WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [35]
“We’re packed to the gills. Unless Kinko and I sleep somewhere else, there’s no room for anything else.”
August pauses, tapping his pursed lips. “No,” he says finally. “Marlena would never tolerate meat on board with her horses.”
At least I know where I stand. Even if it is somewhere below the cats.
THE WATER AT THE BOTTOM of the horses’ buckets is murky and has oats floating in it. But it’s water all the same, so I carry the buckets outside, remove my shirt and dump what’s left over my arms, head, and chest.
“Feeling a little less than fresh, Doc?” says August.
I’m leaning over with water dripping from my hair. I wipe both eyes clear and stand up. “Sorry. I didn’t see any other water to use, and I was just going to dump it, anyway.”
“No, quite right, quite right. We can hardly expect our vet to live like a working man, can we? I’ll tell you what, Jacob. It’s a little late now, but when we get to Joliet I’ll arrange for you to start getting your own water. Performers and bosses get two buckets apiece; more, if you’re willing to grease the water man’s palm,” he says, rubbing his fingers and thumb. “I’ll also set you up with the Monday Man and see about getting you another set of clothes.”
“The Monday Man?”
“What day did your mother do the washing, Jacob?”
I stare at him. “Surely you don’t mean—”
“All that wash hanging up on lines. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
“But—”
“Never you mind, Jacob. If you don’t want to know the answer to a question, don’t ask. And don’t use that slime to clean up. Follow me.”
He leads me back across the lot to one of only three tents left standing. Inside are hundreds of buckets, lined up two deep in front of trunks and clothes racks, with names or initials painted on the sides. Men in various states of undress are using them to bathe and shave.
“Here,” he says, pointing at a pair of buckets. “Use these.”
“But what about Walter?” I ask, reading the name from the side of one of them.
“Oh, I know Walter. He’ll understand. Got a razor?”
“No.”
“I have some back there,” he says, pointing across the tent. “At the far end. They’re labeled with my name. Hurry up though—I’m guessing we’ll be out of here in another half an hour.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” he says. “I’ll leave a shirt for you in the stock car.”
WHEN I RETURN to the stock car, Silver Star is against the far wall in knee-deep straw. His eyes are glassy, his heart rate high.
The other horses are still outside, so I get my first good look at the place. It has sixteen standing stalls, which are formed by dividers that swing across after each horse is led in. If the car hadn’t been adulterated for the mysterious and missing goats, it would hold thirty-two horses.
I find a clean white shirt laid across the end of Kinko’s cot. I strip out of my old one and toss it onto the horse blanket in the corner. Before I put the new shirt on, I bring it to my nose, grateful for the scent of laundry soap.
As I’m buttoning it, Kinko’s books catch my eye. They’re sitting on the crate beside the kerosene lamp. I tuck in my shirt, sit on the cot, and reach for the top one.
It’s the complete works of Shakespeare. Underneath is a collection of Wordsworth poems, a Bible, and a book of plays by Oscar Wilde. A few small comic books are hidden inside the front cover of the Shakespeare. I recognize them immediately. They’re eight-pagers.
I flip one open. A crudely drawn Olive Oyl lies on a bed with her legs open, naked but for her shoes. She spreads herself with her fingers. Popeye appears in a thought bubble above her head, with a bulging erection that reaches to his chin. Wimpy, with an equally enormous erection, peers through the window.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I drop the comic, then bend quickly to retrieve it.
“Just leave it the hell alone!” says Kinko, storming over and snatching it from my hands. “And get the hell off my bed!”
I leap up.
“Look here, pal,” he says, reaching up to jab his finger into my chest. “I’m not exactly thrilled about having to bunk with you, but apparently