After practice one morning, Angelo came and said, “I’m going to town for groceries. Want to ride along?”
When Tommy hesitated, Angelo said, “Matt’ll let you go for once, won’t you? We kept the kid with his nose on the grindstone all this time. Come on, Tom, button up your shirt and put on a tie, and we’ll do our shopping and stop for a milkshake or something on the way back.”
Maneuvering the car through the lot and onto the country road, Angelo whistled, rolling down the windows. It was August, and fiercely hot; the inside of the car was blistering.
“Don’t forget to pick up some suntan oil, kid. That sun is devilish.”
“Yeah, and they’ve placed the rig so by this afternoon the sun’s going to be right in my eyes on the backswing!”
“Me too.” Angelo laughed. “Let’s start a new fashion: flyers in dark glasses.” He pulled the car to the curb. “I heard Stella taught you to drive. Slide over—I’d like to see how well you handle the car.” He got out and came around as Tommy slid over behind the wheel. Feeling a little nervous, Tommy put the car in gear. He was afraid suddenly that he would stall it, handling the heavy shift, but he managed, and after a moment, moving the car carefully into traffic, he relaxed.
Angelo watched him carefully for a few minutes, not speaking, then said, “Not bad for a beginner. The reason I mentioned it is, in this state you can get a license at fifteen. You should go down some day next week and take a driving test. Then you can use the car sometimes. With your mother and dad out of the show, nobody’s bothered to make sure you got some fun. You spend all your time working hard with us, and then you spend all your free time cooped up with us, too. You ought to get out more, have fun with kids your own age.”
Tommy glanced at him guiltily, but he was lighting a cigarette, cupping his hands against the hot wind from the open car window. Angelo said, “You don’t smoke, do you? You can have a cigarette if you want it, but you better let me light it while you’ve driving.”
“Mario said he’d break my neck if I started smoking.”
Angelo put the pack away, laughing. “He’s probably right. But you know, that’s kind of what I mean. Most kids your age don’t listen to what grown-ups say all that much. Maybe you ought to listen to them more instead of listening to us all the time.”
Tommy was watching the street carefully. “Most kids my age seem like they’re awful dumb.”
“That’s a stupid thing to say,” Angelo reproved. “Just because you’re in a headliner act doesn’t mean you have to be a nasty little snob.”
“If I’m a nasty little snob,” Tommy flared, “I don’t see why the other kids would want me hanging around with ’em !”
“Now, now, hold on,” Angelo reproved. “You sound like Matt; I never can say one word to him or he blows up all over the lot!”
“Look, Angelo,” Tommy said, holding his temper, “I don’t want to be rude, honest. You’re older than I am, and smarter, and you’re my boss. I don’t sass you about my work, do I? But, honest, I really don’t think it’s up to you”—he drew a shaky breath—“to tell me what I ought to do in my spare time.”
He had expected—had, in a curious way, been courting—harsh reproof; he was used to Papa Tony’s quick temper and Mario’s flaring rages. Angelo only leaned forward to knock the ash off his cigarette. “Hell, no, kid, it’s none of my business what you do outside the act, long as you don’t get yourself killed or in jail. But that’s not what I’m talking about. We made ourselves responsible for you. Beth’s a friend of mine, and I promised her I’d look after you like you were my own kid. That doesn’t mean just seeing that you do your lessons and wear your overshoes when it rains and eat your spinach.” He hesitated, and Tommy had the distinct impression that he had started to say something else and thought better of it. At last what he said was, “It means seeing that you don’t spend all your time worrying about the act—that you get some time to yourself, some fun with the other kids. It puts a lot on Matt, too—making him look after you all the time.”
Tommy felt as if he had been dealt a hard blow. “Did Mario say that? That I’m under his feet too much?”
“Hell, no, he seems to like having you around. But that’s part of what I mean, too. Matt’s so damned unsocial, and I hate to see you getting like that. You spend all your time with him, pretty soon you won’t be able to talk to kids your age, and later that’s going to mean a lot to you.”
