going to throw up, are you?"
"No," I say. My heart pounds. Blood whooshes through my ears. I have just remembered
the small bottle of brackish liquid Camel offered me my first day on the show. "I'm okay.
Thank God."
THE NEXT DAY, right after breakfast, Walter and I line up in
front of the red ticket wagon along with everyone else. At nine on the nose, the man in
the wagon beckons forth the first person, a roustabout. Moments later he stalks off,
cursing and spitting on the ground. The next one—another roustabout—also leaves in a
fit of pique.
The people in the line turn to each other, muttering behind their hands.
"Uh-oh," says Walter. "What's going on?"
"It looks like he's holding back Uncle Al-style." "What do you mean?"
"Most shows hold back some pay till end of season. But when Uncle Al runs out of
money he holds it all back."
"Damn!" I say, as a third man storms off. Two other working mengrim-faced and with
hand-rolled cigarettes between their lips—leave the lineup. "Why are we bothering
then?"
"It only applies to working men." Walter says. "Performers and bosses always get paid."
"I'm neither of those."
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
Walter regards me for a couple of seconds. "No, you're not. I don't actually know what
the heck you are, but anyone who sits at the same table as
the equestrian director is not a working man. That much I know." "So, does this happen
often?"
"Yup," says Walter. He's bored, scuffing the ground with his foot. "Does he ever make it
up to them?"
"Don't think anyone's ever tested the theory. The general wisdom is
that if he owes you more than four weeks pay, you better stop showing up on payday."
"Why?" I say, watching as yet another filthy man stomps off in a maelstrom of curses.
Three other working men leave the line from in front of
us. They head back to the train with stooped shoulders.
"Basically you don't want Uncle Al to start thinking of you as a financial liability. 'Cuz if
he does, you disappear one night."
"What? You get redlighted?" "Damn right."
"That seems a bit extreme. I mean, why not just leave them behind?" " 'Cuz he owes them
money. How well do you think that would go over?
I'm second in line now, behind Lottie. Her blonde hair gleams in the
sun, arranged into neat finger curls. The man at the window of the red wagon waves her
forward. They chat pleasantly as he peels a few bills off his stack. When he hands them
to her, she licks her forefinger and counts
them. Then she rolls them up and slips them inside the top of her dress. "Next!"
I step forward.
"Name?" says the man without looking up. He's a small, bald fellow with a fringe of thin
hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He stares at the ledger book in front of him.
"Jacob Jankowski," I say, peering past him. The wagon's interior is lined with carved
wood panels and a painted ceiling. There's a desk and a safe at the back and a sink along
one wall. On the opposite wall is a map of the United States with colored pins stuck in it.
Our route, presumably.
Sara Gruen
The man runs his finger down the ledger. It comes to a stop and then moves to the far
right column. "Sorry," he says.
"What do you mean, 'sorry'?"
He looks up at me, the picture of sincerity. "Uncle Al doesn't like anyone to finish the
season broke. He always holds back four weeks pay. You'll get it at the end of season.
Next!"
"But I need it now."
He fixes his eyes upon me, his face implacable. "You'll get it at the end of season. Next!"
As Walter approaches the open window, I stalk off, pausing just long enough to spit in
the dust.
THE ANSWER COMES to me as I'm chopping fruit for the orangutan. It's a mental
flash, a vision of a sign.
Don't have money? What have you got? We'll take anything!
I walk back and forth in front of car 48 at least five times before I finally climb inside and
knock on the door of stateroom 3.
"Who is it?" says August. "It's me. Jacob."
There's a slight pause. "Come in," he says. I open the door and step inside.
August stands by one of the windows. Marlena is in one of the plush chairs, her bare feet
resting on an ottoman.
"Hi," she says, blushing. She pulls her skirt over her knees and then smoothes it across
her thighs.
"Hello, Marlena," I say. "How are you?"
"Doing better. I'm walking a bit now. Won't be long before I'm back in the saddle, as it
were."
"So what brings you here?" August interjects. "Not that we're not delighted to see you.
We've missed you. Haven't we, darling?"
" U h ... yes," says Marlena. She raises her eyes to mine and I flush. Water for E l e p h a
n ts
"Oh, where are my manners? Would you like a drink?" says August. His eyes are
unnaturally hard, set above a stern mouth.
"No. Thank you." I'm caught off-guard by his hostility. "I can't stay. I just wanted to ask
you something."
"And what's that?"
"I need to arrange to get a doctor out here." "Why?"
I hesitate. "I'd rather not say."
"Ah," he says, winking at me. "I understand."
"What?" I say, horrified. "No. It's nothing like that." I glance at Marlena, who turns
quickly toward the window. "It's for a friend of mine."
"Yes, of course it is," says August, smiling.
"No, it really is. And it's n o t ... Look, I just wondered if you knew of anyone. Never
mind. I'll walk into town and see what I can find." I turn to leave.
"Jacob!" Marlena calls after me.
I stop in the doorway, staring out the window across the narrow hall. I take a couple of
breaths before turning to face her.
"There's a doctor coming to see me in Davenport tomorrow," she says quietly. "Shall I
send for you when we're finished?"
"I'd be much obliged," I say. I tip my hat and leave.
THE NEXT MORNING, the line in the cookhouse is buzzing.
"It's because of that damned bull," says the man in front of me. "She can't do nothing,
anyway."
"Poor buggers," says his friend. "It's a shame when a man's worth less than a beast."
"Excuse me," I say. "What do you mean, it's because of the bull?"
The first man stares at me. He's large across the shoulders, wearing a dirty brown jacket.
His face is deeply creased, weathered and brown as a raisin. " 'Cuz she costs so much.
