she misses the rest of her shift, she'll take me—it is her last shift, after all.
Oh Lord. How am I going to survive that place when she's gone? The remembrance of
her imminent departure wracks my old body with grief, but it's quickly displaced by
joy—I am now close enough to hear the music thumping from the big top. Oh, the sweet,
sweet sound of circus music. I lodge my tongue in the corner of my mouth and hurry. I'm
almost there now. Just a few yards farther
"Yo, Gramps. Where do you think you're going?"
I stop, startled. I look up. A kid sits behind the ticket wicket, his face framed by bags of
pink and blue cotton candy. Flashing toys blink from the glass counter under his arms.
There's a ring through his eyebrow, a stud through his bottom lip, a large tattoo on each
shoulder. His hands are tipped with black nails.
"Where does it look like I'm going?" I say querulously. I don't have time for this. I've
missed enough of the show as it is.
"Tickets are twelve bucks." "I don't have any money." "Then you can't go in."
I am flabbergasted, still struggling for words when a man comes up
beside me. He's older, clean-shaven, well dressed. The manager, I'm willing to bet.
"What's going on here, Russ?"
The kid jerks his thumb at me. "I caught this old guy trying to sneak in." S a r a G r u en
"Sneak!" I exclaim in righteous indignation.
The man takes one look at me and turns back to the kid. "What the hell is the matter with
you?"
Russ scowls and looks down.
The manager stands in front of me, smiling graciously. "Sir, I'd be happy to show you in.
Would it be easier if you had a wheelchair? Then we wouldn't have to worry about
finding you a good seat."
"That would be nice. Thank you," I say, ready to weep with relief. My altercation with
Russ left me shaking—the idea that I could make it this far only to be turned away by a
teenager with a pierced lip was horrifying. But all is okay. Not only have I made it, but I
think maybe I'm going to get a ringside seat.
The manager goes around the side of the big top and returns with a standard hospital-
issue wheelchair. I let him help me into it and then relax my aching muscles as he pushes
me toward the entrance.
"Don't mind Russ," he says. "He's a good kid underneath all those holes, although it's a
wonder he doesn't spring a leak when he drinks." "In my day they put the old fellows in
the ticket booth. Kind of the end of the road."
"You were on a show?" the man asks. "Which one?"
"I was on two. The first was the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth," I
say proudly, rolling each syllable off my tongue. "The second was Ringling."
The chair stops. The man's face suddenly appears in front of mine. "You were with the
Benzini Brothers? What years?"
"The summer of 1931."
"You were there for the stampede?"
"Sure was!" I exclaim. "Hell, I was in the thick of it. In the menagerie itself. I was the
show's vet."
He stares at me, incredulous. "I don't believe this! After the Hartford
fire and Hagenbeck-Wallace wreck, that's probably the most famous circus disaster of all
time."
"It was something, all right. I remember it like yesterday. Hell, I remember it better than
yesterday."
Water for E l e p h a n ts
The man blinks and sticks his hand out. "Charlie O'Brien the third." "Jacob Jankowski," I
say, taking his hand. "The first."
Charlie O'Brien stares at me for a very long time, his hand spread on
his chest as though he were pledging an oath. "Mr. Jankowski, I'm going to get you into
the show now before there's nothing left to see, but it would be an honor and a privilege if
you would join me for a drink in my trailer after the show. You're a living piece of
history, and I'd surely love to hear about that collapse firsthand. I'd be happy to see you
home afterward."
"I'd be delighted," I say.
He snaps to, and moves around to the back of the chair. "All righty then. I hope you enjoy
our show."
An honor and a privilege.
I smile serenely as he wheels me right up to the ring curb. Twenty-five
It's after the show—a damn good show, too, although not of the magnitude of either the
Benzini Brothers or Ringling, but how could it be? For that you need a train.
I'm sitting at a Formica table in the back of an impressively appointed
RV sipping an equally impressive single malt—Laphroaig, if I'm not mistakenand
singing like a canary. I tell Charlie everything: about my parents,
my affair with Marlena, and the deaths of Camel and Walter. I tell
him about crawling across the train in the night with a knife in my teeth and murder on
my mind. I tell him about the redlighted men, and the stampede, and about Uncle Al
being strangled. And finally I tell him what Rosie did. I don't even think about it. I just
open my mouth and the words tumble out.
The relief is instant and palpable. All these years it's been pent up inside
me. I thought I'd feel guilty, like I betrayed her, but what I feel—particularly in light of
Charlie's sympathetic nodding—is more like absolution. Redemption, even.
I was never entirely sure whether Marlena knew—there was so much going on in the
menagerie at that moment that I have no idea what she saw, and I never brought it up. I
couldn't, because I couldn't risk changing how she felt about Rosie—or, if it comes right
down to it, how she
felt about me. Rosie may have been the one who killed August, but I also wanted him
dead.
At first, I stayed silent to protect Rosie—and there was no question
she needed protecting, in those days elephant executions were not uncomWater for E l e p
h a n ts
mon—but there was never any excuse for keeping it from Marlena. Even if it caused her
to harden toward Rosie, she'd never have caused her harm. In the entire history of our
marriage, it was the only secret I kept from her, and eventually it became impossible to
fix. With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that
you kept it does not.
Having heard my story, Charlie looks not in the least bit shocked or judgmental, and my
relief is so great that when I finish telling him about the stampede, I keep going. I tell him
about our years with Ringling
and how we left after the birth of our third child. Marlena had simply
had enough of being on the road—kind of a nesting thing, I figure—and besides, Rosie
was getting on in years. Fortunately, the staff veterinarian at Brookfield Zoo in Chicago
chose that spring to drop dead, and I was a shoo-in—not only did I have seven years of
experience with exotics and a damned good degree, but I also came with an elephant.