“I don’t like kids my own age very much.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s the trouble. You ought to like them, and care about whether they like you.”
“God damn it, why?” Tommy argued. “There some law or something about it?”
“Oh, Christ,” said Angelo wearily. “Maybe we better skip it. I just wanted to talk to you. I’m not bawling you out, or trying to throw my weight around.”
Tommy’s hands were shaking on the wheel. Angelo warned, “Watch it—watch that car, son,” and Tommy put on the brakes.
His voice was not steady when he said, “I guess maybe you better drive, Angelo.”
“Okay, kid. Sicuro.” Angelo got out and walked around the car to the driver’s side, but he didn’t get under the wheel. Instead he got into the back seat behind Tommy and said, “Listen, kid, are you in some kind of trouble? You shouldn’t ought to get all shook up like this.”
Tommy knew he was clutching the wheel in a death grip. He forced himself to unlock his fingers, one by one. He said to himself, He’s guessing—he can’t prove a goddamn thing.
“God knows, I haven’t kept that much of an eye on you. You seem like such a sober kid, I sort of take it for granted you can look after yourself. And Matt, his head off in the clouds all the time, he’s no more fit to look after a kid than one of the elephants down in the menagerie! You got girl trouble, or something?”
“Girl trouble? Damn it, Angelo, is that all you ever got on your mind?” Tommy exploded. “When do I get time for girls?”
“Well, at your age lots of kids got nothing else on their mind. Nothing wrong with that. I worry, that’s all.”
“Well, what have I done wrong?”
Angelo sighed. “Nothing, nothing. That’s half the trouble. You’re so stiff and grown up, not like a kid at all.”
Tommy said helplessly, “Angelo, you got it all wrong.” He knew he could not say what he really wanted to pour out, but he felt a desperate need to reach Angelo somehow. Angelo’s concern for him, fumbling as it was, had touched him more than he could manage to say. “You got it all wrong. I’m just—just not a kid anymore.” It was complicated: there were so many things he dared not even hint at, so many chances he could not take. He felt as if he were trying to make his way, as he did sometimes in nightmares, along a road that had suddenly turned into the high wire, sixty feet up. “The—the things that get kids all steamed up, the things other kids my age want, they just don’t mean anything to me anymore. The things they want seem sort of—sort of young and silly. They don’t know what they want or where they’re going.”
Angelo patted his shoulder, with clumsy tenderness. “I know, kid, I know. Matt’s got you all worked up about all this flying stuff, hasn’t he? The Santelli tradition, and how you should dedicate your life to it, and all that—that stuff. Right?”
“Something wrong with that?” Tommy asked with stiff hostility.
Angelo sighed. “Nothing, kid. It’s great, so far as it goes. But keep your perspective, Tommy. Don’t pour all your steam into it. Save out a little to enjoy life with. You’re young. Enjoy it.”
“Yeah! Willya tell me who ever enjoyed being young?” Tommy shot back, and Angelo stared at him, shocked at the bitterness in the boy’s voice. “I’m too goddamn young for everything, ain’t I?”
Angelo said, “Oh, Jesus, kid, it’s not that bad!” He stared straight ahead for a moment, without speaking, then said, “Look, we better get those groceries. We’ve got to be back before the early show.” He opened the door and got into the front seat; T
ommy slid over, relinquishing the wheel.
“You know the real root of the matter is,” Angelo said, “I told Matt he was starting you in too young. That’s the whole trouble. I told Matt, but you can’t tell him anything. But he ought to know. It takes too much out of a young kid like you.”
“But it isn’t Mario’s fault,” Tommy protested desperately. “I wanted to fly—I was the one who kept begging him to teach me. I’m not really all that young—”
“Hey, relax, relax,” Angelo said. “Don’t get all steamed up! You kids, you get so damn worked up over nothing! Anyway, I guess it’s as much my fault as Matt’s; I could have put my foot down. I know—Lord, yes, I do know—we couldn’t stop you now without breaking your heart. But don’t—just don’t make it your whole life, kid. There’s more to life than flying. You get so worked up, you scare the life out of me!”
