After two more tries Angelo permitted Tommy to go down, calling Mario up for work on the triple. Tommy dropped on the floor beside Johnny, closing his eyes, glad of the tacit, polite convention that let him stretch out there and pretend to be asleep. He didn’t want to face even Johnny’s good-natured kidding. He felt bruised, sick, and aching. When Mario and Angelo called it a day, he sat up. Answering Mario’s curt “Okay, Lucky?” with a brief nod, he started for the change room.
“Going to tell Lucia?” Angelo asked over his head.
Mario glared. “What for, Christ’s sake? Do I tell Lu every time I take a spill?”
Angelo said quietly, “It’s different and you know it. When anyone loses control in midair that way, there’s the chance something’s really wrong. He ought to be checked by a doctor, and you know it.”
Tommy said, “I’m not goin’ to any doctor!”
“You’ll do what you’re told, and let’s not have any static about it,” Angelo said, adding to Mario, “There’s a chance he’s strained his heart, or gotten a minor concussion from some other fall. Another time he might not be so lucky. If he’s not in top-notch condition, he’s got no business flying, and you know it.”
“You talk like an old woman, Angelo,” Mario said, scowling. “One fall doesn’t mean anything. Talking like this will do him more harm than a couple of knocks in the net.”
Johnny draped a towel around his shoulders. “Angelo, you’re making a fuss over nothing. And with this audition with Starr’s coming up—hell, you know doctors. He’d say play it safe, keep Tommy on the ground a couple weeks, even if he couldn’t find anything wrong.”
“I’m fine,” Tommy said. “I guess I just blacked out from being overheated or something.”
“Sure,” Mario said. His hand descended on Tommy’s shoulder, firm and reassuring. “Good Lord, Angelo, don’t you remember how I used to do that when I was working on the triple that first season? Every damn time I started to go into that third turn my muscles would quit doing what I told them and my brain would go into a fog and I’d find myself in the net. A good night’s sleep will do the kid more good than a whole hospital full of doctors.”
“Yeah, doctors,” Johnny said disgustedly. “Remember that jerk who fixed up Matt’s bad wrist? Six weeks, he said, for a Colles fracture. He wouldn’t believe it when Matt said it was all healed—he wouldn’t believe his own X rays at first. I say anybody who knows enough about muscles and bones to be flying at all, knows whether he’s in shape to work. If Tom says he’s okay—and the way he did that last cross, he sure looked okay to me—then take his word for it and quit making a fuss!”
Angelo looked unconvinced, but finally shrugged. “Okay, have it your own way.”
Johnny watched Tommy gingerly working his arm into his sweater.
“Pull a muscle? Let’s see it.” Johnny pushed him around, then moved his hands over Tommy’s back, the hard fingers exploring each layer of muscle. “Shoulder’s all right,” he said and pulled up sweater and undershirt. “No bruises, either. Where’s it hurt? Want me to rub it out?”
“Don’t bother. It’s okay.”
Mario said, “Let him have a shot at it, Tom. Johnny’s pretty good at that.”
“Special service at no extra charge,” Johnny quipped, adding more gravely, “We don’t want you getting a charley horse this week of all times. And I can fix it up—ask Liss.”
Angelo, kneeling to tie his shoes, laughed wryly. “Yeah, Tom, disregard a concussion if you want to, but for heaven’s sake don’t ignore a charley horse in your ribs!”
Mario was still in the shower, upstairs, when Johnny knocked at the door of the room Tommy and Mario shared. He came in, motioned to Tommy to pull off his undershirt and lie face down on the bed, and sat down beside him. He began kneading the muscles in Tommy’s back with that strong, searching touch. Tommy tensed up under it; he hated being pawed.
“Ease up, kid, you’re stiff as a board. I can’t do a damn thing unless you relax.” Johnny’s fingertips dug into Tommy’s neck with a heavy, rotary motion, trying to loosen the taut muscles. Tommy tried to force himself to go limp. The touch was not unpleasant; he had tightened against it because he was afraid of betraying some chance reaction. He was used to Johnny in tights, on the rigging, in the change room, working. But Johnny stripped to his shorts, fresh from the shower, his hair damp and smelling of clean sweat and soap—that was something different entirely. Tommy put his hot face in the pillow and wished hard that he were in Timbuctoo. Freak, he told himself with furious bitterness, you goddamn queer.
