stuff—well, I had to get you back for the other day. The way I see it, this makes us even.
In fact, I may even owe you one. That honey stopped Queenie up like a cork. So, you
know how to read?"
I blink a few times. "Huh?" I say.
"You wanna read maybe, instead ofjust lying there stewing?"
"I think I'll just lie here stewing." I squeeze my eyes shut and cover
them with my hand. My brain feels too big for my skull, my eyes hurt, and I may throw
up. And my balls itch.
"Suit yourself," he says. "Maybe some other time," I say. "Sure. Whatever."
A pause. "Kinko?" 144
Water for E l e p h a n ts "Yeah?"
"I appreciate the offer." Sure.
A longer pause. "Jacob?" "Yeah?"
"You can call me Walter if you want." Under my hand, my eyes open wide.
His cot squeaks as he rearranges himself. I sneak a look through splayed fingers. He folds
his pillow in half, lies back, and grabs a book from the crate. Queenie settles at his feet,
watching me. Her eyebrows twitch with worry.
THE TRAIN APPROACHES Chicago in the late afternoon. Despite
my pounding head and aching body, I stand in the open door of the stock car craning my
neck to get a good look. After all, this is the city of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre,
ofjazz, gangsters, and speakeasies.
I can see a handful of tall buildings in the distance, and just as I'm trying to make out
which one of them is the fabled Allerton we reach the stockyards. There are miles of
them, and we slow to a crawl as we pass. The buildings are flat and ugly, and the pens,
crammed with panicked, lowing cattle and filthy, snuffing pigs, butt right up against the
tracks. But that is nothing compared to the noises and smells coming from the buildings:
within minutes the bloody stench and piercing shrieks send me flying back to the goat
room to press my nose against the mildewed horse blanket—anything to replace the smell
of death.
My stomach is fragile enough that even though the lot is well beyond the stockyards, I
stay inside the stock car until everything's been set up. Afterward, seeking the company
of animals, I enter the menagerie and tour the perimeter.
It's impossible to describe how tenderly I suddenly feel toward them—hyenas, camels,
and all. Even the polar bear, who sits on his backside chewing his four-inch claws with
his four-inch teeth. A love for S a r a G r u en
these animals wells up in me suddenly, a flash flood, and there it is, solid as an obelisk
and viscous as water.
My father felt it his duty to continue to treat animals long after he stopped getting paid.
He couldn't stand by and watch a horse colic or a
cow labor with a breech calf even though it meant personal ruin. The parallel is
undeniable. There is no question that I am the only thing standing
between these animals and the business practices of August and Uncle Al, and what my
father would do—what my father would want me to do—is look after them, and I am
filled with that absolute and unwavering conviction. No matter what I did last night, I
cannot leave these animals. I am
their shepherd, their protector. And it's more than a duty. It's a covenant with my father.
One of the chimps needs a cuddle, so I let him ride on my hip as I
make my way around the tent. I reach a wide empty spot, and realize it's for the elephant.
August must be having trouble getting her out of her car. If I were feeling at all kindly
toward him, I'd see if I could help. But I'm not.
"Hey, Doc," says Pete. "Otis thinks one of the giraffes has a cold..You wanna take a
look?"
"Sure," I say.
"Come on, Bobo," says Pete, reaching for the chimp. The chimp's hairy arms and legs
tighten around me.
"Come on now," I say, trying to pluck his arms free. "I'll come back." Bobo moves not a
muscle.
"Come on now," I say. Nothing.
"All right. One last hug and that's it," I say, pressing my face against his dark fur.
The chimp flashes a toothy smile and kisses me on the cheek. Then he climbs down, slips
his hand inside Pete's, and ambles off on bowed legs.
There's a small amount of pus flowing down the giraffe's long nasal Water for E l e p h a
n ts
passage. It's not something I'd find alarming in a horse, but since I don't know giraffes I
decide to play it safe and fit her with a neck poultice, an operation that requires a
stepladder with Otis at the bottom, handing me supplies.
