Water for Elephants (17 page)

The animals in the menagerie are no less happy to see us—the chimps scream and swing from the bars of their dens, flashing toothy grins. The meat eaters pace. The hay burners toss their heads, snorting, squealing, and even barking in agitation.

I open the orangutan’s door and set a pan of fruits, vegetables, and nuts on the floor. As I close it, her long arm reaches through the bars. She points at an orange in another pan.

“That? You want that?”

She continues to point, blinking at me with close-set eyes. Her features are concave, her face a wide platter fringed with red hair. She’s the most outrageous and beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Here,” I say, handing her the orange. “You can have it.”

She takes it and sets it on the floor. Then she reaches out again. After several seconds of serious misgivings, I hold out my hand. She wraps her long fingers around it, then lets go. She sits on her haunches and peels her orange.

I stare in amazement. She was thanking me.

“S
O THAT’S THAT,”
says August as we emerge from the menagerie. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Join me for a drink, my boy. There’s lemonade in Marlena’s dressing tent, and not that sock juice from the juice joint either. We’ll put a drop of whiskey in, hey hey?”

“I’ll be along in a minute,” I say. “I need to check the other menagerie.” Because of the peculiar status of the Fox Brothers baggage stock—whose numbers have been depleting all afternoon—I’ve seen for myself that they were fed and watered. But I have yet to lay eyes on their exotics or ring stock.

“No,” August says firmly. “You’ll join me now.”

I look over, surprised by his tone. “All right. Sure,” I say. “Do you know if they got fed and watered?”

“They’ll get fed and watered. Eventually.”

“What?” I say.

“They’ll get fed and watered. Eventually.”

“August, it’s damned near ninety degrees. We can’t leave them without at least water.”

“We can, and we will. It’s how Uncle Al does business. He and the mayor will play chicken for a while, the mayor will figure out he doesn’t
have a fucking clue what to do with giraffes and zebras and lions, he’ll drop his prices, and then—and only then—we’ll move in.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” I say, turning to walk away.

His hand locks around my arm. He comes in front of me and leans in so close his face is inches from mine. He lays a finger alongside my cheek. “Yes, you can. They will get cared for. Just not yet. That’s how it works.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Uncle Al has made an art form out of building this circus. We are what we are because of it. Who the hell knows what’s in that tent? If there’s nothing he wants, then fine. Who cares? But if there’s something he wants and you mess with his business and he ends up paying more because of it, you better believe that Al is going to mess with you. Do you understand?” He speaks through clenched teeth. “Do . . . you . . . understand?” he repeats, coming to a full stop after each word.

I stare straight into his unblinking eyes. “Entirely,” I say.

“Good,” he says. He takes his finger out of my face and steps backward. “Good,” he says again, nodding and allowing his face to relax. He forces a laugh. “I’ll tell you what, that whiskey will go down well.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

He watches me for a moment and then shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says.

I take a seat some distance from the tent housing the abandoned animals, watching it with increasing desperation. The sidewall billows inward from a sudden gust of wind. There isn’t even a cross draft. I have never been more aware of the heat beating down on my own head and the dryness of my own throat. I remove my hat and wipe a gritty arm across my forehead.

W
HEN THE ORANGE
and blue flag goes up over the cookhouse for dinner, a handful of new Benzini Brothers employees join the lineup, identifiable by the red dinner tickets they clutch in their hands. The fat man was lucky, as was the bearded lady and a handful of dwarves. Uncle Al took on only performers, although one unfortunate fellow found
himself unemployed again within a matter of minutes when August caught him looking a little too appreciatively at Marlena as he exited the privilege car.

A few others try to join the lineup, and not a one of them gets by Ezra. His only job is to know everyone on the show, and by God, he’s good at it. When he jerks his thumb at some unfortunate, Blackie steps forward to take care of it. One or two of the rejects manage to scarf a fistful of food before flying headfirst out of the cookhouse.

Drab, silent men hang all around the perimeter with hungry eyes. As Marlena steps away from the steam tables, one of them addresses her. He’s a tall man, gaunt, with deeply creased cheeks. Under different circumstances, he would probably be handsome.

“Lady—hey, lady. Can you spare a little? Just a piece of bread?”

Marlena stops and looks at him. His face is hollow, his eyes desperate. She looks at her plate.

