Free Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen Page B

sir. Found him sneaking through a sleeper.”
    “Is that a fact?” says Uncle Al. He takes a leisurely drag from his cigar and sets it on the edge of a standing ashtray. He sits back, studying his cards and letting smoke waft from the corners of his mouth. “I’ll see your three and raise you five,” he says, leaning forward and flinging a stack of chips into the kitty.
    “You want I should show him the door?” says Earl. He advances and lifts me from the floor by the lapels. I tense and close my fists around his wrists, intending to hang on if he tries to throw me again. I look from Uncle Al to the lower half of Earl’s face—which is all I can see—and then back again.
    Uncle Al folds his cards and sets them carefully on the table. “Not yet, Earl,” he says. He reaches for the cigar and takes another drag. “Set him down.”
    Earl lowers me to the floor with my back to Uncle Al. He makes a halfhearted attempt to smooth my jacket.
    “Step forward,” says Uncle Al.
    I oblige, happy enough to be out of Earl’s reach.
    “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he says, blowing a smoke ring. “What’s your name?”
    “Jacob Jankowski, sir.”
    “And what, pray tell, does Jacob Jankowski think he is doing on my train?”
    “I’m looking for work,” I say.
    Uncle Al continues to stare at me, blowing lazy smoke rings. He rests his hands on his belly, drumming a slow beat on his waistcoat.
    “Ever worked on a show, Jacob?”
    “No sir.”
    “Ever been to a show, Jacob?”
    “Yes, sir. Of course.”
    “Which one?”
    “Ringling Brothers,” I say. A sharp intake of breath causes me to turn my head. Earl’s eyes are wide in warning.
    “But it was terrible. Just terrible,” I add hastily, turning back to Uncle Al.
    “Is that a fact,” says Uncle Al.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And have you seen our show, Jacob?”
    “Yes, sir,” I say, feeling a blush spread across my cheeks.
    “And what did you think of it?” he asks.
    “It was . . . spectacular.”
    “What was your favorite act?”
    I grasp wildly, pulling details out of the air. “The one with the black and white horses. And the girl in pink,” I say. “With the sequins.”
    “You hear that, August? The boy likes your Marlena.”
    The man opposite Uncle Al rises and turns—he’s the man from the menagerie tent, only now he’s minus the top hat. His chiseled face is impassive, his dark hair shiny with pomade. He also has a moustache, but unlike Uncle Al’s, his lasts only the length of his lip.
    “So what exactly is it that you envision yourself doing?” asks Uncle Al. He leans forward and lifts a snifter from the table. He swirls its contents, and drains it in a single gulp. A waiter emerges from nowhere and refills it.
    “I’ll do just about anything. But if possible I’d like to work with animals.”
    “Animals,” he says. “Did you hear that, August? The lad wants to work with animals. You want to carry water for elephants, I suppose?”
    Earl’s brow creases. “But sir, we don’t have any—”
    “Shut up!” shrieks Uncle Al, leaping to his feet. His sleeve catches the snifter and knocks it to the carpet. He stares at it, his fists clenched and face growing darker and darker. Then he bares his teeth and screams a long, inhuman howl, bringing his foot down on the glass again and again and again.
    There’s a moment of stillness, broken only by the rhythmic clacking of ties passing beneath us. Then the waiter drops to the floor and starts scooping up glass.
    Uncle Al takes a deep breath and turns to the window with his hands clasped behind him. When he eventually turns back to us, his face is once again pink. A smirk plays around the edges of his lips.
    “I’m going to tell you how it is, Jacob Jankowski.” He spits my name out like something distasteful. “I’ve seen your sort a thousand times. You think I can’t read you like a book? So what’s the deal—did you and Mommy have a fight? Or maybe you’re just