or hands over are the baggage stock, and that's only because they're in constant use and I
know someone would alert me at the first sign of trouble.
By late morning, I'm just another menagerie man: cleaning dens, chopping food, and
hauling manure with the rest of them. My shirt is soaked,
my throat parched. When the flag finally goes up, Diamond Joe, Otis, and I trudge out of
the great tent and toward the cookhouse.
Clive falls into stride beside us.
"Keep your distance from August if you can," he says. "He's in a right state."
"Why? What now?" says Joe.
"He's steamed because Uncle Al wants the bull in the parade today, and he's taking it out
on anyone who crosses his path. Like that poor sod over there," he says, pointing at three
men crossing the field.
Bill and Grady are dragging Camel across the lot to the Flying Squadron. He's suspended
between them, his legs dragging behind.
I jerk around to Clive. "August didn't hit him, did he?"
"Naw," says Clive. "Gave him a good tongue lashing, though. It's
not even noon, and he's already skunked. But that guy who looked at Sara Gruen
Marlena—whooeeee, he won't make that mistake again soon." Clive shakes his head.
"That damned bull ain't gonna walk in no parade," says Otis. "He can't get her to walk in
a straight line from her car to the menagerie."
"I know that, and you know that, but apparently Uncle Al does not," says Clive.
"Why is Al so set on having her in the parade?" I ask.
"Because he's been waiting his whole life to say 'Hold your horses! Here come the
elephants!'" says Clive.
"The hell with that," Joe says. "There ain't no horses to hold anymore these days, and we
don't have elephants, anyway. We have elephant." "Why does he want to say that so
badly?" I ask.
They turn in unison to stare at me.
"Fair question," says Otis finally, although it's clear he thinks I'm braindamaged. "It's
because that's what Ringling says. Course, he actually has
elephants."
I WATCH FROM a distance as August attempts to line Rosie up
among the parade wagons. The horses leap sideways, dancing nervously in their hitches.
The drivers hold tight to the reins, shouting warnings. The result is a kind of contagion of
panic, and before long the men leading the zebras and llamas are struggling to maintain
control.
After several minutes of this, Uncle Al approaches. He gesticulates wildly toward Rosie,
ranting without pause. When his mouth finally closes, August's opens, and he also
gesticulates toward Rosie, waving the bull hook and thumping her on the shoulder for
good measure. Uncle Al turns to his entourage. Two of them turn tail and sprint across
the lot. Not long after, the hippopotamus wagon pulls up beside Rosie, drawn
by six highly doubtful Percherons. August opens the door and whacks Rosie until she
enters.
Not long after, someone starts up the calliope and the parade begins. THEY RETURN
AN HOUR later with a sizable crowd. The towners hang around the edges of the lot,
growingin numbers as word spreads. W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
Rosie is driven right up to the back end of the big top, which is already connected to the
menagerie. August takes her through and to her spot. It is only after she is behind her
rope with one foot chained to a stake that the menagerie is opened to the public.
I watch in awe as she is rushed by children and adults alike. She is easily the most
popular animal. Her big ears flap back and forth as she accepts candy and popcorn and
even chewing gum from delighted circus-goers. One man is brave enough to lean forward
and dump a box of Cracker Jack into her open mouth. She rewards him by removing his
hat, placing it on her head, and then posing with her trunk curled in the air. The crowd
roars and she calmly hands the delighted patron his hat. August stands
beside her with his bull hook, beaming like a proud father. There's something wrong here.
This animal isn't stupid.
As THE LAST of the crowd goes through to the big top and performers line up for the
Grand Spec, Uncle Al pulls August aside. I watch
from across the menagerie as August's mouth opens in shock, then outrage, and then
vociferous complaint. His face darkens and he waves his top hat and hook. Uncle Al
gazes on, completely impervious. Eventually he lifts a hand, shakes his head, and walks
away. August stares after him, stunned. "What the heck do you suppose happened there?"
I say to Pete.
