by Alice Duncan
Instantly Sam started whapping the coffee table in an amazingly battle-hymnish rhythm. Pa joined him. Mr. Prophet sat still with his arms folded across his chest.
When the time was right, I hit the opening chords of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which even Lou Prophet would probably admit, if asked, was quite a stirring song.
When I began singing, Pa and Sam joined. With a sidelong glance at Prophet, I saw him sitting on the sofa, Spike on his lap, his arms still crossed, frowning hideously. Well, what could you expect from a former Confederate soldier? I asked myself. If I’d been born in Georgia, I probably wouldn’t have liked Lincoln much, either. Although nobody can ever convince me slavery is a good idea. I’d had a hand in rescuing several children who’d been kidnapped and were about to be sold into slavery. They wouldn’t be working in fields, though. Those poor kids would have been working in evil men’s bedrooms. The mere thought made me sick.
Be that as it may, I got through four of the verses—the ones we generally sang in church, which left out the third verse—and came to a thundering end at the final “His truth is marching on.”
All three men applauded, so I rose from the piano bench and bowed, as if I were on stage.
“What did you think of that?” I asked Prophet.
“Still don’t like Lincoln, but that’s a pretty lively song,” said he.
It was better than nothing.
Suddenly Spike leaped from Prophet’s lap and barreled joyfully to the front door.
“Bet that’s Harold,” I said, and dared walk to the door all by myself. Nobody tried to stop me, so I guess Sam truly did believe all the people who wanted me dead were confined.
I flung the door open and Harold, who had been to our house many times, instantly knelt to pet Spike. He was a good man, Harold Kincaid. Heck, he was taking us all to Gay’s Lion Farm that very day!
“Was that you playing the piano?” he asked as he rose to his feet with something of a grunt. Have I mentioned Harold was a trifle plump? Well, he was.
“Yes, t’was I.”
“Sounded good.”
“Thanks, Harold.”
The three men who had been sitting in the living room all walked over to greet Harold.
“Hear you’re going to drive me to this shindig in your fancy car,” said Prophet, holding out his hand for Harold to shake.
“Absolutely,” said Harold.
“Mind if I take a look at it before I get in? Not that I’m backing out or anything, but I want to see this motorcar Miss Daisy’s so keen on.”
“I’m going to get a new one soon,” said Harold. “But come on outside, and I’ll show you everything.”
So he did. We all joined Harold and Prophet. Even Spike, who gamboled merrily about as if he were a spring lamb. The February day wasn’t as chilly as most of the days in January had been. Not that I know this from first-hand experience, of course, since I’d been restricted to the house for what seemed like forever. I sucked in a huge breath of Pasadena winter air and was happy. It was so good to feel safe in my world again.
As Harold showed Mr. Prophet the wonders of his Stutz Bearcat, I said, “Why are you getting a new car, Harold?”
“Because I want one.”
Lou Prophet laughed. Sam grinned. So did Pa.
“Will it be another Bearcat?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Del wants me to buy a more sober-looking motorcar. He says I’m too flamboyant already, and I need to tone down.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. You know how serious he is about everything, Daisy.”
“Yes, I do. And that’s a good thing, too, or your father’s bank would never have survived when your father took it on the lam with the loot.”
“I know, I know. But I’m not going to buy a damned Ford because it’s black.”
I eyed my friend closely for a moment and then said, “You’re right. Black doesn’t suit you. Get another bright red motorcar.”
“I appreciate your approval,” said Harold. He turned to Lou Prophet. “Are you ready to go? Hop on in, and we’ll zoom to Gay’s Lion Farm.”
“Fear my hoppin’ days are over.” Mr. Prophet had been staring at the Bearcat for some moments by then. He glanced skeptically at Harold and then at me. “I don’t know about this. I’m used to riding horses, not critters that hug the ground.”
“You were in a motorcar when you had that accident,” I reminded him.
“Yeah. That was sure a load of fun.” He sounded rather sour. Not that I blamed him. It must be difficult for anyone to lose a leg.
“This really will be fun,” I told him, patting him on the back and hoping I wasn’t lying.
