I shove my chair back with a violent screech and stand up. My brow is beaded, my
fingers shaking. Fifty-two faces turn to look.
I should know these people, and up until a week ago I did. I knew
where their families lived. I knew what their fathers did. I knew whether they had
siblings and whether they liked them. Hell, I even remember
the ones who had to drop out after the Crash: Henry Winchester,
whose father stepped off the ledge of the Board of Trade Building
in Chicago. Alistair Barnes, whose father shot himself in the head. Reginald Monty, who
tried unsuccessfully to live in a car when his family could no longer pay for his room and
board. Bucky Hayes, whose unemployed father simply wandered off. But these ones, the
ones who
remain? Nothing.
I stare at these faces without features—these blank ovals with hair—looking from one to
the next with increasing desperation. I'm aware of a heavy, wet noise, and realize it's me.
I'm gasping for breath.
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts "Jacob?"
The face nearest me has a mouth and it's moving. The voice is timid, unsure. "Are you
okay?"
I blink, unable to focus. A second later I cross the room and toss the exam booklet on the
proctor's desk.
"Finished already?" he says, reaching for it. I hear paper rustling as I
head for the door. "Wait!" he calls after me. "You haven't even started! You can't leave. If
you leave I can't let you—"
The door cuts offhis final words. As I march across the quad, I look up at Dean Wilkins'
office. He's standing at the window, watching.
I WALK UNTIL the edge of town and then veer off to follow the
train tracks. I walk until after dark and the moon is high, and then for several hours after.
I walk until my legs hurt and my feet blister. And then I stop because I am tired and
hungry and have no idea where I am. It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly
woken to find myself here. The only sign of civilization is the track, which rests on a
raised bed of gravel. There is forest on one side and a small clearing on the other. From
somewhere nearby I hear water trickling, and I pick my way toward it, guided by the
moonlight.
The stream is a couple of feet wide at most. It runs along the tree line
at the far side of the clearing and then cuts off into the woods. I peel off my shoes and
socks and sit at its edge.
When I first submerge my feet in the frigid water, they hurt so badly I yank them out
again. I persist, dunking them for longer and longer periods, until the cold finally numbs
my blisters. I rest my soles against the
rocky bottom and let the water wriggle between my toes. Eventually the cold causes its
own ache, and I lie back on the bank, resting my head on a flat stone while my feet dry.
A coyote howls in the distance, a sound both lonely and familiar, and
I sigh, allowing my eyes to close. When it is answered by a yipping only a few dozen
yards to my left, I sit forward abruptly.
The faraway coyote howls again and this time is answered by a train Sara Gruen
whistle. I pull on my socks and shoes and rise, staring at the edge of the clearing.
The train is closer now, rattling and thumping toward me: CHUNK-achunka-chunk-achunk-
a, CHUNK-a-chunk-a-chunk-a-chunk-a, CHUNKachunk-a-chunk-a-chunk-a...
I wipe my hands on my thighs and walk toward the track, stopping a few yards short. The
acrid stink of oil fills my nose. The whistle shrieks again
TWE-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E
A massive engine explodes around the bend and barrels past, so huge
and so close I'm hit by a wall of wind. It churns out rolling clouds of billowing smoke, a
fat black rope that coils over the cars behind it. The sight,
the sound, the stink are too much. I watch, stunned, as half a dozen flat cars whoosh by,
loaded with what look like wagons, although I can't quite make them out because the
moon has gone behind a cloud.
I snap out of my stupor. There are people on that train. It matters not
a whit where it's going because wherever it is, it's away from coyotes and toward
civilization, food, possible employment—maybe even a ticket back to Ithaca, although I
haven't a cent to my name and no reason to think they'd take me back. And what if they
will? There is no home to return to, no practice to join.
More flat cars pass, loaded with what look like telephone poles. I look behind them,
straining to see what follows. The moon slips out for a second, shining its bluish light on
what might be freight cars.