Mario came in, wrapped in a towel, and picked up his dungarees, which were hanging over the foot of the bed. “Kid picked up a sprain?”
“Hm-m, I don’t think so. All the muscles seem to be all right. Here, that hurt?” Johnny pushed Tommy into a new position and went on prodding the middle of his back. Again he seemed to be reaching right down through the separate layers of muscles and picking out the sore spots.
“You go about that like a professional,” Mario commented, watching.
Johnny chuckled. “I am. I spent two winters working as a trainer in a health club—where d’you think I picked up all those tricks? An old masseur taught me a lot. Got any talcum powder? There—that feel better, Tom?” His hands kneaded the muscles soothingly. Tommy twitched and Johnny said, “Hey, what’s the matter? You’re jumpy as a cat. Ticklish?”
Mario chose that moment to bend over and touch Tommy’s bare back with the tip of a finger. Tommy jumped and knocked them both away with his elbow.
“Cut it out!” he yipped, his voice cracking into falsetto.
Johnny said, “Scram, Matt. You make me nervous.” Mario picked up his clothes and went out, and Johnny straightened up.
“Sit up a minute, Tom. I want a cigarette, and I got something to say, and I figured you’d rather I didn’t say it in front of Matt. Cigarette?” He held out the pack. Tommy stared at the carpet and muttered, “No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself. Listen, kiddo, you’re a mess of nerves. You think I can’t tell what’s eatin’ on you? How old are you, anyhow? Fifteen?”
“Sixteen.”
A fleeting grin crossed Johnny’s face. “I don’t guess you led a very sheltered life around a circus lot, but there are a couple of things—I don’t figure you ever spent much time around a steam bath or a big professional gym, did you? No, I figured you didn’t. But I have. Maybe I ought to wise you up a little, about—oh, hell, I see you know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Tommy dared not raise his eyes.
“Listen here, kiddo,” Johnny said, putting out his cigarette, “if somebody could work you over like that, and you not feel anything inside”—he made a brief but obvious gesture—“you’d be just dead meat, that’s all, dead meat. Now look, kid, this is straight. I’m not queer; I’m not the kind of guy gets his kicks by feeling up a nice-looking kid bare-ass. This is the work I got trained to do, and I’m good at it, and it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to me. Now, willya just please, for God’s sake, relax and let me rub out the kinks?”
His face burning, Tommy rolled over and buried his face in his arms. He couldn’t make out whether Johnny had not understood at all, or whether he understood entirely too well.
~o0o~
The night before they were to drive down to the winter quarters of Starr Circus, Papa Tony put them relentlessly through their paces. Afterward, Lucia inspected them all from top to toe, walking round and round them, fidgeting. She whipped out scissors and snipped off the most protruding lock of Tommy’s cowlick, frowned at the still-bleached lock in Johnny’s hair and recombed it so that it did not show, confiscated Angelo’s frayed wristbands and hunted him out another set, loosened a pretty curl at Liss’s temple.
They had decided not to display their act in costume. Starr’s, the unquestioned “Big Show” of the circus world, mounted its own acts lavishly, so the Santellis had decided to appear in their neat, uniform-ish practice clothes. The men dre
ssed in black tights, worn just enough not to look too new, and T-shirts which Lucia had artfully blued to a high whiteness; Liss wore a plain pink ballet-student’s leotard and tights. The very unostentatiousness of this, Tommy vaguely realized, was in itself a high form of showmanship and strategy.
No one ate much at supper. At the close of the meal, Papa Tony stood up for a moment and looked down the long table.