“Yeah? First I have to figure out how to get into the thing. I got a wooden leg, you know, and I ain’t a small guy.”
“That’s true. I didn’t think about that. Well, try it. Honestly, it’s fun to tootle around town in that machine. I’ve had plenty of experience going places with Harold.”
“Yeah. So you and Sam have told me.”
“Aren’t you at least going to try it?” I asked in a small voice, disappointed.
“Aw, what the hell,” Prophet said after another several seconds. “If I can get into the damned thing, I guess I’ll give it a whirl. Gotta take the horns with the hide.”
And there was yet another expression I’d never heard before and which I didn’t understand. I’d ask later. What I did then was hold the passenger door open for him. He kind of folded himself up and stuffed his left leg into the car first, then lifted his peg leg and maneuvered it inside, too.
“Tight fit,” I said, a trifle concerned.
“It’ll be all right,” said Prophet, and he shrugged philosophically.
“I hope you don’t get a cramp or anything.” Now I was concerned about his poor body being so squashed in the Stutz. As he’d mentioned, he was a tall man and, while he was considerably skinnier than Sam, who wasn’t fat but who was well-muscled and just larger overall than Lou Prophet, he might find riding all the way to Westlake Park somewhat uncomfortable in Harold’s car.
Oh, well. We could all come back in Sam’s Hudson. Except, of course, for Harold, who’d have to drive his Stutz back home.
Pa said he didn’t really want to go to the lion farm and would prefer to stay home with Spike and read the latest issue of National Geographic. I was disappointed, but didn’t press him to come with us. Evidently visiting lion farms wasn’t at the top of everyone’s “things I want to do” list.
So it was just Sam and I who followed Harold’s Stutz Bearcat down Marengo, right on San Pasqual, left on Pasadena Avenue, and then left again. The drive to Westlake Park took us through a lot of twisty streets, and I enjoyed it.
“Boy, there’s sure a lot to see around here, isn’t there? I get so used to being in Pasadena, I never think about how many unpopulated miles there are around it.”
“I guess. Not fond of the stench of the ostrich farm, but the landscape’s nice.”
“Trust you,” I said to my beloved. “I’m really looking forward to this, Sam. It feels as though I’ve been confined forever, not just three or four weeks.”
“I know, sweetheart. We’ll have a great time today. I’ve always kind of wanted to see how people train those big cats to act in pictures.”
“I read somewhere that the people who opened the lion farm are French. Their last name is Gay. Hence, Gay’s Lion Farm.”
“Makes sense. Maybe we can open a farm featuring dachshunds. We can call it Rotondo’s Weenie Ranch or something along those lines.”
I laughed. “You’d really let me get more dogs?”
Sam eyed me askance. “I was joking, Daisy. Not that I don’t love Spike, you understand.”
“I understand.”
He reached over and patted my knee.
It took about forty-five minutes to get to Gay’s. When we followed Harold’s Bearcat into the parking lot, I gazed around with interest.
But first thi
ngs first. As soon as Sam and I exited the Hudson, we hurried over to Harold’s car, where Lou Prophet seemed to be struggling a bit. Sam offered him a hand, Prophet took it, and Sam pretty much hauled him out of the little car.
“Are you all right, Mr. Prophet?” I asked, concerned. I hadn’t meant to damage the poor old guy.
After stretching experimentally a couple of times, he said, “I’m just fine, Miss Daisy. Thank you for your concern.”
“He was a hero,” said Harold, grinning at Mr. Prophet, who grinned back.
“I don’t think real heroes use so many cuss words,” Prophet said. “Some of those roads were bumpy as hell, though. You expect to bounce some when you’re on the back of a horse, but a motorcar…Not so much.”
“At least you can drive back to Pasadena with Sam and me,” I told him, wishing now that I hadn’t made such a big deal out of having him ride in Harold’s car. Oh, well, it wasn’t the first mistake I’d ever made—by far—and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last. Curse it.
“Don’t get the fantods, Miss Daisy. I’ve survived worse than riding in that…” He stared at Harold’s car for a moment. “That little thing.”
