Water for Elephants

POST-STAMPEDE, DAY THREE.

In late morning, the Nesci Brothers Circus train pulls up on a siding next to ours. The sheriff and the railroad officials return and greet the general manager as though he were visiting royalty. They stroll the lot together and finish up with hearty handshakes and booming laughter.

When Nesci Brothers men start moving Benzini Brothers animals and equipment into their tents and onto their train, even the most fervently optimistic among us can no longer deny the obvious.

Uncle Al has done a runner. Each and every one of us is out of work.

THINK, JACOB. THINK.

We have enough money to get ourselves out of here, but what good is that with nowhere to go? We have a baby coming. We need a plan. I need a job.

I walk into town to the post office and call Dean Wilkins. I had been afraid that he wouldn’t remember me, but he sounds relieved to hear from me. He says he’s often wondered where I went and whether I was okay, and by the way, what had I been up to for the last three and a half months?

I take a deep breath and even as I’m thinking about how hard it will be to explain everything, the words start spilling out of me. They tumble forth, competing for precedence and sometimes coming out so tangled I have to back up and pick up a different thread. When I finally fall quiet, Dean Wilkins is silent for so long I wonder if the line has gone dead.

“Dean Wilkins? Are you there?” I say. I take the earpiece from my ear and look at it. I consider tapping it against the wall but don’t, because the postmistress is watching. Staring at me agog, in fact, because she’s been listening to every word. I turn toward the wall and bring the phone back to my ear.

Dean Wilkins clears his throat, stammers for a second, and then says that yes, by all means, I am welcome to return and sit my exams.

WHEN I GET BACK to the lot, Rosie is standing some distance from the menagerie with the general manager of the Nesci Brothers, the sheriff, and a railroad official. I break into a jog.

“What the hell is going on?” I say, coming to a stop by Rosie’s shoulder.

The sheriff turns to me. “Are you in charge of this show?”

“No,” I say.

“Then it’s none of your business,” he says. “This is my bull. That makes it my business.”

“This animal is part of the chattel of the Benzini Brothers circus, and as sheriff I am authorized on behalf of —”

“The hell she is. She’s mine.”

A crowd is gathering, mostly made up of displaced Benzini Brothers roustabouts. The sheriff and railroad official exchange nervous glances.

Greg steps forward. We lock eyes. Then he addresses the sheriff. “It’s true. She’s his. He’s an elephant tramp. He’s been traveling with us, but the bull’s his.”

“I assume you can prove this.”

My face burns. Greg stares at the sheriff with blunt hostility. After a couple of seconds, he starts grinding his teeth.

“In that case,” the sheriff says with a tight smile, “please leave us to conduct our business.”

I spin around to the Nesci Brothers general manager. His eyes widen in surprise.

“You don’t want her,” I say. “She’s dumb as a bag of hammers. I can make her do a few things, but you won’t get anything out of her.”

His eyebrows raise. “Eh?”

“Go on, make her do something,” I urge.

He stares at me as though I’ve sprouted horns.

“I mean it,” I say. “You got a bull man here? Try to make her do something. She’s useless, stupid.”

He continues staring for a moment. Then he turns his head. “Dick,” he barks. “Make her do something.”

A man with a bull hook steps forward.

I stare Rosie in the eye. Please, Rosie. Understand what’s going on here. Please.

“What’s her name?” says Dick, looking over his shoulder at me.

“Gertrude.”

He turns to Rosie. “Gertrude, step up to me. Step up to me now.” His voice is raised, sharp.

Rosie blows, and starts swinging her trunk.

“Gertrude, step up to me now,” he repeats.

Rosie blinks. She sweeps her trunk along the ground and then pauses. She curls its tip and pushes dirt onto it with her foot. Then she swings it around, throwing the collected dirt across her back and over the people around her. Several in the crowd laugh.

“Gertrude, lift your foot,” says Dick, stepping forward so that he’s right at her shoulder. He taps the back of her leg with the bull hook. “Lift it!”

Rosie swings her ears and sniffs him with her trunk.

“Lift it!” he says, tapping her leg harder.

Rosie smiles and checks his pockets. Her four feet remain firmly on the ground.

The bull man pushes her trunk away and turns to his boss. “He’s right. She doesn’t know a damned thing. How’d you even get her out here?”

“This fella brought her,” says the manager, pointing at Greg. He turns back to me. “So what does she do?”

“She stands in the menagerie and takes candy.”

“That’s it?” he asks incredulously.

“Yup,” I answer.

“No wonder the damned show collapsed,” he says, shaking his head. He turns back to the sheriff. “So, what else you got?”

I don’t hear anything after that because my ears are buzzing.

What the hell have I done?

I STARE FORLORNLY at the windows of car 48, wondering how to break the news to Marlena that we now own an elephant, when she suddenly comes flying out the door, leaping from the platform like a gazelle. She hits the ground running, her arms and legs pumping.

I turn to follow her trajectory and immediately see why. The sheriff and the general manager of the Nesci Brothers are standing beside the menagerie tent, shaking hands and smiling. Her horses are lined up behind them, held by Nesci Brothers men.

The manager and sheriff whip around when she reaches them. I’m too far away to make out much, but snatches of her diatribe—the bits in the uppermost register—cut through. Things like “how dare you,” “appalling nerve,” and “unspeakable gall.” She gesticulates wildly, arms flailing. “Grand theft” and “prosecution” make their way across the lot. Or was that “prison”?

The men stare, astonished.

Finally she stops. She crosses her arms, scowls, and taps her foot. The men look at each other, wide-eyed. The sheriff turns and opens his mouth, but before he has time to utter a word Marlena explodes again, shrieking like a banshee, poking a finger in his face. He takes a step backward but she moves with him. He stops and braces, his chest puffed and eyes closed. When she stops wagging her finger, she crosses her arms again. The foot taps, the head bobs.

The sheriff’s eyes open, and he turns to look at the general manager. After a pregnant pause, he shrugs feebly. The general manager frowns and turns to Marlena.

He lasts approximately five seconds before stepping backward with hands raised in surrender. His face has “Uncle” written all over it. Marlena puts her hands on her waist and waits, glaring. Eventually he turns, red-faced, and barks something to the men holding her horses.

Marlena watches until all eleven have been returned to the menagerie. Then she marches back to car 48.

Dear God. Not only am I unemployed and homeless, but I also have a pregnant woman, bereaved dog, elephant, and eleven horses to take care of.