The giraffe is timid and beautiful and quite possibly the strangest creature I've ever seen.
Her legs and neck are delicate, her body sloped and covered with markings like puzzle
pieces. Strange furry knobs poke out from the top of her triangular head, above her large
ears. Her eyes are huge and dark, and she has the velvet-soft lips of a horse. She's
wearing
a halter and I hold on to it, but mostly she stays still as I swab out her nostrils and
swaddle her throat in flannel. When I'm finished, I climb down.
"Can you cover for me for a bit?" I ask Otis, wiping my hands on a rag.
"Sure. Why?"
"I've got somewhere to go," I say.
Otis's eyes narrow. "You ain't moping off, are you?" "What? No. Of course not."
"You better tell me now, cuz if you're moping off, I ain't covering for you while you do
it."
"I'm not moping off. Why would I mope off?"
"On account of... Well, you know. Certain events." "No! I'm not moping off. Just let it
drop, would you?"
Is there no one who hasn't heard the details of my disgrace?
I HEAD OUT ON FOOT and after a couple of miles find myself in
a residential area. The houses are in disrepair, and many have boards over their windows.
I pass a breadline—a long row of shabby dispirited people leading to the door of a
mission. A black boy offers to shine my shoes, and while I'd like to let him, I don't have a
cent to my name.
Finally I see a Catholic church. I sit in a pew near the back for a long time, staring at the
stained glass behind the altar. Although I want absolution 147
Sara Gruen
dearly, I am unable to face confession. Eventually I leave the pew and go to light votive
candles for my parents.
As I turn to leave, I catch sight of Marlena—she must have come in while I was in the
alcove. I can only see her back, but it's definitely her. She's in the front pew, wearing a
pale yellow dress and matching hat. Her throat is delicate, her shoulders square. A few
curls of light brown hair peek from beneath the brim of her hat.
She kneels on a cushion to pray, and a vice grip tightens around my heart.
I retreat from the church before I can further damage my soul. W H E N I RETURN to
the lot, Rosie has been installed in the menagerie tent. I don't know how, and I don't ask.
She smiles when I approach and then rubs her eye, curling the tip of
her trunk like a fist. I watch her for a couple of minutes and then step over the rope. Her
ears flatten and her eyes narrow. My heart sinks, because I think she's responding to me.
Then I hear his voice.
"Jacob?"
I watch Rosie for a few seconds longer and then turn to face him. "Look here," says
August, scrubbing the toe of his boot in the dirt. "I know I've been a bit rough on you the
last couple of days."
I'm supposed to say something here, something to make him feel better, but I don't. I'm
not feeling particularly conciliatory.
"What I'm trying to say is that I went a bit far. Pressures of the job, you know. They can
get to a man." He holds out his hand. "So, friends again?"
I pause a few seconds longer, and then take his hand. He is my boss,
after all. Having made the decision to stay, it would be stupid to get myself fired.
"Good man," he says, grasping it firmly and clapping me on the shoulder with his other
hand. "I'll take you and Marlena out tonight. Make it
up to you both. Iknow a great little place."W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
"What about the show?"
"There's no point in doing a show. No one knows we're here yet. That's what happens
when you blow your route and wildcat all over the damned place." He sighs. "But Uncle
Al knows best. Apparently."
"I don't know," I say. "Last night was kind of... rough."
"Hair of the dog, Jacob! Hair of the dog. Come by at nine." He smiles brightly and
marches off.
I watch him leave, struck by how very much I don't want to spend any time with him—
and by how very much I'd like to spend time with Marlena.
THE DOOR TO THE STATEROOM swings open, revealing Marlena, gorgeous in red
satin.
"What?" she says, looking down at herself. "Is there something on my dress?" She twists,
inspecting her body and legs.
"No," I say. "You look swell." She raises her eyes to mine.
August comes out from behind the green curtain, wearing white tie. He takes one look at
me and says, "You can't go like that."
"I don't have anything else."