“Aw, come on, lady. Have a heart. I ain’t ate in two days.” He runs his tongue across cracked lips.

“Keep moving,” says August, taking Marlena’s elbow and steering her firmly toward a table in the center of the tent. It’s not our usual table, but I’ve noticed that people tend not to argue with August. Marlena sits silently, looking occasionally at the men outside the tent.

“Oh, it’s no good,” she says, flinging her cutlery to the table. “I can’t eat with those poor souls out there.” She stands and picks up her plate.

“Where are you going?” August says sharply.

Marlena stares down at him. “How am I supposed to sit here and eat when they’ve had nothing for two days?”

“You are not giving that to him,” says August. “Now
sit down
.”

People from several other tables turn to look. August smiles nervously at them and leans toward Marlena. “Darling,” he says urgently, “I know this is hard on you. But if you give that man food, it will encourage him to hang around, and then what? Uncle Al’s already made his picks. He wasn’t one of them. He’s got to move on, that’s all—and the sooner the better. It’s for his own good. It’s a kindness, really.”

Marlena’s eyes narrow. She sets her plate down, stabs a pork chop with
her fork, and slaps it on a piece of bread. She swipes August’s bread, slaps it on the other side of the pork chop, and storms off.

“What do you think you’re doing?” shouts August.

She walks straight to the gaunt man, picks up his hand, and plants the sandwich in it. Then she marches off to scattered applause and whistles from the working men’s side of the tent.

August vibrates with anger, a vein pulsing at his temple. After a moment he rises, taking his plate. He tilts its contents into the trash and leaves.

I stare at my plate. It’s piled high with pork chops, collard greens, mashed potatoes, and baked apples. I worked like a dog all day, but I can’t eat a thing.

A
LTHOUGH IT’S NEARLY SEVEN
, the sun is still high and the air heavy. The terrain is very different from what we left behind in the northeast. It’s flat here, and dry as a bone. The lot is covered in long grass, but it’s brown and trampled, crispy as hay. At the edges, near the tracks, tall weeds have taken over—tough plants with stringy stalks, small leaves, and compact flowers. Designed to waste energy on nothing but getting their blooms up toward the sun.

As I pass the stable tent, I see Kinko standing in its scant shade. Queenie squats in front of him, defecating loosely, scootching a few inches forward after each fresh burst of liquid.

“What’s up?” I say, coming to a stop beside him.

Kinko glares at me. “What the hell does it look like? She’s got the trots.”

“What did she eat?”

“Who the fuck knows?”

I step forward and peer closely at one of the small puddles, checking for signs of parasites. She seems clear. “See if the cookhouse has any honey.”

“Huh?” Kinko says, straightening up and squinting at me.

“Honey. If you can get hold of any slippery elm powder, add a bit of that as well. But a spoonful of honey should help on its own,” I say.

He frowns at me for a moment, arms akimbo. “Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then turns back to his dog.

I walk on, eventually settling on a patch of grass some distance from the Fox Brothers menagerie. It stands in ominous desertion, as though there’s a minefield around it. No one comes within twenty yards. The conditions inside must be deadly, but short of tying up Uncle Al and August and hijacking the water wagon, I can’t think of a damned thing to do. I grow more and more desperate, until I can sit still no longer. I climb to my feet and go instead to our menagerie.

Even with the benefit of full water troughs and a cross-breeze, the animals are in a heat-induced stupor. The zebras, giraffes, and other hay burners remain on their feet but with their necks extended and eyes half-closed. Even the yak is motionless, despite the flies that buzz mercilessly around his ears and eyes. I swat a few away, but they land again immediately. It’s hopeless.

The polar bear lies on his stomach, head and snout stretched in front of him. In repose he looks harmless—cuddly even, with most of his bulk concentrated in the lower third of his body. He takes a deep, halting breath and then exhales a long, rumbling groan. Poor thing. I doubt the temperature in the Arctic ever climbs anywhere close to this.

The orangutan lies flat on her back, arms and legs spread out. She turns her head to look at me, blinking mournfully as though apologizing for not making more of an effort.

It’s okay
, I say with my eyes.
I understand
.

She blinks once more and then turns her face so she’s looking at the ceiling again.

