Water for Elephants

“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.

WHEN 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.

THE 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.

DR. RASHID 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.

THAT 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—”