Water for Elephants

COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA

While August is off doing God knows what to Rosie, Marlena and I crouch on the grass in her dressing tent, clinging to each other like spider monkeys. I say almost nothing, just hold her head to my chest as her history spills out in a rushed whisper.

She tells me about meeting August—she was seventeen, and it had just dawned on her that the recent spate of bachelors joining her family for dinner were actually being presented as potential husbands. When one middle-aged banker with a receding chin, thinning hair, and reedy fingers showed up for dinner one time too many, she heard the doors of her future slamming all around her.

But even as the banker sniveled something that made Marlena blanch and stare in horror at her bowl of clam chowder, posters were being slapped up on every surface in town. The wheels of fate were in motion. The Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth was chugging toward them at that very moment, bringing with it a very real fantasy and, for Marlena, an escape that would prove as romantic as it was terrifying.

Two days later, on a brilliantly sunny day, the L’Arche family went to the circus. Marlena was standing in the menagerie tent in front of a string of stunning black and white Arabians when August first approached her. Her parents had wandered off to look at the cats, oblivious to the force that was about to enter their lives.

And August was a force. Charming, gregarious, and handsome as the devil. Dressed immaculately in blinding white jodhpurs, top hat and tails, he radiated both authority and irresistible charisma. Within minutes, he had secured the promise of a surreptitious meeting and disappeared before the L’Arche seniors rejoined their daughter.

When she met him later, at an art gallery, he began wooing her in earnest. He was twelve years her senior and glamorous in the way only an equestrian director can be. Before the end of the date, he had proposed.

He was charming and relentless. He refused to budge until she married him. He regaled her with stories of Uncle Al’s desperation, and Uncle Al himself made pleas on August’s behalf. They had already missed two jumps. A circus could not survive if it blew its route. This was an important decision, yes, but surely she understood how this was affecting them? That the lives of countless others depended on her making the right choice?

The seventeen-year-old Marlena gazed upon her future in Boston for three more evenings and on the fourth packed a suitcase.

At this point in her story, she dissolves into tears. I’m still holding her, still rocking back and forth. Eventually she pulls away, wiping her eyes with her hands.

“You should go,” she says.

“I don’t want to.”

She whimpers, reaching across the divide to stroke my cheek with the back of her hand.

“I want to see you again,” I say.

“You see me every day.”

“You know what I mean.”

There’s a long pause. She drops her gaze to the ground. Her mouth moves a few times before she finally speaks. “I can’t.”

“Marlena, for God’s sake—”

“I just can’t. I’m married. I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it.”

I kneel in front of her, searching her face for a signal to stay. After an agonizing wait, I realize I’m not going to find one.

I kiss her on the forehead and leave.

• • •

BEFORE I’VE GONE forty yards, I’ve heard more than I ever wanted to about how Rosie paid for the lemonade.

Apparently August stormed into the menagerie and banished everyone. The puzzled menagerie men and a handful of others stood outside, their ears pressed to the seams of the great canvas tent as a torrent of angry screaming began. This sent the rest of the animals into a panic—the chimps screeched, the cats roared, and the zebras yelped. Despite this, the distraught listeners could still make out the hollow thud of bull hook hitting flesh, again and again and again.

At first Rosie bellowed and whimpered. When she progressed to squealing and shrieking, many of the men turned away, unable to take any more. One of them ran for Earl, who entered the menagerie and hauled August out by his armpits. He kicked and struggled like a madman even as Earl dragged him across the lot and up the stairs into the privilege car.

The remaining men found Rosie lying on her side, quivering, her foot still chained to a stake.

“I HATE THAT MAN,” says Walter as I climb into the stock car. He’s sitting on the cot, stroking Queenie’s ears. “I really, really hate that man.”

“Someone wanna tell me what’s going on?” Camel calls from behind the row of trunks. “’Cuz I know something is. Jacob? Help me out here. Walter ain’t talking.”

I say nothing.

“There was no call to be that brutal. No call at all,” Walter continues. “He damn near started a stampede, too. Could have killed the lot of us. Were you there? Did you hear any of it?”

