Water for Elephants (43 page)

Her face lights up. “That’s wonderful!”

“And we’ve also got Rosie.”

“We’ve what?”

“It was the same as with you and the horses,” I say quickly, rushing to explain myself. “I don’t like the look of their bull man and I couldn’t let him take her—God only knows where she’d end up. I love that bull. I couldn’t let her go. So I pretended she belonged to me. And now I guess she does.”

Marlena stares at me for a long time. Then—to my enormous relief—she nods, saying, “You did right. I love her, too. She deserves better than what she’s had. But it does mean we’re in a pickle.” She looks out the window, her eyes narrowed in thought. “We’ve got to get on another show,” she says finally. “That’s all there is to it.”

“How? Nobody’s hiring.”

“Ringling is always hiring, if you’re good enough.”

“Do you think we actually have a shot?”

“Sure we do. We’ve got one hell of an elephant act, and you’re a Cornell-educated veterinarian. We have a definite shot. We’ll have to be married, though. They’re a real Sunday School outfit.”

“Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.”

The blood drains from her face.

“Oh, Marlena. I’m so sorry,” I say. “That came out all wrong. I just meant that there’s never been an instant of doubt that I’m going to marry you.”

After a moment’s pause, she reaches up and lays her hand on my cheek. Then she grabs her purse and hat.

“Where are you going?” I say.

She rolls forward onto her toes and kisses me. “To make that phone call. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” I say.

I follow her outside and sit on the metal platform watching as she recedes into the distance. She walks with such certainty, placing each foot directly in front of the other and holding her shoulders square. As she passes, all the men on the lot turn to look. I watch until she disappears around the corner of a building.

As I rise to return to the stateroom, there’s a shout of surprise from the men unrolling the canvas. One man takes a long step backward, clutching his stomach. Then he doubles over, vomiting onto the grass. The rest continue to stare at the thing they’ve uncovered. The boss canvasman removes his hat and clutches it to his chest. One by one, the others do the same.

I walk over, staring at the darkened bundle. It’s large, and as I get closer I make out bits of scarlet, gold brocade, and black and white checks.

It’s Uncle Al. A makeshift garrote is tightened around his blackened neck.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
, Marlena and I sneak into the menagerie and bring Bobo back to our stateroom.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Twenty-four

So this is what it boils down to, is it? Sitting alone in a lobby waiting for family that’s not going to come?

I can’t believe Simon forgot. Especially today. Especially Simon—that boy spent the first seven years of his life on the Ringling show.

To be fair, I suppose the boy is seventy-one. Or is that sixty-nine? Dammit, I’m tired of not knowing. When Rosemary comes back I’ll ask her what year it is and settle the matter once and for all. She’s very kind to me, that Rosemary. She won’t make me feel foolish even if I am. A man ought to know how old he is.

I remember so many things as clear as a bell. Like the day of Simon’s birth. God, such joy. Such relief! The vertigo as I approached the bed, the trepidation. And there was my angel, my Marlena, smiling up at me, tired, radiant, with a blanketed bundle nestled in the crook of her arm. His face was so dark and scrunched he hardly looked like a person at all. But then when Marlena pulled the blanket back from his hair and I saw that it was red, I thought I might actually faint from joy. I never really doubted—not really, and I would have loved and raised him, anyway—but still. I damn near dropped over when I saw that red hair.

I glance at the clock, antsy with despair. The Spec is over for sure. Oh, it’s just not fair! All those decrepit old people who won’t even know what they’re looking at, and here’s me! Trapped in this lobby!

Or am I?

I furrow my brow and blink. What, exactly, makes me think I’m trapped?

I glance from side to side. No one. I turn and look toward the hall. A nurse whizzes past, clutching a chart and looking at her shoes.

I scootch to the edge of my seat and reach for my walker. By my estimation, I’m only eighteen feet from freedom. Well, there’s an entire city block to traverse after that, but if I hoof it I bet I can catch the last few acts. And the finale—it won’t make up for missing the Spec, but it’s something. A warm glow tingles through me and I snort back a giggle. I may be in my nineties, but who says I’m helpless?