When I get to Marlena’s horses, they snort in recognition and flap their lips against my hands, which still smell like baked apples. When they find I have nothing for them, they lose interest and drift back into their semiconscious state.

The cats lie on their sides, perfectly still, their eyes not quite closed. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of their rib cages, I might think they were dead. I press my forehead up against the bars and watch them for a long time. Finally I turn to leave. I’m about three yards away when I suddenly turn back. It’s just dawned on me that the floors of their dens are conspicuously clean.

M
ARLENA AND AUGUST
are arguing so loudly I can hear them twenty yards off. I pause outside her dressing tent, not at all sure I want to interrupt. But neither do I want to listen—I finally steel myself and press my mouth to the flap.

“August! Hey, August!”

The voices drop. There’s a shuffling, and someone shushing someone.

“What is it?” calls August.

“Did Clive feed the cats?”

His face appears in the crack of the flap. “Ah. Yes. Well, that presented a bit of difficulty, but I’ve worked something out.”

“What?”

“It’s coming tomorrow morning. Don’t worry. They’ll be fine. Oh Lord,” he says, craning his neck to see beyond me. “What now?”

Uncle Al strides toward us in red waistcoat and top hat, his plaid-swaddled legs swallowing the ground. His grovelers follow, jogging in nervous spurts to keep up.

August sighs and holds the flap open for me. “You might as well come in and have a seat. Looks like you’re about to get your first business lesson.”

I duck inside. Marlena sits at her vanity, her arms folded and legs crossed. Her foot jiggles in anger.

“My dear,” says August. “Collect yourself.”

“Marlena?” says Uncle Al from just behind the tent flap. “Marlena? May I come in, dear? I need a word with August.”

Marlena smacks her lips and rolls her eyes. “Yes, Uncle Al. Of course, Uncle Al. Won’t you please come in, Uncle Al,” she intones.

The tent flap opens, and Uncle Al enters, perspiring visibly and beaming from ear to ear.

“The deal is done,” he says, coming to a stop in front of August.

“So you got him, then,” says August.

“Eh? What?” replies Uncle Al, blinking in surprise.

“The freak,” says August. “Charles Whatsit.”

“No, no, no, never mind about him.”

“What do you mean, ‘never mind about him’?” says August. “I thought he was the whole reason we came here. What happened?”

“What?” says Uncle Al vaguely. Heads pop out from behind him, shaking vehemently. One man makes the motion of slitting his throat.

August looks at them and sighs. “Oh. Ringling got him.”

“Never mind that,” says Uncle Al. “I have news—big news! You might even say jumbo-sized news!” He looks back at his followers, and is met with hearty guffaws. He swings around again. “Guess.”

“I have no idea, Al,” says August.

He turns expectantly toward Marlena.

“I don’t know,” she says crossly.

“We scored a bull!” Uncle Al shouts, spreading his arms wide in jubilation. His cane smacks a groveler, who leaps backward.

August’s face freezes. “What?”

“A bull! An elephant!”

“You have an elephant?”

“No, August—
you
have an elephant. Her name is Rosie, she’s fifty-three, and she’s perfectly brilliant. The best bull they had. I can’t wait to see the act you come up with—” He closes his eyes, the better to summon up an image. His fingers wriggle in front of his face. He smiles in closed-eyed ecstasy. “I’m thinking it involves Marlena. She can ride her during the parade and Grand Spec, and then you can follow with a feature act in the center ring. Oh, here!” He turns around and snaps his fingers. “Where is it? Come on, come on, you idiots!”

A bottle of champagne appears. He presents it for Marlena’s inspection with a deep bow. Then he unwinds the wire top and pops the cork.

Fluted glasses appear from somewhere behind him and are set up on Marlena’s vanity.

Uncle Al pours a small amount into each and passes one to Marlena, August, and me.

He lifts the final one high. His eyes mist over. He sighs deeply and clasps a hand to his breast.

“It is my great pleasure to celebrate this momentous occasion with you—my dearest friends in the world.” He rocks forward on his spatted feet and squeezes out a real tear. It rolls over his fat cheek. “Not only do we
have a veterinarian—and a Cornell-educated one at that—we have a bull. A bull!” He sniffs with happiness and pauses, overcome. “I have waited for this day for years. And this is just the beginning, my friends. We are in the big leagues now. A show to be reckoned with.”