Our eyes meet.

“No,” I say.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind knowing what in blazes you’re talking about,” says Camel. “But it seems I don’t count for squat here. Hey, ain’t it dinnertime?”

“I’m not hungry,” I say.

“Me either,” says Walter.

“Well, I am,” says Camel, disgruntled. “But I bet neither one of you thought of that. And I bet neither one of you picked up so much as a piece of bread for an old man.”

Walter and I look at each other. “Well, I was there,” he says, his eyes full of accusation. “You wanna know what I heard?” he says.

“No,” I say, staring at Queenie. She meets my gaze and whacks the blanket a few times with her stump.

“You sure?”

“Yes I’m sure.”

“Thought you might be interested, you being the vet and all.”

“I am interested,” I say loudly. “But I’m also afraid of what it might make me do.”

Walter looks at me for a long time. “So who’s going to get that old git some grub? You or me?”

“Hey! Mind your manners!” cries the old git.

“I’ll go,” I say. I turn and leave the stock car.

Halfway to the cookhouse, I realize I’m grinding my teeth.

WHEN I COME BACK with Camel’s food, Walter is gone. A few minutes later he returns, carrying a large bottle of whiskey in each hand.

“Well, God bless your soul,” cackles Camel, who is now propped up in the corner. He points at Walter with a limp hand. “Where in tarnation did you come up with that?”

“A friend on the pie car owed me a favor. I figured we could all use a little forgetting tonight.”

“Well, go on then,” says Camel. “Stop yapping and hand it over.”

Walter and I turn in unison to glare.

The lines on Camel’s grizzled face furrow deeper. “Well, jeez, you two sure are a couple of sourpusses, ain’t you? What’s the matter? Someone spit in your soup?”

“Here. Pay him no mind,” says Walter, shoving a bottle of whiskey against my chest.

“What do you mean, ‘pay him no mind’? In my day, a boy was taught to respect his elders.”

Instead of answering, Walter carries the other bottle over and crouches down beside him. When Camel reaches for it, Walter bats his hand away.

“Hell no, old man. You spill that and we’ll all three be sourpusses.”

He raises the bottle up to Camel’s lips and holds it as he swallows a half-dozen times. He looks like a baby taking a bottle. Walter turns on his heels and leans against the wall. Then he takes a long swig himself.

“What’s the matter—don’t like the whiskey?” he says, wiping his mouth and gesturing at the unopened bottle in my hand.

“I like it just fine. Listen, I don’t have any money so I don’t know when or if I can ever make it up to you, but can I have this?”

“I already gave it to you.”

“No, I mean . . . can I take it for someone else?”

Walter looks at me for a moment, his eyes crinkled at the edges. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

“Nope.”

“You’re lying.”

“No I’m not.”

“I’ll bet you five bucks it’s a woman,” he says, taking another drink. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down and the brown liquid lowers by almost an inch. It’s astounding how quickly he and Camel manage to get hard liquor down their gullets.

“She is female,” I say.

“Ha!” snorts Walter. “You better not let her hear you say that. Although whoever or whatever she is, she’s more suitable than where your mind’s been lately.”

“I’ve got some making up to do,” I say. “I let her down today.” Walter looks up in sudden understanding.

“How ’bout a little more of that?” Camel says irritably. “Maybe he don’t want none, but I do. Not that I blame the boy for wanting a little action. You’re only young once. You gotta get it while you can, I says. Yessir, get it while you can. Even if it costs you a bottle of sauce.”

Walter smiles. He holds the bottle up to Camel’s lips again and lets him have several long swallows. Then he caps it, leans across, still on his haunches, and hands it to me.

“Take her this one, too. You tell her I’m also sorry. Real sorry, in fact.”

“Hey!” shouts Camel. “There ain’t no woman in the world worth two bottles of whiskey! Come on now!”

I rise to my feet and slip a bottle in each pocket of my jacket.

“Aw, come on now!” Camel pleads. “Aw, that just ain’t no fair.”

