"Forget it, Jacob. There's nothing you can do right now."
"I've got to. What if he ... ?" My voice cracks. I can't even finish the sentence. Walter
helps me into a sitting position.
"There's nothing you can do right now." 2.92
Water for E l e p h a n ts "I don't accept that."
Walter turns in fury. "For Christ's sake, would you just listen to me for once?"
His anger startles me into silence. I rearrange my knees and lean forward so my head is
resting on my arms. If feels heavy, huge—at least as
large as my body.
"Never mind that we're on a moving train and you've got a concussion. We're in a mess.
A big mess. And the only thing you can do right now is make it worse. Hell, if you hadn't
been knocked flat and if we didn't still have Camel here, I'd have never gotten back on
this train tonight."
I stare between my knees at the bedroll, trying to concentrate on the largest fold of
material. Things are steadier now, not shifting so much. With each passing minute,
additional parts of my brain are kicking in. "Look," Walter continues, his voice softer,
"we've got three days left before we off-load Camel. And we're just going to have to cope
the best we can in the meantime. That means watching our backs and not doing anything
stupid."
"Off-load Camel?" says Camel. "Is that how you think of me?"
"At the moment, yes!" barks Walter. "And you should be grateful we do, because what
the hell do you think would happen to you if we took off right now? Hmmm?"
There is no answer from the cot.
Walter pauses and sighs. "Look, what's happening with Marlena is terrible, but for God's
sake! If we leave before Providence, Camel's done for.
She's going to have to look after herself for the next three days. Hell, she's done it for
four years. I think she can last another three days."
"She's pregnant, Walter." "What?"
There is a long silence. I look up.
Walter's forehead is creased. "Are you sure?" "So she says."
He stares into my eyes for a long time. I try to meet his gaze, but my eyes jerk
rhythmically to the side.
S a r a G r u en
"All the more reason to play this carefully. Jacob, look at me!" I m trying! 1 say.
"We're going to get out of here. But if we're all going to make it, we've got to play it
right. We can't do anything—anything!—until Camel's gone. The sooner you get used to
that, the better."
There's a sob from the cot. Walter turns his head. "Shut it, Camel! They wouldn't be
taking you back if they hadn't forgiven you. Or would you rather be redlighted?"
"I don't rightly know," he cries.
Walter turns back to me. "Look at me, Jacob. Look at me." When I do, he continues.
"She'll handle him. I tell you, she'll handle him. She's the only one who can. She knows
what's at stake. It's only for three days." "And then what? Like you've said all along, we
have nowhere to go." He turns his face away in anger. Then he spins back. "Do you truly
comprehend the situation here, Jacob? Because sometimes I wonder." "Of course I do!
It's just I'm not liking any of the options."
"Me neither. But like I said, we'll have to sort that out later. Right now let's just
concentrate on getting out of here alive."
CAMEL SOBS AND SNIFFS his way to sleep, despite Walter's repeated assurances that
his family will welcome him with open arms. Eventually he drifts off. Walter checks him
one more time and then
turns off the lamp. He and Queenie retire to the horse blanket in the corner. A few
minutes later he begins to snore.
I rise carefully, testing my balance at every point. When I've got myself successfully
upright, I step tentatively forward. I'm dizzy but seem able to compensate. I take a few
steps in a row, and when that works out all right I cross the floor to the trunk.
Six minutes later, I'm creeping across the top of the stock car on my hands and knees
with Walter's knife in my teeth.
What sounds like gentle clacking from inside the train is a violent banging up here. The
cars shift and jerk as we round a corner, and I stop, clinging to the top rail until we're
once again on a straightaway.
Water for E l e p h a n ts
At the end of the car I pause to consider my options. In theory, I could climb down the
ladder, leap over to the platform, and walk through the various cars until I reach the one
in question. But I can't risk being seen. So. And so.
I stand, still holding the knife in my teeth. My legs are spread, my knees bent, my arms
moving jerkily to the side, like the tightrope walker's.
