Water for Elephants (10 page)

“I am the equestrian director and superintendent of animals,” August says slowly, “and it is by the grace of my generosity you are allowed to sleep here at all. It is also by the grace of my generosity that it’s not filled with roustabouts. Of course, I can always change that. Besides, this gentleman is the show’s new veterinarian—from Cornell no less—which puts him a good deal higher than you in my estimation. Perhaps you’d like to consider offering him the cot.” The lamp’s flame flickers in August’s eyes. His lip quivers in its shadowy glow.

After a moment he turns to me and bows low, clicking his heels. “Good night, Jacob. I’m sure Kinko will make you comfortable. Won’t you, Kinko?”

Kinko glowers at him.

August smoothes both sides of his hair with his hands. Then he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. I stare at the rough-hewn wood until I hear his footsteps clatter over top of us. Then I turn around.

Kinko and the dog are staring at me. The dog lifts her lip and snarls.

I
SPEND THE NIGHT
on a crumpled horse blanket against the wall, as far from the cot as I can. The blanket is damp. Whoever covered the slats when they turned this into a room did a lousy job, so the blanket’s been rained on and reeks of mildew.

I wake with a start. I’ve scratched my arms and neck raw. I don’t know if it’s from sleeping on horsehair or vermin and don’t want to know. The sky that shows between the patched slats is black, and the train is still moving.

I awoke because of a dream, but I can’t recall specifics. I close my eyes, reaching tentatively for the corners of my mind.

It’s my mother. She’s standing in the yard in a cornflower blue dress hanging laundry on the line. She has wooden clothes pegs in her mouth
and more in an apron tied around her waist. Her fingers are busy with a sheet. She’s singing quietly in Polish.

Flash
.

I’m lying on the floor, looking up at the stripper’s dangling breasts. Her nipples, brown and the size of silver dollar pancakes, swing in circles—out and around,
SLAP
. Out and around,
SLAP
. I feel a pang of excitement, then remorse, and then nausea.

And then I’m . . .

I’m . . .

Five

I’m blubbering like the ancient fool I am, that’s what.

I guess I was asleep. I could have sworn that just a few seconds ago I was twenty-three, and now here I am in this wretched, desiccated body.

I sniff and wipe my stupid tears, trying to pull myself together because that girl is back, the plump one in pink. She either worked all night or I lost track of a day. I hate not knowing which.

I also wish I could remember her name, but I can’t. That’s how it is when you’re ninety. Or ninety-three.

“Good morning, Mr. Jankowski,” the nurse says, flipping on the light. She walks to the window and adjusts the horizontal blinds to let in sunlight. “Time to rise and shine.”

“What for?” I grumble.

“Because the good Lord has seen fit to bless you with another day,” she says, coming to my side. She presses a button on my bedrail. My bed starts to hum. A few seconds later I’m sitting upright. “Besides, you’re going to the circus tomorrow.”

The circus! So I haven’t lost a day.

She pops a disposable cone on a thermometer and sticks it in my ear. I get poked and prodded like this every morning. I’m like a piece of meat unearthed from the back of the fridge, suspect until proven otherwise.

After the thermometer beeps, the nurse flicks the cone into the waste-basket and writes something on my chart. Then she pulls the blood pressure cuff from the wall.

“So, do you want to have breakfast in the dining room this morning,
or would you like me to bring you something here?” she asks, wrapping the cuff around my arm and inflating it.

“I don’t want breakfast.”

“Come now, Mr. Jankowski,” she says, pressing a stethoscope to the inside of my elbow and watching the gauge. “You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

I try to catch sight of her name tag. “What for? So I can run a marathon?”

“So you don’t catch something and miss the circus,” she says. After the cuff deflates, she removes the apparatus from my arm and hangs it back on the wall.

Finally! I can see her name.

“I’ll have it in here then, Rosemary,” I say, thereby proving that I remembered her name. Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work but important. Anyway, I’m not really addled. I just have more facts to keep track of than other people.

“I do declare you’re as strong as a horse,” she says, writing one last thing down before flipping my chart shut. “If you keep your weight up, I’ll bet you could go on another ten years.”

“Swell,” I say.

W
HEN ROSEMARY COMES
to park me in the hallway, I ask her to take me to the window so I can watch the goings-on at the park.

It’s a beautiful day, with the sun streaming down between puffy clouds. Just as well—I remember all too well what it’s like to work on a circus lot when the weather is foul. Not that the work is anything like what it used to be. I wonder if they’re even called roustabouts any more. And sleeping quarters sure have improved—just look at those RVs. Some of them even have portable satellite dishes attached to them.

Shortly after lunch, I spot the first nursing home resident being wheeled up the street by relatives. Ten minutes later there’s a veritable wagon train. There’s Ruthie—oh, and Nellie Compton, too, but what’s the point? She’s a turnip, she won’t remember a thing. And there’s Doris—that must be her Randall she’s always talking about. And there’s that bastard McGuinty.
Oh yes, cock-of-the-walk, with his family surrounding him and a plaid blanket spread over his knees. Spouting elephant stories, no doubt.

There’s a line of glorious Percherons behind the big top, every one of them gleaming white. Maybe they’re for vaulting? Horses in vaulting acts are always white so that the powdered rosin that makes the performer’s feet stick to their backs won’t show.

Even if it is a liberty act, there’s no reason to think it could hold a candle to Marlena’s. There’s nothing and no one who could compare to Marlena.

I look for an elephant, with equal parts dread and disappointment.

T
HE WAGON TRAIN RETURNS
later in the afternoon with balloons tied to their chairs and silly hats on their heads. Some even hold bags of cotton candy in their laps—bags! For all they know, the floss could be a week old. In my day it was fresh, spun from a drum onto a paper cone.