His wheedling and complaining follow me until I’m out of earshot.

IT’S DUSK, AND several parties have already started at the performers’ end of the train, including—I can’t help but notice—one in Marlena and August’s car. I wouldn’t have gone, but it’s significant that I wasn’t invited. I guess August and I are on the outs again; or rather, since I already hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone or anything in my life, I guess I’m on the outs with him.

Rosie is at the far end of the menagerie, and as my eyes adjust to the twilight I see someone standing beside her. It’s Greg, the man from the cabbage patch.

“Hey,” I say as I approach.

He turns his head. He’s holding a tube of zinc ointment in one hand and is dabbing Rosie’s punctured skin. There are a couple of dozen white spots on this side alone.

“Jesus,” I say, surveying her. Droplets of blood and histamine ooze up under the zinc.

Her amber eyes seek mine. She blinks those outrageously long lashes and sighs, a great whooshing exhalation that rattles all through her trunk.

I’m flooded with guilt.

“What do you want?” grunts Greg, continuing with his task.

“I just wanted to see how she was.”

“Well, you can see that, can’t you? Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, dismissing me. He turns back to her. “Nog,” he says. “No, daj nogel”

After a moment, the elephant lifts her foot and holds it in front of her. Greg kneels down and rubs some ointment in her armpit, right in front of her strange gray breast, which hangs from her chest, like a woman’s.

“,” he says, standing up and screwing the cap back on the ointment. “.”

Rosie sets her foot back on the ground. “Masz, moja ,” he says, digging in his pocket. Her trunk swings around, investigating. He pulls out a mint, brushes off the lint, and hands it to her. She plucks it nimbly from his fingers and pops it in her mouth.

I stare in shock—I think my mouth may even be open. In the space of two seconds, my mind has zigzagged from her unwillingness to perform, to her history with the elephant tramp, to her lemonade thievery, and back to the cabbage patch.

“Jesus Christ,” I say.

“What?” says Greg, fondling her trunk.

“She understands you.”

“Yes, so what?”

“What do you mean, ‘so what?’ My God, do you have any idea what this means?”

“Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute,” Greg says as I come up to Rosie. He forces his shoulder between us, his face hard.

“Humor me,” I say. “Please. About the last thing in the world I’d do is hurt this bull.”

He continues to stare at me. I’m still not entirely sure he won’t clobber me from behind, but I turn to Rosie, anyway. She blinks at me.

“Rosie, nog” I say.

She blinks again and opens her mouth in a smile.

“Nog, Rosie!”

She fans her ears and sighs.

“Prosz?” I say.

She sighs again. Then she shifts her weight and lifts her foot.

“Dear Mother of God.” I hear my voice as though from outside of my body. My heart is pounding, my head spinning. “Rosie,” I say, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Just one more thing.” I look her straight in the eye, pleading with her. Surely she knows how important this is. Please God please God please God—

“Do tytu, Rosiel Do tyu!”

Another deep sigh, another subtle shifting of weight, and then she takes a couple of steps backward.

I yelp with delight and turn to an astonished Greg. I leap forward, grab him by the shoulders, and kiss him full on the mouth.

“What the hell!”

I sprint for the exit. About fifteen feet away I stop and turn around. Greg is still spitting, wiping his mouth in disgust.

I dig the bottles out of my pockets. His expression changes to one of interest, the back of his hand still raised to his mouth.

“Here, catch!” I say, sending a bottle flying at him. He snags it from the air, looks at its label, and then glances up hopefully at the other. I toss it to him.

“Give those to our new star, will you?”

Greg cocks his head thoughtfully and turns to Rosie, who is already smiling and reaching for the bottles.

FOR THE NEXT TEN DAYS, I serve as August’s personal Polish coach. In each city he has a practice ring set up in the back end, and day after day, the four of us—August, Marlena, Rosie, and I—spend the hours between our arrival in town and the start of the matinée working on Rosie’s act. Although she already takes part in the daily parade and Spec, she has yet to perform in the show. Although the wait is killing Uncle Al, August doesn’t want to unveil her act until it’s perfect.