“I want to say to you,” he began, “whichever way things turn out tomorrow—thank you. This it is—to be a family again. Once we were so many, like this. Now I see we can all be together again, like always. Joe, Lucia—you have worked beyond—what is that thing they say in speeches?”—he hesitated for a moment, frowning— “above and beyond the call of duty. Clay, Barbara—too young to be with us this time, but you see what someday you will be part of. I don’t want to make a speech. I say only one thing: Tonight I am a happy man, a very happy man. Not in years have I been so happy, all my children around me tomorrow. All my children—my sons, my grandsons—yes, and granddaughters, too, Elissa,” he added gently. “Believe me, I know, in some ways it has been hardest of all for you. And you who are part of the family in a special way. Stella,” he said, and his eyes rested with a special tenderness on the pale girl in her flame-colored dress, “I wish you could be with us tomorrow; I wish Cleo could see you. And you, Tommy. Because when I watch you, when I see how Mario has taught you, I can see how I taught my own sons, and I know there is going to be someone else to come after me, to pass on a—a tradition, to teach the ones who will fly when I am not here anymore.”
Angelo said roughly, “That’s a long, long time from now, Papa. You shouldn’t talk that way.”
“No?” Papa Tony looked at Angelo and smiled. “Maybe you’re right. But this is what I was saying. People—you and me, Angelo—we come and we go, but this—the act, the family—this goes on, bigger than you, bigger than me, more than all of us—right?” He raised the glass of wine in his hand and, ceremoniously, drank. Then he said, “Tomorrow, children. I am proud of you tonight; make me proud of you tomorrow. I don’t mean the contract—maybe we get it, maybe we don’t; part of that is luck, part of it is business. Either way, do your best, as you did tonight, and I will be proud of you, proud of all of you, cari figli, cari fanciulli”—Tommy saw him blink and swallow hard—“tutti, tutti—So, so, I don’t want to make a speech,” he said hastily, and sat down again.
As they were getting ready for bed in their room, Mario said, “So what did you think of Papa Tony and his speech?” His voice was rough, but Tommy could hear, through it, what Mario really felt, and responded to it as he knew Mario was ashamed to do.
“It made me want to bawl.”
“Yeah, me too. This is what Papa’s been living for. He could have stayed with the Fortunatis, you know, when Joe and Lu had their accident—he’d still be headlining with them. But he left Starr’s and the center ring, just to bring us back as a family, touring with just Angelo and Terry, and then Liss and me, and then just me and Angelo after Liss got married, just working for a comeback. I hope to God we make it tomorrow. For his sake.”
“Starr’s is an awfully big outfit, Mario. They could get any flying act in the world.”
“I know. But there’s no harm in dreaming.” He climbed into bed and stretched sleepily. “Good thing he got us all tired out this afternoon, huh? Or I’d be too damn edgy to sleep.”
Tommy woke with a start the next morning when Johnny came in without knocking. Mario opened his eyes drowsily, but did not move.
“Who is it? Jock?”
“Right. Don’t you two look cute!” Johnny was wearing an old, patched bathrobe. He had not shaved, but he was so blond that it was hardly noticeable.
Mario rubbed his eyes. “What time is it, anyhow?”
“Six-ish, I guess. I must be getting temperamental—I had some trouble gettin’ to sleep, and I woke up about an hour ago. I forgot you had the kid in with you.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I was thinking about when we were all on the road. Remember?”
Mario chuckled. “Roll over by me, Lucky,” he said, and threw back the covers.
Johnny slid into bed beside them, saying, “I had forgot the kid. But I half expected to find Liss in here. She always did come and crawl in with you.”
Mario’s jawline tightened slightly. “Liss is a big girl now. And married.”
“Just the same, I bet she’s got the jitters, too, poor kid. Remember how every time we had a big stand, or put a new trick in the act, you and I would both crawl in with Liss and talk over every move we were going to make? It was okay when we were kids, but after we got into our teens Lucia started takin’ kind of a dim view of it. All things considered, she probably had a point—I know I used to get all hot and bothered, sister or not. Liss is damn pretty. How about you, Matt?”
“Shut up,” Mario said. “That’s a hell of a way to talk. Anyhow, what bothered Lu was that she said we were just nerving ourselves up, giving each other the jimjams.”
“Yah!” Johnny snorted skepticism. “I quit going to confession that year because I felt so damn foolish saying the same thing every time, that I was having evil thoughts about my own sister. But you were always the good boy, weren’t you? I bet you still go to confession, don’t you. Matt?”
“If you’re going to talk like that,” Mario said roughly, “you can get the hell out of here.”
