Water for Elephants

snout open, grinning. I turn in panic. Another huge alligator approaches from the other direction.

There are noises behind us, leaves crackling and twigs snapping. I spin around to find that the badger has come up the bank and multiplied.

Behind us, a wall of badgers. In front of us, a dozen alligators.

I wake up in a cold sweat.

The situation is entirely untenable, and I know it.

IN POUGHKEEPSIE, WE are raided, and for once the social strata are bridged: working men, performers, and bosses alike weep and snizzle as all that scotch, all that wine, all that fine Canadian whiskey, all that beer, all that gin, and even moonshine is poured onto the gravel by straight-armed, sour-faced men. It winnows through the stones as we watch, bubbling into the undeserving earth.

And then we are run out of town.

In Hartford, a handful of patrons take serious exception to Rosie’s nonperformance, as well as the continued presence of the Lovely Lucinda sideshow banner despite the unfortunate absence of the Lovely Lucinda. The patches aren’t fast enough, and before we know it disgruntled men swarm the ticket wagon demanding refunds. With the police closing in on one side and townsfolk on the other, Uncle Al is forced to refund the whole day’s proceeds.

And then we are run out of town.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING is payday, and the employees of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth line up in front of the red ticket wagon. The working men are in a foul humor—they know which way the wind is blowing. The first person to approach the red wagon is a roustabout, and when he leaves empty-handed the line buzzes with angry curses. The rest of the working men stalk off, spitting and swearing, leaving only performers and bosses in line. A few minutes later, another angry buzz runs down the line, this one tinged with surprise. For the first time in the show’s history, there is no money for performers. Only the bosses are getting paid.

Walter is outraged.

“What the fuck is this?” he shouts as he enters the stock car. He throws his hat into the corner and then drops onto the bedroll.

Camel whimpers from the cot. Ever since the raid, he spends his time either staring at the wall or crying. The only time he speaks is when we’re trying to feed or clean him, and even then it’s only to beg us not to deliver him to his son. Walter and I take turns muttering placating things about family and forgiveness, but we both have misgivings. Whatever he was when he wandered away from his family, he is incalculably worse now, damaged beyond repair and probably even recognition. And if they’re not in a forgiving frame of mind, what will it be like for him to be so helpless in their hands?

“Calm down, Walter,” I say. I’m sitting on my horse blanket in the corner, brushing away the flies that have been tormenting me all morning, flitting from scab to scab.

“No, I will not fucking calm down. I’m a performer! A performer! Performers get paid!” Walter shouts, thumping his chest. He pulls off a shoe and heaves it against the wall. He stares at it for a moment, then pulls off the other and slams it into the corner. It lands on his hat. Walter brings his fist down on the blanket beneath him and Queenie scurries behind the row of trunks that used to hide Camel.

“We don’t have much longer,” I say. “Just hang on for a few more days.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because that’s when Camel gets picked up”—there’s a keening wail from the cot—“and we get the hell out of here.”

“Yeah?” says Walter. “And just what the hell are we going to do? Have you figured that out yet?”

I meet his gaze and hold it for a few seconds. Then I turn my head.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. That’s why I needed to get paid. We’re going to end up as fucking hoboes,” he says.

“No we won’t,” I say unconvincingly.

“You better think of something, Jacob. You’re the one who got us into this mess, not me. You and your girlfriend might be able to take to the road, but I can’t. This may be all fun and games for you—”

“It is not fun and games!”

“—but my life is at stake here. You’ve at least got the option of hopping trains and moving around. I don’t.”

He is quiet. I stare at his short, compact limbs.

He nods curtly, bitterly. “Yeah. That’s right. And like I said before, I’m not exactly cut out for farmwork, either.”

MY MIND CHURNS as I go through the line in the cookhouse. Walter is absolutely right—I got us into this mess, and I’ve got to get us out. Damned if I know how, though. Not one of us has a home to go to. Never mind that Walter can’t hop trains—hell will freeze over before I let Marlena spend a single night in a hobo jungle. I’m so preoccupied that I’m almost at the table before I look up. Marlena is already there.

“Hi,” I say, taking my seat.

“Hi,” she says after a slight pause, and I know immediately that something is wrong.

“What is it? What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“No. I’m fine,” she whispers, staring at her plate.

“No you’re not. What is it? What did he do?” I say. Other diners start to look.

“Nothing,” she hisses. “Keep your voice down.”

I straighten up and, with a great show of restraint, spread my napkin across my lap. I pick up my cutlery and carefully slice my pork chop. “Marlena, please talk to me,” I say quietly. I concentrate on making my face look as though we’re discussing the weather. Slowly, the people around us return to their meals.

“I’m late,” she says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m late.”

“For what?”

She raises her head and turns beet red. “I think I’m going to have a baby.”

WHEN EARL COMES to fetch me, I’m not even surprised. It’s just the way the day is going.

Uncle Al is sitting in his chair, his face pinched and sour. There is no brandy today. He gnaws on the end of a cigar and stabs his cane repeatedly into the carpet.

“It’s been almost three weeks, Jacob.”

“I know,” I say. My voice is shaky. I’m still absorbing Marlena’s news.

“I’m disappointed in you. I thought we had an understanding.”

“We did. We do.” I shift restlessly. “Look, I’m doing my best, but August isn’t helping. She’d have gone back to him a long time ago if he’d just leave her the hell alone for a while.”

“I’ve done what I could,” says Uncle Al. He takes the cigar from his lips, looks at it, and then picks a piece of tobacco from his tongue. He flicks it against the wall, where it sticks.

“Well, it’s not enough,” I say. “He follows her around. He yells at her. He cries outside her window. She’s scared of him. Having Earl follow him around and haul him off whenever he gets out of hand is not enough. Would you go back to him if you were her?”

Uncle Al stares at me. I suddenly realize I’ve been yelling.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll work on her. I swear, if you can just get him to leave her alone for a few more days —”

“No,” he says quietly. “We’re going to do it my way now.”

“What?”

“I said we’re going to do it my way. You can leave now.” He flicks the ends of his fingers toward the door. “Go.”

I stare at him, blinking stupidly. “What do you mean, your way?”

Next thing I know, Earl’s arms encircle me like a steel band. He lifts me from the chair and carries me to the door. “What do you mean, Al?” I shout over Earl’s shoulder. “I want to know what you mean! What are you going to do?”