cage after cage of cats.
Cecil and one of the black men fuss with a banner featuring an enormously fat woman.
After a couple of seconds Cecil slaps the other man's
head. "Get with it, boy! We're going to be crawling with suckers in a minute. How are we
gonna bring them in if they can't see Lucinda's splendors?"
A whistle blows and everyone freezes.
"Doors!" booms a male voice.
All hell breaks loose. The men at the concession stands scurry behind their counters,
making final adjustments to their wares and straightening their jackets and caps. With the
exception of the poor soul still working on Lucinda's banner, all the black men slip
through the canvas and out of sight.
"Get that goddamned banner up and get out of here!" Cecil screams. The man makes one
final adjustment and disappears.
I turn. A wall of humans swells toward us with squealing children leading the way,
yanking their parents forward by the hand.
Wade jabs an elbow in my side. "Psssst... You wanna see the menagerie?"
"The what?"
He cocks his head at the tent between us and the big top. "You been craning your neck
since you got here. Wanna take a peek?"
"What about him?" I say, jerking my eyes toward Cecil.
"We'll be back before he misses us. Besides, we can't do nothin' till he gets a crowd
going."
Wade leads me to the ticket gate. Old men guard it, sitting behind four red podiums.
Three ignore us. The fourth glances at Wade and nods. Water for E l e p h a n ts
"Go on. Have a peek," says Wade. "I'll keep an eye on Cecil."
I peer inside. The tent is enormous, as tall as the sky and supported by long, straight poles
jutting at various angles. The canvas is taut and nearly translucent—sunlight filters
through the material and seams, illuminating the largest candy stand of all. It's smack in
the center of the menagerie, under rays of glorious light, surrounded by banners
advertising sarsaparilla, Cracker Jack, and frozen custard.
Brilliantly painted red and gold animal dens line two of the four walls, their sides
propped open to reveal lions, tigers, panthers, jaguars, bears, chimps, and spider
monkeys—even an orangutan. Camels, llamas, zebras, and horses stand behind low ropes
slung between iron stakes, their heads buried in mounds of hay. Two giraffes stand within
an area enclosed by chain-link fence.
I'm searching in vain for an elephant when my eyes come to an abrupt
stop on a woman. She looks so much like Catherine I catch my breath—the plane of her
face, the cut of her hair, the slim thighs I've always imagined were under Catherine's staid
skirts. She's standing in front of a row of black and white horses, wearing pink sequins,
tights, and satin slippers, talking to a man in top hat and tails. She cups the muzzle of one
of the white horses, a striking Arabian with a silver mane and tail. She lifts a hand to push
back a piece of her light brown hair and adjust her headdress. Then she reaches up and
smoothes the horse's forelock against his face. She grasps his ear in her fist, letting it
slide through her fingers.
There's an enormous crash, and I spin to find that the side of the closest animal den has
slammed shut. When I turn back, the woman is looking
at me. Her brow furrows, as though in recognition. After a few seconds I realize I should
smile or drop my eyes or do something, but I can't. Eventually the man in the top hat puts
his hand on her shoulder and she turns,
but slowly, reluctantly. After a few seconds she steals another glance. Wade is back.
"Come on," he says, slapping me between the shoulder blades. "It's showtime."
S a r a G r u en
"LADIES-S-S-S-S-S-S AND GENTLEMEN-N-N-N-N-N-N-N! Twen-n-n-n-n-ty-five
minutes till the big show! Twen-n-n-n-n-ty-five minutes! More than enough time to avail
yourselves of the amazing, the unbelievable, the m-a-a-a-a-a-a-rvelous wonders we have
gathered from all four corners of the earth, and still find a good seat in the big top! Plenty
of time to see the oddities, the freaks of nature, the spectacles! Ours is the most dazzling
collection in the world, ladies and gentlemen! In the world, I tell you!"
Cecil stands on a platform beside the sideshow's entrance. He struts back and forth,
gesturing grandly. A crowd of about fifty hovers loosely. They are uncommitted, more
paused than stopped.
