my head, prepared to be angry.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Jankowski," she says, laughing. "I was only joking." Sara Gruen
"I know that," I say. "What, now I have no sense of humor?"
But I'm grumpy, because maybe I don't. I don't know anymore. I'm so
used to being scolded and herded and managed and handled that I'm no longer sure how
to react when someone treats me like a real person. ROSEMARY TRIES TO steer me
toward my usual table, but I'm having none of that. Not with Old Fart McGuinty there.
He's wearing his clown hat again—must have asked the nurses to put it on him again first
thing this morning, the damned fool, or maybe he slept in it—and he's still got helium
balloons tied to the back of his chair. They're not really floating anymore,
though. They're starting to pucker, hovering above limp lengths of string. When
Rosemary turns my chair toward him I bark, "Oh no you don't. There! Over there!" I
point at an empty table in the corner. It's the one farthest from my usual table. I just hope
it's out of earshot.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Jankowski," Rosemary says. She stops my chair and comes around
to face me. "You can't keep this up forever."
"I don't see why not. Forever might be next week for me."
She puts her hands on her hips. "Do you even remember why you're so angry?"
"Yes, I do. Because he's lying."
"Are you talking about the elephants again?" I purse my lips by way of an answer.
"He doesn't see it that way, you know."
"That's cockamamie. When you're lying, you're lying." "He's an old man," she says.
"He's ten years younger than me," I say, straightening up indignantly. "Oh, Mr.
Jankowski," Rosemary says. She sighs and gazes toward heaven as though asking for
help. Then she crouches in front of my chair and places her hand on mine. "I thought you
and I had an understanding."
I frown. This is not part of the usual nurse/Jacob repertoire.
"He may be wrong in the details, but he's not lying," she says. "He really believes that he
carried water for the elephants. He does."
I don't answer.
"Sometimes when you get older—and I'm not talking about you, I'm Water for E l e p h a
n ts
talking generally, because everyone ages differently—things you think on and wish on
start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they're a part of
your history, and if someone challenges you on them and says they're not true—why,
then you get offended. Because you don't remember the first part. All you know is that
you've been called a liar. So even if you're right about the technical details, can you
understand why Mr. McGuinty might be upset?"
I scowl into my lap.
"Mr. Jankowski?" she continues softly. "Let me take you to the table with your friends.
Go on, now. As a favor to me."
Well, isn't that just dandy. The first time in years a woman wants a favor from me, and I
can't stomach the idea.
"Mr. Jankowski?"
I look up at her. Her smooth face is two feet from mine. She looks me in the eye, waiting
for an answer.
"Oh, all right. But don't expect me to talk to anyone," I say, waving a hand in disgust.
And I don't. I sit and listen as Old Liar McGuinty talks about the
wonders of the circus and his experiences as a boy and I watch as the blue-haired old
ladies lean toward him and listen, their eyes growing misty with admiration. It drives me
completely berserk.
Just as I open my mouth to say something, I catch sight of Rosemary. She's on the
opposite end of the room, bending over an old woman and tucking a napkin into her
collar. But her eyes are on me.
I close my mouth again. I just hope she appreciates how hard I'm trying. She does. When
she comes to retrieve me after the tan-colored pudding with edible-oil-product topping
has made its appearance, sat for a while, and been removed, she leans down and
whispers, "I knew you could do it, Mr. Jankowski. I just knew it."
"Yes. Well. It wasn't easy."
"But it's better than sitting alone at a table, isn't it?" "Maybe."
She rolls her eyes toward heaven again.
"All right. Yes," I say grudgingly. "I suppose it's better than sitting alone." — = . 177
Fou rte en
It's been six days since Marlena's accident, and she has yet to reappear. August no longer
comes to the cookhouse for meals, so I sit conspicuously alone at our table. When I run
across
him in the course of looking after the animals, he is polite but distant. For her part, Rosie
is carted out through each town in the hippopotamus wagon and then displayed in the
menagerie. She has learned to follow August from the elephant car to the menagerie tent,
and in return for
this he has stopped beating the hell out of her. Instead, she trudges alongside him, and he
walks with the bull hook snagged firmly in the flesh
behind her front leg. Once in the menagerie, she stands behind her rope, happily
charming the crowds and accepting candy. Uncle Al hasn't actually said so, but there
don't appear to be any immediate plans to attempt another elephant act.
As the days pass I grow more anxious about Marlena. Each time
I approach the cookhouse I hope that I'll find her there. And each time I don't, my heart
sinks.
IT'S THE END of another long day in some damned city or
other—they all look about the same from a railroad siding—and the Flying Squadron is
preparing to pull out. I'm lounging on my bedroll reading Othello and Walter is on his cot
reading Wordsworth. Queenie is tucked up against him.
She lifts her head and growls. Both Walter and I jerk upright. S a r a G r u en
Earl's large bald head pokes around the edge of the doorframe. "Doc!" he says, looking at
me. "Hey! Doc!"
"Hi, Earl. What's up?" "I need your help."
"Sure. What is it?" I say, putting my book down. I shoot a glance at Walter, who has
pinned the squirming Queenie against his side. She's still grumbling.
"It's Camel," Earl says in a hushed voice. "He's got trouble." "What kind of trouble?"
"Foot trouble. They've gone all floppy. He kind of slaps them down. His hands aren't so
great neither."
"Is he drunk?"
"Not at this particular moment. But it don't make no difference nohow." "Well damn,
Earl," I say. "He's got to see a doctor."
Earl's forehead crinkles. "Well, yeah. That's why I'm here." "Earl, I'm no doctor."
"You're an animal doctor." "It's not the same."