“Hey, hey, fella,” Johnny said quickly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—hell, skip it. I wouldn’t mind a nice shoulder to bawl on, or something. Or somebody to keep me company. I’ve been bunking on the daybed for a week now. Not that I blame Stel, exactly.”
Mario curled his lip and said with an odd inflection, “Keeping in training, Jock?”
They both began to laugh almost hysterically, and Tommy demanded, “What’s so darn funny?”
Johnny said, through snorts, “Just a kind of dirty family joke. It’s a whole lot too complicated to explain. Oh, God, Matt, will you ever forget Terry’s face?”
“Or Angelo’s, either,” Mario snickered, and they were off again.
After a minute Johnny quieted down and said, “Yeah. But if I’d remembered it sooner, I wouldn’t be in this damn mess. And Stel would be with us today. She’s better than Liss, and you know it. And that could make the difference. Randy Starr is real big on women in an act.”
“Look, Jock”—Mario reached for his brother’s hand—“this is no way to talk before an audition. Relax.”
“Yeah. But it’s sort of getting to me. Just in general. I’ve wondered which is worse, anyhow. The whole idea seems to be that screwing around takes it out of you. But, I dunno, behaving myself seems to take it out of me worse.”
Mario was silent, and Johnny added, quickly on the defensive, “‘Course, we all know you’re the model athlete—don’t drink, smoke, or screw.”
“I was only trying to think it out, Jock. I guess the trick is what Angelo’s always preaching—dirty jokes aside—common sense. Sure, you can waste a lot of energy chasing women. On the other hand, if you get so edgy you can’t sleep right or think straight, I’d say it was better to get it off your mind so you can relax and keep your mind on what you’re doing. Instead of going around all hot and bothered tryin’ for uplifting thoughts.”
Johnny laughed nervously and said, “Yeah. But I wish Stel would see it that way. Maybe I ought to get you to give her a pep talk.”
Mario laughed and shook his head. “That’s your job, kid brother. Include me out.”
“If the Fortunatis don’t like us, though, it will all fall through,” Johnny said gloomily. “I heard they already signed the Flying Barrys, and the Rienzis. Are we ever going to have competition! Damn it, Liss just isn’t good enough for Starr’s!”
Mario said gently, “Even if that was true—and I don’t believe it—there are other shows, Jock. And we’re all of us young. It’s not like this was the only chance we were ever going to have at the big time.”
; “God damn it, you don’t even care, do you, Matt?”
“Oh, I care. But I’m not going to eat my heart out if we don’t make it this season. Like I say, there’s other shows and other seasons. Lambeth is a nice outfit to work for. And they’re always short of men, so they’d be glad to have you with us, and Stel, too—she can work again this summer, can’t she?”
“Yeah. I guess so. Dammit,” Johnny said again, despondently, “that’s the hell of it. My own goddamn fault.”
Mario chuckled. “Watch your language, kid brother. Lu hears you talking like that, she’ll have kittens.”
“Oh, Christ. Matt, I’m grown up. And don’t you think I got something to swear about? Sure, the doctor said Stel can work again this summer, but he said something else, too.”
“What is it, Jock?” Mario asked.
Johnny, defensively drawing away from his offered sympathy, shot back, “You just tell me not to get fussed about things before an audition. Keep my mind on my catching, and all that.”
“Come on, come on,” Mario said, putting his arm around his brother. “Get it off your mind, if it’s like that. What’s the matter, kid?”
Johnny blurted out, “The doctor just told Stel she wouldn’t have any more kids. Not ever. That goddamn filthy stinking crook, he messed her up so bad—” He pressed his face into the pillow and said, “God damn it to hell, our timing got off that one time, just that one time, and that’s it. Show’s over, folks. Not that I give a damn, but Stel’s taking it hard. So damn hard, Matt, so damn hard I could bawl myself!”
“Jesus!” Mario whispered. “What can I say, fella? I didn’t know.”
“All that stuff Papa said last night about carrying on the family tradition when he isn’t here anymore. You can imagine how that went down with Stel—” He swallowed hard and said blurrily, “Listen to me. Like a goddamn bawl-baby—”
“Easy, Jock, easy. Take it easy. One thing at a time, kid. I know it’s hell, and I know nothing’s going to make it any better. But you’ve got to pull yourself together today.”
The Catch Trap Page 38