"God only knows," he says. "But I have the feeling we're going to find out.
It turns out that Uncle Al was so delighted by Rosie's popularity in the menagerie that not
only is he insisting she take part in the Spec but also that she put on a full elephant act in
the center ring immediately after
the show begins. By the time I hear about it, the outcome of said events is already the
source of furious wagering in the back end.
My only thoughts are of Marlena.
I sprint around back to where the performers and ring stock are lined
up behind the big top in preparation for the Spec. Rosie heads up the line. Marlena
straddles her head, clad in pink sequins and grasping Rosie's ugly leather head harness.
August stands beside her left shoulder, grim-faced, his fingers alternately clutching and
releasing the bull hook.
Sara Gruen
The band falls quiet. The performers make last-minute adjustments to their costumes, and
the animal handlers give their charges one last check. And then the music for the Spec
starts.
August leans forward and bellows into Rosie's ear. The elephant hesitates, in response to
which August strikes her with the bull hook. This
sends her flying through the back end of the big top. Marlena ducks flat against her head
to avoid being scraped ofFby the pole that runs across the top.
I gasp and run forward, curling around the edge of the sidewalk
Rosie comes to a stop about twenty feet down the hippodrome track
and Marlena undergoes a change that defies belief. One moment she is askew on Rosie's
head, lying flat. The next, she yanks herself upright, turns on a smile, and thrusts an arm
into the air. Her back is arched, her toes pointed. The crowd goes crazy—standing on the
bleachers, clapping, whistling, and tossing peanuts onto the track.
August catches up. He lifts the bull hook high and then freezes. He
turns his head and scans the audience. His hair flops over his forehead. He grins as he
lowers the bull hook, and removes his top hat. He bows deeply, three times, aiming at
different segments of the audience. When he turns back to Rosie, his face hardens.
By poking the bull hook in and around her underarms and legs, he persuades her to make
a tour of sorts around the hippodrome. They go in fits and starts, stopping so many times
the rest of the Spec is forced to
continue around them, parting like water around a stone.
The audience loves it. Each time Rosie trots ahead of August and stops,
they roar with laughter. And each time August approaches, red-faced and waving his bull
hook, they explode with glee. Finally, about three-quarters of the way around, Rosie curls
her trunk in the air and takes off at a run, leaving a series of thunderous farts in her wake
as she barrels toward the back end of the tent. I am pressed against the bleachers, right by
the entrance. Marlena grasps the head halter with both hands, and as they approach
I catch my breath. Unless she bails, she is going to be knocked off. A couple of feet from
the entrance, Marlena lets go of the halter and W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
leans hard to the left. Rosie disappears from the tent, and Marlena is left clinging to the
top pole. The crowd falls silent, no longer sure that this is part of the act.
Marlena hangs limply, not a dozen feet from me. She's breathing hard, with eyes closed
and head down. I'm just about to step forward and lift her down when she opens her eyes,
removes her left hand from the pole, and in one graceful movement swings around so
she's facing the audience.
Her face lights up and she points those toes. The band leader, watching from his post,
signals furiously for a drum roll. Marlena begins swinging.
The drum roll mounts as she gains momentum. Before long she's swinging parallel to the
ground. I wonder how long she's going to keep this up
and just what the heck she's planning to do when she suddenly releases
the pole. She sails through the air, tucking her body into a ball and rolling forward twice.
She uncurls for one sideways rotation, and lands firmly in
a burst of sawdust. She looks at her feet, straightens up, and thrusts both arms into the air.
The band launches into victory music and the crowd goes wild. Moments later, coins rain
down on the hippodrome track.
As SOON AS SHE TURNS, I can see that she's hurt. She limps from the big top and I
rush out behind her.
"Marlena—" I say.
She turns and collapses against me. I grasp her around the waist, holding her upright.
August rushes out. "Darling—my darling! You were brilliant. Brilliant! I've never seen
anything more—"
He stops cold when he sees my arms around her. Then she lifts her head and wails.
