WATER FOR ELEPHANT [115]
“Mmmm, yes,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Good point. And how long do you think . . .?”
“I shouldn’t think more than a few weeks.”
He stops nodding. His eyes pop open. “That long?”
“I can try to speed things up, but there’s a risk it will backfire. You know women.” I shrug. “It might take two weeks, and it might be tomorrow. But if she feels any pressure, she’ll hold off just to prove a point.”
“Yes, quite,” says Uncle Al, bringing a finger to his lips. He scrutinizes me for what feels like a very long time. “So, tell me,” he says, “what changed your mind since yesterday?”
I lift my glass and swirl the brandy, staring at the point where the stem meets the glass. “Let’s just say that the way things are suddenly became very clear to me.”
His eyes narrow.
“To August and Marlena,” I say, thrusting my glass upward. The brandy sloshes up the sides.
He lifts his glass slowly.
I toss back the rest of my brandy and smile.
He lowers his glass without drinking. I cock my head and keep smiling. Let him examine me. Just let him. Today I am invincible.
He starts to nod, satisfied. He takes a drink. “Yes. Good. I have to admit I wasn’t so sure about you after yesterday. I’m glad you’ve come around. You won’t be sorry, Jacob. It’s the best thing for everyone. And especially you,” he says, pointing at me with his snifter. He tips it back and drains it. “I look after those who look after me.” He smacks his lips, stares at me, and adds, “I also look after those who don’t.”
THAT EVENING, MARLENA conceals her black eye with pancake makeup and does her liberty act. But August’s face is not so easily fixed, so there will be no elephant act until he looks like a human being again. The townsfolk—who have been staring at poster after poster of Rosie balancing on a ball for the last two weeks—are unhappy in the extreme when the show ends and they realize that the pachyderm who cheerfully accepted candy, popcorn, and peanuts in the menagerie tent never made an appearance in the big top at all. 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.
A few days later, the sequined headpiece reappears—mended carefully with pink thread—and so Rosie looks glamorous as she charms the crowd in the menagerie. But she still doesn’t perform, and after every show there are complaints.
Life goes on with fragile normalcy. I perform my usual duties in the morning and retire to the back end when the crowd comes in. Uncle Al does not consider battered rotten tomatoes to be good ambassadors for the show, and I can’t say I blame him. My wounds look significantly worse before they start to look better, and when the swelling subsides it’s clear that my nose will be off-kilter for life.
Except for mealtimes, we don’t see August at all. Uncle Al reassigns him to Earl’s table, but after it becomes clear that all he will do is sit and sulk and stare at Marlena, he is ordered to take his meals in the dining car with Uncle Al. And so it happens that three times a day, Marlena and I sit across from each other, strangely alone in the most public of places.
Uncle Al tries to keep up his end of the deal, I’ll give him that. But August is too far gone to be controlled. The day after his extraction from the cookhouse, Marlena turns and sees him ducking behind a tent flap. An hour later, he accosts her in the midway, drops to his knees, and wraps his arms around her legs. When she wrestles to get free, he knocks her onto the grass and pins her there, trying to force her ring back on her finger, alternately murmuring entreaties and spitting threats.
Walter sprints to the menagerie to get me, but by the time I get there Earl has already hauled August away. Fuming, I head for the privilege car.
When I tell Uncle Al