I start running, moving the same direction as the train. My feet slip
in the sloping gravel—it's like running in sand, and I overcompensate by pitching
forward. I stumble, flailing and trying to regain my balance before any part of me comes
between the huge steel wheels and the track.
I recover and pick up speed, scanning each car for something to grab
on to. Three flash by, locked up tight. They're followed by stock cars. Their doors are
open but filled by the exposed tail ends of horses. This is so odd I take note, even though
I'm running beside a moving train in the middle
of nowhere.
Water for E l e p h a n ts
I slow to a jog and finally stop. Winded and very nearly hopeless, I turn my head. There's
an open door three cars behind me.
I lunge forward again, counting as they pass. One, two, three
I reach for the iron grab bar and fling myself upward. My left foot and elbow hit first, and
then my chin, which smashes onto the metal edging. I cling tightly with all three. The
noise is deafening, and my jawbone bangs rhythmically on the iron edging. I smell either
blood or rust and wonder briefly if I've destroyed my teeth before realizing the point is in
serious danger of becoming moot—I'm balanced perilously on the edge of the doorway
with my right leg pointed at the undercarriage. With my right
hand I cling to the grab bar. With my left I claw the floorboards so desperately the wood
peels off, under my nails. I'm losing purchase—I have
almost no tread on my shoes and my left foot slides in short jerks toward the door. My
right leg now dangles so far under the train I'm sure I'm going to lose it. I brace for it
even, squeezing my eyes shut and clenching my teeth.
After a couple of seconds, I realize I'm still intact. I open my eyes and weigh my options.
There are only two choices here, and since there's no dismounting without going under
the train, I count to three and buck
upward with everything I've got. I manage to get my left knee up over the edge. Using
foot, knee, chin, elbow, and fingernails, I scrape my way inside and collapse on the floor.
I lie panting, utterly spent.
Then I realize I'm facing a dim light. I jerk upright on my elbow.
Four men are sitting on rough burlap feed sacks, playing cards by the light of a kerosene
lantern. One of them, a shrunken old man with stubble
and a hollow face, has an earthenware jug tipped up to his lips. In his surprise, he seems
to have forgotten to put it back down. He does so now and
wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
"Well, well, well," he says slowly. "What have we here?"
Two of the men sit perfectly still, staring at me over the top of fanned cards. The fourth
climbs to his feet and steps forward.
He is a hulking brute with a thick black beard. His clothes are filthy, Sara Gruen
and the brim of his hat looks like someone has taken a bite out of it. I scramble to my feet
and stumble backward, only to find that there's nowhere to go. I twist my head around
and discover that I'm up against one of a great many bundles of canvas.
When I turn back, the man is in my face, his breath rank with alcohol. "We don't got
room for no bums on this train, brother. You can git right back off."
"Now hold on, Blackie," says the old man with the jug. "Don't go doin' nothing rash now,
you hear?"
"Rash nothin'," says Blackie, reaching for my collar. I swat his arm away. He reaches
with his other hand and I swing up to stop him. The bones in our forearms meet with a
crack.
"Woohoo, " cackles the old man. "Watch yourself, pal. Don't you go messin' with
Blackie."
"It seems to me maybe Blackie's messing with me," I shout, blocking another blow.
Blackie lunges. I fall onto a roll of canvas, and before my head even hits I'm yanked
forward again. A moment later, my right arm is twisted behind my back, my feet hang
over the edge of the open door, and I'm facing a line of trees that passes altogether too
quickly.
"Blackie," barks the old guy. "Blackie! Let 'im go. Let 'im go, I tell ya, and on the inside
of the train, too!"
Blackie yanks my arm up toward the nape of my neck and shakes me. "Blackie, I'm tellin'
ya!" shouts the old man. "We don't need no trouble. Let 'im go!"
Blackie dangles me a little further out the door, then pivots and tosses me across the rolls
of canvas. He returns to the other men, snatches the earthenware jug, and then passes
right by me, climbing over the canvas and retreating to the far corner of the car. I watch
him closely, rubbing my wrenched arm.