Plus they bought that elephant car." "No, but what's because of her?"
"A bunch of men went missing overnight. Six at least, maybe more." Sara Gruen
"What, from the train?" "Yup."
I set my half-full plate down on the steam table and walk toward the Flying Squadron.
After a few strides I break into a run.
"Hey, pal!" the man calls after me. "You ain't even et yet!"
"Leave him alone, Jock," says his friend. "He probably needs to lay eyes on someone."
"CAMEL! CAMEL, YOU IN THERE?" I stand in front of the train car, trying to see into
its musty interior. "Camel! You in there?" There's no answer.
"Camel!" Nothing.
I spin around, facing the lot. "Shit!" I kick the gravel, and then kick it again. "Shit!"
Just then, I hear a mewling from inside the car.
"Camel, is that you?"
A muffled noise comes from one of the darkened corners. I hop inside. Camel is lying up
against the far wall.
He's passed out cold, holding an empty bottle. I lean over and pluck it from his hand.
Lemon extract.
"Who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you're doing?"
says a voice from behind me. I turn. It's Grady. He's standing on the ground in front of
the open door, smoking a ready-made. "Oh—hey. Sorry, Jacob. Didn't recognize you
from the back."
"Hi, Grady," I say. "How's he been?"
"Kind of hard to tell," he answers. "He's been tight since last night." Camel snorts and
tries to roll over. His left arm flops limply across his chest. He smacks his lips and starts
snoring.
"I'm getting a doctor out today," I say. "Keep an eye on him in the meantime, will you?"
"Of course I will," says Grady, affronted. "What the hell do you think I am? Blackie?
Who the hell do you think kept him safe last night?" Water for E l e p h a n ts
"Of course I don't think you're—aw, hell, just forget it. Look, if he
sobers up, try to keep him that way, okay? I'll catch up with you later with the doctor."
THE DOCTOR HOLDS my father's pocket watch in his pudgy
hand, turning it over and inspecting it through his pince-nez. He pops it open to examine
the face.
"Yes. This will do. So, what is it then?" he says, slipping it into his vest pocket.
We're in the hallway just outside August and Marlena's stateroom. The door is still open.
"We need to go somewhere else," I say, lowering my voice. The doctor shrugs. "Fine.
Let's go."
As soon as we're outside, the doctor turns to me. "So where are we going to perform this
examination?"
"It's not me. It's a friend of mine. He's having problems with his feet and hands. And
other stuff. He'll tell you when we get there."
"Ah," says the doctor. "Mr. Rosenbluth led me to believe that you were having
difficulties of a ... personal nature."
The doctor's expression changes as he follows me down the track. By the time we leave
the shiny painted cars of the first section behind, he
looks alarmed. By the time we reach the battered cars of the Flying Squadron, his face is
pinched in disgust.
"He's in here," I say, hopping into the car.
"And how, pray tell, am I supposed to get in?" he says.
Earl emerges from the shadows with a wooden crate. He jumps down, sets it in front of
the doorway, and gives it a loud pat. The doctor gazes upon it for a moment and then
climbs up, clutching his black bag primly in front of him.
"Where's the patient?" he says, squinting and scanning the interior. "Over there," says
Earl. Camel is huddled against a corner. Grady and Bill hover over him.
The doctor walks over to them. "Some privacy, please," he says. Sara Gruen
The other men scatter, murmuring in surprise. They move to the other end of the car and
crane their necks, trying to see.
The doctor approaches Camel and crouches beside him. I can't help noticing that he keeps
the knees of his suit off the floorboards.
A few minutes later, he straightens up and says, "Jamaica ginger paralysis. No question
about it."
I suck my breath in through my teeth. "What? What's that?" Camel croaks.
"You get it from drinking Jamaica ginger extract." The doctor puts great emphasis on the
final three words. "Or jake, as it's commonly known." "But... How? Why?" says Camel,
his eyes desperately seeking the doctor's face. "I don't understand. I've been drinking it
for years."
"Yes. Yes. I would have guessed that," says the doctor.
Anger rises like bile in my throat. I step up beside the doctor. "I don't believe you
answered the question," I say as calmly as I can.
The doctor turns and surveys me through his pince-nez. After a
pause of a few beats he says, "It's caused by a cresol compound used by a manufacturer."
"Dear God," I say. "Quite."
"Why did they add it?"
"To get around the regulations that require that Jamaica ginger extract
be rendered unpalatable." He turns back to Camel and raises his voice. "So it won't be
used as an alcoholic beverage. "
"Will it go away?" Camel's voice is high, cracking with fear. "No. I'm afraid not," the
doctor says.
Behind me, the others catch their breath. Grady comes forward until we're touching
shoulders. "Wait a minute—you mean there's nothing you can do?"
The doctor straightens up and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. "Me? No. Absolutely
not," he says. His expression is compressed as a pug's, as though he's trying to close his
nostrils through facial muscles alone. He picks up his bag and edges toward the door.
190 .
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
"Hold on just a cotton-pickin' moment," says Grady. "If you can't do anything, is there
anyone else who can?"
The doctor turns to address me specifically, I suppose because I'm the
one who paid him. "Oh, there's plenty who will take your money and offer a cure—
wading in oil slush pools, electrical shock therapy—but none of it does a lick of good. He
may recover some function over time, but it will be
minimal at best. Really, he shouldn't have been drinking in the first place. It is against
federal law, you know."
I am speechless. I think my mouth may actually be open. "Is that everything?" he says.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Do ... you ... n e e d ... anything... else?" he says as though I'm an idiot.
"No," I say.
"Then I'll bid you good day." He tips his hat, steps gingerly onto the crate, and dismounts.