I spend my days sitting on a chair just outside the ring curb with a knife in one hand and a bucket between my legs, cutting fruit and vegetables into chunks for the primates and shouting Polish phrases as required. August’s accent is appalling, but Rosie—perhaps because August is usually repeating something I’ve just yelled—obeys without fail. He hasn’t touched her with the bull hook since we discovered the language barrier. He just walks beside her, waving it under her belly and behind her legs, but never—not once—does it make contact.

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 tent. It billows slightly, snapping in the wind. “You wanted to see me?”

“Jacob!” he calls out in a booming voice. “So glad you could come! Please, come in! Come in, my boy!”

Marlena is in costume. She sits in front of her vanity with one foot up on its edge, wrapping the long pink ribbon from one of her slippers around her ankle. August sits nearby, in top hat and tails. He twirls a silver-tipped cane. Its handle is bent, like a bull hook.

“Please take a seat,” he says, rising from his chair and patting its seat.

I hesitate for a fraction of a second and then cross the tent. Once I am seated, August stands in front of us. I glance over at Marlena.

“Marlena, Jacob—my dearest dear, and my dearest friend,” says August, removing his hat and gazing upon us with moist eyes. “This last week has been amazing in so many ways. I think it would not be an exaggeration to call it a journey of the soul. Just two weeks ago, this show was on the brink of collapse. The livelihood—and indeed, in this financial climate, I think I can safely say the lives, yes the very lives!—of everyone on this show were in danger. And do you want to know why?”

His bright eyes move from me to Marlena, from Marlena to me.

“Why?” Marlena asks obligingly, lifting her other leg and wrapping the broad satin ribbon around her ankle.

“Because we went into the hole acquiring an animal that was supposed to be the salvation of our show. And because we also had to buy a train car to house her. And because we then discovered that this animal apparently knew nothing, yet ate everything. And because keeping her fed meant that we couldn’t afford to feed our employees and we had to let some of them go.”

My head snaps up at this oblique reference to redlighting, but August stares beyond me, at a sidewall. He is silent uncomfortably long, almost as though he’s forgotten we’re here. Then he remembers himself with a start.

“But we have been saved,” he says, gazing down at me with love in his eyes, “and the reason we have been saved is that we have been doubly blessed. Fate was smiling on us that day in June when she led Jacob to our train. She handed us not only a veterinarian with an Ivy League degree—a veterinarian befitting a big show like ours—but also a veterinarian so devoted to his charges that he made a most amazing discovery. A discovery that ended up saving the show.”

“No, really, all I—”

“Not a word, Jacob. I won’t let you deny it. I had a feeling about you the very first time I laid eyes on you. Didn’t I, dear?” August turns to Marlena and waggles his finger at her.

She nods. With her second slipper secured, she removes her foot from the edge of the vanity and crosses her legs. Her toes start bobbing immediately.

August gazes at her. “But Jacob didn’t work alone,” he continues. “You, my beautiful and talented darling, have been brilliant. And Rosie—because she, of all of us, is not to be forgotten in this equation. So patient, so willing, so—” He stops, and inhales so deeply his nostrils flare. When he continues, his voice cracks. “Because she is a beautiful, magnificent animal with a heart full of forgiveness and the capacity to appreciate misunderstanding. Because thanks to the three of you, the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth is about to rise to a new level of greatness. We are truly joining the ranks of the big shows, and none of it could have happened without you.”

He beams at us, his cheeks so flushed I’m afraid he might burst into tears.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” he cries, clapping his hands in front of him. He rushes to a trunk and fishes around inside. He pulls two small boxes out. One is square, one is rectangular and flat. Both are gift-wrapped.

“For you, my dear,” he says, handing the flat one to Marlena.

“Oh, Auggie! You shouldn’t have!”

“How do you know?” he says, smiling. “Perhaps it’s a pen set.”

Marlena tears off the gift wrap, revealing a blue velvet box. She glances up at him, unsure, and then opens its hinged lid. A diamond choker sparkles on the red satin lining.

