“Che—what makes you think so?”
Tommy related their talk over the checkerboard, and Mario drew a long shaky sigh.
“I suspected, a time or so, that he knew. Then I’d break out in a cold sweat all over.” He raised himself on one elbow. “He trusted me with you, Tommy. Even after the—the trouble I got into, that time. I told you about that.”
“You never,” Tommy said.
“Oh, sure I did. I told you I got in trouble, got thrown out of college—”
“You just told me you’d been in jail,” Tommy muttered. “You said a couple of times you’d tell me about it someday. But you never did.”
Silence, and the long scream of the train whistle at a grade crossing. Red and winking yard lights flickered outside the black square of window, then were darkened again as the train slid through the town, leaving it behind.
“I was awfully young,” Mario said at last. “Seventeen. And awfully drunk. I ran into this kid I knew at the ballet school. We were really just sort of fooling around. Only we picked the wrong time and the wrong place, and a cop practically fell over us. When they asked about it in court, the other kid panicked and changed his story and said I had—well, he said it was all my idea. So I got booked for contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and a couple of other things. I was so dumb, and so drunk, when the cop picked us up I was afraid I’d get in trouble for being in a bar while I was still under age, so I told them, I swore up and down I was over twenty-one, so they booked me as an adult, and adult sex offenders don’t get treated too good.” His voice faded. “They finally got around to telling me I could make a phone call, but I was too scared to call Joe or Angelo, and I couldn’t get hold of Bart.” Tommy wondered if he meant Bart Reeder, but would not interrupt him. “But when I didn’t come home for three days, Lucia started calling hospitals and finally got around to the police. Papa came down and bailed me out, and of course the first thing he did was tell them my age, so I got transferred to the Juvenile Authority. But by that time I was pretty well in shock; I’d been held in county jail three days.” His face was grim, gone away into bitter memory.
After a long time Tommy asked in a whisper, “What happened? Did they send you to prison?”
Mario shook his head. “No. They heard me as a juvenile, and the judge gave me a hell of a lecture, told me to lay off drinking—I’ve never touched hard stuff since—and said he couldn’t see much sense in sending me to reform school, where I’d just get to do the same thing all over again. So he paroled me in Papa Tony’s custody.”
“What did Papa Tony do?”
“Well, he brought me home, but they all lit into me at once—Lucia crying, Angelo wanting to beat me senseless, Joe wondering if they ought to send me to a psychiatrist or call a priest. Papa just waded in—you know how he does—how he did? He yelled that this was his family and his grandson and by God he’d handle it all himself, and I thought he was going to horsewhip me at least! Instead he took me out to a quiet little bar and bought me a drink—and, my God, I needed it by then—I was coming apart at the seams. You know he never drinks—only vino at dinner—but he bought me a shot of whiskey and made me drink it, and then he said, ‘Now, Matt, you tell me what all this is about. From Angelo I only hear how you disgrace us.’
“Well, I could hardly say a word, I was so upset, but I finally got it out, kind of, and he looked at me like a hawk, and he said, ‘Matty, look me in the eye and tell me: This other boy, did he want to do what you were doing?’ And thank God I could look him straight in the eye and say yes, he did. Then Papa Tony asked me if this was the first time I did that with a fellow, and since he’d been so decent to me I figured I’d tell the truth if he killed me for it, and so I said no, that was the way I’d always been.
“He just drank up his wine, real quiet, and then he said—I never forgot a word of it—he said, ‘Well, maybe I bring you up all wrong. But if I fall dead this minute, Matty, I can’t see you done anything so bad as they say. I can’t say I like it, I can’t say I understand it, but if it’s the way you want your life, you’re not a little kid, you’re grown up, I got no right to make you change it.’ Then he looked at me real sober and said, ‘But just for me, you promise me something, Matty: You promise me not to get drunk again, or get in trouble with the law. You’re a man, not a little kid, and you got a right to have your life the way you want it, but if you get in trouble, it hurts us all, hurts all the family.’”