"Step right this way, to see the gorgeous, the enormous, the Lovely Lucinda—the world's
most beautiful fat lady! Eight hundred and eighty-five pounds of pudgy perfection, ladies
and gentlemen! Come see the human ostrich—he can swallow and return anything you
hand him.
Give it a try! Wallets, watches, even lightbulbs! You name it, he'll regurgitate it! And
don't miss Frank Otto, the world's most tattooed man! Held
hostage in the darkest jungles of Borneo and tried for a crime he didn't commit, and his
punishment? Well, folks, his punishment is written all over his body in permanent ink!"
The crowd is denser, their interest piqued. Jimmy, Wade, and I mingle near the back.
"And now," says Cecil, swinging around. He puts his finger to his lips
and winks grotesquely—an exaggerated gesture that pulls the side of his mouth up
toward his eye. He raises a hand in the air, asking for quiet. "And now—my apologies,
ladies, but this is for the gentlemen only—the gentlemen only! Because we're in mixed
company, for delicacy's sake, I can only say this once. Gentlemen, if you're a red-blooded
American, if you've got manly blood flowing through your veins, then this is something
you don't want to miss. If you'll follow that there fella—right there,
just right over there—you'll see something so amazing, so shocking, it's guaranteed to—"
He stops, closes his eyes, and lifts a hand. He shakes his head with W a t e r for E l e p h
a n ts
remorse. "But no," he continues. "In the interest of decency and on accourit of being in
mixed company, I can't say any more than that. Can't say any more, gentlemen. Except
this—you don't want to miss it! Just hand your quarter to this fella here, and he'll take
you right on in. You'll never remember the quarter you spent here today, and you'll never
forget what
you see. You'll be talking about this for the rest of your lives, fellas. The rest of your
lives."
Cecil straightens up and adjusts his checked waistcoat, tugging the
hem with both hands. His face assumes a deferential expression and he gestures broadly
toward an entrance on the opposite side. "And ladies, if you'll kindly come this way—we
have wonders and curiosities suitable for your delicate sensibilities, too. A gentleman
would never forget the ladies. Especially such lovely ladies as yourselves." With this he
smiles and closes his eyes. The women in the crowd glance nervously at the disappearing
men.
A tug-of-war has broken out. A woman holds fast to her husband's
sleeve with one hand and bats him with the other. He grimaces and frowns, ducking to
avoid her blows. When he finally breaks free, he straightens his lapels and glowers at his
now-sulking wife. As he struts off to hand over his quarter, someone clucks like a hen.
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
The rest of the women, perhaps because they don't want to make a spectacle, watch
reluctantly as their men drift off and get in line. Cecil sees this
and comes down from his platform. He is all concern, all gallant attention, gently
drawing them toward more savory matters.
He touches his left earlobe. I push imperceptibly forward. The women move closer to
Cecil and I feel like a sheepdog.
"If you'll step this way," Cecil continues, "I'll show you ladies something you've never
seen before. Something so unusual, so extraordinary,
you never dreamed it existed, and yet it's something you can talk about at church this
Sunday, or with Grandma and Grandpa at the dinner table. Go ahead and bring the little
fellas, this here is strictly family fun. See a horse with his head where his tail should be!
Not a word of a lie, ladies. A living creature with his tail where his head should be. See it
with your S a r a G r u en
own eyes. And when you tell your menfolk about it, maybe they'll wish they'd stayed
with their lovely ladies instead. Oh yes, my dears. They will indeed."
By now I'm surrounded. The men have all but disappeared, and I let myself drift along in
the current of churchgoers and ladies, of young fellas and the rest of the non-red-blooded
Americans.
The horse with his tail where his head should be is exactly that—a horse backed into a
standing stall so that his tail hangs into his feed bucket. "Oh, for crying out loud," says
one woman.
"Well, I never!" says another, but mostly there is relieved laughter, because if this is the
horse with the tail where his head should be, then how bad can the men's show be?
There's a scuffling outside the tent.
