Water for Elephants (28 page)

We have two hours. The performers immediately sequester themselves in their train cars. The roustabouts, once roused, run around like headless chickens. Uncle Al is breathless and purple, waving his cane and whacking people if they’re not moving fast enough for his liking. Tents drop so quickly that men get trapped inside, and then men who are dropping other tents must come and retrieve them before they suffocate in a vast expanse of canvas, or—worse, in Uncle Al’s estimation—use their pocketknives to cut a breathing hole.

After all the stock is loaded I retire to the ring stock car. I don’t like the look of the townsmen hovering around the edge of the lot. Many are armed, and a bad feeling ferments in the pit of my stomach.

I haven’t seen Walter yet, and I pace back and forth in front of the open door, scanning the lot. The black men have long since hidden themselves aboard the Flying Squadron, and I’m not at all convinced that the mob won’t content themselves with a redheaded dwarf instead.

One hour and fifty-five minutes after we get our marching orders, his face appears in the doorway.

“Where the hell have you been?” I shout.

“Is that him?” croaks Camel from behind the trunks.

“Yeah, that’s him. Get on up here,” I say, waving Walter inside. “The crowd’s looking nasty.”

He doesn’t move. He’s flushed and out of breath. “Where’s Queenie? You seen Queenie?”

“No. Why?”

He disappears.

“Walter!” I jump up and follow him to the door. “Walter! Where the hell are you going? They’ve already blown the five-minute whistle!”

He’s running alongside the train, ducking to look between its wheels. “Come on, Queenie! Here, girl!” He straightens up, pausing in front of each stock car, yelling through the slats and then waiting for a response. “Queenie! Here, girl!” Each time he calls, his voice reaches a new level of desperation.

A whistle blows, a long sustained warning followed by the hissing and sputtering of the engine.

Walter’s voice cracks, hoarse with yelling. “Queenie! Where the hell are you? Queenie!
Come!
”

Up ahead, the last stragglers are leaping onto flat cars.

“Walter, come on!” I shout. “Don’t mess around. You’ve got to get on now.”

He ignores me. He’s up at the flat cars now, peering between wagon wheels. “Queenie,
come!
” he shouts. He stops and suddenly stands straight up. He looks lost. “Queenie?” he says to no one in particular.

“Aw hell,” I say.

“Is he coming back or what?” asks Camel.

“Doesn’t look like it,” I say.

“Well go git ’im!” he barks.

The train lurches forward, the cars jerking as the engine pulls the slack from their couplings.

I jump to the gravel and run ahead to the flat cars. Walter stands facing the engine.

I touch his shoulder. “Walter, it’s time to go.”

He turns to me, his eyes pleading. “Where is she? Have you seen her?”

“No. Come on, Walter,” I say. “We’ve got to get on the train now.”

“I can’t,” he says. His face is blank. “I can’t leave her. I just can’t.”

The train is chugging forward now, gathering steam.

I glance behind me. The townsmen, armed with rifles, baseball bats, and sticks are surging forward. I look back at the train long enough to
get a sense of speed, and count, praying to God that I’m right:
one, two, three, four
.

I scoop Walter up like a sack of flour and toss him inside. There’s a crash and a yelp as he hits the floor. I sprint beside the train and grasp the iron bar beside the door. I let the train pull me along for three long strides, and then use its velocity to vault up and inside.

My face skids across the bucking floorboards. When I realize I’m safe, I look for Walter, prepared for a fight.

He is huddled in the corner, crying.

W
ALTER IS INCONSOLABLE
. He remains in the corner as I pull the trunks out and retrieve Camel. I manage the old man’s shave—a task that usually involves all three of us—and then drag him out to the area in front of the horses.

“Aw, come on, Walter,” says Camel. I’m holding him by his armpits, dangling his naked posterior over what Walter calls the honey bucket. “You did what you could.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Hey, lower me a bit, would ya? I’m swinging in the breeze here.”

I shift my feet so they’re further apart, trying to lower Camel while keeping my back straight. Usually Walter takes care of this part because he’s the right height.

“Walter, I could use a hand here,” I say as a spasm shoots across my back.

“Shut up,” he says.

Camel looks back again, this time with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“No, it’s not okay,” Walter yells from the corner. “Nothing’s okay! Queenie was all I had. You understand that?” His voice drops to whimper. “She was all I had.”

