me all over.
"Jacob, what's going on?"
When I tell him, his expression changes from shock to horror to disbelief.
"You bastard," he says at the end. "Walter, please—"
"So, you're going to take off after Providence. That's very big of you to wait that long."
"It's because of Cam—"
"I know it's because of Camel," he shouts. Then he pounds his chest with his fist. "What
about me?"
Water for E l e p h a n ts
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
"Yeah. That's what I thought." he says. His voice drips with sarcasm. "Come with us," I
blurt.
"Oh yeah, that'll be cozy. Just the three of us. And where the hell are we supposed to go,
anyway?"
"We'll check Billboard and see what's available."
"There's nothing available. Shows are collapsing all over the damned country. There's
people starving. Starving! In the United States of America!"
"We'll find something, somewhere."
"The hell we will," he says, shaking his head. "Damn, Jacob. I hope she's worth it, that's
all I can say."
I HEAD FOR the menagerie, watching all the while for August. He's not there, but the
tension among the menagerie men is palpable. In the middle of the afternoon, I am
summoned to the privilege car. "Sit," says Uncle Al, when I enter. He waves at the
opposite chair.
I sit.
He leans back in his chair, twiddling his moustache. His eyes are narrowed. "Any
progress to report?" he asks.
"Not yet," I say. "But I think she'll come around."
His eyes widen. His fingers stop twiddling. "You do?" "Not right away, of course. She's
still angry."
"Yes, yes, of course," he says, leaning forward eagerly. "But you do
t h i n k ... ?" He lets the question trail off. His eyes gleam with hope. I sigh deeply and
lean back, crossing my legs. "When two people are meant to be together, they will be
together. It's fate."
He stares into my eyes as a smile seeps across his face. He lifts his hand and snaps his
fingers. "A brandy for Jacob," he orders. "And one for me as well."
A minute later, we are each holding large snifters.
"So, tell me then, how long do you t h i n k ... ?" he says, stirring the air beside his head.
2-77
Sara Gruen
"I think she wants to make a point."
"Yes, yes, of course," he says. He shifts forward, eyes shining. "Yes. I quite understand."
"Also, it's important that she feel we are supporting her, not him. You know how women
are. If she thinks that we're in any way unsympathetic, it will only set things back."
"Of course," he says, nodding and shaking his head all at once so it
bobs in a circle. "Absolutely. And what do you recommend we do in that regard?"
"Well, naturally August should keep his distance. That would give her
a chance to miss him. It might even be beneficial for him to pretend he's no longer
interested. Women are funny that way. Also, she mustn't think that we're pushing them
back together. It's critical that she think it's her idea."
"Mmmm, yes," he says, nodding thoughtfully. "Good point. And how long do you t h i n
k ... ?"
"I shouldn't think more than a few weeks."
He stops nodding. His eyes pop open. "That long?"
"I can try to speed things up, but there's a risk it will backfire. You
know women." I shrug. "It might take two weeks, and it might be tomorrow. But if she
feels any pressure, she'll hold offjust to prove a point."
"Yes, quite," says Uncle Al, bringing a finger to his lips. He scrutinizes
me for what feels like a very long time. "So, tell me," he says, "what changed your mind
since yesterday?"
I lift my glass and swirl the brandy, staring at the point where the stem meets the glass.
"Let's just say that the way things are suddenly became very clear to me."
His eyes narrow.
"To August and Marlena," I say, thrusting my glass upward. The brandy sloshes up the
sides.
He lifts his glass slowly.
Itoss back the rest of mybrandyand smile. W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
He lowers his glass without drinking. I cock my head and keep smiling. Let him examine
me. Just let him. Today I am invincible.
He starts to nod, satisfied. He takes a drink. "Yes. Good. I have to
admit I wasn't so sure about you after yesterday. I'm glad you've come around. You won't
be sorry, Jacob. It's the best thing for everyone. And especially you," he says, pointing at
me with his snifter. He tips it back and drains it. "I look after those who look after me."
He smacks his lips, stares at me, and adds, "I also look after those who don't."
THAT EVENING, MARLENA conceals her black eye with pancake makeup and does
her liberty act. But August's face is not so easily fixed, so there will be no elephant act
until he looks like a human being again. The townsfolk—who have been staring at poster
after poster of Rosie balancing on a ball for the last two weeks—are unhappy in the
extreme when the
show ends and they realize that the pachyderm who cheerfully accepted candy, popcorn,
and peanuts in the menagerie tent never made an appearance in the big top at all. A
handful of men wanting their money back are
hustled away to be mollified by the patches before their train of thought has an
opportunity to spread.
A few days later, the sequined headpiece reappears—mended carefully with pink
thread—and so Rosie looks glamorous as she charms the crowd in the menagerie. But she
still doesn't perform, and after every show there are complaints.
Life goes on with fragile normalcy. I perform my usual duties in the morning and retire to
the back end when the crowd comes in. Uncle Al does not consider battered rotten
tomatoes to be good ambassadors for
the show, and I can't say I blame him. My wounds look significantly worse before they
start to look better, and when the swelling subsides it's clear that my nose will be off-
kilter for life.
Except for mealtimes, we don't see August at all. Uncle Al reassigns
him to Earl's table, but after it becomes clear that all he will do is sit and sulk and stare at
Marlena, he is ordered to take his meals in the dining car
S a r a G r u en
with Uncle Al. And so it happens that three times a day, Marlena and I sit across from
each other, strangely alone in the most public of places. Uncle Al tries to keep up his end
of the deal, I'll give him that. But August is too far gone to be controlled. The day after
his extraction from the cookhouse, Marlena turns and sees him ducking behind a tent
flap. An hour later, he accosts her in the midway, drops to his knees, and wraps his arms
around her legs. When she wrestles to get free, he knocks her onto the grass and pins her
there, trying to force her ring back on her finger, alternately murmuring entreaties and
spitting threats.
