"Go on, make her do something," I urge.
He stares at me as though I've sprouted horns.
"I mean it," I say. "You got a bull man here? Try to make her do something. She's
useless, stupid."
He continues staring for a moment. Then he turns his head. "Dick," he barks. "Make her
do something."
A man with a bull hook steps forward.
I stare Rosie in the eye. Please, Rosie. Understand what's going on here.
Please.
"What's her name?" says Dick, looking over his shoulder at me. Sara Gruen
"Gertrude."
He turns to Rosie. "Gertrude, step up to me. Step up to me now." His voice is raised,
sharp.
Rosie blows, and starts swinging her trunk. "Gertrude, step up to me now" he repeats.
Rosie blinks. She sweeps her trunk along the ground and then pauses. She curls its tip and
pushes dirt onto it with her foot. Then she swings it around, throwing the collected dirt
across her back and over the people around her. Several in the crowd laugh.
"Gertrude, lift your foot," says Dick, stepping forward so that he's right at her shoulder.
He taps the back of her leg with the bull hook. "Lift it!" Rosie swings her ears and sniffs
him with her trunk.
"Lift it!" he says, tapping her leg harder.
Rosie smiles and checks his pockets. Her four feet remain firmly on the ground.
The bull man pushes her trunk away and turns to his boss. "He's right. She doesn't know a
damned thing. How'd you even get her out here?" "This fella brought her," says the
manager, pointing at Greg. He turns back to me. "So what does she do?"
"She stands in the menagerie and takes candy." "That's it?" he asks incredulously.
"Yup," I answer.
"No wonder the damned show collapsed," he says, shaking his head. He turns back to the
sheriff. "So, what else you got?"
I don't hear anything after that because my ears are buzzing. What the hell have I done?
I STARE FORLORNLY at the windows of car 48, wondering how
to break the news to Marlena that we now own an elephant, when she suddenly comes
flying out the door, leaping from the platform like a gazelle.
She hits the ground running, her arms and legs pumping.
I turn to follow her trajectory and immediately see why. The sheriff and Water for E l e p
h a n ts
the general manager of the Nesci Brothers are standing beside the menagerie tent,
shaking hands and smiling. Her horses are lined up behind them,
held by Nesci Brothers men.
The manager and sheriff whip around when she reaches them. I'm too far away to make
out much, but snatches of her diatribe—the bits in the uppermost register—cut through.
Things like "how dare you," "appalling nerve," and "unspeakable gall." She gesticulates
wildly, arms flailing. "Grand theft" and "prosecution" make their way across the lot. Or
was that "prison"?
The men stare, astonished.
Finally she stops. She crosses her arms, scowls, and taps her foot. The
men look at each other, wide-eyed. The sheriff turns and opens his mouth, but before he
has time to utter a word Marlena explodes again, shrieking like a banshee, poking a
finger in his face. He takes a step backward but she moves with him. He stops and braces,
his chest puffed and eyes closed. When she stops wagging her finger, she crosses her
arms again. The foot taps, the head bobs.
The sheriff's eyes open, and he turns to look at the general manager.
After a pregnant pause, he shrugs feebly. The general manager frowns and turns to
Marlena.
He lasts approximately five seconds before stepping backward with
hands raised in surrender. His face has "Uncle" written all over it. Marlena puts her hands
on her waist and waits, glaring. Eventually he turns, red-faced, and barks something to
the men holding her horses.
Marlena watches until all eleven have been returned to the menagerie. Then she marches
back to car 48.
Dear God. Not only am I unemployed and homeless, but I also have a pregnant woman,
bereaved dog, elephant, and eleven horses to take care of.
I RETURN TO THE post office and call Dean Wilkins. He is silent
for even longer this time. He finally stammers out an apology: he's really — = . 317
Sara Grucn
very sorry—he wishes he could help—I'm still welcome to sit my final exams, of course,
but he hasn't the faintest idea what I should do with the elephant.
