Water for Elephants: Chapters 14–18

I lay a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We’ll figure something out. Okay?”
Camel’s rheumy eyes flicker.

My head swivels, but his expression is completely without guile.

"Why?" I say, watching as yet another filthy man stomps off in a maelstrom of curses.

“Basically you don’t want Uncle Al to start thinking of you as a financial liability. ’Cuz if he does, you disappear one night.”

The man runs his finger down the ledger. It comes to a stop and then moves to the far right column.

“Keep an eye on him in the meantime, will you?”
“Of course I will,” says Grady, affronted.

The doctor holds my father’s pocket watch in his pudgy hand, turning it over and inspecting it through his pince-nez.

“Why did they add it?”
“To get around the regulations that require that Jamaica ginger extract be rendered unpalatable.”

Another week passes, and Marlena remains cloistered in her stateroom.

In Terre Haute, the Lovely Lucinda drops dead. After Uncle Al recovers from his violent but short-lived bereavement, he organizes a farewell befitting “our beloved Lucinda.”

Marlena sashays to the center ring and they follow, high-kicking, prancing clouds of black and white.

More cheering, more adulation. Marlena spreads her arms in the air, turning to give each section of the audience a chance to adore her.

Uncle Al and August scour Billboard and at each stop make telephone calls and send telegrams in an effort to recruit a new one, but all known fat ladies appear either to be happy in their current situation or else leery of Uncle Al’s reputation.

The performers immediately sequester themselves in their train cars.

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.

August is oblivious, buttoning his waistcoat and chatting amiably when Uncle Al bursts through the flap.

“Eh? What?” My voice is thin, reedy.

Last week, when my people came, I didn’t know them. I faked it, though—when they made their way toward me and I realized it was me they had come to see, I smiled and made all the usual placating noises, the “oh yesses” and “goodness graciouses” that make up my end of most conversations these days.

These are the children of my children, and their children, too, and maybe even theirs. Did I coo into their baby faces? Did I dandle them on my knee?

She tells me about meeting August—she was seventeen, and it had just dawned on her that the recent spate of bachelors joining her family for dinner were actually being presented as potential husbands.

Charming, gregarious, and handsome as the devil.

Within minutes, he had secured the promise of a surreptitious meeting and disappeared before the L’Arche seniors rejoined their daughter.

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down and the brown liquid lowers by almost an inch. It’s astounding how quickly he and Camel manage to get hard liquor down their gullets.

I’ve seen flashes of this August before—this brightness, this conviviality, this generosity of spirit—but I know what he’s capable of, and I won’t forget it.

The others can believe what they like, but I don’t believe for a second that this is the real August and the other an aberration.

Even Uncle Al is affected—he stops each day to observe our progress and within a couple of days orders up new posters that feature Rosie with Marlena sitting astride her head.

I break down in the confessional and sob like a baby, telling the priest about my parents, my night of debauchery, and my adulterous thoughts.

Just two weeks ago, this show was on the brink of collapse. The livelihood—and indeed, in this financial climate, I think I can safely say the lives, yes the very lives!—of everyone on this show were in danger.

My head snaps up at this oblique reference to redlighting, but August stares beyond me, at a sidewall.

Rosie enters the big top, promenading beside August.

I watch his mouth, lip-reading the Polish phrases he’s learned by rote.

The pachyderm is perched on the larger ball, with all four feet crowded together and her back arched.

“We been hearing rumors that maybe there’s money finally, maybe even for the working men. Hadn’t given the story much credence up till now, but after what just happened in the big top, I’m beginning to think there might be half a chance.”

There is now a serving table laden with silver-domed platters and wine bottles.

Then August’s face undergoes another transformation, melding into something close to complacency.

With each epithet, he rips the headpiece further.

She looks up at him, her eyes beseeching.

Within seconds, I’m hauled off, pinioned by Grady and Bill.

“Hold still. This is going to sting.”
That was the understatement of the century—when the alcohol encounters my face, I jerk back with a yelp.

Then he drags the old man out to the other part of the car to take care of the evening’s ablutions.