Walter sprints to the menagerie to get me, but by the time I get there
Earl has already hauled August away. Fuming, I head for the privilege car. When I tell
Uncle Al that August's outburst has just returned us to
square one, he vents his frustration by smashing a decanter against the wall.
August disappears entirely for three days, and Uncle Al begins whacking heads again.
AUGUST IS NOT the only one consumed by thoughts of Marlena.
I lie on my horse blanket at night wanting her so badly I ache. A part of me wishes she
would come to me—but not really, because it's too dangerous. I also can't go to her,
because she's sharing a bunk in the virgin car with one of the bally broads.
We manage to make love twice in the space of six days—ducking behind sidewalls and
grappling frantically, rearranging our clothing because there is no time to remove it.
These encounters leave me both exhausted and recharged, desperate and fulfilled. The
rest of the time we interact with focused formality in the cookhouse. We are so careful to
maintain the facade that even though no one could possibly hear our conversations, we
conduct them as though others were sitting at our table.
Even so, I wonder whether our affair isn't obvious. It seems to me that the bonds between
us must be visible.
The night after our third unexpected and frenzied encounter, while the W a t e r for E l e
p h a n ts
taste of her is still on my lips, I have a vivid dream. The train is stopped
in the forest, for no reason I can make out because its the middle of the night and nobody
stirs. There's yelping outside, insistent and distressed. I leave the stock car, following the
noise to the edge of a steep bank. Queenie struggles at the bottom of a ravine, a badger
hanging from her leg. I call
to her, frantically scanning the bank for a way to get down. I grab a ropy branch and
clutch it while I try to descend, but the mud slips under my feet and I end up hauling
myself back up.
In the meantime, Queenie breaks free and scrabbles up the hill. I
scoop her up and check her for injuries. Incredibly, she is fine. I tuck her under my arm
and turn toward the stock car. An eight-foot alligator blocks its entrance. I head for the
next car over, but the alligator turns
as well, shambling beside the train, its blunt, toothy snout open, grinning. I turn in panic.
Another huge alligator approaches from the other direction.
There are noises behind us, leaves crackling and twigs snapping. I spin around to find
that the badger has come up the bank and multiplied. Behind us, a wall of badgers. In
front of us, a dozen alligators.
I wake up in a cold sweat.
The situation is entirely untenable, and I know it.
IN POUGHKEEPSIE, WE are raided, and for once the social strata
are bridged: working men, performers, and bosses alike weep and snizzle as all that
scotch, all that wine, all that fine Canadian whiskey, all that
beer, all that gin, and even moonshine is poured onto the gravel by straightarmed, sour-
faced men. It winnows through the stones as we watch, bubbling
into the undeserving earth.
And then we are run out of town.
In Hartford, a handful of patrons take serious exception to Rosie's nonperformance, as
well as the continued presence of the Lovely Lucinda sideshow
banner despite the unfortunate absence of the Lovely Lucinda. The patches aren't fast
enough, and before we know it disgruntled men swarm S a r a G r u en
the ticket wagon demanding refunds. With the police closing in on one side and
townsfolk on the other, Uncle Al is forced to refund the whole day's proceeds.
And then we are run out of town.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING is payday, and the employees of the Benzini Brothers
Most Spectacular Show on Earth line up in front of
the red ticket wagon. The working men are in a foul humor—they know which way the
wind is blowing. The first person to approach the red wagon is a roustabout, and when he
leaves empty-handed the line buzzes with angry curses. The rest of the working men stalk
off, spitting and swearing, leaving only performers and bosses in line. A few minutes
later, another angry buzz runs down the line, this one tinged with surprise. For the first
time in the show's history, there is no money for performers. Only the bosses are getting
paid.
Walter is outraged.
"What the.fuck is this?" he shouts as he enters the stock car. He throws his hat into the
corner and then drops onto the bedroll.
Camel whimpers from the cot. Ever since the raid, he spends his time either staring at the
wall or crying. The only time he speaks is when we're trying to feed or clean him, and
even then it's only to beg us not to deliver him to his son. Walter and I take turns
muttering placating things about family and forgiveness, but we both have misgivings.
Whatever he was when he wandered away from his family, he is incalculably worse now,
damaged beyond repair and probably even recognition. And if they're not in a forgiving
frame of mind, what will it be like for him to be so helpless in their hands?
"Calm down, Walter," I say. I'm sitting on my horse blanket in the corner, brushing away
the flies that have been tormenting me all morning, flitting from scab to scab.
"No, I will notfucking calm down. I'm a performer! A performer! Performers get paid!"
Walter shouts, thumping his chest. He pulls off a shoe
Water for E l e p h a n ts
and heaves it against the wall. He stares at it for a moment, then pulls off the other and
slams it into the corner. It lands on his hat. Walter brings his fist down on the blanket
beneath him and Queenie scurries behind the row of trunks that used to hide Camel.
"We don't have much longer," I say. "Just hang on for a few more days."
"Yeah? Why's that?"
"Because that's when Camel gets picked up"—there's a keening wail from the cot—"and
we get the hell out of here."
"Yeah?" says Walter. "And just what the hell are we going to do? Have you figured that
out yet?"
I meet his gaze and hold it for a few seconds. Then I turn my head. "Yeah. That's what I
thought. That's why I needed to get paid. We're going to end up as fucking hoboes" he
says.
"No we won't," I say unconvincingly.
"You better think of something, Jacob. You're the one who got us into this mess, not me.
You and your girlfriend might be able to take to the road, but I can't. This may be all fun
and games for you—"
"It is not fun and games!"
"—but my life is at stake here. You've at least got the option of hopping trains and
