elsewhere.
August is oblivious, buttoning his waistcoat and chatting amiably when Uncle Al bursts
through the flap.
Marlena turns, outraged. "Hey—ever heard of asking before you barge into a lady's
dressing tent?"
Uncle Al pays no attention to her at all. He marches straight to August and jabs his finger
in his chest.
"It's your goddamned bull!" he screams.
August looks down at the finger sticking into his chest, pauses a few beats, and then takes
it daintily between thumb and forefinger. He moves Uncle Al's hand aside, and then
flicks a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the spit from his face.
"I beg your pardon?" he asks at the end of this operation.
"It's youx goddamned thieving bull!" screams Uncle Al, once again showering August
with spit. "She pulls out her stake, takes it with her, Sara Gruen
drinks the goddamned lemonade, then goes back and sticks her stake in the ground!"
Marlena claps a hand over her mouth, but not in time.
Uncle Al spins, furious. "You think it's funny? You think it'sfunny?" The blood drains
from her face.
I rise from my chair and step forward. "Well, you have to admit there's a certain—"
Uncle Al turns, plants both hands squarely on my chest and shoves me so hard I fall
backward onto a trunk.
He twists around to August. "That fucking bull cost me afortune!
She's the reason I couldn't pay the men and had to take care of business and caught heat
from the goddamned railroad authority! And for what? The goddamned thing won't
perform and she steals the fucking lemonade!"
"Al!" August says sharply. "Watch your mouth. I'll have you remember you're in the
presence of a lady."
Uncle Al's head swivels. He regards Marlena without remorse and turns back to August.
"Woody s going to tally up the losses," he says. "I'm taking it from your pay."
"You've already taken it from the roustabouts," Marlena says quietly. "Are you planning
to return their money?"
Uncle Al gazes upon her and I like his expression so little I step forward until I'm
between them. He turns his gaze to me, his jaw grinding in anger. Then he turns and
marches out.
"What a jerk," says Marlena, going back to her dressing table. "I could have been getting
dressed."
August stands utterly still. Then he reaches for his top hat and bull hook.
Marlena sees this in the mirror. "Where are you going?" she says quickly. "August, what
are you doing?"
He heads for the doorway.
She grabs his arm. "Auggie! Where are you going?" 214 . = =
Water for E l e p h a n ts
"I'm not the only one who's going to pay for the lemonade," he says, shaking her off.
"August, no!" She grabs his elbow again. This time she throws her weight into it, trying
to prevent him from leaving. "August, wait! For Gods sake. She didn't know. We'll secure
her better next time—" August wrenches free and Marlena crashes to the ground. He
looks at her in utter disgust. Then he plants his hat on his head and turns away. "August!"
she shrieks. "Stop!"
He pushes the flap open and is gone. Marlena sits, stunned, exactly where she fell. I look
from her to the flap and then back again. "I'm going after him," I say, heading for the
doorway.
"No! Wait!" I freeze.
"There's no use," she says, her voice hollow and small. "You can't stop
him."
"I can sure as hell try. I did nothing last time and I'll never forgive myself."
"You don't understand! You'll only make it worse! Jacob, please! You don't understand!"
I spin to face her. "No! I don't! I don't understand anything anymore. Not a damned thing.
Would you care to enlighten me?"
Her eyes open wide. Her mouth forms an O. Then she buries her face in her hands and
bursts into tears.
I stare, horrified. Then I fall to my knees and gather her in my arms. "Oh, Marlena,
Marlena—"
"Jacob," she whispers into my shirt. She clings to me as tightly as if I were keeping her
from being sucked into a vortex.
Sixteen
My name isn't Rosie. It's Rosemary. You know that, Mr. Jankowski."
I am startled into awareness, blinking up into the unmistakable glare of fluorescent
lighting.
"Eh? What?" My voice is thin, reedy. A black woman leans over me, tucking something
around my legs. Her hair is fragrant and smooth. "You called me Rosie just a minute ago.
My name is Rosemary" she says, straightening up. "There, now isn't that better?"
I stare at her. Oh God. That's right. I'm old. And I'm in bed. Wait a minute—I called her
Rosie?
"I was talking? Out loud?"
She laughs. "Oh dear, yes. Oh yes, Mr. Jankowski. You've been talking a blue streak
since we left the lunchroom. Just talking my ear off."
My face flushes. I stare at the clawed hands in my lap. God only knows what I've been
saying. I only know what I've been thinking, and even that's in retrospect—until I
suddenly found myself here, now, I thought I was there.
"Why, what's the matter?" Rosemary says.
"Did I ... Did I say anything... you know, embarrassing?" W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
"Heavens, no! I don't understand why you haven't told the others, what
with everyone going to the circus and all. I'll bet you've never even mentioned it though,
have you?"
Rosemary watches me expectantly. Then her brow furrows. She pulls
a chair over and sits next to me. "You don't remember talking to me, do you?" she says
gently.
I shake my head.
She takes both my hands in hers. They are warm and firmly fleshed.
"You said nothing to be embarrassed of, Mr. Jankowski. You're a fine gentleman and I'm
honored to know you."
My eyes fill, and I drop my head so she won't see. "Mr. Jankowski—"
"I don't want to talk about it." "About the circus?"
"No. A b o u t ... Oh hell, don't you understand? I didn't even realize
I was talking. It's the beginning of the end. It's all downhill from here, and I didn't have
very far to go. But I was really hoping to hang on to my brains. I really was."
"You still have your brains, Mr. Jankowski. You're sharp as a tack." We sit in silence for
a minute.
"I'm scared, Rosemary."
"Do you want me to talk to Dr. Rashid?" she asks.
I nod. A tear slips from my eye and into my lap. I hold my eyes wide, hoping to contain
the rest.