I glance at Walter, who is pretending to read. Earl blinks expectantly at me.
"Look," I say finally, "if he's in bad shape, let me talk to August or Uncle Al and see if
we can get a doctor out in Dubuque."
"They won't get him a doctor." "Why not?"
Earl straightens in righteous indignation. "Damn. You don't know nothin' at all, do you?"
"If there's something seriously wrong with him, surely they'll—" "Throw him off the
train, is what," says Earl definitively. "Now, if he was one of the animals..."
I ponder this for only a moment before realizing he's right. "Okay. I'll arrange for a doctor
myself."
"How? You got money?" 180
Water for E l e p h a n ts
"Uh, well, no," I say, embarrassed. "Does he?"
"If he had any money, do you think he'd be drinking jake and canned heat? Aw, come on,
won't you at least have a look? The old feller went out of his way to help you."
"I know that, Earl, I know that," I say quickly. "But I don't know what you expect me to
do."
"You're the doctor. Just have a look." In the distance, a whistle blows.
"Come on," says Earl. "That's the five-minute whistle. We gotta move."
I follow him to the car that carries the big top. The wedge horses are already in place, and
all over the Flying Squadron men are lifting ramps, climbing aboard, and sliding doors
shut.
"Hey, Camel," Earl shouts into the open door. "I brought the doc." "Jacob?" croaks a
voice from inside.
I jump up. It takes me a moment to adjust to the darkness. When I do,
I make out Camel's figure in the corner, huddled on a pile of feed sacks. I walk over and
kneel down. "What's up, Camel?"
"I don't rightly know, Jacob. I woke up a few days ago and my feet was
all floppy. Jes' can't feel em right." "Can you walk?"
"A bit. But I have to lift my knees real high cuz my feet are so floppy." His voice drops to
a whisper. "It ain't just that, though," he says. "It's other stuff, too."
"What other stuff?"
His eyes grow wide and fearful. "Man's stuff. I can't feel nothing... in front."
The train jolts forward, slowly, lurching as the couplings tighten. "We're pulling out. You
gotta get off now," says Earl, tapping me on the shoulder. He moves to the open door and
waves me toward him.
"I'll ride this leg with you," I say. "You can't."
"Why not?"
S a r a G r u en
"Because someone'll hear you been fraternizing with roustabouts and chuck you—or
more likely these guys—off this thing," he says. "Well damn, Earl, aren't you security?
Tell them to get lost."
"I'm on the main train. This here's Blackie's territory," he says, waving with increasing
urgency. "Come on!"
I look into Camel's eyes. They're fearful, pleading. "I've got to go," I say. "I'll catch up
with you in Dubuque. You'll be okay. We'll get you to a doctor."
"I ain't got no money."
"It's okay. We'll find a way." "Come on!" shouts Earl.
I lay a hand on the old man's shoulder. "We'll figure something out. Okay?"
Camel's rheumy eyes flicker. "Okay?"
He nods. Just once.
I rise from my haunches and walk to the doorway. "Damn," I say, gazing out on the fast-
moving scenery. "The train picked up speed faster than
I thought."
"And it ain't gonna get any slower," says Earl, placing a hand square in the middle of my
back and shoving me out the door.
"What the hell!" I shout, flailing my arms like a windmill. I hit the gravel and roll onto
my side. There's a thunk as another body hits behind me. "See?" Earl says, getting up and
wiping ofFhis backside. "I told you he was bad."
I stare in amazement.
"What?" he says, looking baffled.
"Nothing," I say. I get up and brush the dust and gravel from my clothes.
"Come on. You better get back before anyone sees you up here." "Just tell them I was
checking out the baggage stock."
"Oh. Good one. Yeah. Guess that's why you're the doc and I'm not, huh?"
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
My head swivels, but his expression is completely without guile. I give up and start
walking toward the main train.
"What's the matter?" Earl calls after me. "Why are you shaking your head, Doc?"
"WHAT WAS ALL that about?" says Walter as I walk in the door. "Nothing," I say.
"Yeah, right. I was here for most of it. Spill the beans, ' D o c '"
I hesitate. "It's one of the guys from the Flying Squadron. He's in a bad way."
"Well, that much was obvious. How did he seem to you?"
"Scared. And quite frankly, I don't blame him. I want to get him to a doctor, but I'm flat
broke and so is he."
"You won't be for long. Tomorrow's payday. But what are his symptoms?"
"Loss of feeling in his legs and arms, a n d ... well, other stuff, too." "What other stuff?"
I glance downward. "You k n o w ..."
"Aw, shit," says Walter. He sits upright. "That's what I thought. You don't need a doctor.
He's got jake leg."
"He's got what?"
"Jake leg. Jake walk. Limber leg. Whatever—it's all the same thing." "Never heard of it."
"Someone made a big batch of bad jake—put plasticizers in it or something. It went out
all over the country. One bad bottle, and you're done for."
"What do mean, 'done for'?"
"Paralyzed. It can start anytime within two weeks of drinking the shit." I am horrified.
"How the hell do you know this?"
He shrugs. "It's in the papers. They only just figured out what it was, but there's lots been
affected. Maybe tens of thousands. Mostly in the South. We passed through there on our
way up to Canada. Maybe that's where he picked up the jake."
S a r a G r u en
I pause before asking my next question. "Can they fix it?" "Nope."
"They can't do anything at all?"
"I already told you. He's done for. But if you want to waste your money on a doctor to tell
you that, be my guest."
Black and white fireworks explode across my field of vision, a shifting, shimmering
pattern that blanks out everything else. I drop onto my bedroll.
"Hey, you okay?" says Walter. "Whoa, pal. You're looking a little green there. You're not
