Water for Elephants: Chapters 19–25

I remind myself of a greyhound, all sinews and skinny rib cage.

I sit rubbing my wrist, incensed. Why can’t they have a separate wing for people like that? That old bird is clearly out of her head. She could have hurt me.

Dammit! If they don’t show up soon I’ll miss the Spec. I shift in my seat, feeling querulous and old.

“You’re a good girl, Rosemary,” I say, taking the tissue and staunching my leaky nose.

August is agitated and desperate, moving from window to window, hauling himself up by his fingertips, weeping, oozing contrition.

“May I help you?” says the hotel clerk, looking up as the bell above the door announces our arrival. His initial expression of solicitous pleasantry is replaced first by alarm and then by disdain.

He presses his lips into an imperious line.

The hotel three doors down has no such qualms, although I dislike this clerk almost as much as the other. He’s just dying to know what happened.

His eyes sweep over us, shining, curious, lewd. I know what he’d assume if Marlena’s black eye were the only injury between us, but because I am far worse off, the story is not so clear.

There are flowers on the wallpaper and curtains, and the bed is covered with chenille.

He spreads his hands in supplication.

I stand back and appraise Rosie’s toenails.

He’s not there, but the tension among the menagerie men is palpable.

A handful of men wanting their money back are hustled away to be mollified by the patches before their train of thought has an opportunity to spread.

An hour later, he accosts her in the midway, drops to his knees, and wraps his arms around her legs.

When I tell Uncle Al that August’s outburst has just returned us to square one, he vents his frustration by smashing a decanter against the wall.

Behind us, a wall of badgers. In front of us, a dozen alligators.
I wake up in a cold sweat.
The situation is entirely untenable, and I know it.

In Poughkeepsie, we are raided, and for once the social strata are bridged: working men, performers, and bosses alike weep and snizzle as all that scotch, all that wine, all that fine Canadian whiskey, all that beer, all that gin, and even moonshine is poured onto the gravel by straight-armed, sour-faced men.

It winnows through the stones as we watch, bubbling into the undeserving earth.

“Because that’s when Camel gets picked up”—there’s a keening wail from the cot—“and we get the hell out of here.”

Marlena balances gamely on her ball, but Rosie stands utterly still, all four feet planted squarely on the ground.

But his narrowed eyes bounce off me, glomming on to something beyond.

I open my eyes and see a panoply of shifting color and forms.

“It’s the best I’ve got, I’m afraid,” he says ruefully.

Each time I leap, I land a little more cleanly, a little more cavalierly. By the sixth, I have to remind myself to be careful.

Once there, I lie on the top rail, queasy and limp. I spend ten minutes recovering and then crawl forth. I rest again at the end of the car, prostrate between the top rails.

Maybe even the jail, in case the town decided they were vagrants.

My voice is guttural with hate and rage.

I skulk around all morning, searching desperately for Marlena.

I’m facing a full-fledged stampede. The animal dens are all open, and the center of the menagerie is a blur; staring into it, I see bits of chimp, orangutan, llama, zebra, lion, giraffe, camel, hyena, and horse—in fact, I see dozens of horses, including Marlena’s, and every one of them is mad with terror.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

I’m too far away to make out much, but snatches of her diatribe—the bits in the uppermost register—cut through.

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.

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.

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.

Those were the salad days, the halcyon years!

I feel my eyes grow moist and try to rearrange my ruined face into some semblance of toughness.