Water for Elephants

back of his fetlock. His arterial pulse is pounding.

“Damn,” I say.

“What is it?” says Marlena.

I straighten up and reach for Silver Star’s foot. He leaves it firmly on the ground.

“Come on, boy,” I say, pulling on his hoof.

Eventually he lifts it. The sole is bulging and dark, with a red line running around the edge. I set it down immediately.

“This horse is foundering,” I say.

“Oh dear God!” says Marlena, clapping a hand to her mouth.

“What?” says August. “He’s what?”

“Foundering,” I say. “It’s when the connective tissues between the hoof and the coffin bone are compromised and the coffin bone rotates toward the sole of the hoof.”

“In English, please. Is it bad?”

I glance at Marlena, who is still covering her mouth. “Yes,” I say.

“Can you fix it?”

“We can bed him up real thick, and try to keep him off his feet. Grass hay only and no grain. And no work.”

“But can you fix it?”

I hesitate, glancing quickly at Marlena. “Probably not.”

August stares at Silver Star and exhales through puffed cheeks.

“Well, well, well!” booms an unmistakable voice from behind us. “If it isn’t our very own animal doctor!”

Uncle Al floats toward us in black and white checked pants and a crimson vest. He carries a silver-topped cane, which he swings extravagantly with each step. A handful of people straggle behind him.

“So what says the croaker? Did you sort out the horse?” he asks jovially, coming to a stop in front of me.

“Not exactly,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Apparently he’s foundering,” says August.

“He’s what?” says Uncle Al.

“It’s his feet.”

Uncle Al bends over, peering at Silver Star’s feet. “They look fine to me.”

“They’re not,” I say.

He turns to me. “So what do you propose to do about it?”

“Put him on stall rest and cut his grain. Other than that, there’s not much we can do.”

“Stall rest is out of the question. He’s the lead horse in the liberty act.”

“If this horse keeps working, his coffin bone will rotate until it punctures his sole, and then you’ll lose him,” I say unequivocally.

Uncle Al’s eyelids flicker. He looks over at Marlena.

“How long will he be out?”

I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “Possibly for good.”

“Goddammit!” he shouts, stabbing his cane into the earth. “Where the hell am I supposed to get another liberty horse midseason?” He looks around at his followers.

They shrug, mumble, and avert their gazes.

“Useless sons of bitches. Why do I even keep you? Okay, you—” He points his cane at me. “You’re on. Fix this horse. Nine bucks a week. You answer to August. Lose this horse and you’re out of here. In fact, first hint of trouble and you’re out of here.” He steps forward to Marlena and pats her shoulder. “There, there, my dear,” he says kindly. “Don’t fret. Jacob here will take good care of him. August, go get this little girl some breakfast, will you? We have to hit the road.”

August’s head jerks around. “What do you mean, ‘hit the road’?”

“We’re tearing down,” says Uncle Al, gesturing vaguely. “Moving along.”

“What the hell are you talking about? We just got here. We’re still setting up!”

“Change of plans, August. Change of plans.”

Uncle Al and his followers walk away. August stares after them, his mouth open wide.

RUMORS ABOUND IN THE COOKHOUSE.

In front of the hash browns:

“Carson Brothers got caught short-changing a few weeks ago. Burned the territory.”

“Ha,” snorts someone else. “That’s usually our job.

” In front of the scrambled eggs:

“They heard we was carrying booze. There’s gonna be a raid.”

“There’s gonna be a raid, all right,” comes the reply. “But it’s on account of the cooch tent, not the booze.”

In front of the oatmeal:

“Uncle Al stiffed the sheriff on the lot fee last year. Cops say we got two hours before they run us out.”

Ezra is slouched in the same position as yesterday, his arms crossed and his chin pressed into his chest. He pays me no attention whatever.

“Whoa there, big fella,” says August as I head for the canvas divider. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the other side.”

“Nonsense,” he says. “You’re the show’s vet. Come with me. Although I must say, I’m tempted to send you over there just to find out what they’re saying.”

I follow August and Marlena to one of the nicely dressed tables. Kinko sits a few tables over, with three other dwarves and Queenie at his feet. She looks up hopefully, her tongue lolling off to the side. Kinko ignores her and everyone else at his table. He stares straight at me, his jaw moving grimly from side to side.

“Eat, darling,” says August, pushing a bowl of sugar toward Marlena’s porridge. “There’s no point fretting. We’ve got a bona fide veterinarian here.”

I open my mouth to protest, then shut it again.

A petite blonde approaches. “Marlena! Sweetie! You’ll never guess what I heard!”

“Hi, Lottie,” says Marlena. “I have no idea. What’s up?”

Lottie slides in beside Marlena and talks nonstop, almost without pausing for breath. She’s an aerialist and she got the straight scoop from a good authority—her spotter heard Uncle Al and the advance man exchanging heated words outside the big top. Before long a crowd surrounds our table, and between Lottie and the tidbits tossed out by her audience, I hear what amounts to a crash course on the history of Alan J. Bunkel and the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth.

Uncle Al is a buzzard, a vulture, an eater of carrion. Fifteen years ago he was the manager of a mud show: a ragtag group of pellagra-riddled performers dragged from town to town by miserable thrush-hoofed horses.

In August of 1928, through no fault of Wall Street, the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth collapsed. They simply ran out of money and couldn’t make the jump to the next town, never mind back to winter quarters. The general manager caught a train out of town and left everything behind—people, equipment, and animals.

Uncle Al had the good fortune to be in the vicinity and was able to score a sleeping car and two flats for a song from railroad officials desperate to free up their siding. Those two flats easily held his few decrepit wagons, and because the train cars were already emblazoned with BENZINI BROS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW ON EARTH, Alan Bunkel retained the name and officially joined the ranks of train circuses.

When the Crash came, larger circuses started going down and Uncle Al could hardly believe his luck. It started with the Gentry Brothers and Buck Jones in 1929. The next year saw the end of the Cole Brothers, the Christy Brothers, and the mighty John Robinson. And every time a show closed, there was Uncle Al, sopping up the remains: a few train cars, a handful of stranded performers, a tiger, or a camel. He had scouts everywhere—the moment a larger circus showed signs of trouble, Uncle Al would get a telegram and race to the scene.

He grew fat off their carcasses. In Minneapolis, he picked up six parade wagons and a toothless lion. In Ohio,