Water for Elephants (9 page)

“Jesus Christ,” my host says. He pokes his head into the aisle. “Speak in English, you fucking Polack!” Then he retreats back under the bunk, shaking his head. “Some of these guys. Right off the fucking boat.”

“—i nie wódz
na pokuszenie ale nas zbaw ode zlego. Amen.”

I nestle against the wall and close my eyes. “Amen,” I whisper.

The train lurches. The lights flicker for a moment and go out. From somewhere ahead of us a whistle screeches. We begin rolling forward and the lights come back on. I’m tired beyond words, and my head bumps unbuffered against the wall.

I wake some time later and find myself facing a pair of huge work boots.

“You ready then?”

I shake my head, trying to get my bearings.

I hear tendons creaking and snapping. Then I see a knee. Then Earl’s face. “You still down there?” he says, peering under the bunk.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

I shimmy out and struggle to my feet.

“Hallelujah,” says my host, stretching out.

“Pierdolsi
,”
I say.

A snort of laughter comes from a bunk a few feet away.

“Come on,” says Earl. “Al’s had enough to loosen him up but not enough to get mean. I figure this is your opportunity.”

He leads me through two more sleeping cars. When we reach the platform at the end, we’re facing the back of a different kind of car. Through its window I can see burnished wood and intricate light fixtures.

Earl turns to me. “You ready?”

“Sure,” I say.

I am not. He grabs me by the scruff and smashes my face into the doorframe. With his other hand, he yanks open the sliding door and chucks me inside. I fall forward, my hands outstretched. I come to a stop against a brass rail and straighten up, looking back at Earl in shock. Then I see the rest of them.

“What is this?” says Uncle Al from the depths of a winged chair. He is seated at a table with three other men, twaddling a fat cigar between the finger and thumb of one hand and holding five fanned cards in the other. A snifter of brandy rests on the table in front of him. Just beyond it is a large pile of poker chips.

“Jumped the train, sir. Found him sneaking through a sleeper.”

“Is that a fact?” says Uncle Al. He takes a leisurely drag from his cigar and sets it on the edge of a standing ashtray. He sits back, studying his cards and letting smoke waft from the corners of his mouth. “I’ll see your three and raise you five,” he says, leaning forward and flinging a stack of chips into the kitty.

“You want I should show him the door?” says Earl. He advances and lifts me from the floor by the lapels. I tense and close my fists around his wrists, intending to hang on if he tries to throw me again. I look from Uncle Al to the lower half of Earl’s face—which is all I can see—and then back again.

Uncle Al folds his cards and sets them carefully on the table. “Not yet, Earl,” he says. He reaches for the cigar and takes another drag. “Set him down.”

Earl lowers me to the floor with my back to Uncle Al. He makes a halfhearted attempt to smooth my jacket.

“Step forward,” says Uncle Al.

I oblige, happy enough to be out of Earl’s reach.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he says, blowing a smoke ring. “What’s your name?”

“Jacob Jankowski, sir.”

“And what, pray tell, does Jacob Jankowski think he is doing on my train?”

“I’m looking for work,” I say.

Uncle Al continues to stare at me, blowing lazy smoke rings. He rests his hands on his belly, drumming a slow beat on his waistcoat.

“Ever worked on a show, Jacob?”

“No sir.”

“Ever been to a show, Jacob?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“Which one?”

“Ringling Brothers,” I say. A sharp intake of breath causes me to turn my head. Earl’s eyes are wide in warning.

“But it was terrible. Just terrible,” I add hastily, turning back to Uncle Al.

“Is that a fact,” says Uncle Al.

“Yes, sir.”

“And have you seen our show, Jacob?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, feeling a blush spread across my cheeks.

“And what did you think of it?” he asks.

“It was . . . spectacular.”

“What was your favorite act?”

I grasp wildly, pulling details out of the air. “The one with the black and white horses. And the girl in pink,” I say. “With the sequins.”

“You hear that, August? The boy likes your Marlena.”

The man opposite Uncle Al rises and turns—he’s the man from the menagerie tent, only now he’s minus the top hat. His chiseled face is impassive, his dark hair shiny with pomade. He also has a moustache, but unlike Uncle Al’s, his lasts only the length of his lip.

“So what exactly is it that you envision yourself doing?” asks Uncle Al. He leans forward and lifts a snifter from the table. He swirls its contents, and drains it in a single gulp. A waiter emerges from nowhere and refills it.

“I’ll do just about anything. But if possible I’d like to work with animals.”

“Animals,” he says. “Did you hear that, August? The lad wants to work with animals. You want to carry water for elephants, I suppose?”

Earl’s brow creases. “But sir, we don’t have any—”

“Shut up!” shrieks Uncle Al, leaping to his feet. His sleeve catches the snifter and knocks it to the carpet. He stares at it, his fists clenched and face growing darker and darker. Then he bares his teeth and screams a long, inhuman howl, bringing his foot down on the glass again and again and again.

There’s a moment of stillness, broken only by the rhythmic clacking of ties passing beneath us. Then the waiter drops to the floor and starts scooping up glass.

Uncle Al takes a deep breath and turns to the window with his hands clasped behind him. When he eventually turns back to us, his face is once again pink. A smirk plays around the edges of his lips.

“I’m going to tell you how it is,
Jacob Jankowski.”
He spits my name out like something distasteful. “I’ve seen your sort a thousand times. You think I can’t read you like a book? So what’s the deal—did you and Mommy have a fight? Or maybe you’re just looking for a little adventure between semesters?”

