WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [88]
“Uh, hang on a second!” I rush out to meet her, pulling the door shut behind me.
She’s already climbing into the car. “Oh, hello,” she says, looking at Walter. He’s still huddled in the corner. “I was actually looking for you. Isn’t this your dog?”
Walter’s head snaps around. “Queenie!”
Marlena leans over to release her, but before she can, Queenie squirms free, hitting the floor with a thunk. She scrabbles across the floor and leaps onto Walter, licking his face and wagging so hard she topples backward.
“Oh, Queenie! Where were you, you bad, bad girl? You had me so worried, you bad, bad girl!” Walter offers his face and head for licking, and Queenie wiggles and squirms in delight.
“Where was she?” I ask, turning to Marlena.
“She was running alongside the train when we pulled out yesterday,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on Walter and Queenie. “I saw her from the window and sent Auggie out. He got down on his belly on the platform and scooped her up.”
“August did?” I say. “Really?”
“Yes. And then she bit him for his trouble.”
Walter wraps both arms around his dog and buries his face in her coat.
Marlena watches for a moment longer and then turns toward the door. “Well, I guess I’ll be on my way,” she says.
“Marlena,” I say, reaching for her arm.
She stops.
“Thank you,” I say, dropping my hand. “You have no idea what this means to him. To us, really.”
She throws me the quickest of glances—with just the merest hint of a smile—and then looks over the backs of her horses. “Yes. Yes. I think I do.”
My eyes are moist as she climbs down from the car.
“WELL, WHADYA KNOW,” SAYS CAMEL. “Maybe he’s human after all.”
“Who? August?” says Walter. He leans, grabs the handle of a trunk, and drags it across the floor. We’re arranging the room into its daytime configuration, although Walter does everything at half speed because he insists on holding Queenie under one arm. “Never.”
“You can let her go, you know,” I say. “The door’s closed.”
“He saved your dog,” Camel points out.
“He wouldn’t have if he’d known she was mine. Queenie knows that. That’s why she bit him. Yes, you knew, didn’t you, baby?” he says, pulling her snout up to his face and reverting to baby talk. “Yes, Queenie is a clever girl.”
“What makes you think he didn’t know?” I say. “Marlena knew.”
“Because I just know. There’s not a human bone in that kike’s body.”
“Watch your damned mouth!” I shout.
Walter stops to look at me. “What? Oh, hey, you’re not Jewish, are you? Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It was just a cheap shot,” he says.
“Yes, it was a cheap shot,” I say, still shouting. “They’re all cheap shots and I’m getting mighty damned sick of them. If you’re a performer, you take shots at the working men. If you’re a working man, you take shots at Poles. If you’re a Pole, you take shots at Jews. And if you’re a dwarf—well, you tell me, Walter? Is it just Jews and working men you hate, or do you also hate Poles?”
Walter reddens and looks down. “I don’t hate ’em. I don’t hate anybody.” After a moment he adds, “Well, okay, I really do hate August. But I hate him because he’s a crazy son of a bitch.”
“Can’t argue with that,” croaks Camel.
I look from Camel to Walter, and then back again. “No,” I say with a sigh. “No, I suppose you can’t.”
IN HAMILTON, THE TEMPERATURE creeps up into the nineties, the sun beats relentlessly on the lot, and the lemonade goes missing.
The man from the juice joint, who left the great mixing vat for no more than a few minutes, storms off to Uncle Al, convinced that roustabouts are responsible.
Uncle Al has them rounded up. They emerge from the behind the stable tent and menagerie, sleepy, with straw in their hair. I observe from some distance, but it’s hard not to think they have an air of innocence about them.
Apparently Uncle Al doesn’t agree. He storms back and forth, bellowing like Genghis Khan at a troop inspection. He screams in their faces, details the cost—both in supplies and lost sales—of the stolen lemonade and tells them that every one of them will have his pay docked the next time