"You goddamned sons of bitches! You're damned right I want my money back—you
think I'm gonna pay a quarter to see a goddamned
pair of suspenders? You talk about red-blooded Americans, well, this one's red-blooded
all right! I want my goddamned money back!"
"Excuse me, ma'am," I say, wedging my shoulder between the two women ahead of me.
"Hey, mister! What's your hurry?"
"Excuse me. Beg your pardon," I say, pushing my way out.
Cecil and a red-faced man are squaring off. The man advances, places both hands on
Cecil's chest, and shoves him backward. The crowd parts, and Cecil crashes against the
striped skirt of his platform. The patrons close in behind, standing on tiptoe, gawking.
I launch myself through them, reaching Cecil just as the other man
hauls ofFand swings—his fist is but an inch or two from Cecil's chin when I snatch it
from the air and twist it behind his back. I lock an arm around his neck and drag him
backward. He sputters, reaching up and clawing my forearm. I tighten my grip until my
tendons dig into his windpipe
and half-drag, half-march him to beyond the end of the midway. Then I chuck him into
the dirt. He lies in a cloud of dust, wheezing and grasping his throat.
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
Within seconds, two suited men breeze past me, lift him by the arms and haul him, still
coughing, toward town. They lean into him, pat his back, and mutter encouragement.
They straighten his hat, which has miraculously stayed in place.
"Nice work," says Wade, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You done good. Come on
back. They'll take care of it from here."
"Who are they?" I say, examining the row of long scratches, beaded with blood, on my
forearm.
"Patches. They'll calm him down and make him happy. That way we
won't catch any heat." He turns to address the crowd, clapping onceloudly—and then
rubbing his hands in front of him. "Okay, folks. Everything's fine. Nothing more to see
here."
The crowd is reluctant to leave. When the man and his escorts finally disappear behind a
redbrick building they start to dribble away, but continue to glance hopefully over their
shoulders, afraid they'll miss something.
Jimmy pushes his way through the stragglers. "Hey," he says. "Cecil wants to see you."
He leads me through to the back end. Cecil sits on the very edge of a folding chair. His
legs and spat-clad feet stick straight out. His face is red and moist, and he fans himself
with a program. His free hand pats various pockets and then reaches into his vest. He
pulls out a flat, square bottle, curls his lips back, and pulls the cork out with his teeth. He
spits it off to the side and tips the bottle up. Then he catches sight of me.
He stares for a moment, the bottle poised at his lips. He lowers it again, resting it on his
rounded belly. He drums his fingers against it, surveying me. "You handled yourself
pretty well out there," he says finally.
"Thank you, sir." "Where'd you learn that?"
"Dunno. Football. School. Wrangling the odd bull who objected to losing his testicles."
He watches me a moment longer, fingers still drumming, lips pursed. "Camel got you on
the show yet?"
S a r a G r u en
"Not officially. No sir."
There's another long silence. His eyes narrow to slits. "Know how to keep your mouth
shut?"
"Yes sir."
He takes a long slug from his bottle and relaxes his eyes. "Well, okay then," he says,
nodding slowly.
IT'S EVENING, AND WHILE the kinkers are delighting the crowd
in the big top I'm standing near the back of a much smaller tent on the
far edge of the lot, behind a row of baggage wagons and accessible only through word of
mouth and a fifty-cent admission fee. The interior is dim, illuminated by a string of red
bulbs that casts a warm glow on the woman methodically removing her clothes.
My job is to maintain order and periodically smack the sides of the
tent with a metal pipe, the better to discourage peeping toms; or rather,
to encourage peeping toms to come around front and pay their fifty cents. I am also
supposed to keep a lid on the kind of behavior I witnessed at the sideshow earlier,
although I can't help thinking that the fellow who was so upset this afternoon would find
little to complain about here.
There are twelve rows of folding chairs, every one of them occupied. Moonshine is
passed from man to man, each blindly groping for the bottle because no one wants to take
his eyes off the stage.
The woman is a statuesque redhead with eyelashes too long to be real and a beauty spot
painted next to her full lips. Her legs are long, her hips full, her chest a stupefaction. She