The glass door slides open as I approach. Thank God for that—I don’t think I could manage the walker and a regular door. No, I’m wobbly, all right. But that’s okay. I can work with wobbly.

I reach the sidewalk and stop, blinded by the sun.

I’ve been away from the real world for so long that the combination of engines running, dogs barking, and horns honking brings a lump to my throat. The people on the sidewalk part and pass me like I’m a stone in a stream. Nobody seems to think it odd that an old man is standing in his slippers on the sidewalk right outside an old folks’ home. But it occurs to me that I’m still in plain sight if one of the nurses comes into the lobby.

I lift my walker, twist it a couple of inches to the left, and plunk it down again. Its plastic wheels scrape the concrete, and the sound makes me giddy. It’s a real noise, a gritty noise, not the squeak or patter of rubber. I shuffle around behind it, savoring the way my slippers scuffle. Two more manipulations like that, and I’m facing the right way. A perfect three-point turn. I grab hold and shuffle off, concentrating on my feet.

I mustn’t go too fast. Falling would be disastrous in so many ways. There are no floor tiles, so I measure my progress in feet—my feet. Each time I take a step, I bring the heel of one foot parallel to the toes of the other. And so it goes, ten inches at a time. I stop occasionally to gauge my progress. It’s slow but steady. The magenta and white tent is a little bigger each time I look up.

It takes me half an hour and I have to stop twice, but I’m practically
there and already feeling the thrill of victory. I’m huffing a little, but my legs are still steady. There was that one woman I thought might make trouble, but I managed to get rid of her. I’m not proud of it—I don’t normally speak to people in that manner, and especially women—but damned if I was going to let some busybody do-gooder foil my outing. I’m not setting foot in that facility again until I’ve seen what’s left of the show, and woe to the person who tries to make me. Even if the nurses catch up with me right now, I’ll make a scene. I’ll make noise. I’ll embarrass them in public and make them fetch Rosemary. When she realizes how determined I am, she’ll take me to the show. Even if she misses the rest of her shift, she’ll take me—it is her last shift, after all.

Oh Lord. How am I going to survive that place when she’s gone? The remembrance of her imminent departure wracks my old body with grief, but it’s quickly displaced by joy—I am now close enough to hear the music thumping from the big top. Oh, the sweet, sweet sound of circus music. I lodge my tongue in the corner of my mouth and hurry. I’m almost there now. Just a few yards farther—

“Yo, Gramps. Where do you think you’re going?”

I stop, startled. I look up. A kid sits behind the ticket wicket, his face framed by bags of pink and blue cotton candy. Flashing toys blink from the glass counter under his arms. There’s a ring through his eyebrow, a stud through his bottom lip, a large tattoo on each shoulder. His hands are tipped with black nails.

“Where does it look like I’m going?” I say querulously. I don’t have time for this. I’ve missed enough of the show as it is.

“Tickets are twelve bucks.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Then you can’t go in.”

I am flabbergasted, still struggling for words when a man comes up beside me. He’s older, clean-shaven, well dressed. The manager, I’m willing to bet.

“What’s going on here, Russ?”

The kid jerks his thumb at me. “I caught this old guy trying to sneak in.”

“Sneak!” I exclaim in righteous indignation.

The man takes one look at me and turns back to the kid. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Russ scowls and looks down.

The manager stands in front of me, smiling graciously. “Sir, I’d be happy to show you in. Would it be easier if you had a wheelchair? Then we wouldn’t have to worry about finding you a good seat.”

“That would be nice. Thank you,” I say, ready to weep with relief. My altercation with Russ left me shaking—the idea that I could make it this far only to be turned away by a teenager with a pierced lip was horrifying. But all is okay. Not only have I made it, but I think maybe I’m going to get a ringside seat.

The manager goes around the side of the big top and returns with a standard hospital-issue wheelchair. I let him help me into it and then relax my aching muscles as he pushes me toward the entrance.

“Don’t mind Russ,” he says. “He’s a good kid underneath all those holes, although it’s a wonder he doesn’t spring a leak when he drinks.”

“In my day they put the old fellows in the ticket booth. Kind of the end of the road.”

“You were on a show?” the man asks. “Which one?”