We bought a rural property far enough from the zoo that we could
keep the horses but close enough that the drive to work wasn't that bad. The horses more
or less retired, although Marlena and the kids still rode them occasionally. They grew fat
and happy—the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter. Bobo came with us,
of course. He got into more trouble over the years than all the kids put together, but we
loved him just the same.
Those were the salad days, the halcyon years! The sleepless nights, the wailing babies;
the days the interior of the house looked like it had been hit by a hurricane; the times I
had five kids, a chimpanzee, and a wife in bed with fever. Even when the fourth glass of
milk got spilled in a single night, or the shrill screeching threatened to split my skull, or
when I was bailing out some son or other—or, in one memorable instance, Bobo—from a
minor predicament at the police station, they were good years, grand years.
But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were in it up to our eyeballs, and next
thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing
the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and alone. Charlie, bless his
heart, is actually interested in my story. He picks 32-7 . = .
S a r a G r u en
up the bottle and leans forward. As I push my glass toward him, there's a knock on the
door. I yank my hand back as though it's been singed. Charlie slides off the bench and
leans toward a window, pulling the plaid curtain back with two fingers.
"Shit," he says. "It's the heat. I wonder what's up?" "They're here for me."
He glances at me, hard and precise. "What?"
"They're here for me," I say, trying to keep my eyes level with his. It's hard—I have
nystagmus, the result of a long-ago concussion. The harder I try to look steadily at
someone, the more my eyes jerk back and forth. Charlie lets the curtain fall and goes to
the door.
"Good evening," says a deep voice from the doorway. "I'm looking for a Charlie O'Brien.
Someone said I could find him here."
"You can and did. What can I do for you, officer?"
"I was hoping you could help us out. An elderly man went missing from a nursing home
just down the street. The staff seems to think he probably came here."
"Wouldn't be surprised. Folks of all ages enjoy the circus."
"Sure. Of course. Thing is, this guy is ninety-three and pretty frail.
They were hoping he'd come back on his own after the show, but it's been a couple of
hours and he still hasn't showed up. They're mighty worried about him."
Charlie blinks pleasantly at the cop. "Even if he did come here, I doubt he's still around.
We're fixing to leave real soon."
"Do you remember seeing anyone fitting that description tonight?" "Sure. Lots. All sorts
of families brought their old folks."
"How about an old man on his own?"
"I didn't notice, but then again we get so many people coming through I kind of tune out
after a while."
The cop pokes his head inside the trailer. His eyes light on me with obvious interest.
"Who's that?"
"Who—him?" says Charlie, waving in my direction. "Yes."
"That's my dad."
Water for E l e p h a n ts
"Do you mind if I come in for a moment?"
After just the slightest pause, Charlie steps aside. "Sure, be my guest." The cop climbs
inside the trailer. He's so tall he has to stoop. He has a jutting chin and fiercely hooked
nose. His eyes are set too close together, like an orangutan's. "How are you doing, sir?"
he asks, coming closer. He squints, examining me closely.
Charlie shoots me a look. "Dad can't talk. He had a major stroke a few years ago."
"Wouldn't he better off staying at home?" says the officer. "This is home."
I drop my jaw and let it quaver. I reach for my glass with a trembling hand and nearly
knock it over. Nearly, because it would be a shame to waste such good scotch.
"Here, Pops, let me help you," says Charlie, rushing over. He slides onto the bench beside
me and reaches for my glass. He lifts it to my lips.
I point my tongue like a parrot's, letting it touch the ice cubes that tumble toward my
mouth.
The cop watches. I'm not looking directly at him, but I can see him in my peripheral
vision.
Charlie sets my glass down and gazes placidly at him.
The cop watches us for a while, then scans the room with narrowed eyes. Charlie's face is
blank as a wall, and I do my best to drool.
Finally the cop tips his cap. "Thank you, gentlemen. If you see or hear anything, please
let us know right away. This old guy is in no shape to be out on his own."
"I surely will," says Charlie. "Feel free to have a look around the lot.
I'll have my guys keep an eye out for him. It would be a terrible shame if something
happened to him."
"Here's my number," says the cop, handing Charlie a card. "Give me a call if you hear
anything."
"You bet."
The cop takes one final look around and then steps toward the door. "Well, good night
then," he says.
"Good night," says Charlie, following him to the door. After he shuts 319
Sara Gruen
it, he comes back to the table. He sits and pours us each another whiskey. We each take a
sip and then sit in silence.
"Are you sure about this?" he finally asks. Yup.
"What about your health? You need any medicine?"
"Nope. There's nothing wrong with me but old age. And I reckon that will take care of
itself eventually."
"What about your family?"
I take another sip of whiskey, swirl the remaining liquid around the bottom, and then
drain the glass. "I'll send them postcards."
I look at his face and realize that didn't come out right.
"I didn't mean it like that. I love them and I know they love me, but I'm no longer really a
part of their lives. I'm more like a duty. That's why I had to find my own way over here
tonight. They plum forgot about me." Charlie's brow is furrowed. He looks dubious.
I barrel on, desperate. "I'm ninety-three. What have I got to lose? I can
still mostly take care of myself. I'll need some help for some things, but nothing like what
you're thinking." I feel my eyes grow moist and try to rearrange my ruined face into some
semblance of toughness. I'm no wimp, by God. "Let me come along. I can sell tickets.
Russ can do anything—he's young. Give me his job. I can still count, and I don't shortchange.
I know you don't run a grift show."
Charlie's eyes mist over. I swear to God they do.
