WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [95]
It’s hard to reconcile this August with the other one, and to be honest I don’t try very hard. I’ve seen flashes of this August before—this brightness, this conviviality, this generosity of spirit—but I know what he’s capable of, and I won’t forget it. The others can believe what they like, but I don’t believe for a second that this is the real August and the other an aberration. And yet I can see how they might be fooled—
He is delightful. He is charming. He shines like the sun. He lavishes attention on the great storm-colored beast and her tiny rider from the moment we meet in the morning until the moment they disappear for the parade. He is attentive and tender toward Marlena, and kindly and paternal toward Rosie.
He seems unaware that there ever was any bad blood between us, despite my reserve. He smiles broadly; he pats me on the back. He notices that my clothes are shabby and that very afternoon the Monday Man arrives with more. He declares that the show’s vet should not have to bathe with buckets of cold water and invites me to shower in the stateroom. And when he finds out that Rosie likes gin and ginger ale better than anything in the world except perhaps watermelon, he ensures that she gets both, every single day. He cozies up to her. He whispers in her ear, and she basks in the attention, trumpeting happily at the sight of him.
Doesn’t she remember?
I scrutinize him, watching for chinks, but the new August persists. Before long, his optimism permeates the entire lot. Even Uncle Al is affected—he stops each day to observe our progress and within a couple of days orders up new posters that feature Rosie with Marlena sitting astride her head. He stops whacking people, and shortly thereafter people stop ducking. He becomes positively jolly. Rumors circulate that there may actually be money on payday, and even the working men begin to crack smiles.
It’s only when I catch Rosie actually purring under August’s loving ministrations that my conviction starts to crumble. And what I’m left looking at in its place is a terrible thing.
Maybe it was me. Maybe I wanted to hate him because I’m in love with his wife, and if that’s the case, what kind of a man does that make me?
IN PITTSBURGH, I FINALLY go to confession. I break down in the confessional and sob like a baby, telling the priest about my parents, my night of debauchery, and my adulterous thoughts. The somewhat startled priest mutters a few there-theres and then tells me to pray the rosary and forget about Marlena. I am too ashamed to admit that I haven’t got a rosary, so when I return to the stock car I ask Walter and Camel if either of them has one. Walter looks at me strangely, and Camel offers me a green elk-tooth necklace.
I’m well aware of Walter’s opinion. He still hates August beyond all expression, and although he doesn’t say anything I know exactly what he thinks of my shifting opinion. We still share the care and feeding of Camel, but the three of us no longer exchange stories during the long nights spent on the rails. Instead, Walter reads Shakespeare and Camel gets drunk and cranky and increasingly demanding.
IN MEADVILLE, AUGUST DECIDES that tonight is the night.
When he delivers the good news, Uncle Al is rendered speechless. He clasps his hand to his breast and looks starward with tear-filled eyes. Then, as his grovelers duck for cover, he reaches out and claps August on the shoulder. He gives him a manly shake and then, because he’s clearly too overwhelmed to actually say anything, gives him another.
I’M EXAMINING A CRACKED hoof in the blacksmith tent when August sends for me.
“August?” I say, placing my face near the opening of Marlena’s dressing