We all laughed, and I decided not to feel guilty any longer.
As we approached the entrance to the lion farm, I was pleased to observe all the buildings were evidently inspired by African villages, with thatched roofs and African masks hanging here and there. Harold kindly paid admission for the whole group of us, for which we all thanked him. I glanced around and noticed the parking lot was almost empty except for the two machines we’d driven there. Oh, well. It was a Wednesday. I expect the place did a booming business on weekends, when people had more time for visiting interesting places like zoos and lion farms and so forth.
“So what do you know about this place?” asked Prophet as we walked through a turnstile and entered the grounds.
The farm was big, and we were greeted by the roar of a lion, which was not unexpected, given where we were, but which did send a shiver up my spine. “It was begun by some French circus performers, whose last name is Gay. They decided to open a breeding and training farm for lions here in Los Angeles. They rent the cats to studios when they make pictures set in jungles and so forth. Like the Tarzan flickers. I think one of the studios uses one of the Gays’ lions at the beginning of all its pictures.” I glanced at Harold. “Which studio uses the lion, Harold?”
“Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer,” said he. He knew pretty much everything about moving pictures, having worked in the industry for so long.
I continued. “I read this place uses an entire ton of horsemeat every single day to keep the lions fed.”
“Good. Better horsemeat than man-meat,” muttered Prophet, glancing around suspiciously. Guess he didn’t trust the safety of the cages in which the lions were kept. “Hope they already fed the cats before we got here.”
“I do, too,” I said with a laugh.
What an interesting place! Not only were there thatched cages everywhere, but there were lots of vines and straw huts scattered about. Weeping willow trees added to the jungle-y feel, and so did the ivy crawling up the sides of the chain-link fences holding lions inside. I gazed about, glad we’d come, and taking interest in everything I saw.
Then I stopped dead-still and slapped a hand over my suddenly burning chest. Was that my juju? It was! “Oh, my Lord! Something’s wrong!”
“Huh?” Harold looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Shit,” said Prophet.
“Get down, Daisy,” said Sam, shoving me earthwards. I landed on my hands and knees and was about to bellow wrathfully at Sam.
But I didn’t. All at once, Sam toppled over beside me, and I saw Bernard Randford, a huge board in his hand, aiming a blow at Lou Prophet.
Sam hollered, “Run!” at me as he rubbed the back of his head and reached into his coat pocket.
If I weren’t so busy fumbling myself off the ground and running (actually, it was more like stumbling), I’d have marveled that Sam had carried a gun with him to Gay’s. I heard him shoot the gun, however.
I didn’t see what happened next. I did, however, hear the unmistakable, hideous, outlandish, and incredibly loud sound of Miss Betsy Powell. Screaming. Curse the woman!
And then I was grabbed from behind and upended into a lion’s den.
Thirty-One
Another gunshot rang out and a man shrieked.
I’m not sure what happened next, because I was staring, petrified, at an enormous lion with an enormous mane, who tilted his head and peered at me in some surprise. I expect he wasn’t accustomed to people being plopped into his enclosure.
Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord. I hoped I didn’t look like food to the beast.
Miss Betsy Powell continued to scream until, I guess, someone gagged her. I didn’t look to see what had happened, although I was glad the screams had died. Then I wished I hadn’t thought that word, mainly because I expected myself to die next. I’d landed on my bottom, and started to push myself along backwards, hoping to find a fence or something I could climb.
“Hold on, Miss Daisy!” came Lou Prophet’s unmistakable, rusty voice. “Sam’s got the sumbitch!”
“I’ll hold him!” Sam hollered. “Get Daisy!”
“I’m tryin’ to!”
“Good God, that’s a lion in there with her!” came Harold’s terrified treble.
I was aghast when the lion rose in a leisurely fashion from where he’d been lying, relaxing in the grass. He stood still for a moment, peering at me. I glanced behind me to see if I was near a fence. Whoever’d dumped me in here must have hurled me over a fence, right? But I couldn’t see one. Searching frantically around me, all I saw were vines, willow trees and straw things woven into the fencing. Then there was that lion…
Scared nearly out of my wits, I said in a shaky voice, “Good kitty. Nice kitty.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Daisy Gumm Majesty. But honestly, what would you do in that situation?