The divide between this car and the next seems immense, a great span over eternity. I
gather myself, pressing my tongue against the bitter metal of the knife. Then I leap,
throwing every ounce of muscle into propelling myself through the air. I swing my arms
and legs wildly, preparing to catch hold of anything— anything at all—if I miss.
I hit roof. I cling to the top rail, panting like a dog around the sides of the blade.
Something warm trickles from the corner of my mouth. Still kneeling on the rail, I
remove the knife from my mouth and lick blood from my lips. Then I put it back, taking
care to keep my lips retracted. In this manner I traverse five sleepers. Each time I leap, I
land a little
more cleanly, a little more cavalierly. By the sixth, I have to remind myself to be careful.
When I reach the privilege car, I sit on the roof and take stock. My muscles are aching,
my head is spinning, and I'm gasping for breath. The train jags around another curve and
I grasp the rails, looking
toward the engine. We're hugging the side of a forested hill, headed for a trestle. From
what I can see in the darkness, the trestle drops down to a rocky river bank twenty yards
below. The train jerks again, and I make my decision. The rest of my journey to car 48
will be on the interior.
Still clenching the knife in my teeth, I ease myself off the edge of the platform. The cars
that house the performers and bosses are connected by metal plates, so all I have to do is
make sure I land on it. I'm hanging by my fingertips when the train lurches once again,
swinging my legs off
to the side. I clutch desperately, my sweaty fingers sliding on the crosshatched
metal.
When the train straightens out again, I drop onto the plate. The platform has a railing and
I lean against it for a moment, collecting myself.
295 . =Sara Gruen
With aching, trembling fingers I pull the watch from my pocket. It's nearly three in the
morning. The chances of running into someone are slim. But still.
The knife is a problem. It is too long to go in a pocket, too sharp to
stick in my waistband. In the end, I wrap my jacket around it and tuck it under my arm.
Then I run my fingers through my hair, wipe the blood off my lips, and slide the door
open.
The corridor is empty, illuminated by moonlight coming through the windows. I pause
long enough to look out. We're on the trestle now. I had underestimated its height—we're
a good forty yards above the boulders of the riverbank and facing a wide area of
nothingness. As the train sways, I'm grateful I'm no longer on the roof.
Soon I'm staring at the doorknob of stateroom 3.1 unwrap the knife
and lay it on the floor while I put my jacket back on. Then I pick it up and stare at the
doorknob a moment longer.
There's a loud click as I turn the knob, and I freeze, keeping it turned, waiting to see if
there's a reaction. After several seconds, I continue twisting and push the door inward.
I leave the door open, afraid that if I close it I'll wake him up.
If he's on his back, a single quick slash across the windpipe will do it.
If he's on his stomach or side, I'll plunge it straight through, making sure the blade
crosses his windpipe. Either way, I'll hit him in the neck. I just can't falter, because it
must be deep enough that he bleeds out quickly, without crying out.
I creep toward the bedroom, clutching the knife. The velvet curtain is closed. I pull the
edge of it toward me and peek in. When I see that he's alone, I exhale in relief. She's safe,
probably in the virgin car. In fact, I must have crawled right over her on my way here.
I slip in and stand by the bed. He's sleeping on the near side, leaving
space for the absent Marlena. The curtains on the windows are tied back, and moonlight
flashes through the trees, alternately illuminating and hiding his face.
I stare down at him. He's in striped pajamas and looks peaceful, boyWater for E l e p h a
n ts
ish even. His dark hair is mussed, and the edge of his mouth moves in and out of a smile.
He's dreaming. He moves suddenly, smacking his lips and rolling from his back onto his
side. He reaches over to Marlena's side of
the bed and pats the empty space a few times. Then he pats his way up to her pillow. He
takes hold of it and pulls it to his chest, hugging it, burrowing his face into it.