Mario’s voice was ragged. “I expected a lecture about sin,” he said, “I mean, I expected it. He was always so religious. But he only said, ‘Matty, the way a man lives, that don’t matter. It’s the way he treats other people, that’s what matters.’ And then, the last thing, he put his hands over mine, and honest to God, Tom, I started to cry like a baby, and he said not to cry, it didn’t matter what people called me, so long as I was decent and good to people, and as long as—this was the thing that made me bawl—as long as the people I loved, whether they were men or women, as long as they were better off for loving me and not worse off. And then he took me home, and I found out later he told Angelo to lay off me—oh, Tommy, Tommy, I swear I’d have thrown myself off the rigging before I made trouble for him again! And he trusted me with you, and I felt so rotten about that, because I felt like I’d failed him—”
Tommy turned to him in the darkness and hugged him fiercely.
“You never did, Mario. You never did. He knew, and he didn’t mind. All he wanted to know was, was I happy—”
“And you’re still glad and not sorry, piccino?”
“You know I am,” Tommy said, still holding him, aware all over again of that inner sense of rightness about it, the confused knowledge that Mario brought out everything in him that was best. He could feel, against his face, that Mario’s cheeks were wet.
“Then—then all we have to do is make each other happy, instead of unhappy . . . .”
“You do,” Tommy whispered. “We do.” Mario’s sobbing quieted at last; his head lay heavy on Tommy’s arm. After a time Tommy slipped his hand gently, exploringly, into the front of Mario’s pajamas. Mario pushed him away.
“Don’t! Not now, for God’s sake—haven’t you any decency? With him not even buried yet—”
Tommy drew a sharp breath of shock and dismay, less from the rebuff than from the thought that he might somehow seem to offer disrespect to the old man he had loved. His voice shook.
“What kind of superstitious bastard are you? If he didn’t mind when he was alive, what makes you think—” He couldn’t go on. It was the first time he had found the courage to make such a specific sexual gesture, and the pain of the rebuff was agonizing. “I don’t get you, talking about decency! You make it sound like—if you think we could show respect by not doing anything—”
“Oh, God,” Mario said, shakily, pulling him close, “I didn’t mean it that way—it’s just—”
“You just said what he wanted was for us to make each other happy—” Tommy kissed Mario’s wet face and pulled him closer, his hands going out tenderly to him. “Come on,” he said softly, “let me. You need some sleep, and it will make you sleep better, that’s all.” But he knew it was more than that. For him, at least, it was a way of reaffirming the bond between them, of reassuring himself that this was where he belonged, of closing the dreadful gap that had seemed, tonight, while the Santellis were praying, to have opened between them and himself.
He said, entreatingly, “We belong together. Papa Tony knew it. And this is the best way I can think of to—to prove it to you.”
Mario folded Tommy in his arms. He murmured, “You don’t have to prove anything to me, kid. I know we belong together. We always will.”
~o0o~
The train whistle screamed through the barren night. Angelo slept, drugged, twitching with unquiet dreams. Stella Gardner lay awake, slowly blinking back the tears she could not shed, Johnny’s head heavy on her shoulder, where he had dropped asleep in a kind of stunned grief. In San F
rancisco, Elissa Renzo, heavy with child, cried herself to sleep, refusing any comfort David could offer. Lucia sat in the dark in the old Santelli house, her rosary in her hands, trying to pray, her mind obstinately returning to the night of another ring accident ten years ago, while old Isabella di Santalis slept fitfully, not having taken it in, fully, that another of her sons had been killed, or why. Even Mario and Tommy slept at last, comforted, in one another’s arms. And Antonio Abelard Santelli lay in calm, anonymous peace, alone, watched only by a strange priest in a strange town, who knew nothing except that he was a soul gone to God, and needed to know nothing more.
CHAPTER 25
The communal cookhouse tent, and its tacit ban on shoptalk at meals, robbed the Santellis of any time for leisurely talk at breakfast, which, when they were traveling with Lambeth in their own trailer, had always been the time for family discussions. It was late morning before Angelo could get them all together in a corner of the grandstand, rigging men setting up in the rings below them. Angelo looked steady, if rather pale.