The lion must have thought I was stupid, too, because it tilted its head the other way and kept staring at me with slitted amber eyes. Frightening eyes. The eyes of a predator, for heaven’s sake! Then it started ambling, very slowly, toward me.
Oh, Lord. I didn’t dare scream for fear I’d annoy the lion into attacking me. Anyhow, my mouth was so dry, I doubt I’d have been able to scream if I’d tried. Not made of the same stuff as Miss Betsy Powell, I.
“Hold on, Miss Daisy!” Lou Prophet bellowed again.
I didn’t say so—again, for fear of startling the lion—but there wasn’t much else I could do, was there?
I heard a new voice holler, “Slats! Slats!”
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of foot falls heading, fast, toward the lion’s den. Why the heck was somebody talk about slats? At the top of his voice? I didn’t approve, especially since the lion was coming closer and closer to my own personal self.
Whoever it was did it again. “Slats! Slats! Good boy!”
Good boy? I didn’t know what was happening, except I finally bumped up against the fence I’d been seeking—sort of—and slowly pushed myself to my feet. My legs were shaking like aspic, but I wanted the lion to think I was tall and scary.
I think the lion laughed when he heard my unspoken wish.
“Slats!” came the unknown voice again.
“Hold on there, Miss Daisy!” Lou Prophet shouted. I heard his uneven foot-and-peg steps as he tried to run to the lion’s den.
Suddenly a rope flew over the fence holding the lion and me in its enclosure. The rope’s loop barely missed the lion’s neck, although the lion did turn his head and look at it oddly. After it was finished examining the rope, it continued sauntering toward me. I shoved myself harder against the fence and felt behind me for maybe…maybe slats! Perhaps that’s why the fellow was yelling “Slats,” because there were some I could climb. I didn’t feel any. Slats, I mean.
Oh, Lord.
By this time, the lion had reached me. It
lifted one of its huge paws, and I knew I was doomed.
“Slats!” came the shout again.
I wanted to ask what slats and where they were, but my mouth was too dry.
The lion’s paw came down on my head, and I knew I was dead. It would open its huge mouth next, and Daisy Gumm Majesty would become but a faint memory in the history of Pasadena, California. I squeezed my shut eyes and began praying. I probably should have started praying earlier, huh? Well, it was an unusually terrifying situation, and I’d like to know how much praying you’d do in similar circumstances. I tried to pretend I was elsewhere.
And then I smelled an almighty stench, and darned if I didn’t feel a huge cat’s scratchy tongue against my cheek.
“Slats!” the fellow who’d been shouting shouted again.
I dared open my eyes.
Darned if the lion wasn’t licking me!
“Don’t panic, miss,” came the “slats” voice. It had a French accent.
“Want me to rope the beast?” Lou Prophet asked of someone whom I presumed to be Mr. Charles Gay or a member of his circus family.
“No. He likes the young lady. I’ll get her out.”
The lion liked me? I almost fainted with relief. Then the stupid cat licked my face again, and I nearly fainted from the reek of its breath. A diet of nothing but horsemeat does that to a cat, I reckon.
Things got confusing after that. Mr. Gay—it was he who’d yelled at the lion in a French accent—got me out of there through a handy gate I hadn’t noticed before. Even if I’d seen it, it was locked. The reason he’d been hollering “Slats” was because Slats was the name of the lion into whose enclosure Mr. Bernard Randford had dumped me.
“That’s the MGM lion, Daisy,” Harold told me.
Sam hugged me tightly and murmured, “It’s all right, Daisy. You’re safe now. Everything’s all right.” He had to tell me those things several times, because I was shivering and crying onto Sam’s lapel for quite a while, and I didn’t understand language for the first few minutes after my escape.
Not escape. Whatever you call it when someone rescues you from what you perceived as a dire threat to your life. Not to mention your limbs. For weeks after that, I’d awaken from nightmares featuring one of my arms or legs hanging out of that stupid lion’s mouth.
