WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [133]
I mustn’t go too fast. Falling would be disastrous in so many ways. There are no floor tiles, so I measure my progress in feet—my feet. Each time I take a step, I bring the heel of one foot parallel to the toes of the other. And so it goes, ten inches at a time. I stop occasionally to gauge my progress. It’s slow but steady. The magenta and white tent is a little bigger each time I look up.
It takes me half an hour and I have to stop twice, but I’m practically there and already feeling the thrill of victory. I’m huffing a little, but my legs are still steady. There was that one woman I thought might make trouble, but I managed to get rid of her. I’m not proud of it—I don’t normally speak to people in that manner, and especially women—but damned if I was going to let some busybody do-gooder foil my outing. I’m not setting foot in that facility again until I’ve seen what’s left of the show, and woe to the person who tries to make me. Even if the nurses catch up with me right now, I’ll make a scene. I’ll make noise. I’ll embarrass them in public and make them fetch Rosemary. When she realizes how determined I am, she’ll take me to the show. Even if she misses the rest of her shift, she’ll take me—it is her last shift, after all.
Oh Lord. How am I going to survive that place when she’s gone? The remembrance of her imminent departure wracks my old body with grief, but it’s quickly displaced by joy—I am now close enough to hear the music thumping from the big top. Oh, the sweet, sweet sound of circus music. I lodge my tongue in the corner of my mouth and hurry. I’m almost there now. Just a few yards farther—
“Yo, Gramps. Where do you think you’re going?”
I stop, startled. I look up. A kid sits behind the ticket wicket, his face framed by bags of pink and blue cotton candy. Flashing toys blink from the glass counter under his arms. There’s a ring through his eyebrow, a stud through his bottom lip, a large tattoo on each shoulder. His hands are tipped with black nails.
“Where does it look like I’m going?” I say querulously. I don’t have time for this. I’ve missed enough of the show as it is.
“Tickets are twelve bucks.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Then you can’t go in.”
I am flabbergasted, still struggling for words when a man comes up beside me. He’s older, clean-shaven, well dressed. The manager, I’m willing to bet.
“What’s going on here, Russ?”
The kid jerks his thumb at me. “I caught this old guy trying to sneak in.”
“Sneak!” I exclaim in righteous indignation.
The man takes one look at me and turns back to the kid. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
Russ scowls and looks down.
The manager stands in front of me, smiling graciously. “Sir, I’d be happy to show you in. Would it be easier if you had a wheelchair? Then we wouldn’t have to worry about finding you a good seat.”
“That would be nice. Thank you,” I say, ready to weep with relief. 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. But all is okay. Not only have I made it, but I think maybe I’m going to get a ringside seat.
The manager goes around the side of the big top and returns with a standard hospital-issue wheelchair. I let him help me into it and then relax my aching muscles as he pushes me toward the entrance.
“Don’t mind Russ,” he says. “He’s a good kid underneath all those holes, although it’s a wonder he doesn’t spring a leak when he drinks.”
“In my day they put the old fellows in the ticket booth. Kind of the end of the road.”
“You were on a show?” the man asks. “Which one?”
“I was on two. The first was the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth,” I say proudly, rolling each syllable off my tongue. “The second was Ringling.”
The chair stops. The man’s face suddenly appears in front of mine. “You were with the Benzini Brothers? What years?”
“The summer of 1931.