I raise the knife, holding it in both hands, its tip poised two feet above
his throat. I need to do this right. I adjust the blade's angle to maximize side-to-side
damage. The train passes out of the trees, and a thin streak of moonlight catches the
blade. It glints, throwing tiny shards of light as I make adjustments to the angle. August
moves again, snorting and rolling violently onto his back. His left arm flops off the bed
and comes to a stop inches from my thigh. The knife is still gleaming, still catching and
throwing light. But the movement is no longer a result of my making adjustments.
My hands are shaking. August's lower jaw opens, and he inhales
with a terrible rumbling and smacking of lips. The hand beside my thigh is slack. The
fingers of his other hand twitch.
I lean over him and lay the knife carefully on Marlena's pillow. I stare for a few seconds
longer and then leave.
No LONGER RIDING a wave of adrenaline, my head once again
feels larger than my body, and I stagger through the corridors until I reach the end of the
staterooms.
I have a choice to make. I must either go up top again or else continue through the
privilege car—where there's every possibility someone is still up gambling—and then
also pass through all the sleepers, at which point I'll still have to go back up top to get to
the stock car. And so I decide to make the ascent earlier rather than later.
It's almost more than I can manage. My head is pounding, and my balance seriously
compromised. I climb onto the railing of a connecting platform and somehow scrape my
way up to the top. Once there, I lie on the
top rail, queasy and limp. I spend ten minutes recovering and then crawl forth. I rest
again at the end of the car, prostrate between the top rails. I ' 2-97
S a r a G r u en
am utterly drained. I can't imagine how I'll keep going, but I must, because if I fall asleep
here I'll fall off the first time we hit a curve.
The buzzing returns, and my eyes are jerking. I dive across the great divide four times,
each time sure I won't make it. On the fifth, I nearly don't. My hands hit the thin iron
rails, but the edge of the car hits me in the gut. I hang there, stunned, so tired that it
crosses my mind how much easier it would be to simply let go. It's how drowning people
must feel in the last few seconds, when they finally stop fighting and sink into the water's
embrace. Only what's waiting for me is not a watery embrace. It's a violent
dismemberment.
I snap to, scrabbling with my legs until I get purchase on the top edge
of the car. From there, it's easy enough to haul myself up and a second later I'm once
again lying on the top rail, gasping for breath.
The train whistle blows, and I lift my huge head. I'm on top of the stock car. I only have
to make it to the vent and drop down. I crawl to the vent in fits and starts. It's open, which
is odd because I thought I closed it. I lower myself inside and crash to the floor. One of
the horses whinnies and continues to snort and stamp, riled up about something.
I turn my head. The exterior door is now open.
I jerk up and scootch around so I'm facing the interior door. It is also open.
"Walter! Camel!" I shout.
Nothing but the sound of the door gently hitting the wall behind it, keeping time with the
ties clacking beneath us.
I scramble to my feet and lunge for the door. Doubled over and supporting myself with
one hand against the doorframe and the other on my
thigh, I scan the interior of the room with sightless eyes. All the blood has left my head,
and my vision once again fills with black and white explosions.
"Walter! Camel!"
My eyesight starts to return, from the outside in so that I find myself turning my head to
try to catch things in the periphery. The only light is Water for E l e p h a n ts
what comes through the slats, and it reveals an empty cot. The bedroll is also empty, as is
the horse blanket in the corner.
I stagger to the row of trunks against the back wall and lean over them.
"Walter?"
All I find is Queenie, shivering and curled into a ball. She looks up at me in terror, and I
am left with no doubt.
I sink to the floor, overcome with grief and guilt. I throw a book at
the wall. I pound the floorboards. I shake my fists at heaven and God, and when I finally
subside into uncontrolled sobbing Queenie creeps out from behind the trunks and slides
into my lap. I hold her warm body until finally we are rocking in silence.
I want to believe that taking Walter's knife didn't make a difference. But still, I left him