August and I lock eyes. Then we lock arms, beneath and behind her, forming a chair.
Marlena whimpers, leaning against August's shoulder. She tucks her slippered feet under
our arms, clenching her muscles in pain. August presses his mouth into her hair. "It's
okay, darling. I've got you now. Shhh... It's okay. I've got you."
Sara Gruen
"Where should we go? Her dressing tent?" I ask. "There's nowhere to lie down."
"The train?"
"Too far. Let's go to the cooch girl's tent." "Barbara's?"
August shoots me a look over Marlena's head.
We enter Barbara's tent without any warning. She's sitting in a chair
in front of her vanity, dressed in a midnight blue negligee and smoking a cigarette. Her
expression of bored disdain drops immediately.
"Oh my God. What's going on?" she says, stubbing out her cigarette
and leaping up. "Here. Put her on the bed. Here, right here," she says, rushing in front of
us.
When we lay Marlena down, she rolls onto her side, clutching her feet. Her face is
contorted, her teeth clenched.
"Myfeet— "
"Hush, sweetie," Barbara says. "It's going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay." She
leans over and loosens the ribbons on Marlena's slippers. "Oh God, oh God, they hurt..."
"Get the scissors from my top drawer," says Barbara, glancing back at me.
When I return with them, Barbara cuts the toes offMarlena's tights and rolls them up her
legs. Then she lifts her bare feet into her lap. "Go to the cookhouse and get some ice," she
says.
After a second, both she and August turn to look at me. "I'm already there," I say.
I'm barreling toward the cookhouse when I hear Uncle Al shouting behind me. "Jacob!
Wait!"
I pause while he catches up.
"Where are they? Where did they go?" he says. "They're in Barbara's tent," I gasp.
"Eh?"
"The cooch girl." "Why?"
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts "Marlena's hurt. I've got to get ice."
He turns and barks at a follower. "You, go get ice. Take it to the cooch girl's tent. Go!"
He turns back to me. "And you, go retrieve our goddamned bull before we get run out of
town."
"Where is she?"
"Munching cabbages in someone's backyard, apparently. The lady of the house is not
amused. West side of the lot. Get her out of there before the cops come."
RosiE STANDS IN A trampled vegetable patch, running her trunk
lazily across the rows. When I approach she looks me straight in the eye and plucks a
purple cabbage. She drops it in her shovel-scoop of a mouth and then reaches for a
cucumber.
The lady of the house opens the door a crack and shrieks, "Get that thing out of here! Get
it out of here!"
"Sorry, ma'am," I say. "I'll surely do my best."
I stand at Rosie's shoulder. "Come on, Rosie. Please?"
Her ears wave forward, she pauses, and then she reaches for a tomato. "No!" I say. "Bad
elephant!"
Rosie pops the red globe in her mouth and smiles as she chews it. Laughing at me, no
doubt.
"Oh Jesus," I say, at a complete loss.
Rosie wraps her trunk around some turnip greens and rips them from the ground. Still
looking at me, she pops them in her mouth and begins munching. I turn and smile
desperately at the still-gawking housewife. Two men approach from the lot. One is
wearing a suit, a derby hat, and
a smile. To my immense relief, I recognize him as one of the patches. The other man
wears filthy overalls and carries a bucket.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," says the patch, tipping his hat and picking
his way carefully across the ruined garden. It looks as though a tank has plowed through
it. He climbs the cement stairs to the back door. "I see you've met Rosie, the largest and
most magnificent elephant in the world. You're lucky—she doesn't normally make house
calls."
Sara Gruen
The woman's face is still in the crack of the door. "What?" she says, dumbfounded.
The patch smiles brightly. "Oh yes. It's an honor indeed. I'm willing
to bet no one else in your neighborhood—heck, probably the whole city—can say they've
had an elephant in their backyard. Our men here will remove her—naturally, we'll fix up
your garden and compensate you for your produce, too. Would you like us to arrange for