“Oh, Auggie,” she says. She looks from the necklace to August, her brow creased with worry. “Auggie, it’s gorgeous. But surely we can’t afford—”

“Hush,” he says, leaning over to grab her hand. He plants a kiss on its palm. “Tonight heralds a new era. There is nothing too good for tonight.”

She picks the necklace up, letting it dangle from her fingers. She is clearly stunned.

August turns and hands me the square box.

I slide the ribbon off and carefully open the paper. The box inside is also of blue velvet. A lump rises in my throat.

“Come on now,” August says impatiently. “Open it! Don’t be shy!”

The lid opens with a pop. It’s a gold pocket watch.

“August—” I say.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful. But I can’t accept it.”

“Yes, of course you can. And you will!” he says, grabbing Marlena’s hand and pulling her to her feet. He plucks the necklace from her hand.

“No, I can’t,” I say. “It’s a wonderful gesture. But it’s too much.”

“You can and you will,” he says firmly. “I am your boss and that is a direct order. Anyway, why shouldn’t you accept that from me? I seem to remember you gave one up for a friend not too long ago.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, Marlena is standing with her back to August, holding her hair up as he fastens the necklace around her throat.

“There,” he says.

She twirls around and leans toward her vanity mirror. Her fingers reach tentatively for the diamonds on her throat.

“I gather you like it?” he says.

“I don’t even know what to say. It’s the most beautiful thing—Oh!” she squeals. “I nearly forgot! I’ve got a surprise, too.”

She pulls the third drawer of her vanity open and digs through it, tossing aside gauzy bits of costume. Then she pulls out a great expanse of shimmering pink something. She holds it by its edges, giving it a little shake so that it sparkles, throwing a thousand points of light.

“So, what do you think? What do you think?” she says, beaming.

“It’s . . . It’s . . . What is it?” says August.

“It’s a headpiece for Rosie,” she says, pinning it to her chest with her chin and spreading the rest of it across her front. “Look, see? This part attaches to the back of her halter, and these parts go on the side, and this part comes down over her forehead. I made it. I’ve been working on it for two weeks. It matches mine.” She looks up. There’s a small spot of red on each of her cheeks.

August stares at her. His lower jaw moves a bit, but no sound comes out. Then he reaches forward and clasps her in his arms.

I have to look away.

THANKS TO UNCLE AL’S superior marketing techniques, the big top is packed solid. So many tickets sell that after Uncle Al entreats the crowd to shift closer together for the fourth time, it becomes clear that this won’t be enough.

Roustabouts are sent to toss straw down on the hippodrome track. To keep the crowd occupied while this happens, the band plays a concert and the clowns, including Walter, tour the stands, handing out candy and chucking tots’ chins.

The performers and animals are lined up out back, ready to start the Spec. They’ve been waiting for twenty minutes and are fidgety.

Uncle Al bursts out the back of the big top. “Okay, folks, listen up,” he barks. “We’ve got a straw house tonight, so keep to the inside track and make sure there’s a good five feet between your animals and the rubes. If so much as one child gets run over, I’ll personally flay the person whose animal did it. Got it?”

Nods, murmurs, more adjusting of outfits.

Uncle Al pops his head back inside the big top, raising his hand for the band leader. “All right. Let’s go! Knock ’em dead! But don’t, if you know what I mean.”

Not a single child is run over. In fact, everyone is brilliant, and none more so than Rosie. She carries Marlena on her pink sequined head during the Spec, curling her trunk in a salute. There’s a clown in front of her, a lanky man who alternately does back flips and cartwheels. At one point, Rosie reaches forward and grabs hold of his pants. She yanks so hard his feet leave the ground. He turns, outraged, to face a smiling elephant. The crowd whistles and applauds, but after that the clown keeps his distance.

When it’s nearly time for Rosie’s act, I sneak into the big top and stand flattened against a section of seats. While the acrobats are receiving their applause, roustabouts run into the center ring, rolling two balls ahead of them: one small, the other large, and both decorated with red stars and blue stripes. Uncle Al raises his arms and glances at the back end. He looks right past me, making eye contact with August. He gives a slight nod and flicks one hand at the band leader, who slides into a Gounod waltz.