Camel waves his hand at me to indicate he’s finished. I shuffle over a couple of feet and lay him on his side.

“Now, that can’t be true,” says Camel as I clean him up. “A young fella like you’s gotta have somebody somewhere.”

“You don’t know nothing.”

“You ain’t got a mother somewhere?” says Camel, persisting.

“None I got a use for.”

“Now don’t you talk like that,” says Camel.

“Why the hell not? She sold me to this outfit when I was fourteen.” He glares at us. “And don’t you go looking at me like you feel sorry for me,” he snaps. “She was an old crow, anyway. Who the hell needs her.”

“What do you mean
sold
you?” says Camel.

“Well, I’m not exactly cut out for farmwork, am I? Just leave me the hell alone, will you?” He shuffles around so his back is to us.

I fasten Camel’s pants, grab him by the armpits, and haul him back into the room. His legs drag behind him, his heels scraping the floor.

“Man, oh man,” he says as I arrange him on the cot. “Ain’t that something?”

“You ready for some food?” I say, trying to change the subject.

“Naw, not yet. But a drop of whiskey would go down well.” He shakes his head sadly. “I ain’t never heard of a woman so coldhearted.”

“I can still hear you, you know,” barks Walter. “And besides, you ain’t got no talking room, old man. When was the last time you saw your son?”

Camel goes pale.

“Eh? Can’t answer that, can you?” continues Walter from outside the room. “Ain’t such a big difference in what you did and what my mother did, is there?”

“Yes there is,” shouts Camel. “There’s a world of difference. And how the hell do you know what I did, anyway?”

“You mentioned your son one night when you were tight,” I say quietly.

Camel stares at me for a moment. Then his face contorts. He raises a limp hand to his forehead and turns away from me. “Aw shit,” he says. “Aw shit. I never knew you knew,” he says. “You shoulda’ told me.”

“I thought you remembered,” I say. “Anyway, he didn’t say much. He just said you wandered off.”

“‘He just said’?” Camel’s head shoots around. “
‘He just said’?
What the hell does that mean? You been in touch with him?”

I sink to the floor and rest my head on my knees. It’s shaping up to be a long night.

“What do you mean,
‘he just said’?
” shrieks Camel. “I asked you a question!”

I sigh. “Yes, we got in touch with him.”

“When?”

“A while ago.”

He stares at me, stunned. “But why?”

“He’s meeting us in Providence. He’s taking you home.”

“Oh no,” says Camel, shaking his head vehemently. “Oh no he’s not.”

“Camel—”

“What the hell’d you go and do that for? You ain’t got no right!”

“We had no choice!” I shout. I stop, close my eyes, and collect myself. “We had no choice,” I repeat. “We had to do something.”

“I can’t go back! You don’t know what happened. They don’t want me no more.”

His lip quivers, and his mouth shuts. He turns his face away. A moment later, his shoulders start heaving.

“Aw hell,” I say. I raise my voice, shouting through the open door. “Hey, thanks Walter! You’ve been a big help tonight! Sure appreciate it!”

“Fuck off!” he answers.

I shut off the kerosene lamp and crawl over to my horse blanket. I lie down on its scratchy surface and then sit up again.

“Walter!” I shout. “Hey, Walter! If you’re not coming back in, I’m using the bedroll.”

There’s no answer.

“Did you hear me? I said I’m using the bedroll.”

I wait for a minute or two and then crawl across the floor.

Walter and Camel spend the night making the noises men make when they’re trying not to cry, and I spend the night punching my pillow up around my ears trying not to hear them.

• • •

I
AWAKE TO
M
ARLENA’S VOICE
.

“Knock knock. May I come in?”

My eyes snap open. The train has stopped, and somehow I slept through it. I’m also startled because I was dreaming about Marlena, and for a moment I wonder if I’m still asleep.

“Hello? Anyone in there?”

I jerk up onto my elbows and look at Camel. He’s helpless on the cot, his eyes wide with fear. The interior door has stayed open all night. I leap up.

“Uh, hang on a second!” I rush out to meet her, pulling the door shut behind me.

She’s already climbing into the car. “Oh, hello,” she says, looking at Walter. He’s still huddled in the corner. “I was actually looking for you. Isn’t this your dog?”

