piteously. He looks heavenward as tears stream down his face.
The women and children in the crowd cry openly. A woman near the front throws an arm
across her forehead and collapses as the men on either side scramble to catch her.
= 199
Sara Gruen
Uncle Al collects himself with obvious effort, although he cannot
keep his lower lip from quivering. He nods slowly and continues. "Because, after all, as
our dearest Lucinda knew only too w e l l ... the show must
go on!"
We have an enormous crowd that night—a "straw house," so named because after all the
regular seats sell out, roustabouts spread straw on the hippodrome track for the overflow
crowd to sit on.
Uncle Al begins the show with a moment of silence. He bows his head, summons real
tears, and dedicates the performance to Lucinda, whose great and absolute selflessness is
the only reason we are able to continue in the face of our loss. And we will do her
proud—oh yes, such was our singular love for Lucinda that despite the grief that
consumes us, tugging on our breaking hearts, we will summon the strength to honor her
final
wish and do her proud. Such wonders you have never seen, ladies and gentlemen, acts
and performers gathered from the four corners of the earth
to delight and entertain you, acrobats, and tumblers, and aerialists of the highest caliber...
THE SHOW IS ABOUT a quarter of the way through when she
walks into the menagerie. I sense her presence even before I hear the surprised murmurs
around me.
I set Bobo on the floor of his den. I turn and, sure enough, there she is,
gorgeous in pink sequins and feathered headdress, removing her horses' halters and
letting them drop to the ground. Only Boaz—a black Arabian and presumably Silver
Star's counterpart—remains tethered, and he's clearly unhappy about it.
I lean against Bobo's den, mesmerized.
Those horses, with whom I've spent every night riding from town
to town to town and who normally look like regular horses, have transformed. They blow
and snort, their necks arched and tails aloft. They gather
into two dancing groups, one black, one white. Marlena faces them, carrying a long whip
in each hand. She raises one and waves it over her head.
Then she walks backward, leading them from the menagerie. The horses are completely
free. They wear no halters, no side reins, no surcinglesWater for E l e p h a n ts
nothing. They simply follow her, shaking their heads and flinging their legs forward like
Saddlebreds.
I've never seen her act—those of us who work behind the scenes don't have time for that
luxury—but this time nothing could stop me. I secure Bobo's door and slip into the
connection, the roofless canvas tunnel that joins the menagerie to the big top. The
reserved-seat ticket seller glances at me quickly, and when he realizes I'm not a cop goes
back to his business. His pockets jingle, swollen with money. I stand beside him, looking
across the three rings to the back end of the big top.
Uncle Al announces her, and she steps inside. She spins, holding both whips high in the
air. She flicks one and takes a few steps backward. The two groups of horses hurry in
behind her.
Marlena sashays to the center ring and they follow, high-kicking, prancing clouds of
black and white.
Once she's in the center of the ring, she slaps the air lightly. The horses start circling the
ring at a trot, five white followed by five black. After two complete rotations, she wiggles
the whip. The black horses speed up until each is trotting beside a white horse. Another
wiggle, and they ease into line so that the horses are now alternating black and white.
She moves only minimally, her pink sequins shimmering under the
bright lights. She walks a small circle in the center of the ring, flicking the whips in
combinations of signals.
The horses continue circling, with the white horses passing the black horses and then the
black horses passing the white horses, with the end result always being alternating colors.
She calls out and they stop. She says something else, and they turn and step up so their
front hooves are on the ring curb. They walk sideways, their tails toward Marlena and
their hooves up on the rim. They do an entire rotation before she stops them again. They
climb down and swing around to face her. Then she calls forth Midnight.
He is a magnificent black, all Arabian fire with a perfect white diamond on his forehead.
She speaks to him, taking both whips in one hand,
and offering him her other palm. He presses his muzzle into it, his neck
arched and nostrils flared. S a r a G r u en
Marlena steps backward and raises a whip. The other horses watch, dancing on the spot.