I RETURN TO T H E lot rigid with panic. I can't leave Marlena and
the animals here while I return to Ithaca to write my exams. What if the sheriff sells the
menagerie in the meantime? The horses we can board, and we can afford for Marlena and
Queenie to stay in a hotel for a while, but Rosie?
I cross the lot, making a wide arc around scattered piles of canvas. Workmen from the
Nesci Brothers show are unrolling various pieces of the big top under the watchful eye of
the boss canvasman. It looks like they're checking for tears before making an offer.
As I mount the stairs to car 48, my heart is pounding, my breath coming fast. I need to
calm down—my mind is spinning in ever smaller circles. This is no good, no good at all.
I push open the door. Queenie comes to my feet and stares up at me
with a pathetic combination of bewilderment and gratitude. She wags her stump
uncertainly. I lean down and scratch her head.
"Marlena?" I say, straightening up.
She comes out from behind the green curtain. She looks apprehensive, twisting her
fingers and avoiding making eye contact. "Jacob—oh, Jacob, I've done something really
stupid."
"What?" I ask. "Do you mean the horses? It's okay. I already know." She looks up
quickly. "You do?"
"I was watching. It was pretty obvious what was going on."
She blushes. "I'm sorry. I j u s t ... reacted. I wasn't thinking about what we'd do with
them afterward. It's just that I love them so much and I couldn't stand to let him take
them. He's no better than Uncle Al."
"It's okay. I understand." I pause. "Marlena, I have something to tell you, too."
"You do?"
My jaw opens and closes, but no words come out. Water for E l e p h a n ts
She looks worried. "What is it? What's going on? Is it something bad?" "I called the Dean
at Cornell, and he's willing to let me sit my
exams."
Her face lights up. "That's wonderful!" "And we've also got Rosie."
"We've what?"
"It was the same as with you and the horses," I say quickly, rushing to explain myself. "I
don't like the look of their bull man and I couldn't let him take her—God only knows
where she'd end up. I love that bull. I couldn't let her go. So I pretended she belonged to
me. And now I guess she does."
Marlena stares at me for a long time. Then—to my enormous relief
she nods, saying, "You did right. I love her, too. She deserves better than what she's had.
But it does mean we're in a pickle." She looks out the window, her eyes narrowed in
thought. "We've got to get on another show,"
she says finally. "That's all there is to it." "How? Nobody's hiring."
"Ringling is always hiring, if you're good enough." "Do you think we actually have a
shot?"
"Sure we do. We've got one hell of an elephant act, and you're a Cornelleducated
veterinarian. We have a definite shot. We'll have to be married,
though. They're a real Sunday School outfit."
"Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate."
The blood drains from her face.
"Oh, Marlena. I'm so sorry," I say. "That came out all wrong. I just meant that there's
never been an instant of doubt that I'm going to marry you."
After a moment's pause, she reaches up and lays her hand on my cheek. Then she grabs
her purse and hat.
"Where are you going?" I say.
She rolls forward onto her toes and kisses me. "To make that phone call. Wish me luck."
Sara Gruen
"Good luck," I say.
I follow her outside and sit on the metal platform watching as she
recedes into the distance. She walks with such certainty, placing each foot
directly in front of the other and holding her shoulders square. As she passes, all the men
on the lot turn to look. I watch until she disappears around the corner of a building.
As I rise to return to the stateroom, there's a shout of surprise from the men unrolling the
canvas. One man takes a long step backward, clutching
his stomach. Then he doubles over, vomiting onto the grass. The rest continue to stare at
the thing they've uncovered. The boss canvasman removes
his hat and clutches it to his chest. One by one, the others do the same. I walk over,
staring at the darkened bundle. It's large, and as I get closer I make out bits of scarlet,
gold brocade, and black and white checks. It's Uncle Al. A makeshift garrote is tightened
around his blackened neck.