“The first thing we have to do is to settle our routine. If we just yank the tricks Papa Tony was in, we won’t have a lot left. Tommy, I’ve seen you do a back double in rehearsal. Matt, what do you think? Could he do it regular in the show?”
Mario hesitated, glanced at Tommy, and said, “Have him try it once or twice at rehearsal, and if it goes good, put it in the show. But we need someone to handle the bars when we’re doing the duo routines. We set up the act for three flyers and two catchers. I suppose we could ask the Waylands to put on another man—”
“What’s wrong with Stella?” Johnny asked. “Anything Tommy’s been doing she can do better.”
“You know how Papa Tony felt about women in a straight flying-return act—” Johnny cut Mario off.
“I know how you feel,” Johnny said, “but he had Liss audition with us for Starr’s. Are you trying to say Stella isn’t good enough for Woods-Wayland?”
Stella protested, “Hey, Johnny, look, Angelo didn’t—”
“I never said that,” Mario pointed out. “As far as that goes, she’s probably a better flyer than Liss—”
“So you finally admitted it!”
Mario frowned at his brother. “I never denied it. But there is a difference and it’s a big difference. Liss did straight flying; you trained Stella to do all the fancy stuff, and I don’t know how well it would fit.”
“Damn it, we could use a little something new!”
Angelo shook his head violently, and gestured Johnny to silence. “For cryin’ out loud, Jock, let’s not get into all that now! Anyway, Stel’s holding down a pretty heavy routine in the show as it is. Let’s let her work out with us for a day or two in practice, handling the bars for the duo routines—she’s got great timing for anything like that—and making a couple of simple crosses. Stella, how about it? You want to try?”
She glanced at Johnny and said, “Sure. If it’s okay with the boss.”
“One thing I want to settle,” Johnny said. “Angelo, I suppose you’re head of the act now—”
A look of pain crossed Angelo’s face. “I can’t see anything to be gained by wrangling about it. Let’s let things ride for a while. Next season—”
“I’m not going to wait all season,” Johnny said.
“Look, Jock,” Mario appealed, “not today. Let’s talk this all over later, when we’ve had some kind of chance to settle down.”
“No, damn it,” Johnny said. “I just want to know if Angelo’s going to expect us all to jump when he whistles, or whether we can finally have a little democratic procedure around here!”
Angelo said quietly, “A car with two drivers never gets very far. And a two-headed monkey belongs in the sideshow.”
Mario, cracking his knuckles nervously, said, “I don’t mind if Angelo wants to keep on running things.”
Angelo grimaced. “Thanks, Matt. Thanks for nothing at all.” He glared at Tommy. “You going to get into the act?”
“Nope, you’re the boss, Angelo.”
Johnny snapped, “Oh, you and Matt have Tommy seat-broken like a tame cat! Snap the whip and he jumps right through the hoop’ God knows, I loved Papa Tony. He was an old man, he always did things this way, and I didn’t mind letting him give orders—what the hell? But it’s one thing to let Papa order me around, and it’s something else to have Angelo shoving his weight around!”
“Look. I’m not trying to shove my weight around, Jock. But our contract does say that in case of illness, or any other unavoidable defaults—and sudden death comes under that—I’m in charge of keeping the performance and the performers up to acceptable standards. And I am the most experienced man in the act. If you want to change the routines, I’m perfectly willing to talk it over. But not now. For God’s sake, give us all some breathing space. This afternoon’s show is going to be rough enough, any way you slice it!”
“Angelo—” Tommy began.
“Jesus Christ,” Angelo shouted at him, “now are you going to start?”
Tommy said, indignant and shaken, “I just wanted to ask about my contract. I was under contract personally to Papa Tony, and he was my legal guardian. I just want to know how I stand now. Legally, that is.”
“Oh, God, I forgot all about that. Your contract’s in Papa Tony’s safe-deposit box in the bank at home. I’ll wire Joe to look it over. I might have to sign some papers taking over the contract. You mind having me appointed your guardian?”