"It's another hour before you have to be ready to go. Would you like to rest a spell?"
I nod again. She gives my hand a final pat, lowers the head of my bed, and leaves. I lie
back, listening to the buzzing lights and staring at the square tiles of the dropped ceiling.
An expanse of pressed popcorn, of tasteless rice cakes.
If I'm completely honest with myself, there have been hints I was slipping.
117
Sara Gruen
Last week, when my people came, I didn't know them. I faked it, though—when they
made their way toward me and I realized it was me they had come to see, I smiled and
made all the usual placating noises, the
"oh yesses" and "goodness graciouses" that make up my end of most conversations these
days. I thought it was going just fine until a peculiar look
crossed the mother's face. A horrified look, with her forehead scrumpled and her jaw
slightly open. I raced back over the last few minutes of the conversation and realized I'd
said the wrong thing, the polar opposite of what I should have said, and then I was
mortified, because I don't dislike Isabelle. I just don't know her, and so I was having
trouble paying attention to the details of her disastrous dance recital.
But then this Isabelle turned and laughed and in that instant I saw
my wife. This made me weepy and these people whom I didn't recognize exchanged
furtive glances and shortly thereafter announced that it was time to leave because
Grandpa needed his rest. They patted my hand and they tucked my blanket in around my
knees, and they left. They went out into the world, and they left me here. And to this day
I have no idea who they were.
I know my children, don't get me wrong—but these are not my children. These are the
children of my children, and their children, too, and
maybe even theirs. Did I coo into their baby faces? Did I dandle them
on my knee? I had three sons and two daughters, a houseful indeed, and none of them
exactly held back. You multiply five by four and then by five again, and it's no wonder I
forget how some of them fit in. It doesn't help
that they take turns coming to see me, because even if I manage to commit one group to
memory, they may not come around again for another
eight or nine months, by which time I've forgotten whatever it was I may have known.
But what happened today was entirely different, and much, much scarier.
What in God's name did I say?
I close my eyes and reach for the far corners of my mind. They're Water for E l e p h a n
ts
no longer clearly defined. My brain is like a universe whose gases get thinner and thinner
at the edges. But it doesn't dissolve into nothingness. I can sense something out there, just
beyond my grasp, hovering, waiting—and God help me if I'm not skidding toward it
again, mouth open wide.
= zi9
S evente en
hile August is off doing God knows what to Rosie, Marlena and I crouch on the grass in
her dressing tent, clinging to each other like spider monkeys. I say
almost nothing, just hold her head to my chest as her history spills out in a rushed
whisper.
She tells me about meeting August—she was seventeen, and it had just dawned on her
that the recent spate of bachelors joining her family for dinner were actually being
presented as potential husbands. When one middle-aged banker with a receding chin,
thinning hair, and reedy fingers showed up for dinner one time too many, she heard the
doors of her future slamming all around her.
But even as the banker sniveled something that made Marlena blanch
and stare in horror at her bowl of clam chowder, posters were being slapped up on every
surface in town. The wheels of fate were in motion. The Benzini Brothers Most
Spectacular Show on Earth was chugging toward them
at that very moment, bringing with it a very real fantasy and, for Marlena, an escape that
would prove as romantic as it was terrifying.
Two days later, on a brilliantly sunny day, the L'Arche family went to the circus. Marlena
was standing in the menagerie tent in front of a string of stunning black and white
Arabians when August first approached her. Her parents had wandered off to look at the
cats, oblivious to the force that was about to enter their lives.
And August was a force. Charming, gregarious, and handsome as the devil. Dressed
immaculately in blinding white jodhpurs, top hat and tails, w
S a r a G r u en
he radiated both authority and irresistible charisma. Within minutes, he had secured the
promise of a surreptitious meeting and disappeared before the L'Arche seniors rejoined
their daughter.
When she met him later, at an art gallery, he began wooing her in earnest. He was twelve
years her senior and glamorous in the way only an equestrian director can be. Before the
end of the date, he had proposed.
He was charming and relentless. He refused to budge until she married him. He regaled
her with stories of Uncle Al's desperation, and Uncle
Al himself made pleas on August's behalf. They had already missed two jumps. A circus
could not survive if it blew its route. This was an important decision, yes, but surely she
understood how this was affecting them? That the lives of countless others depended on
her making the right choice?
The seventeen-year-old Marlena gazed upon her future in Boston for three more evenings
and on the fourth packed a suitcase.
At this point in her story, she dissolves into tears. I'm still holding her, still rocking back
and forth. Eventually she pulls away, wiping her eyes with her hands.
"You should go," she says. "I don't want to."
She whimpers, reaching across the divide to stroke my cheek with the back of her hand.
"I want to see you again," I say. "You see me every day."
"You know what I mean."
There's a long pause. She drops her gaze to the ground. Her mouth moves a few times
before she finally speaks. "I can't."
"Marlena, for God's sake—"
"I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it." I kneel in front of
her, searching her face for a signal to stay. After an agonizing wait, I realize I'm not going
to find one.
I kiss her on the forehead and leave. Water for E l e p h a n ts
BEFORE I'VE GONE forty yards, I've heard more than I ever wanted to about how Rosie
paid for the lemonade.
Apparently August stormed into the menagerie and banished everyone. The puzzled
menagerie men and a handful of others stood outside,
their ears pressed to the seams of the great canvas tent as a torrent of angry screaming
began. This sent the rest of the animals into a panic—the chimps screeched, the cats
roared, and the zebras yelped. Despite this, the distraught listeners could still make out
the hollow thud of bull hook hitting flesh, again and again and again.
At first Rosie bellowed and whimpered. When she progressed to squealing and shrieking,
many of the men turned away, unable to take any more. One of them ran for Earl, who
entered the menagerie and hauled August out by his armpits. He kicked and struggled