She lifts the other whip and flicks its tip back and forth. Midnight rises up on his hind
legs, his forelegs curled in front
of him. She shouts something now—the first time she has raised her voice—and strides
backward. The horse follows, walking on his hind legs and pawing the air in front of him.
She keeps him upright all the way around the ring. Then she motions him down. Another
cryptic circling of the whip, and Midnight bows, going down on the knee of one foreleg
with the other extended. Marlena drops into a low curtsy and the crowd goes wild. With
Midnight still bowing, she lifts both whips and flicks them. The rest of the horses
pirouette, turning circles on the spot.
More cheering, more adulation. Marlena spreads her arms in the air, turning to give each
section of the audience a chance to adore her. Then she turns to Midnight and perches
delicately on his lowered back. He rises, arches his neck, and carries Marlena from the
big top. The rest of the horses follow, once again grouped by color, crowding each other
to stay close to their mistress.
My heart pounds so hard that, despite the roaring of the crowd, I am aware of blood
whooshing through my ears. I am filled to overflowing, bursting with love.
THAT NIGHT, AFTER WHISKEY has rendered Camel dead to the world and Walter is
snoring on the bedroll, I leave the little room and stand looking over the backs of the ring
stock.
I care for these horses daily. I muck out their stalls, fill their water and feed buckets, and
groom them for the show. I check their teeth and comb their manes and feel their legs for
heat. I give them treats and pat their necks. They had become as familiar a part of my
scenery as Queenie, but after seeing Marlena's act I'll never view them the same way
again. These horses are an extension of Marlena—a part of her that is here, right now,
with me.
I reach over the stall divider and place my hand on a sleek black rump. Midnight, who
had been asleep, rumbles in surprise and turns his head. Water for E l e p h a n ts
When he sees that it's just me, he turns away. His ears droop, his eyes close, and he shifts
his weight so he's resting one hind leg.
I go back to the goat room and check that Camel is still breathing. Then I lie down on the
horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
IN FRONT OF THE steam tables the next morning:
"Check that out," says Walter, lifting his arm to poke me in the ribs. "What?"
He points.
August and Marlena are sitting at our table. It's the first time they've shown up for a meal
since her accident.
Walter eyeballs me. "You gonna be okay?" "Yes, of course," I say irritably.
"Okay. Just checking," he says. We pass the ever-vigilant Ezra and head for our separate
tables.
"Good morning, Jacob," August says as I set my plate on the table and take a seat.
"August. Marlena," I say, nodding at each.
Marlena looks up quickly and then back at her plate.
"And how are you this fine day?" says August. He digs into a pile of scrambled eggs.
"Fine. And you?" "Wonderful," he says.
"And how are you, Marlena?" I ask. "Very much better, thank you," she says. "I saw your
act last night," I say.
"Did you?"
"Yes," I say, shaking my napkin and spreading it across my lap. " I t ' s ... I don't quite
know what to say. It was amazing. I've never seen anything like it."
"Oh?" says August, cocking one eyebrow. "Never?" "No. Never."
203 .
S a r a G r u en "Really."
He stares at me without blinking. "I thought it was Marlena's act that inspired you to join
this show in the first place, Jacob. Was I wrong?" My heart flips in my chest. I pick up
my cutlery: fork in my left hand, knife in my right—European-style, like my mother.
"I lied," I say.
I stab the end of a sausage and begin sawing it, waiting for a response. "I beg your
pardon?" he says.
"I lied. Hied!" I slam my cutlery down, a nub of sausage impaled on the fork. "Okay? Of
course I'd never heard of the Benzini Brothers before I jumped your train. Who the hell
has heard of the Benzini Brothers? The only circus I'd seen in my entire life was the
Ringling Brothers, and they were great. Great! Do you hear me?"
There's an eerie silence. I look around, horrified. Everyone in the tent is staring at me.
Walter's jaw is open. Queenie's ears are pressed against her head. In the distance, a camel
bellows.
