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 m
lutki 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.
“Ah, go on,” she says finally, blowing smoke from the side of her mouth. “Go on. Get out of here before I decide to give you another go.”
I SCRAMBLE OUT OF Barbara’s tent and run smack into August. His face is dark as thunder.
“How is she?” I ask.
“We’re waiting for the doctor,” he says. “Did you catch the bull?”
“She’s back in the menagerie,” I say.
“Good,” he says. He rips the bull hook from my hand.
“August, wait! Where are you going?”
“I’m going to teach her a lesson,” he says without stopping.
“But August!” I shout after him. “Wait! She was good! She came back of her own accord. Besides, you can’t do anything now. The show is still going!”
He stops so abruptly a cloud of dust temporarily obscures his feet. He stands absolutely still, staring at the ground.
After a long while he speaks. “Good. The band will drown out the noise.”
I stare after him, my mouth open in horror.
I RETURN TO THE ring stock car and lie on my bedroll, sickened beyond belief by the thought of what’s going on in the menagerie and even more sickened that I’m doing nothing to prevent it.
A few minutes later, Walter and Queenie come back. He’s still in costume—a billowing white affair with multicolored polka dots, a triangular hat, and Elizabethan ruff. He’s wiping his face with a rag.
“What the hell was that?” he says, standing so that I’m looking at his oversized red shoes.
“What?” I say.
“In the Spec. Was that part of the act?”
“No,” I say.
“Holy cow,” he says. “Holy cow. In that case, what a save. Marlena’s really something. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” He clicks his tongue and leans over to poke my shoulder.
“Would you knock if off?”
“What?” he says, spreading his hands in feigned innocence.
“It’s not funny. She’s hurt, okay?”
He drops the goofy grin. “Oh. Hey, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. She gonna be okay?”
“I don’t know yet. They’re waiting for the doctor.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, Jacob. I really am.” He turns toward the door and takes a deep breath. “But not half as sorry as that poor bull’s gonna be.”
I pause. “She’s already sorry, Walter. Trust me.”
He stares out the door. “Ah jeez,” he says. He puts his hands on his hips and looks across the lot. “Ah jeez. I’ll just bet.”
I STAY IN THE stock car through dinner, and then through the evening show as well. I’m afraid that if I see August I’ll kill him.
I hate him. I hate him for being so brutal. I hate that I’m beholden to him. I hate that I’m in love with his wife and something damned close to that with the elephant. And most of all, I hate that I’ve let them both down. I don’t know if the elephant is smart enough to connect me to her punishment and wonder why I didn’t do anything to stop it, but I am and I do.
“Bruised heels,” says Walter when he returns. “Come on, Queenie, up! Up!”
“What?” I mumble. I haven’t moved since he left.
“Marlena bruised her heels. She’ll be out a couple of weeks. Thought you might want to know.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I say.
He sits on his cot and looks at me for a long time.
“So, what’s the story with you and August, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you guys tight, or what?”
I haul my body into a sitting position and lean against the wall. “I hate the bastard,” I say finally.
“Ha!” Walter snorts. “Okay, so you do have some sense. So why do you spend all your time with them?”
I don’t answer.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I say, hauling myself upright.
“Yeah?”
“He’s my boss and I have no choice.”
“That’s true. But it’s also about the woman, and you know it.”
I raise my head and glare at him.
“Okay, okay,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll shut up. You know the score.” He turns and rummages in his crate. “Here,” he says, tossing me an eight-pager. It skids across the floor and stops beside me. “It’s not Marlena, but it’s better than nothing.”
After he turns away, I pick it up and thumb through it. But despite the explicit and exaggerated drawings, I can’t muster any interest whatever in Mr. Big Studio Director boning the skinny would-be starlet with the horse face.
I blink rapidly, trying to get my bearings—that skinny nurse with the horse face has dropped a tray of food at the end of the hall, and it’s woken me up. I wasn’t aware of dozing, but that’s how it goes these days. I seem to slip in and out of time and space. Either I’m finally going senile, or else it’s my mind’s way of coping with being entirely unchallenged in the present.