At five o’clock, a slim nurse with a horse face comes to the end of the hall. “Are you ready for your dinner, Mr. Jankowski?” she says, kicking off my brakes and spinning me around.

“Hrrmph,”
I say, cranky that she didn’t wait for an answer.

When we get to the dining room, she steers me toward my usual table.

“No, wait!” I say. “I don’t want to sit there tonight.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jankowski,” she says. “I’m sure Mr. McGuinty has forgiven you for last night.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t forgiven him. I want to sit over there,” I say, pointing at another table.

“But there’s nobody at that table,” she says.

“Exactly.”

“Oh, Mr. Jankowski. Why don’t you just let me—”

“Just put me where I asked you to, damn it.”

My chair stops and there is dead silence from behind it. After a few seconds we start moving again. The nurse parks me at my chosen table and leaves. When she returns to plunk a plate down in front of me, her lips are pursed primly.

The main difficulty with sitting at a table by yourself is that there’s nothing to distract you from hearing other people’s conversations. I’m not eavesdropping;
I just can’t help hearing it. Most of them are talking about the circus, and that’s okay. What’s
not
okay is Old Fart McGuinty sitting at
my
regular table, with
my
lady friends, and holding court like King Arthur. And that’s not all—apparently he told someone who worked for the circus that he used to carry water for the elephants, and they
upgraded his ticket to a ringside seat!
Incredible! And there he sits, yammering on and on about the special treatment he received while Hazel, Doris, and Norma stare adoringly.

I can stand it no longer. I look down at my plate. Stewed something under pale gravy with a side of pockmarked Jell-O.

“Nurse!” I bark. “Nurse!”

One of them looks up and catches my eye. Since it’s clear I’m not dying, she takes her sweet time getting to me.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Jankowski?”

“How about getting me some real food?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Real food. You know—that stuff people on the outside get to eat.”

“Oh, Mr. Jankowski—”

“Don’t you ‘Oh, Mr. Jankowski’ me, young lady. This is nursery food, and last I looked I wasn’t five years old. I’m ninety. Or ninety-three.”

“It’s not nursery food.”

“Yes it is. There’s no substance. Look—” I say, dragging my fork through the gravy-covered heap. It falls off in glops, leaving me holding a coated fork. “You call that food? I want something I can sink my teeth into. Something that crunches. And what, exactly, is this supposed to be?” I say, poking the lump of red Jell-O. It jiggles outrageously, like a breast I once knew.

“It’s salad.”

“Salad?
Do you see any vegetables? I don’t see any vegetables.”

“It’s fruit salad,” she says, her voice steady but forced.

“Do you see any fruit?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact I do,” she says, pointing at a pock. “There. And there. That’s a piece of banana, and that’s a grape. Why don’t you try it?”

“Why don’t
you
try it?”

She folds her arms across her chest. The schoolmarm has run out of
patience. “This food is for the residents. It’s designed specifically by a nutritionist who specializes in geriatric—”

“I don’t want it. I want real food.”

There’s dead silence in the room. I look around. All eyes are trained on me. “What?” I say loudly. “Is that so much to ask? Doesn’t anyone else here miss real food? Surely you can’t all be happy with this . . . this . . .
pap?
” I put my hand on the edge of my plate and give it a shove.

Just a little one.

Really.

My plate shoots across the table and crashes to the floor.

D
R
. R
ASHID IS
summoned. She sits at my bedside and asks questions that I try to answer courteously, but I’m so tired of being treated as though I’m unreasonable that I’m afraid I may come off as a bit crotchety.

After a half hour she asks the nurse to come into the hallway with her. I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets: “serious, serious depression” and “manifesting as aggression, not uncommon in geriatric patients.”

“I’m not deaf, you know!” I shout from my bed. “Just old!”

Dr. Rashid peers in at me and takes the nurse’s elbow. They move down the hall and out of earshot.

T
HAT NIGHT, A
new pill appears in my paper cup. The pills are already in my palm before I notice it.

“What’s this?” I ask, pushing it around. I flip it over and inspect the other side.

“What?” says the nurse.

“This,” I say, poking the offending pill. “This one right here. It’s new.”

“It’s called Elavil.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s going to help you feel better.”

“What’s it for?” I repeat.

She doesn’t answer. I look up. Our eyes meet.

“Depression,” she says finally.

“I won’t take it.”

“Mr. Jankowski—”

“I’m not depressed.”

“Dr. Rashid prescribed it. It’s going to—”

“You want to drug me. You want to turn me into a Jell-O-eating sheep. I won’t take it, I tell you.”

“Mr. Jankowski. I have twelve other patients to take care of. Now please take your pills.”

“I thought we were residents.”

Every one of her pinched features hardens.

“I’ll take the others but not this,” I say, flicking the pill from my hand. It flies through the air and lands on the floor. I toss the others into my mouth. “Where’s my water?” I say, my words garbled because I’m trying to keep the pills on the center of my tongue.

She hands me a plastic cup, retrieves the pill from the floor, and goes into my bathroom. I hear a flush. Then she comes back.

“Mr. Jankowski. I am going to go get another Elavil and if you won’t take it, I will call Dr. Rashid, and she will prescribe an injectable instead. Either way, you are taking the Elavil. How you do so is up to you.”

When she brings the pill, I swallow it. A quarter of an hour later, I also get an injection—not of Elavil, of something else, but still it doesn’t seem fair because I took their damned pill.

Within minutes, I am a Jell-O-eating sheep. Well, a sheep at any rate. But because I keep reminding myself of the incident that brought this misfortune upon me, I realize that if someone brought pockmarked Jell-O right now and told me to eat it, I would.

What have they done to me?

I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined body, but it’s no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It’s been there awhile, biding its time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there’s really no fighting it.