"Then you'll have to borrow. Go on. Hurry up, though. The taxi's waiting."
WE ZIP THROUGH a maze of parking lots and back alleys before coming to an abrupt
stop at a corner in an industrial area. August climbs out and hands the driver a rolled bill.
"Come on," he says, extracting Marlena from the backseat. I follow.
We're in an alley surrounded by large redbrick warehouses. The streetlights illuminate the
asphalt's rough texture. On one side of the alley trash
is blown up against the wall. On the other are parked cars—roadsters, coupes, sedans,
even limousines—all flashy, all new.
August stops in front of a recessed wooden door. He raps sharply and = 149
Sara Gruen
then stands, tapping his foot. A rectangular peephole slides open, revealing male eyes
under a single bushy brow. The sounds of a party pulse from behind him.
"Yeah?"
"We're here for the show," says August. "What show?"
"Why, Frankie's, of course," August says, smiling.
The peephole shuts. There's clicking and clanking followed by the unmistakable sound of
a deadbolt. The door swings open.
The man looks us over quickly. Then he beckons us inside and slams
the door. We step through a tiled foyer, past a coat check with uniformed clerks, and
descend a few steps into a marble-floored dance hall. Elaborate crystal chandeliers hang
from the high ceiling. A band plays on a
raised platform, and the dance floor is jammed with couples. Tables and U-shaped booths
surround the dance floor. Up a few steps and along the back wall is a wood-paneled bar
with tuxedoed bartenders and hundreds of bottles lined up on shelves in front of a smoky
mirror.
Marlena and I wait in one of the leather-lined booths while August goes to get the drinks.
Marlena watches the band. Her legs are crossed
and that foot is bobbing again. She moves it in time with the music, rolling her ankle.
A glass is plunked in front of me. A second later August drops down beside Marlena. I
investigate the glass and find it contains ice cubes and scotch.
"You okay?" says Marlena. "Fine," I say.
"You look a little green," she continues.
"Our Jacob here is suffering from a teensy hangover," says August. "We're trying the hair
of the dog."
"Well, make sure you let me know if I need to get out of the way," Marlena says
dubiously, turning back to the band.
August lifts his glass. "To friends!"
Marlena looks back just long enough to locate her frothy drink and W a t e r for E l e p h
a n ts
then holds it over the table while we clink. She sips daintily from her straw, fingering it
with lacquered nails. August tosses his scotch back. The second mine hits my lips, my
tongue instinctively blocks its progress. August is watching, so I pretend to swallow
before setting the glass down.
"There you are, my boy. A few more of those and you'll be right as rain."
I don't know about me, but after a second brandy alexander Marlena certainly comes to
life. She drags August onto the dance floor. As he twirls her around, I lean over and tip
the contents of my scotch into a potted palm.
Marlena and August return to the booth, flushed from dancing. Marlena sighs and fans
herself with a menu. August lights a cigarette. His eyes land on my empty glass. "Oh—I
see I've been neglectful," he says. He stands up. "Same again?"
"Oh, what the hell," I say without enthusiasm. Marlena simply nods, once again absorbed
by what's happening on the dance floor. August is gone about thirty seconds when she
leaps up and grabs my hand.
"What are you doing?" I say, laughing as she yanks my arm. "Come on! Let's dance!"
"What?"
"I love this song!" "No—I—"
But it's no use. I'm already on my feet. She drags me onto the dance
floor, jiving and snapping her fingers. When we're surrounded by other couples she turns
to me. I take a deep breath and then take her in my arms. We wait a couple of beats and
then we're off, floating around the dance floor in a swirling sea of people.
She's light as air—doesn't miss a step, and that's a feat considering how clumsy I am. And
it's not as though I don't know how to dance, because I do. I don't know what the hell is
wrong with me. I'm sure as hell not drunk.
Sara Gruen
She spins away from me and then returns, passing beneath my arm so
her back is pressed against me. My forearm rests on her collarbone, skin to skin. Her
