Water for Elephants (42 page)

Marlena stares at it, wide-eyed. Then she crumples to the ground. Rosie fans her ears, opens her mouth, and steps sideways so she’s standing directly over the top of Marlena.

Although the stampede continues unabated, at least I know Marlena won’t be trampled before I can navigate the perimeter of the tent.

I
NEVITABLY, PEOPLE TRY
to exit the big top the way they entered it—through the menagerie. I’m kneeling beside Marlena, cradling her head in my hands when people spew forth from the connection. They are a few feet in before they realize what’s going on.

The ones at the front come to a dead stop and are flung to the ground by the people behind them. They would be trampled except that the people behind them have now also seen the stampede.

The mass of animals suddenly changes direction, an interspecies flock—lions, llamas, and zebras running side by side with orangutans and chimps; a hyena shoulder to shoulder with a tiger. Twelve horses and a giraffe with a spider monkey hanging from its neck. The polar bear, lumbering on all fours. And all of them headed for the knot of people.

The crowd turns, shrieking, and trying to recede into the big top. The people at the very back, shoved so recently to the ground, dance in desperation, pounding the backs and shoulders of the people in front of them. The clog bursts free, and people and animals flee together in a great squealing mass. It’s hard to say who is more terrified—certainly the only thing any of the animals have in mind is saving their own hides. A Bengal tiger forces itself between a woman’s legs, sweeping her from the ground. She looks down and faints. Her husband grabs her by the armpits, lifting her off the tiger and dragging her into the big top.

In a matter of seconds, there are only three living creatures in the menagerie besides me: Rosie, Marlena, and Rex. The mangy old lion has crept back into his den and is huddled in the corner, quivering.

Marlena moans. She lifts a hand and drops it. I glance quickly at the thing that was August and decide I cannot let her see it again. I scoop her up and carry her out through the ticket gate.

The lot is nearly empty, the outer perimeter defined by people and animals, all running as far and as fast as they can, expanding and dispersing like a ring on the surface of a pond.

COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS, MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA

Twenty-three

Post-stampede, day one.

We’re still finding and retrieving animals. We’ve caught a great many, but the ones that lend themselves to catching are not the ones the townsfolk are concerned about. Most of the cats are still missing, as is the bear.

Immediately after lunch we are summoned to a local restaurant. When we arrive, we find Leo hiding under the kitchen sink, shivering in terror. Wedged in beside him is an equally terrified dishwasher. Man and lion, cheek by jowl.

Uncle Al is also missing, but no one is surprised. The lot is crawling with police. August’s body was found and removed last night, and they’re performing an investigation. It will be perfunctory, since it’s clear he was trampled. The word is that Uncle Al is keeping away until he’s sure he won’t be charged with anything.

P
OST-STAMPEDE, DAY TWO
.

Animal by animal, the menagerie fills. The sheriff returns to the lot with railroad officials and makes noises about vagrancy laws. He wants us off the siding. He wants to know who’s in charge here.

In the evening, the cookhouse runs out of food.

P
OST-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.

T
HINK
, J
ACOB
.
T
HINK
.

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.

W
HEN
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.

I
RETURN TO THE
post office and call Dean Wilkins. He is silent for even longer this time. He finally stammers out an apology: he’s really
very sorry—he wishes he could help—I’m still welcome to sit my final exams, of course, but he hasn’t the faintest idea what I should do with the elephant.

I
RETURN TO THE
lot rigid with panic. I can’t leave Marlena and the animals here while I return to Ithaca to write my exams. What if the sheriff sells the menagerie in the meantime? The horses we can board, and we can afford for Marlena and Queenie to stay in a hotel for a while, but Rosie?

I cross the lot, making a wide arc around scattered piles of canvas. Workmen from the Nesci Brothers show are unrolling various pieces of the big top under the watchful eye of the boss canvasman. It looks like they’re checking for tears before making an offer.

As I mount the stairs to car 48, my heart is pounding, my breath coming fast. I need to calm down—my mind is spinning in ever smaller circles. This is no good, no good at all.

I push open the door. Queenie comes to my feet and stares up at me with a pathetic combination of bewilderment and gratitude. She wags her stump uncertainly. I lean down and scratch her head.

“Marlena?” I say, straightening up.

She comes out from behind the green curtain. She looks apprehensive, twisting her fingers and avoiding making eye contact. “Jacob—oh, Jacob, I’ve done something really stupid.”

“What?” I ask. “Do you mean the horses? It’s okay. I already know.”

She looks up quickly. “You do?”

“I was watching. It was pretty obvious what was going on.”

She blushes. “I’m sorry. I just . . . reacted. I wasn’t thinking about what we’d do with them afterward. It’s just that I love them so much and I couldn’t stand to let him take them. He’s no better than Uncle Al.”

“It’s okay. I understand.” I pause. “Marlena, I have something to tell you, too.”

“You do?”

My jaw opens and closes, but no words come out.

She looks worried. “What is it? What’s going on? Is it something bad?”

“I called the Dean at Cornell, and he’s willing to let me sit my exams.”