Water for Elephants: Prologue–Chapter 3

The other townsfolk—rubes, as Uncle Al called them—had already made their way through the menagerie tent and into the big top, which pulsed with frenetic music.

The band was whipping through its repertoire at the usual earsplitting volume.

I knew the routine by heart—at this very moment, the tail end of the Grand Spectacle was exiting and Lottie, the aerialist, was ascending her rigging in the center ring.

Thunderous applause exploded from the big top, and the band slid seamlessly into the Gounod waltz.

I turned instinctively toward the menagerie because this was the cue for the elephant act.

There was an ungodly collision of brass, reed, and percussion—trombones and piccolos skidded into cacophony, a tuba farted, and the hollow clang of a cymbal wavered out of the big top, over our heads and into oblivion.

The concession stand in the center of the tent had been flattened, and in its place was a roiling mass of spots and stripes—of haunches, heels, tails, and claws, all of it roaring, screeching, bellowing, or whinnying.

Instead I saw a cat slide through the connection leading to the big top—it was a panther, and as its lithe black body disappeared into the canvas tunnel I braced myself.

She was cool, languid. Smiling even. I started pushing my way toward her, but something about her expression stopped me cold.

She looked at me again, bemused. Then her gaze shifted to the back of his bare head.

“So what’s on the menu tonight?” I grumble as I’m steered into the dining room. “Porridge? Mushy peas? Pablum? Oh, let me guess, it’s tapioca isn’t it? Is it tapioca? Or are we calling it rice pudding tonight?”

The silent ones, the ones with frozen faces and withered limbs or whose heads and hands shake too violently to hold utensils, sit around the edges of the room accompanied by aides who spoon little bits of food into their mouths and then coax them into masticating.

The gravy on the meat loaf has already formed a skin. I poke experimentally with my fork. Its meniscus jiggles, mocking me.

He’s sitting opposite, a newcomer, an interloper—a retired barrister with a square jaw, pitted nose, and great floppy ears. The ears remind me of Rosie, although nothing else does. She was a fine soul, and he’s—well, he’s a retired lawyer.

“Old coot? Old coot?” McGuinty pushes himself upright, sending his wheelchair flying backward. He points a gnarled finger at me and then drops as though felled by dynamite.

He straightens his shirt, lifts his grizzled chin, and crosses his arms in front of him.

She pats my other hand and leaves the room, discreetly ignoring my tears.

Sometimes the monotony of bingo and sing-alongs and ancient dusty people parked in the hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for death. Particularly when I remember that I’m one of the ancient dusty people, filed away like some worthless tchotchke.

All I can do is put in time waiting for the inevitable, observing as the ghosts of my past rattle around my vacuous present. They crash and bang and make themselves at home, mostly because there’s no competition.

I’m twenty-three and sitting beside Catherine Hale; or rather, she’s sitting beside me, because she came into the lecture hall after I did, sliding nonchalantly across the bench until our thighs were touching and then shrinking away with a blush as though the contact were accidental.

“And here you can see evidence of thickening of the distal small intestine,” says Professor Willard McGovern, his voice devoid of inflection.

Death is all over them—in the mottled patterns of their battered torsos, the eggplant purple on bloodless white; in the sinking, hollowed eye sockets.

I stop in the backyard, holding my valise and staring at the long flat building behind the house.

I can’t tell if he’s trying to give the appearance of patience and failing miserably or is blatantly trying to make me leave.

The noise is deafening, and my jawbone bangs rhythmically on the iron edging. I smell either blood or rust and wonder briefly if I’ve destroyed my teeth before realizing the point is in serious danger of becoming moot—I’m balanced perilously on the edge of the doorway with my right leg pointed at the undercarriage.

“Head horse honcho,” says Camel.

In the morning light I see what I couldn’t last night—the wagons are painted scarlet, with gold trim and sunburst wheels, each emblazoned with the name BENZINI BROS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW ON EARTH.

I grab a plate and scoop up a mountain of potatoes, eggs, and sausages, trying to keep from looking desperate. The scent is overwhelming. I open my mouth, inhaling deeply—it’s like manna from heaven. It is manna from heaven.

“No it ain’t. I got me some smart-ass rube trying to filch breakfast from the show,” says Ezra, spitting on the ground.

“So, what’s the vernacular then?” I say finally.
“They’re called kinkers,” says Camel, talking around a mouthful of chewed food. “And your department is baggage stock. For now.”

At the end of the midway, beyond the ticket gate, is a huge tent into which all manner of creatures is being carted—llamas, camels, zebras, monkeys, at least one polar bear, and cage after cage of cats.

She looks so much like Catherine I catch my breath—the plane of her face, the cut of her hair, the slim thighs I’ve always imagined were under Catherine’s staid skirts.

“And now—my apologies, ladies, but this is for the gentlemen only—the gentlemen only! Because we’re in mixed company, for delicacy’s sake, I can only say this once. Gentlemen, if you’re a red-blooded American, if you’ve got manly blood flowing through your veins, then this is something you don’t want to miss. If you’ll follow that there fella—right there, just right over there—you’ll see something so amazing, so shocking, it’s guaranteed to—”

His face assumes a deferential expression and he gestures broadly toward an entrance on the opposite side. “And ladies, if you’ll kindly come this way—we have wonders and curiosities suitable for your delicate sensibilities, too. A gentleman would never forget the ladies. Especially such lovely ladies as yourselves.”

The crowd is reluctant to leave. When the man and his escorts finally disappear behind a redbrick building they start to dribble away, but continue to glance hopefully over their shoulders, afraid they’ll miss something.
Jimmy pushes his way through the stragglers.

She pauses to look over her shoulder and winks, running the straps coquettishly down her arms.

She shakes her head, blinking demurely at the floor.

She stares lasciviously down at the men, running her tongue across her upper lip.

Lifting, dropping, lifting, dropping—by the time the drum cuts out and the trombone kicks in, her arms move so fast they’re a blur, her flesh an undulating, pumping mass.

She leans down long enough to retrieve her diaphanous shawl and disappears, her arm raised so that the shawl trails behind her, a shimmering banner.