WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [79]
“Hi, Grady,” I say. “How’s he been?”
“Kind of hard to tell,” he answers. “He’s been tight since last night.”
Camel snorts and tries to roll over. His left arm flops limply across his chest. He smacks his lips and starts snoring.
“I’m getting a doctor out today,” I say. “Keep an eye on him in the meantime, will you?”
“Of course I will,” says Grady, affronted. “What the hell do you think I am? Blackie? Who the hell do you think kept him safe last night?”
“Of course I don’t think you’re—aw, hell, just forget it. Look, if he sobers up, try to keep him that way, okay? I’ll catch up with you later with the doctor.”
THE DOCTOR HOLDS my father’s pocket watch in his pudgy hand, turning it over and inspecting it through his pince-nez. He pops it open to examine the face.
“Yes. This will do. So, what is it then?” he says, slipping it into his vest pocket.
We’re in the hallway just outside August and Marlena’s stateroom. The door is still open.
“We need to go somewhere else,” I say, lowering my voice.
The doctor shrugs. “Fine. Let’s go.”
As soon as we’re outside, the doctor turns to me. “So where are we going to perform this examination?”
“It’s not me. It’s a friend of mine. He’s having problems with his feet and hands. And other stuff. He’ll tell you when we get there.”
“Ah,” says the doctor. “Mr. Rosenbluth led me to believe that you were having difficulties of a . . . personal nature.”
The doctor’s expression changes as he follows me down the track. By the time we leave the shiny painted cars of the first section behind, he looks alarmed. By the time we reach the battered cars of the Flying Squadron, his face is pinched in disgust.
“He’s in here,” I say, hopping into the car.
“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to get in?” he says.
Earl emerges from the shadows with a wooden crate. He jumps down, sets it in front of the doorway, and gives it a loud pat. The doctor gazes upon it for a moment and then climbs up, clutching his black bag primly in front of him.
“Where’s the patient?” he says, squinting and scanning the interior.
“Over there,” says Earl. Camel is huddled against a corner. Grady and Bill hover over him.
The doctor walks over to them. “Some privacy, please,” he says.
The other men scatter, murmuring in surprise. They move to the other end of the car and crane their necks, trying to see.
The doctor approaches Camel and crouches beside him. I can’t help noticing that he keeps the knees of his suit off the floorboards.
A few minutes later, he straightens up and says, “Jamaica ginger paralysis. No question about it.”
I suck my breath in through my teeth.
“What? What’s that?” Camel croaks.
“You get it from drinking Jamaica ginger extract.” The doctor puts great emphasis on the final three words. “Or jake, as it’s commonly known.”
“But . . . How? Why?” says Camel, his eyes desperately seeking the doctor’s face. “I don’t understand. I’ve been drinking it for years.”
“Yes. Yes. I would have guessed that,” says the doctor.
Anger rises like bile in my throat. I step up beside the doctor. “I don’t believe you answered the question,” I say as calmly as I can.
The doctor turns and surveys me through his pince-nez. After a pause of a few beats he says, “It’s caused by a cresol compound used by a manufacturer.”
“Dear God,” I say.
“Quite.”
“Why did they add it?”
“To get around the regulations that require that Jamaica ginger extract be rendered unpalatable.” He turns back to Camel and raises his voice. “So it won’t be used as an alcoholic beverage.”
“Will it go away?” Camel’s voice is high, cracking with fear.
“No. I’m afraid not,” the doctor says.
Behind me, the others catch their breath. Grady comes forward until we’re touching shoulders. “Wait a minute—you mean there’s nothing you can do?”
The doctor straightens up and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. “Me? No. Absolutely not,” he says. His expression is compressed as a pug’s, as though he’s trying to close his nostrils through facial muscles alone. He picks up his bag and edges