Mario said, “I hardly think that’s necessary, Angelo. Tommy’s sixteen; isn’t he old enough to get regular working papers and sign his own contract?”
“I’ll have to find out about that,” Angelo said. “I think California law says he either has to go to school or have a guardian till he’s eighteen. Maybe Woody’s lawyers can tell me.”
“I don’t mind having Angelo appointed my guardian,” Tommy said.
“What’d I say?” Johnny muttered. “Tame cat!”
“Oh, shut up!” Mario exploded. “If Tommy doesn’t even know how his contract will hold up, and he can keep from putting up a big squawk, why in hell are you crowding Angelo this way?”
Stella, like a small fierce kitten, showed claws. “You’ll all take it out on Johnny, and all he wants is to run things like it’s the twentieth century, not some kind of old-world dictatorship! We got rid of Hitler, didn’t we?”
“Matt—Stella—please!” Angelo sounded exhausted. “Call it off till after the show, willya both? Things are bad enough without a family row. Papa Tony’s hardly cold in his grave, and already we’re fighting over who’s going to run things! Stella, if you want to go on with us this afternoon, I don’t mind—it isn’t worth arguing over. I’ll go to Woody myself and get an okay on it. That suit you, Johnny?”
That shamed Johnny into silence. But as they were dressing for the matinee, Angelo came around the aisle formed by the lined-up trunks, where Tommy and Mario were sharing a mirror.
“Matt, leave out the triple today, okay? Finish with a double-and-twist or something.”
“Angelo, I didn’t do it three days now. Woody’s going to have kittens.”
“Let him, damn it. It’s in your contract that you’ve got discretion on it.”
“It’s also in my contract that I will perform to the best of my ability, Angelo, and he shifted us into the center ring on the strength of it. He’s going to get sore.”
“So he’ll get sore, and to hell with him!”
Mario brushed flesh-colored powder over the tape on his cheek where he had cut himself shaving. “Hey, hey, Angelo, what’s with you? Having a premonition?”
“No, but accidents run in threes. And—oh, hell,” he burst out, “I just don’t think I can hold you on it!”
Mario said gently, puzzled, “Okay, Angelo. You’re the boss. But Johnny’s done it a couple of times. Want him to cover it?”
“No,” Angelo said harshly. “Just skip it for today.”
Mario said, “Sure, pal, w
hatever you say,” but as Angelo went to take down the capes from where they were pinned by their loops against the canvas sidewall, he wondered aloud, “What the hell is biting him?”
The next day Angelo did not protest when Mario put the triple back into the act, but a few days later, as the train puffed out of a siding somewhere in Indiana, Angelo rapped on the thin wall between their compartments.
“Tommy, Matt, will you come in here, please?”
Tommy had undressed; he slid his pants and shoes on again, and they went into the next compartment. Angelo was smoking restlessly, the floor beside the bunk strewn with ashes. He offered Mario a cigarette. Mario shook his head.
“Tom?”
“No, thanks.”
“Sit down, won’t you? Listen,” Angelo said, “I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ll tell Johnny later, but I thought I’d put it up to you two first. I want to quit.’”
“Quit?” Mario stared at him. “Quit what?”
“Quit flying. No, give me a minute, Matt. Even the most fantastic luck runs out. I’ve been flying since I was twelve, thirteen years old. That’s a quarter of a century, twenty-five goddamn years in the catch trap. The Santellis have never had a really bad accident before; even Joe and Lucia lived through theirs. Statistically, the odds are getting thinner every day. I want to quit before my turn comes.”
Mario stared at him, his jaw dropping.
“You must be crazy,” he said at last. “What would we do without you? You’re the head of the Flying Santellis!”
“Yah!” Angelo grunted skepticism. “Ask Johnny about that!”
“I’ll break Johnny’s goddamn neck!”
“No. That’s another thing, Matt. I’m not cut out to be padrone. I can take orders, but I’m no damn good at running things. You could manage the act okay, if you’d make up your mind to it, but you won’t do it with me around.”
“But Johnny won’t take orders from me,” Mario said, stunned.
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