“I was on two. The first was the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth,” I say proudly, rolling each syllable off my tongue. “The second was Ringling.”

The chair stops. The man’s face suddenly appears in front of mine. “You were with the Benzini Brothers? What years?”

“The summer of 1931.”

“You were there for the stampede?”

“Sure was!” I exclaim. “Hell, I was in the thick of it. In the menagerie itself. I was the show’s vet.”

He stares at me, incredulous. “I don’t believe this! After the Hartford fire and Hagenbeck-Wallace wreck, that’s probably the most famous circus disaster of all time.”

“It was something, all right. I remember it like yesterday. Hell, I remember it
better
than yesterday.”

The man blinks and sticks his hand out. “Charlie O’Brien the third.”

“Jacob Jankowski,” I say, taking his hand. “The first.”

Charlie O’Brien stares at me for a very long time, his hand spread on his chest as though he were pledging an oath. “Mr. Jankowski, I’m going to get you into the show now before there’s nothing left to see, but it would be an honor and a privilege if you would join me for a drink in my trailer after the show. You’re a living piece of history, and I’d surely love to hear about that collapse firsthand. I’d be happy to see you home afterward.”

“I’d be delighted,” I say.

He snaps to, and moves around to the back of the chair. “All righty then. I hope you enjoy our show.”

An honor and a privilege.

I smile serenely as he wheels me right up to the ring curb.

Twenty-five

It’s after the show—a damn good show, too, although not of the magnitude of either the Benzini Brothers or Ringling, but how could it be? For that you need a train.

I’m sitting at a Formica table in the back of an impressively appointed RV sipping an equally impressive single malt—Laphroaig, if I’m not mistaken—and singing like a canary. I tell Charlie everything: about my parents, my affair with Marlena, and the deaths of Camel and Walter. I tell him about crawling across the train in the night with a knife in my teeth and murder on my mind. I tell him about the redlighted men, and the stampede, and about Uncle Al being strangled. And finally I tell him what Rosie did. I don’t even think about it. I just open my mouth and the words tumble out.

The relief is instant and palpable. All these years it’s been pent up inside me. I thought I’d feel guilty, like I betrayed her, but what I feel—particularly in light of Charlie’s sympathetic nodding—is more like absolution. Redemption, even.

I was never entirely sure whether Marlena knew—there was so much going on in the menagerie at that moment that I have no idea what she saw, and I never brought it up. I couldn’t, because I couldn’t risk changing how she felt about Rosie—or, if it comes right down to it, how she felt about me. Rosie may have been the one who killed August, but I also wanted him dead.

At first, I stayed silent to protect Rosie—and there was no question she needed protecting, in those days elephant executions were not uncommon—but
there was never any excuse for keeping it from Marlena. Even if it caused her to harden toward Rosie, she’d never have caused her harm. In the entire history of our marriage, it was the only secret I kept from her, and eventually it became impossible to fix. With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.

Having heard my story, Charlie looks not in the least bit shocked or judgmental, and my relief is so great that when I finish telling him about the stampede, I keep going. I tell him about our years with Ringling and how we left after the birth of our third child. Marlena had simply had enough of being on the road—kind of a nesting thing, I figure—and besides, Rosie was getting on in years. Fortunately, the staff veterinarian at Brookfield Zoo in Chicago chose that spring to drop dead, and I was a shoo-in—not only did I have seven years of experience with exotics and a damned good degree, but I also came with an elephant.

We bought a rural property far enough from the zoo that we could keep the horses but close enough that the drive to work wasn’t that bad. The horses more or less retired, although Marlena and the kids still rode them occasionally. They grew fat and happy—the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter. Bobo came with us, of course. He got into more trouble over the years than all the kids put together, but we loved him just the same.

Those were the salad days, the halcyon years! The sleepless nights, the wailing babies; the days the interior of the house looked like it had been hit by a hurricane; the times I had five kids, a chimpanzee, and a wife in bed with fever. Even when the fourth glass of milk got spilled in a single night, or the shrill screeching threatened to split my skull, or when I was bailing out some son or other—or, in one memorable instance, Bobo—from a minor predicament at the police station, they were good years, grand years.