"Don't be sore, kid," says the old man. "Throwing people off trains is
one of the perks of Blackie's job, and he ain't got to do it in a while. Here,"
he says, patting the floor with the flat of his hand. "Come on over here." Water for E l e p
h a n ts
I shoot another glance at Blackie.
"Come on now," says the old man. "Don't be shy. Blackie's gonna behave now, ain't you,
Blackie?"
Blackie grunts and takes a swig.
I rise and move cautiously toward the others.
The old man sticks his right hand up at me. I hesitate and then take it.
"I'm Camel," he says. "And this here's Grady. That's Bill. I believe you've already made
Blackie's acquaintance." He smiles, revealing a scant handful of teeth.
"How do you do," I say.
"Grady, git that jug back, will ya?" says Camel.
Grady trains his gaze on me, and I meet it. After a while he gets up and moves silently
toward Blackie.
Camel struggles to his feet, so stiff that at one point I reach out and steady his elbow.
Once he's upright he holds the kerosene lamp out
and squints into my face. He peers at my clothes, surveying me from top to bottom.
"Now what did I tell you, Blackie?" he calls out crossly. "This here
ain't no bum. Blackie, git on over here and take a look. Learn yourself the difference."
Blackie grunts, takes one last swallow, and relinquishes the jug to Grady.
Camel squints up at me. "What did you say your name was?" "Jacob Jankowski."
"You got red hair." "So I've heard." "Where you from?"
I pause. Am I from Norwich or Ithaca? Is where you're from the place you're leaving or
where you have roots?
"Nowhere," I say.
Camel's face hardens. He weaves slightly on bowed legs, casting an uneven light from
the swinging lantern. "You done something, boy? You on the lam?"
Sara Gruen
"No," I say. "Nothing like that."
He squints at me a while longer and then nods. "All right then. None of my business nohow.
Where you headed?"
"Not sure."
"You outta work?" "Yes sir. I reckon I am."
"Ain't no shame in it," he says. "What can you do?" "About anything," I say.
Grady appears with the jug and hands it to Camel. He wipes its neck with his sleeve and
passes it to me. "Here, have a belt."
Now, I'm no virgin to liquor, but moonshine is another beast entirely. It burns hellfire
through my chest and head. I catch my breath and fight back tears, staring Camel straight
in the eyes even as my lungs threaten to combust.
Camel observes and nods slowly. "We land in Utica in the morning. I'll take you to see
Uncle Al."
"Who? What?"
"You know. Alan Bunkel, Ringmaster Extraordinaire. Lord and Master of the Known and
Unknown Universes."
I must look baffled, because Camel lets loose with a toothless cackle. "Kid, don't tell me
you didn't notice."
"Notice what?" I ask.
"Shit, boys," he hoots, looking around at the others. "He really don't know!"
Grady and Bill smirk. Only Blackie is unamused. He scowls, pulling his hat farther down
over his face.
Camel turns toward me, clears his throat, and speaks slowly, savoring each word. "You
didn't just jump a train, boy. You done jumped the Flying Squadron of the Benzini
Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth."
"The what?" I say.
Camel laughs so hard he doubles over.
"Ah, that's precious. Precious indeed," he says, sniffing and wiping his
eyes with the back of his hand. "Ah, me. You done landed yer ass on a circus, boy."
Water for E l e p h a n ts Iblink at him.
"That there's the big top," he says, lifting the kerosene lamp and waving a crooked finger
at the great rolls of canvas. "One of the canvas wagons caught the runs wrong and busted
up real good, so here it is. Might
as well find a place to sleep. It's gonna be a few hours before we land. Just don't lie too
close to the door, that's all. Sometimes we take them corners awful sharp."
Three
Iawake to the prolonged screeching of brakes. I'm wedged a good deal farther between
the rolls of canvas than I was when I fell asleep, and I'm disoriented. It takes me a second
to figure out where I am.
The train shudders to a stop and exhales. Blackie, Bill, and Grady roll to their feet and
drop wordlessly out the door. After they're gone, Camel hobbles over. He leans down and
