Water for Elephants

bending over an old woman and tucking a napkin into her collar. But her eyes are on me.

I close my mouth again. I just hope she appreciates how hard I’m trying.

She does. When she comes to retrieve me after the tan-colored pudding with edible-oil-product topping has made its appearance, sat for a while, and been removed, she leans down and whispers, “I knew you could do it, Mr. Jankowski. I just knew it.”

“Yes. Well. It wasn’t easy.”

“But it’s better than sitting alone at a table, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

She rolls her eyes toward heaven again.

“All right. Yes,” I say grudgingly. “I suppose it’s better than sitting alone.”

COURTESY OF THE PFENING ARCHIVES, COLUMBUS, OHIO

Fourteen

It’s been six days since Marlena’s accident, and she has yet to reappear. August no longer comes to the cookhouse for meals, so I sit conspicuously alone at our table. When I run across him in the course of looking after the animals, he is polite but distant.

For her part, Rosie is carted out through each town in the hippopotamus wagon and then displayed in the menagerie. She has learned to follow August from the elephant car to the menagerie tent, and in return for this he has stopped beating the hell out of her. Instead, she trudges alongside him, and he walks with the bull hook snagged firmly in the flesh behind her front leg. Once in the menagerie, she stands behind her rope, happily charming the crowds and accepting candy. Uncle Al hasn’t actually said so, but there don’t appear to be any immediate plans to attempt another elephant act.

As the days pass I grow more anxious about Marlena. Each time I approach the cookhouse I hope that I’ll find her there. And each time I don’t, my heart sinks.

IT’S THE END of another long day in some damned city or other—they all look about the same from a railroad siding—and the Flying Squadron is preparing to pull out. I’m lounging on my bedroll reading Othello and Walter is on his cot reading Wordsworth. Queenie is tucked up against him.

She lifts her head and growls. Both Walter and I jerk upright.

Earl’s large bald head pokes around the edge of the doorframe. “Doc!” he says, looking at me. “Hey! Doc!”

“Hi, Earl. What’s up?”

“I need your help.”

“Sure. What is it?” I say, putting my book down. I shoot a glance at Walter, who has pinned the squirming Queenie against his side. She’s still grumbling.

“It’s Camel,” Earl says in a hushed voice. “He’s got trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Foot trouble. They’ve gone all floppy. He kind of slaps them down. His hands aren’t so great neither.”

“Is he drunk?”

“Not at this particular moment. But it don’t make no difference nohow.”

“Well damn, Earl,” I say. “He’s got to see a doctor.”

Earl’s forehead crinkles. “Well, yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

“Earl, I’m no doctor.”

“You’re an animal doctor.”

“It’s not the same.”

I glance at Walter, who is pretending to read.

Earl blinks expectantly at me.

“Look,” I say finally, “if he’s in bad shape, let me talk to August or Uncle Al and see if we can get a doctor out in Dubuque.”

“They won’t get him a doctor.”

“Why not?”

Earl straightens in righteous indignation. “Damn. You don’t know nothin’ at all, do you?”

“If there’s something seriously wrong with him, surely they’ll—”

“Throw him off the train, is what,” says Earl definitively. “Now, if he was one of the animals . . .”

I ponder this for only a moment before realizing he’s right. “Okay. I’ll arrange for a doctor myself.”

“How? You got money?”

“Uh, well, no,” I say, embarrassed. “Does he?”

“If he had any money, do you think he’d be drinking jake and canned heat? Aw, come on, won’t you at least have a look? The old feller went out of his way to help you.”

“I know that, Earl, I know that,” I say quickly. “But I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“You’re the doctor. Just have a look.”

In the distance, a whistle blows.

“Come on,” says Earl. “That’s the five-minute whistle. We gotta move.”

I follow him to the car that carries the big top. The wedge horses are already in place, and all over the Flying Squadron men are lifting ramps, climbing aboard, and sliding doors shut.

“Hey, Camel,” Earl shouts into the open door. “I brought the doc.”

“Jacob?” croaks a voice from inside.

I jump up. It takes me a moment to adjust to the darkness. When I do, I make out Camel’s figure in the corner, huddled on a pile of feed sacks. I walk over and kneel down. “What’s up, Camel?”

“I don’t rightly know, Jacob. I woke up a few days ago and my feet was all floppy. Jes’ can’t feel ’em right.”

“Can you walk?”

“A bit. But I have to lift my knees real high ’cuz my feet are so floppy.” His voice drops to a whisper. “It ain’t just that, though,” he says. “It’s other stuff, too.”

“What other stuff?”

His eyes grow wide and fearful. “Man’s stuff. I can’t feel nothing . . . in front.”

The train jolts forward, slowly, lurching as the couplings tighten.

“We’re pulling out. You gotta get off now,” says Earl, tapping me on the shoulder. He moves to the open door and waves me toward him.

“I’ll ride this leg with you,” I say.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because someone’ll hear you been fraternizing with roustabouts and chuck you—or more likely these guys —off this thing,” he says.

“Well damn, Earl, aren’t you security? Tell them to get lost.”

“I’m on the main train. This here’s Blackie’s territory,” he says, waving with increasing urgency. “Come on!”

I look into Camel’s eyes. They’re fearful, pleading. “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll catch up with you in Dubuque. You’ll be okay. We’ll get you to a doctor.”

“I ain’t got no money.”

“It’s okay. We’ll find a way.”

“Come on!” shouts Earl.

I lay a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We’ll figure something out.

Okay?”

Camel’s rheumy eyes flicker.

“Okay?”

He nods. Just once.