WATER FOR ELEPHANT [117]
Camel whimpers from the cot. Ever since the raid, he spends his time either staring at the wall or crying. The only time he speaks is when we’re trying to feed or clean him, and even then it’s only to beg us not to deliver him to his son. Walter and I take turns muttering placating things about family and forgiveness, but we both have misgivings. Whatever he was when he wandered away from his family, he is incalculably worse now, damaged beyond repair and probably even recognition. And if they’re not in a forgiving frame of mind, what will it be like for him to be so helpless in their hands?
“Calm down, Walter,” I say. I’m sitting on my horse blanket in the corner, brushing away the flies that have been tormenting me all morning, flitting from scab to scab.
“No, I will not fucking calm down. I’m a performer! A performer! Performers get paid!” Walter shouts, thumping his chest. He pulls off a shoe and heaves it against the wall. He stares at it for a moment, then pulls off the other and slams it into the corner. It lands on his hat. Walter brings his fist down on the blanket beneath him and Queenie scurries behind the row of trunks that used to hide Camel.
“We don’t have much longer,” I say. “Just hang on for a few more days.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because that’s when Camel gets picked up”—there’s a keening wail from the cot—“and we get the hell out of here.”
“Yeah?” says Walter. “And just what the hell are we going to do? Have you figured that out yet?”
I meet his gaze and hold it for a few seconds. Then I turn my head.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought. That’s why I needed to get paid. We’re going to end up as fucking hoboes,” he says.
“No we won’t,” I say unconvincingly.
“You better think of something, Jacob. You’re the one who got us into this mess, not me. You and your girlfriend might be able to take to the road, but I can’t. This may be all fun and games for you—”
“It is not fun and games!”
“—but my life is at stake here. You’ve at least got the option of hopping trains and moving around. I don’t.”
He is quiet. I stare at his short, compact limbs.
He nods curtly, bitterly. “Yeah. That’s right. And like I said before, I’m not exactly cut out for farmwork, either.”
MY MIND CHURNS as I go through the line in the cookhouse. Walter is absolutely right—I got us into this mess, and I’ve got to get us out. Damned if I know how, though. Not one of us has a home to go to. Never mind that Walter can’t hop trains—hell will freeze over before I let Marlena spend a single night in a hobo jungle. I’m so preoccupied that I’m almost at the table before I look up. Marlena is already there.
“Hi,” I say, taking my seat.
“Hi,” she says after a slight pause, and I know immediately that something is wrong.
“What is it? What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“No. I’m fine,” she whispers, staring at her plate.
“No you’re not. What is it? What did he do?” I say. Other diners start to look.
“Nothing,” she hisses. “Keep your voice down.”
I straighten up and, with a great show of restraint, spread my napkin across my lap. I pick up my cutlery and carefully slice my pork chop. “Marlena, please talk to me,” I say quietly. I concentrate on making my face look as though we’re discussing the weather. Slowly, the people around us return to their meals.
“I’m late,” she says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m late.”
“For what?”
She raises her head and turns beet red. “I think I’m going to have a baby.”
WHEN EARL COMES to fetch me, I’m not even surprised. It’s just the way the day is going.
Uncle Al is sitting in his chair, his face pinched and sour. There is no brandy today. He gnaws on the end of a cigar and stabs his cane repeatedly into the carpet.
“It’s been almost three weeks, Jacob.”
“I know,” I say. My voice is shaky. I’m still absorbing Marlena’s news.
“I’m disappointed in you. I thought we had an understanding.”
“We did. We do.” I shift restlessly. “Look, I’m doing my best, but August isn