Rosie enters the big top, promenading beside August. She carries Marlena on her head, her trunk curled in a salute and her mouth open in a smile. When they enter the center ring, Rosie lifts Marlena from her head and places her on the ground.

Marlena skips theatrically around the border, a whirl of shimmering pink. She smiles, spinning, throwing her arms out and blowing kisses to the crowd. Rosie follows at a fast clip, her trunk curled high in the air. August moves beside her, hovering with the silver-tipped cane rather than the bull hook. I watch his mouth, lip-reading the Polish phrases he’s learned by rote.

Marlena dances around the ring’s perimeter one more time and comes to a stop beside the smaller ball. August brings Rosie to the center of the ring. Marlena watches and then turns to the audience. She puffs up her cheeks and wipes a hand across her forehead in an exaggerated gesture of exhaustion. Then she sits on the ball. She crosses her legs and sets her elbows upon them, resting her chin in her hands. She taps her foot, rolling her eyes toward the heavens. Rosie observes, smiling, her trunk held high. After a moment, she turns slowly and lowers her enormous gray rear onto the larger ball. Laughter ripples through the crowd.

Marlena does a double take and stands, her jaw dropped in mock outrage. She turns her back on Rosie. The elephant also stands and then shambles around to present Marlena with her tail. The crowd roars with delight.

Marlena looks back and scowls. With dramatic flair, she lifts one foot and plants it on her ball. Then she crosses her arms in front of her and nods once, deeply, as if to say, Take that, elephant.

Rosie curls her trunk, lifts her right front foot, and sets it gently on her ball. Marlena glares, furious. Then she thrusts both arms out to the side and lifts her other foot from the ground. She straightens her knee slowly, her other leg pointing to the side, toes extended like a ballerina’s. Once her leg is straight she lowers her second foot so that she’s standing on the ball. She smiles broadly, sure that she has finally outsmarted the elephant. The audience claps and whistles, also sure. Marlena shuffles around so her back is to Rosie and lifts her arms in victory.

Rosie waits a moment, and then sets her other front foot on the ball. The crowd explodes. Marlena does a double take over her shoulder. She shuffles back around so that she’s facing Rosie and once again places her hands on her hips. She frowns deeply, shaking her head in frustration. She lifts a finger and starts wagging it at Rosie, but after just a moment she freezes. Her face lights up. An idea! She raises her finger high in the air, turning so that the whole audience can absorb that she is about to outdo the elephant once and for all.

She concentrates for a moment, staring down at her satin slippers. And then, to a rising drum roll, she starts shuffling her feet, rolling the ball forward. She goes faster and faster, her feet a blur of motion, rolling the ball around the ring as the audience claps and whistles. Then there is a wild explosion of delighted cries—

Marlena stops and looks up. She has been so busy concentrating on her ball that she hasn’t noticed the ridiculous sight behind her. The pachyderm is perched on the larger ball, with all four feet crowded together and her back arched. The drum roll begins again. At first, nothing. Then, slowly, slowly, the ball begins to roll under Rosie’s feet.

The bandmaster signals the band into a fast number, and Rosie moves the ball a dozen feet. Marlena smiles in delight, clapping, extending her hands toward Rosie and inviting the crowd to adore her. Then she hops down from her ball and skips over to Rosie, who climbs rather more carefully down from hers. She drops her trunk and Marlena sits in its curve, hooks an arm around it, and points her toes daintily. Rosie raises her trunk, holding Marlena aloft. Then she deposits Marlena on her head and departs the big top to the cheers of an adoring crowd.

And then the shower of money starts—the sweet, sweet shower of money. Uncle Al is delirious, standing in the center of the hippodrome track with his arms and face raised, basking in the coins that rain down on him. He keeps his face raised even as coins bounce off his cheeks, nose, and forehead. I think he may actually be crying.