WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [56]
“Yes,” I finally say. “Yes. Let’s.”
AN HOUR LATER August returns to the stateroom. He storms in and slams the door. Marlena goes immediately to a cupboard.
“That useless son-of-a-bitch paid two thousand for that useless son-of-a-bitch bull,” he says, throwing his hat in the corner and ripping off his jacket. “Two thousand fucking clams!” He flops into the nearest chair and drops his head into his hands.
Marlena removes a bottle of blended whiskey, pauses, looks at August, and then puts it back. She reaches for the single malt instead.
“And that’s not the worst of it—oh no,” says August, ripping his tie loose and clawing at his shirt collar. “You wanna know what else he did? Hmmmm? Go on, guess.”
He’s looking at Marlena, who is utterly unperturbed. She pours a good four fingers’ worth of whiskey into three tumblers.
“I said guess!” barks August.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Marlena says calmly. She puts the cap back on the whiskey.
“He spent the rest of the money on a goddamned elephant car.”
Marlena turns, suddenly paying attention. “He didn’t pick up any performers?”
“Sure he did.”
“But—”
“Yes. Exactly,” says August, cutting her off.
Marlena hands him a glass, motions me over for mine, and then takes a seat.
I take a slug and wait as long as I can. “Yes, well, both of you may know what the hell you’re talking about, but I don’t. Do you mind filling me in?”
August exhales through puffed cheeks and brushes away the shock of hair that has fallen across his forehead. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. Then he lifts his face so his eyes are locked on mine. “It means, Jacob, that we hired more people without having anywhere to put them. It means, Jacob, that Uncle Al has seized one of the working men’s bunk cars and declared it a performers’ sleeping car. And because he hired two women, he has to partition it. It means, Jacob, that in order to accommodate less than a dozen performers, we will now have sixty-four working men sleeping under wagons on the flats.”
“That’s stupid,” I say. “He should just fill the bunk car with whoever needs a bunk.”
“He can’t do that,” says Marlena.
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t mix working men and performers.”
“Isn’t that exactly what Kinko and I are doing?”
“Ha!” August snorts and sits forward, a lopsided smirk etched on his face. “Do tell us—please, I’m dying to know. How’s that going?” He cocks his head and smiles.
Marlena takes a deep breath and crosses her legs. A moment later, that red leather shoe starts pumping up and down.
I throw my whiskey down my throat and leave.
IT WAS A BIG WHISKEY, and it starts to take effect somewhere between the staterooms and the coaches. I’m clearly not the only one under the influence either—now that “business” has been concluded, everyone connected with the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth is letting off steam. The gatherings run the entire gamut, from celebratory soirées characterized by radio jazz and outbursts of laughter to the desultory gatherings of dirty men who huddle some distance from the train and pass around various types of intoxicant. I catch sight of Camel, who lifts a hand in greeting before passing along the Sterno fluid.
I hear thrashing in the long grass and pause to investigate. I see a woman’s bare legs spread wide with a man between them. He grunts and ruts like a billy goat. His trousers are down around his knees, his hairy buttocks pumping up and down. She grasps his shirt in her fists, moaning with each thrust. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at—when I do, I wrench my eyes away and wobble forward.
As I approach the ring stock car, I see people sitting on the open doorway and milling around outside.
There are even more inside. Kinko is lording over a party with a bottle in his hand and drunken hospitality on his face. When he catches sight of me, he trips and lurches forward. Hands reach out to catch him.
“Jacob! My man!” he shouts, his eyes fiercely bright. He shakes free of his friends and straightens