WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [71]
Two men approach from the lot. One is wearing a suit, a derby hat, and a smile. To my immense relief, I recognize him as one of the patches. The other man wears filthy overalls and carries a bucket.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” says the patch, tipping his hat and picking his way carefully across the ruined garden. It looks as though a tank has plowed through it. He climbs the cement stairs to the back door. “I see you’ve met Rosie, the largest and most magnificent elephant in the world. You’re lucky—she doesn’t normally make house calls.”
The woman’s face is still in the crack of the door. “What?” she says, dumbfounded.
The patch smiles brightly. “Oh yes. It’s an honor indeed. I’m willing to bet no one else in your neighborhood—heck, probably the whole city—can say they’ve had an elephant in their backyard. Our men here will remove her—naturally, we’ll fix up your garden and compensate you for your produce, too. Would you like us to arrange for a photograph of you and Rosie? Something to show your family and friends?”
“I . . . I . . . What?” she stammers.
“If I may be so bold, ma’am,” the patch says with the slightest hint of a bow. “Perhaps it would be easier if we discussed this inside.”
After a reluctant pause the door swings open. He disappears inside the house and I turn back to Rosie.
The other man stands directly in front of her, holding the bucket.
She is rapt. Her trunk hovers over its top, sniffing and trying to squirm its way around his arms into the clear liquid.
he says, brushing her away. “Nie!”
My eyes widen.
“You got a fucking problem?” he says.
“No,” I say quickly. “No. I’m Polish, too.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He waves the ever-present trunk away, wipes his right hand on his thigh, and offers it to me. “Grzegorz Grabowski,” he says. “Call me Greg.”
“Jacob Jankowski,” I say, shaking his hand. He pulls his away to protect the contents of the bucket.
“Nie! Teraz nie!” he says crossly, pushing at the insistent trunk. “Jacob Jankowski, huh? Yeah, Camel told me about you.”
“What is that anyway?” I ask.
“Gin and ginger ale,” he says.
“You’re kidding.”
“Elephants love alcohol. See? One whiff of this and she doesn’t care about cabbages anymore. Ah!” he says, batting the trunk away. “Powiedzialem Pózniej!”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“The last show I was on had a dozen bulls. One of them used to fake a bellyache every night trying to get a dose of whiskey. Say, go get the bull hook, will you? She’ll probably follow us back to the lot just to get at this gin—isn’t that right, mój mlutki paczuszek?—but better get it just in case.”
“Sure,” I say. I remove my hat and scratch my head. “Does August know this?”
“Know what?”
“That you know so much about elephants? I bet he’d hire you on as a—”
Greg’s hand shoots up. “Nuh-uh. No way. Jacob, no offense to you personally, but there’s no way in hell I’ll work for that man. None. Besides, I’m no bull man. I just like the big beasts. Now, you want to run and get that hook, please?”
When I return with the hook, Greg and Rosie are gone. I turn, scanning the lot.
In the distance, Greg walks toward the menagerie. Rosie plods along a few feet behind. Every once in a while he stops and lets her slip her trunk into the bucket. Then he yanks it away and keeps walking. She follows like an obedient puppy.
WITH ROSIE SAFELY restored to the menagerie, I return to Barbara’s tent, still clutching the bull hook.
I pause outside the closed flap. “Uh, Barbara?” I say. “Can I come in?”
“Yup,” she says.
She’s alone, sitting in her chair with her bare legs crossed.
“They’ve gone back to the train to wait for the doctor,” she says, taking a drag from her cigarette. “If that’s what you came for.”
I feel my face turn red. I look at the sidewall. I look at the ceiling. I look at my feet.
“Ah heck, ain’t you cute,” she says, tapping the cigarette over the grass. She brings it to her mouth and takes a deep drag. “You’re blushing.”
She stares at me for a long time, clearly amused.