Finally I turn my eyes to August. He, too, is staring. One edge of his moustache quivers. I
tuck my napkin under the edge of my plate, wondering if he's going to come across the
table at me.
August's eyes widen farther. I tense my knuckles under the table. Then August explodes.
He laughs so hard he turns red, clutching his midriff and fighting for breath. He laughs
and howls until tears run down his face and his lips tremble from exertion.
"Oh, Jacob," he says, wiping his cheeks. "Oh, Jacob. I think I may
have misjudged you. Yes. Indeed. I think I may have misjudged you." He cackles and
sniffs, swabbing his face with his napkin. "Oh dear," he sighs. "Oh dear." He clears his
throat and picks up his utensils. He scoops some egg onto his fork and then sets it down
again, once more overcome with mirth.
The other diners return to their food, but reluctantly, like the crowd
that watched as I expelled the man from the lot that first day. And I can't help but notice
that when they return to their meals, it's with a look of apprehension.
Water for E l e p h a n ts
LUCINDA'S DEATH LEAVES US with a serious deficiency in the freak lineup. And it
must be filled—all the big shows have fat ladies, and therefore so must we.
Uncle Al and August scour Billboard and at each stop make telephone calls and send
telegrams in an effort to recruit a new one, but all known fat ladies appear either to be
happy in their current situation or else leery of Uncle Al's reputation. After two weeks
and ten jumps, Uncle Al is so desperate he approaches a woman of generous proportions
in the audience. Unfortunately, she turns out to be Mrs. Police Superintendent, and
Uncle Al ends up with a shiny purple eye instead of a fat lady, along with summary
instructions to leave town.
We have two hours. The performers immediately sequester themselves
in their train cars. The roustabouts, once roused, run around like headless chickens. Uncle
Al is breathless and purple, waving his cane and whacking people if they're not moving
fast enough for his liking. Tents drop so quickly that men get trapped inside, and then
men who are dropping other tents must come and retrieve them before they suffocate in a
vast expanse of canvas, or—worse, in Uncle Al's estimation—use their pocketknives
to cut a breathing hole.
After all the stock is loaded I retire to the ring stock car. I don't like
the look of the townsmen hovering around the edge of the lot. Many are armed, and a bad
feeling ferments in the pit of my stomach.
I haven't seen Walter yet, and I pace back and forth in front of the open door, scanning
the lot. The black men have long since hidden themselves aboard the Flying Squadron,
and I'm not at all convinced that the mob won't content themselves with a redheaded
dwarf instead.
One hour and fifty-five minutes after we get our marching orders, his face appears in the
doorway.
"Where the hell have you been?" I shout.
"Is that him?" croaks Camel from behind the trunks.
"Yeah, that's him. Get on up here," I say, waving Walter inside. "The crowd's looking
nasty."
He doesn't move. He's flushed and out of breath. "Where's Queenie? You seen Queenie?"
2 0 5 .?
S a r a G r u en "No. Why?" He disappears.
"Walter!" I jump up and follow him to the door. "Walter! Where the
hell are you going? They've already blown the five-minute whistle!"
He's running alongside the train, ducking to look between its wheels. "Come on,
Queenie! Here, girl!" He straightens up, pausing in front of each stock car, yelling
through the slats and then waiting for a response. "Queenie! Here, girl!" Each time he
calls, his voice reaches a new level of desperation.
A whistle blows, a long sustained warning followed by the hissing and sputtering of the
engine.
Walter's voice cracks, hoarse with yelling. "Queenie! Where the hell are you? Queenie!
Comer
Up ahead, the last stragglers are leaping onto flat cars.
"Walter, come on!" I shout. "Don't mess around. You've got to get on now."
He ignores me. He's up at the flat cars now, peering between wagon wheels. "Queenie,
come!" he shouts. He stops and suddenly stands straight up. He looks lost. "Queenie?" he
says to no one in particular.
"Aw hell," I say.
"Is he coming back or what?" asks Camel. "Doesn't look like it," I say.
"Well go git 'im!" he barks.