He turned the car into a parking lot. “Here, this looks like a pretty good market. Don’t let me forget to get baking soda; something in that icebox stinks, and we better wash it out good tonight.”
They picked up a supply of groceries and then found a drugstore, where they ordered sandwiches and chocolate malts. As they sat finishing them, Angelo said, “Anyway, you been working a lot too hard. I don’t want your dad to think we been running you ragged. I should’ve known, after bringing up Matt and Liss and Johnny, that kids tend to sort of lose themselves in things. Anyhow, you remind me, and I’ll take you down to the motor vehicle department for your driving test next week, and then you can take the car sometimes, take one of your girlfriends to the movies.”
“What girlfriend?”
Angelo chuckled. “You wouldn’t have much trouble finding one. Little Ann. Ellen. Little Ann was talking the other day—you know, you’re getting a sort of reputation for being stuck-up. Like you think you’re too good for the kids with the show, just because you’re in the headliner act. Don’t get the kids down on you, Tom. I mean that. How long have you and Little Ann been friends?”
“Gosh, I don’t know—since we were babies, I guess. Mother said she knew Margot years before they joined Lambeth.”
“And now she thinks you’re too high and mighty to speak to her. Tom, I’m not trying to run your life, but it wouldn’t hurt you to be nicer to Little Ann. You can take the car if you want to take her to a movie some Sunday.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her.”
“I ought to have thought of it before. That’s the kind of thing I mean—you look and you act so grown-up, none of us remember to look after you like we would any other kid your age.” He pushed away his empty glass. “We better get back.”
“Don’t forget the suntan oil,” Tommy reminded him, and Angelo laughed.
“Guess we need somebody to act grown up around here! Damned if I didn’t forget it again!”
Between shows that afternoon Mario caught up with him and asked, “What all did Angelo have to say?”
“Not much. Wanted to make sure I wasn’t working too hard,” Tommy told him. “He said I ought to take Little Ann to the movies sometimes. I guess it’s something they expect of you. To take girls out.”
“Damn good idea,” Mario said. “I ought to have thought of that myself.”
Tommy had been looking for support from Mario; this unqualified approval filled him with dismay. “But I don’t want to take the damn girl out!”
“Well, you ought to want to.”
“You know damn well why I don’t!”
Mario turned on him, savagely, and Tommy flinched.
“Mario, I didn’t mean—”
“Shut up. I know what you meant by that crack!”
“You don’t know a goddamn thing about it—”
“Lower your voice,” Mario said sharply. “People are looking at us. And watch your language. Although it might be a good thing if we had a fight, the way we usually go around like a couple of lovebirds! And if you want a fight, you just make one more goddamn filthy crack like that!”
“What the hell do you mean, filthy crack? I just said—”
“I heard what you said, ragazzo. And I know what you meant by it. And if you say anything like that again, I’ll knock your block off!”
“Yeah, and then Angelo would really start nosing around. If you throw a floor fit right out in center ring the first time I take a girl out!”
Mario gripped his wrist and Tommy felt the bones slide.
“Say that again and I’ll break your rotten little neck!”
“Last time we had a fight you damn near broke my hand. This time you want to put my wrist out and keep me out of the act a couple more weeks?” Tommy twisted sharply, scuffling, and kicked at Mario’s shins. “Take your goddamn hands off me!”
Mario, with an obvious and deliberate attempt to keep his temper, let Tommy’s wrist go. “Okay, I deserved that. I’m sorry; I was out of line. Kid, I don’t care how many girls you take out. If it calms Angelo down I’m all for it.”
Unreasonably Tommy was angrier than ever, but instead of being angry at Mario, now his confused anger was scattered; he didn’t know whether to be angry with Angelo or with himself. “What do I want with some damn girl anyway? I don’t have anything to say to a girl. Just because you’re supposed to want to take girls out, Angelo thinks I ought to take Little Ann out.”