“No, sir, it’s nothing like that.”

“I don’t give a damn what it is—even if I gave you a job on the show, you wouldn’t survive. Not for a week. Not for a day. The show is a well-oiled machine, and only the toughest make it. But then you wouldn’t know anything about tough, would you, Mr. College Boy?”

He glares at me as though challenging me to speak. “Now piss off,” he says, waving me away. “Earl, show him the door. Wait until you actually see a red light before chucking him off—I don’t want to catch any heat for hurting
Mommy’s widdle baby.”

“Hang on a moment, Al,” says August. He’s smirking, clearly amused. “Is he right? Are you a college boy?”

I feel like a mouse being bounced between cats. “I was.”

“And what did you study? Something in the fine arts, perhaps?” His eyes gleam in mockery. “Romanian folk dancing? Aristotelian literary criticism? Or perhaps—Mr.
Jankowski
—you completed a performance degree on the accordion?”

“I studied veterinary sciences.”

His mien changes instantly, utterly. “Vet school? You’re a vet?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

“I never wrote my final exams.”

“Why not?”

“I just didn’t.”

“And those final exams, those were in your final year?”

“Yes.”

“What college?”

“Cornell.”

August and Uncle Al exchange glances.

“Marlena said Silver Star was off,” says August. “Wanted me to get the advance man to arrange for a vet. Didn’t seem to understand that the advance man was gone out
in advance
, hence the name.”

“What are you suggesting?” says Uncle Al.

“Let the kid have a look in the morning.”

“And where do you propose we put him for tonight? We’re already past capacity.” He snatches his cigar from the ashtray and taps it on the edge. “I suppose we could just send him out on the flats.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of the ring stock car,” says August.

Uncle Al frowns. “What? With Marlena’s horses?”

“Yes.”

“You mean in the area where the goats used to be? Isn’t that where that little shit sleeps—oh, what’s his name?” he says, snapping his fingers. “Stinko? Kinko? That clown with the dog?”

“Precisely,” smiles August.

A
UGUST LEADS ME BACK
through the men’s bunk cars until we’re standing on a small platform facing the back of a stock car.

“Are you sure-footed, Jacob?” he inquires graciously.

“I believe so,” I answer.

“Good,” he says. Without further ado, he leans forward, catches hold of something around the side of the stock car, and climbs nimbly to the roof.

“Jesus Christ!” I yell, looking in alarm first at the point where August disappeared, and then down at the bare coupling and ties that race beneath the cars. The train jerks around a curve. I throw my hands out to keep my balance, breathing hard.

“Come on then,” yells a voice from the roof.

“How the hell did you do that? What did you grab?”

“There’s a ladder. Just around the side. Lean forward and reach for it. You’ll find it.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I guess we’ll take our leave, won’t we?”

I advance gingerly to the edge. I can see just the edge of a thin iron ladder.

I train my eyes on it and wipe my hands on my thighs. Then I tip forward.

My right hand meets ladder. I grasp wildly with my left until I ensnare the other side. I jam my feet in the rungs and cling tightly, trying to catch my breath.

“Well, come on then!”

I look up. August peers down at me, grinning, his hair blowing in the wind.

I climb to the roof. He moves over, and when I sit down next to him he claps a hand on my shoulder. “Turn around. I want you to see something.”

He points down the length of the train. It stretches behind us like a giant snake, the linked cars jiggling and bending as it rounds a curve.

“It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it, Jacob?” says August. I look back at him. He’s staring right at me, his eyes glowing. “Not quite as beautiful as my Marlena, though—hey hey?” He clicks his tongue and winks.

Before I can protest, he stands and tap-dances across the roof.

I crane my neck and count stock cars. There are at least six.

“August?”

“What?” he says, stopping midtwirl.

“Which car is Kinko in?”

He crouches suddenly. “This one. Aren’t you a lucky boy?” He pries off a roof vent and disappears.

I scuttle over on hands and knees.

“August?”

“What?” returns a voice from the darkness.

“Is there a ladder?”

“No, just drop down.”

I lower myself inside until I’m hanging by my fingertips. Then I crash to the floor. A surprised nicker greets me.

Thin strips of moonlight filter through the slatted sides of the stock car. On one side of me is a line of horses. The other side is blocked by a wall that is clearly homemade.

August steps forward and shoves the door inward. It crashes against the wall behind it, revealing a makeshift room lit by kerosene lamp. The lamp is on an upturned crate next to a cot. A dwarf is lying on his stomach with a thick book open in front of him. He’s about my age and, like me, has red hair. Unlike me, his stands straight up from his head, an unruly thatch. His face, neck, arms, and hands are heavily freckled.

“Kinko,” says August in disgust.

“August,” says the dwarf, equally disgusted.

“This is Jacob,” August says, taking a tour of the tiny room. He leans over and fingers things as he passes. “He’s going to bunk with you for a while.”

I step forward, holding out my hand. “How do you do,” I say.

Kinko regards my hand coolly and then looks back at August. “What is he?”

“His name is Jacob.”

“I said what, not who.”

“He’s going to help out in the menagerie.”

Kinko leaps to his feet. “A menagerie man? Forget it. I’m a performer. There’s no way I’m bunking with a working man.”

There’s a growl from behind him, and for the first time I see the Jack Russell terrier. She’s standing on the end of the cot with her hackles raised.