. "I don't see why I should have to put up with being
called a liar!"
"And an old coot," I remind him. Water for E l e p h a n ts
"Mr. Jankowski!" says the black girl, her voice raised. She comes behind me and releases
the brakes on my wheelchair. "I think maybe you should spend some time in your room.
Until you calm down."
"Now wait just a minute!" I shout as she swings me away from the table and toward the
door. "I don't need to calm down. And besides, I haven't eaten!"
"I'll bring your dinner in," she says from behind.
"I don't want it in my room! Take me back! You can't do this to me!"
But it appears she can. She wheels me down the hall at lightning speed and turns sharply
into my room. She jams the brakes on so hard the whole chair jars.
"I'll just go back," I say as she raises my footrests.
"You'll do no such thing," she says, setting my feet on the floor.
"This isn't fair!" I say, my voice rising in a whine. "I've been sitting at that table forever.
He's been there two weeks. Why is everyone siding with him?" "Nobody's siding with
anyone." She leans forward, slinging her shoulder under mine. As she lifts me, my head
rests next to hers. Her hair
is chemically straightened and smells of flowers. When she sets me on the edge of the
bed, I am at eye level with her pale pink bosom. And her name tag.
"Rosemary," I say.
"Yes, Mr. Jankowski?" she says. "He is lying, you know."
"I know no such thing. And neither do you." "I do, though. I was on a show."
She blinks, irritated. "How do you mean?"
I hesitate and then change my mind. "Never mind," I say. "Did you work on a circus?"
"I said never mind."
There's a heartbeat of uncomfortable silence.
"Mr. McGuinty could have been seriously hurt, you know," she says, arranging my legs.
She works quickly, efficiently, but stops just short of being summary.
S a r a G r u en
"No he couldn't. Lawyers are indestructible."
She stares at me for a long time, actually looking at me as a person. For
a moment I think I sense a chink. Then she snaps back into action. "Is your family taking
you to the circus this weekend?"
"Oh yes," I say with some pride. "Someone comes every Sunday. Like clockwork."
She shakes out a blanket and spreads it over my legs. "Would you like me to get your
dinner?"
"No," I say.
There's an awkward silence. I realize I should have added "thank you," but it's too late
now.
"All right then," she says. "I'll be back in a while to see if you need anything else."
Yup. Sure she will. That's what they always say. BUT DAGNAMMIT, HERE SHE IS.
"Now don't tell anyone," she says, bustling in and sliding my dinnertablecum-vanity over
my lap. She sets down a paper napkin, plastic fork,
and a bowl of fruit that actually looks appetizing, with strawberries, melon, and apple. "I
packed it for my break. I'm on a diet. Do you like fruit, Mr. Jankowski?"
I would answer except that my hand is over my mouth and it's trembling. Apple, for
God's sake.
She pats my other hand and leaves the room, discreetly ignoring my tears.
I slip a piece of apple into my mouth, savoring its juices. The buzzing fluorescent fixture
above me casts its harsh light on my crooked fingers as they pluck pieces of fruit from
the bowl. They look foreign to me. Surely they can't be mine.
Age is a terrible thief. Just when you're getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out
from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and muddies your head and
silently spreads cancer throughout your spouse. Metastatic, the doctor said. A matter of
weeks or months. But my darW
a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
ling was as frail as a bird. She died nine days later. After sixty-one years together, she
simply clutched my hand and exhaled.
Although there are times I'd give anything to have her back, I'm glad
she went first. Losing her was like being cleft down the middle. It was the moment it all
ended for me, and I wouldn't have wanted her to go through that. Being the survivor
stinks.
I used to think I preferred getting old to the alternative, but now I'm
not sure. Sometimes the monotony of bingo and sing-alongs and ancient dusty people
parked in the hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for death. Particularly when I
remember that I'm one of the ancient dusty people, filed away like some worthless
tchotchke.
But there's nothing to be done about it. All I can do is put in time waiting for the
inevitable, observing as the ghosts of my past rattle around
my vacuous present. They crash and bang and make themselves at home, mostly because
there's no competition. I've stopped fighting them. They're crashing and banging around
in there now.
Make yourselves at home, boys. Stay awhile. Oh, sorry—I see you already have.
Damn ghosts.
Two
I'm twenty-three and sitting beside Catherine Hale; or rather, she's sitting beside me,
because she came into the lecture hall after I did, sliding nonchalantly across the bench
until our
thighs were touching and then shrinking away with a blush as though the contact were
accidental.
Catherine is one of only four women in the class of '31 and her cruelty knows no bounds.
I've lost track of all the times I've thought Oh God, oh God, she'sfinally going to let me,
only to be hit in the face with Dear God, she wants me to stop NOW?
I am, as far as I can tell, the oldest male virgin on the face of the earth. Certainly no one
else my age is willing to admit it. Even my roommate Edward has claimed victory,