Mario’s anger had confused the real trouble. Whatever the rights and wrongs of his emotions, they were always going to have to stay crammed down inside him. Angelo would have been full of friendly advice and all kinds of sympathy if he had had—what was that lousy phrase?—girl trouble. But for Tommy’s real feelings and concerns, for his distress over Mario’s moods of despair and guilt, for his misery over never having a moment alone with Mario without having to lie about it—for all this Angelo would have had nothing but horror and revulsion. The only safety he and Mario could have was in never letting anyone know. Never.
He could take Little Ann to a movie and everybody on the lot would smile and approve. He could fumble around in corners with that filthy jane Rosa; Angelo might frown, and warn him about disease and other risks, but he would still be tolerant, and if Tommy did get into real trouble, Angelo would be glad to help. He could pick up one of the half-witted girls who hung around gawking at the flyers after every show, and nobody would care, they would just say that boys were like that. Hell, I could fool around with any lousy old whore, and they wouldn’t like it, but they wouldn’t really care. Just so it was a girl.
But Mario, who had brought out everything that was fine in him, everything that he thought of, incoherently, as noble and good and selfless and loving—any hint of what had been between them, and nothing could follow but ruin . . . .
Mario was looking at him bleakly. “I let you in for all this, Tommy. I could kill myself when I realize I’ve spoiled all this for you. all the fun of—of growing up. I swear, I only want you to be happy, and I—I’ve taken away your youth—”
Tommy recognized, with a sinking despair, that Mario was going into one of those self-crucifying moods of guilt that were torture for them both. His nerves raw, feeling that after the strain of talking with Angelo that morning he could endure no more, Tommy let his agony flare into anger again.
“Oh, don’t be so goddamn corny! I’ll take the kid to a movie and that’s that. I’m not going to take her out and screw her, for God’s sake!”
Mario smiled, a funny, bitter smile.
“Why don’t you? I’m sure she’d love it.”
“Listen,” Tommy said, clenching his fists again, “you quit that! Little Ann’s a nice girl; I’ve known her all my life. I don’t make dirty cracks about Liss, do I?” And then his resentment really boiled over. “And, damn it, if I want to take a girl out—or neck with her—or screw her, either—I am damn well not going to get down on my knees and ask if it’s all right with you!”
Sunday morning, Tommy knocked at the door of the red trailer. It was opened by Margot Clane, wrapped in a faded blue kimono. “Why, Tommy, you’re quite the
stranger these days! Did you want something special, or did you just want to say hello? Won’t you come in?”
“No, thanks.” He looked at her with eyes unsure and critical. He had known Margot Clane all his life, and for the first time he realized that there was an enormous chasm between the person he knew and the person she really was.
Tommy was still too young to follow this thought to its logical conclusion: that since we can never know any human being ultimately, we must of necessity accept their surfaces. He had had his own awarenesses shaken without finding anything solid to put under them; he did not yet realize that he had actually known something of the real Margot in the kindly, quick-tempered woman he had called “Aunt Marge” when he was small, who had taught him his first trapeze work. Now, having glimpsed the enormous abyss between his Aunt Marge and the woman who was having an affair with Angelo, he was ready to believe he did not know anything at all about her. He was seeing her, too, for the first time as a woman, and that bothered him without knowing why.
“I was looking for Little Ann. She around?”
“Over in Ma Leighty’s trailer. You’re not working on wardrobe at all this year?”
“They got too much else for me to do,” Tommy said. He left and went over to the big trailer-truck that served as wardrobe for the Lambeth show. Little Ann was checking the costume racks under a bare bulb, a typed list in her hands. The ends of her long fair hair were rolled around into little snail curls and pinned down with crisscrossed bobby pins. Ellen Brady was on her knees before a cupboard, her head inside. Ma Leighty was sitting on the heavy bench at one end of the trailer—no ordinary chair could support her—setting small fast stitches in a flutter of tarlatan.
The Catch Trap Page 29