LATER THAT NIGHT, Marlena and I sneak into the menagerie and bring Bobo back to
our stateroom.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Twenty-four
So this is what it boils down to, is it? Sitting alone in a lobby waiting for family that's not
going to come?
I can't believe Simon forgot. Especially today. Especially Simon—that boy spent the first
seven years of his life on the Ringling show.
To be fair, I suppose the boy is seventy-one. Or is that sixty-nine? Dammit, I'm tired of
not knowing. When Rosemary comes back I'll ask her
what year it is and settle the matter once and for all. She's very kind to me, that
Rosemary. She won't make me feel foolish even if I am. A man ought to know how old
he is.
I remember so many things as clear as a bell. Like the day of Simon's birth. God, such
joy. Such relief! The vertigo as I approached the bed, the trepidation. And there was my
angel, my Marlena, smiling up at me, tired, radiant, with a blanketed bundle nestled in the
crook of her arm. His face was so dark and scrunched he hardly looked like a person at
all. But then when Marlena pulled the blanket back from his hair and I saw that it was
red, I thought I might actually faint from joy. I never really doubted—not really, and I
would have loved and raised him, anyway—but still. I damn near dropped over when I
saw that red hair.
I glance at the clock, antsy with despair. The Spec is over for sure. Oh, it's just not fair!
All those decrepit old people who won't even know what they're looking at, and here's
me! Trapped in this lobby!
Or am I? Sara Gruen
I furrow my brow and blink. What, exactly, makes me think I'm trapped?
I glance from side to side. No one. I turn and look toward the hall. A nurse whizzes past,
clutching a chart and looking at her shoes.
I scootch to the edge of my seat and reach for my walker. By my estimation, I'm only
eighteen feet from freedom. Well, there's an entire city block
to traverse after that, but if I hoof it I bet I can catch the last few acts. And the finale—it
won't make up for missing the Spec, but it's something. A warm glow tingles through me
and I snort back a giggle. I may be in my nineties, but who says I'm helpless?
The glass door slides open as I approach. Thank God for that—I don't think I could
manage the walker and a regular door. No, I'm wobbly, all right. But that's okay. I can
work with wobbly.
I reach the sidewalk and stop, blinded by the sun.
I've been away from the real world for so long that the combination of engines running,
dogs barking, and horns honking brings a lump to my throat. The people on the sidewalk
part and pass me like I'm a stone in a stream. Nobody seems to think it odd that an old
man is standing in his slippers on the sidewalk right outside an old folks' home. But it
occurs to me that I'm still in plain sight if one of the nurses comes into the lobby.
I lift my walker, twist it a couple of inches to the left, and plunk it
down again. Its plastic wheels scrape the concrete, and the sound makes me giddy. It's a
real noise, a gritty noise, not the squeak or patter of rubber. I shuffle around behind it,
savoring the way my slippers scuffle. Two more manipulations like that, and I'm facing
the right way. A perfect threepoint turn. I grab hold and shuffle off, concentrating on my
feet.
I mustn't go too fast. Falling would be disastrous in so many ways.
There are no floor tiles, so I measure my progress in feet—my feet. Each time I take a
step, I bring the heel of one foot parallel to the toes of the other. And so it goes, ten
inches at a time. I stop occasionally to gauge my progress. It's slow but steady. The
magenta and white tent is a little bigger each time I look up.
It takes me half an hour and I have to stop twice, but I'm practically 32.2. . = Water
for E l e p h a n ts
there and already feeling the thrill of victory. I'm huffing a little, but my
legs are still steady. There was that one woman I thought might make trouble, but I
managed to get rid of her. I'm not proud of it—I don't normally
speak to people in that manner, and especially women—but damned if I was going to let
some busybody do-gooder foil my outing. I'm not setting foot in that facility again until
I've seen what's left of the show, and woe
to the person who tries to make me. Even if the nurses catch up with me right now, I'll
make a scene. I'll make noise. I'll embarrass them in public and make them fetch
Rosemary. When she realizes how determined I am, she'll take me to the show. Even if