Walter’s head snaps around.
“Queenie!”

Marlena leans over to release her, but before she can, Queenie squirms free, hitting the floor with a thunk. She scrabbles across the floor and leaps onto Walter, licking his face and wagging so hard she topples backward.

“Oh, Queenie! Where were you, you
bad, bad
girl? You had me so worried, you
bad, bad
girl!” Walter offers his face and head for licking, and Queenie wiggles and squirms in delight.

“Where was she?” I ask, turning to Marlena.

“She was running alongside the train when we pulled out yesterday,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on Walter and Queenie. “I saw her from the window and sent Auggie out. He got down on his belly on the platform and scooped her up.”

“August did?” I say. “Really?”

“Yes. And then she bit him for his trouble.”

Walter wraps both arms around his dog and buries his face in her coat.

Marlena watches for a moment longer and then turns toward the door. “Well, I guess I’ll be on my way,” she says.

“Marlena,” I say, reaching for her arm.

She stops.

“Thank you,” I say, dropping my hand. “You have no idea what this means to him. To us, really.”

She throws me the quickest of glances—with just the merest hint of a smile—and then looks over the backs of her horses. “Yes. Yes. I think I do.”

My eyes are moist as she climbs down from the car.

“W
ELL, WHADYA KNOW,” SAYS
C
AMEL
. “Maybe he’s human after all.”

“Who? August?” says Walter. He leans, grabs the handle of a trunk, and drags it across the floor. We’re arranging the room into its daytime configuration, although Walter does everything at half speed because he insists on holding Queenie under one arm. “Never.”

“You can let her go, you know,” I say. “The door’s closed.”

“He saved your dog,” Camel points out.

“He wouldn’t have if he’d known she was mine. Queenie knows that. That’s why she bit him. Yes, you knew, didn’t you, baby?” he says, pulling her snout up to his face and reverting to baby talk. “Yes, Queenie is a clever girl.”

“What makes you think he didn’t know?” I say. “Marlena knew.”

“Because I just know. There’s not a human bone in that kike’s body.”

“Watch your damned mouth!” I shout.

Walter stops to look at me. “What? Oh, hey, you’re not Jewish, are you? Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It was just a cheap shot,” he says.

“Yes, it was a cheap shot,” I say, still shouting. “They’re all cheap shots and I’m getting mighty damned sick of them. If you’re a performer, you take shots at the working men. If you’re a working man, you take shots at Poles. If you’re a Pole, you take shots at Jews. And if you’re a dwarf—well, you tell me, Walter? Is it just Jews and working men you hate, or do you also hate Poles?”

Walter reddens and looks down. “I don’t hate ’em. I don’t hate anybody.” After a moment he adds, “Well, okay, I really do hate August. But I hate him because he’s a crazy son of a bitch.”

“Can’t argue with that,” croaks Camel.

I look from Camel to Walter, and then back again. “No,” I say with a sigh. “No, I suppose you can’t.”

I
N
H
AMILTON, THE TEMPERATURE
creeps up into the nineties, the sun beats relentlessly on the lot, and the lemonade goes missing.

The man from the juice joint, who left the great mixing vat for no more than a few minutes, storms off to Uncle Al, convinced that roustabouts are responsible.

Uncle Al has them rounded up. They emerge from the behind the stable tent and menagerie, sleepy, with straw in their hair. I observe from some distance, but it’s hard not to think they have an air of innocence about them.

Apparently Uncle Al doesn’t agree. He storms back and forth, bellowing like Genghis Khan at a troop inspection. He screams in their faces, details the cost—both in supplies and lost sales—of the stolen lemonade and tells them that every one of them will have his pay docked the next time it happens. He whacks a few upside the head and dismisses them. They creep back to their resting spots, rubbing their heads and eyeing each other with suspicion.

With only ten minutes before the gate opens, the men at the juice joint mix up another batch using water from the animal troughs. They filter out the stray oats, hay, and whiskers through a pair of hose donated by a clown, and by the time they toss in the “floaters”—wax lemon slices designed to give the impression that the concoction actually met fruit somewhere along the line—a swell of rubes is already approaching the midway. I don’t know if the hose were clean, but I do notice that everyone on the show abstains from drinking lemonade that day.