Water for Elephants

”

As Walter approaches the open window, I stalk off, pausing just long enough to spit in the dust.

THE ANSWER COMES to me as I’m chopping fruit for the orangutan. It’s a mental flash, a vision of a sign.

Don’t have money?

What have you got?

We’ll take anything!

I walk back and forth in front of car 48 at least five times before I finally climb inside and knock on the door of stateroom 3.

“Who is it?” says August.

“It’s me. Jacob.”

There’s a slight pause. “Come in,” he says.

I open the door and step inside.

August stands by one of the windows. Marlena is in one of the plush chairs, her bare feet resting on an ottoman.

“Hi,” she says, blushing. She pulls her skirt over her knees and then smoothes it across her thighs.

“Hello, Marlena,” I say. “How are you?”

“Doing better. I’m walking a bit now. Won’t be long before I’m back in the saddle, as it were.”

“So what brings you here?” August interjects. “Not that we’re not delighted to see you. We’ve missed you. Haven’t we, darling?”

“Uh . . . yes,” says Marlena. She raises her eyes to mine and I flush.

“Oh, where are my manners? Would you like a drink?” says August. His eyes are unnaturally hard, set above a stern mouth.

“No. Thank you.” I’m caught off-guard by his hostility. “I can’t stay. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“And what’s that?”

“I need to arrange to get a doctor out here.”

“Why?”

I hesitate. “I’d rather not say.”

“Ah,” he says, winking at me. “I understand.”

“What?” I say, horrified. “No. It’s nothing like that.” I glance at Marlena, who turns quickly toward the window. “It’s for a friend of mine.”

“Yes, of course it is,” says August, smiling.

“No, it really is. And it’s not . . . Look, I just wondered if you knew of anyone. Never mind. I’ll walk into town and see what I can find.” I turn to leave.

“Jacob!” Marlena calls after me.

I stop in the doorway, staring out the window across the narrow hall. I take a couple of breaths before turning to face her.

“There’s a doctor coming to see me in Davenport tomorrow,” she says quietly. “Shall I send for you when we’re finished?”

“I’d be much obliged,” I say. I tip my hat and leave.

THE NEXT MORNING, the line in the cookhouse is buzzing.

“It’s because of that damned bull,” says the man in front of me. “She can’t do nothing, anyway.”

“Poor buggers,” says his friend. “It’s a shame when a man’s worth less than a beast.”

“Excuse me,” I say. “What do you mean, it’s because of the bull?”

The first man stares at me. He’s large across the shoulders, wearing a dirty brown jacket. His face is deeply creased, weathered and brown as a raisin. “’Cuz she costs so much. Plus they bought that elephant car.”

“No, but what’s because of her?”

“A bunch of men went missing overnight. Six at least, maybe more.”

“What, from the train?”

“Yup.”

I set my half-full plate down on the steam table and walk toward the Flying Squadron. After a few strides I break into a run.

“Hey, pal!” the man calls after me. “You ain’t even et yet!”

“Leave him alone, Jock,” says his friend. “He probably needs to lay eyes on someone.”

“CAMEL! CAMEL, YOU IN THERE?” I stand in front of the train car, trying to see into its musty interior. “Camel! You in there?”

There’s no answer.

“Camel!”

Nothing.

I spin around, facing the lot. “Shit!” I kick the gravel, and then kick it again. “Shit!”

Just then, I hear a mewling from inside the car.

“Camel, is that you?”

A muffled noise comes from one of the darkened corners. I hop inside. Camel is lying up against the far wall.

He’s passed out cold, holding an empty bottle. I lean over and pluck it from his hand. Lemon extract.

“Who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you’re doing?” says a voice from behind me. I turn. It’s Grady. He’s standing on the ground in front of the open door, smoking a ready-made. “Oh—hey. Sorry, Jacob. Didn’t recognize you from the back.”

“Hi, Grady,” I say. “How’s he been?”

“Kind of hard to tell,” he answers. “He’s been tight since last night.”

Camel snorts and tries to roll over. His left arm flops limply across his chest. He smacks his lips and starts snoring.

“I’m getting a doctor out today,” I say. “Keep an eye on him in the meantime, will you?”

“Of course I will,” says Grady, affronted. “What the hell do you think I am? Blackie? Who the hell do you think kept him safe last night?”

“Of course I don’t think you’re—aw, hell, just forget it. Look, if he sobers up, try to keep him that way, okay? I’ll catch up with you later with the doctor.”

THE DOCTOR HOLDS my father’s pocket watch in his pudgy hand, turning it over and inspecting it through his pince-nez. He pops it open to examine the face.

“Yes. This will do. So, what is it then?” he says, slipping it into his vest pocket.

We’re in the hallway just outside August and Marlena’s stateroom. The door is still open.

“We need to go somewhere else,” I say, lowering my voice.

The doctor shrugs. “Fine. Let’s go.”

As soon as we’re outside, the doctor turns to me. “So where are we going to perform this examination?”

“It’s not me. It’s a friend of mine. He’s having problems with his feet and hands. And other stuff. He’ll tell you when we get there.”

“Ah,” says the doctor. “Mr. Rosenbluth led me to believe that you were having difficulties of a . . . personal nature.”

The doctor’s expression changes as he follows me down the track. By the time we leave the shiny painted cars of the first section behind, he looks alarmed. By the time we reach the battered cars of the Flying Squadron, his face is pinched in disgust.

“He’s in here,” I say, hopping into the car.

“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to get in?” he says.

Earl emerges from the shadows with a wooden crate. He jumps down, sets it in front of the doorway, and gives it a loud pat. The doctor gazes upon it for a moment and then climbs up, clutching his black bag primly in front of him.

“Where’s the patient?” he says, squinting and scanning the interior.