by Robert Hough
Art.
All of which is a long-winded way of saying my preference would be to make my admissions the old person's way, gumball-style, the bits and pieces all mixed up and swirled together, conjuring why what happened happened throughout the whole story, instead of just at the end. It'd be a hell of a lot more accurate that way, and truer to the way I've been feeling of late. Still, stories aren't told that way, the danger being you'll write me off as an old woman given to rambling and I ... well. Let's just say I can't have that. See, there's a lot riding on you having a pure and clear-eyed understanding of the situation, so I'm going to have to tell it the standard way, the way I would've before age settled in and put its feet up and lit itself a slow-burning cigar. By the same token, there'll be times I take liberties with this thing called order, with this thing we pretend is time, if only because at my age it's hard as the dickens not to.
Like right now, for instance.
Problem is, I didn't sleep well last night, and by that I mean I slept even worse than old people normally sleep, which believe me is plenty bad enough. Was up fuming, worried, frantic. Tossed and turned for hours before finally nodding off, only to wake up in the middle of the night, 2:37 it was, eyes popping open like they were on springs. I was thinking so hard I could've sworn there was someone or something in the room with me, whirring. You ever get that? Where the mind's worked itself into such a lather your thoughts pick up where quiet leaves off, till it gets so you can't think for all the noise? Might as well've been sleeping by the side of a freeway. At least then I could've shut out the racket with earplugs.
Naturally, I could barely drag myself out of bed when the alarm went off at 4:45. Felt logy all day. Even Goldie noticed it-when I was finishing boning out her cage she gave me a good long look and an eye roll followed by a lazy high-pitched arf, which is tiger for I know, I know. The rest had fallen asleep by then, and were all wearing those restful housecat grins tigers get when full-bellied. You know a tiger licks his lips when he sleeps? Little dreamy tongue slaps that dampen his teeth and gums so they won't dry out? You know some tigers snore? And talk in their sleep? Sweep their tails when they dream?
Scares me, goddammit, the idea of doing without them. For the past thirty-six years they're what's kept my mind off the things I'm about to tell you. They're what's given my whirring mind something to focus on.
Please, make yourself at home.
Nice little place, isn't it? Cozy, paved driveway, bit of a garden out back, close to shopping. I'm the type of person who doesn't need much but likes to form attachments to the things she does have. A favourite coffee mug, comfortable shoes, a pearl-handled revolver bought years ago in Wichita, a gold-rimmed poster from the Barnes show, a bone rake I've had for so long there's a smoothness where my fingers, and no one else's, go. After almost eighty years on planet Earth, those're the things left to me.
In the early thirties I quit circus life-suppose I'd just plain had enough-and took a training job out at JungleLand. I've been there ever since, making me JungleLand's longest-running employee and the world's oldest tiger trainer. Not that that counts for anything. Uh-uh. No siree. There are some pretty foul winds blowing out there, and I don't want anyone eavesdropping on our frank conversations. Plus we'll be more comfortable here, in my house, than in those little huts made to look grass walled but in fact are polystyrene. While the past couple of afternoons haven't been too bad, you get a hot one and the damn things'll heat up like a woodstove. Louis, the old owner, tried installing air conditioners about a year ago, but that caused havoc with the fuses. Was a lot of sparking and power outages and one day the dromedary pen caught fire so he took the units out and sold them for a quarter of what he'd paid for'em. Course, that was always Louis's way of doing business: buying high and selling low and finding the whole thing damn funny. No wonder I liked him so much.
About six months ago, he found me at the snack bar. Was lunchtime, and I was tucking into the same thing I eat every day: a hamburger Annie had leaned on between paper towels to get the fat out, washed down with my second Hamm's of the day.
"Can I sit, Mabel?"
"Course, Louis."
He gave a little tug on his checkered slacks and sat. He was such a tall man he had to turn sideways so his legs would have somewhere to go. He twisted his body around so he faced me, and when he spoke it was in a lowered voice. His forehead was long as an egg flipper.
"Mabel, you've been here for how many years?"
"Thirty-six, or leastways close to it, Louis. Came when the Barnes show closed for good-you know that."
"Well, that means you've been here longer than anyone. So I want you to know first. I'm selling. I'm retiring. I'm going to spend my days watching rodeo in Santa Rosa. I'll make the announcement tomorrow. There just isn't any money in this business, Mabel."
"That's never bothered you before, Louis."
"That was then and this is now. Even Feld's Ringling show is going bust-who would've thought that could happen? I'm getting on, and problems start to wear when you're not so young anymore. It's high time I took a breather."
"You're kidding."
"Nope."
"Louis Goebbel leaving the animal business?"
"Running is more like it."
I was beginning to think he was serious.
"Who's buying?"
Here he started laughing. "A couple of candy butchers, if you can believe that. They go by the names of Jeb and Ida Ritter. Plus another partner named Ray Labatt. Seems he's got a rich wife who needs to lose some money for tax reasons. Mostly it'll be Jeb and Ida running the show."
"They know anything about running an animal park?"
"Enough, I suppose."
"They good people, Louis?"
Here he paused, long enough his answer didn't exactly fill me with confidence.
"Good enough, Mabel."
Three weeks passed, maybe a little more, till the day came when Louis was leaving for good and of course he threw himself a going-away picnic. Clowns on stilts wondered about, and there were kegs of free beer along with a banquet table covered with food. Word got out, JungleLand filling that day with old troupers, wranglers and carnies, half wanting to wish Louis their best and the other half attracted by the notion of free food. Must've been three, four hundred people easy. Midway through the afternoon I was standing at the banquet table, in front of the cheese-and-pickle roll-ups, waiting to get at the tray of devilled eggs, when I smelled something: menthol and perfume, with some spearmint gum thrown in for good measure. I turned and saw a woman in tight pink pants with a flowery shirt tied at the waist. She was bare ankled, and her hair had been lacquered into a beehive; a tornado wouldn't've ruffled it. With her do and her heels she must've stood six and a half feet tall. Her bracelets and big hoopy earrings jangled. When she bent over to reach a buttered bun at the back of the table, her navel almost grazed the roll-ups.
Now none of this bothered me unduly, though it's true I dislike it when women dress in a manner designed to redirect the eyeballs of men. What did bother me was her reaching hand held a burning Pall Mall, pinioned between the second and third fingers. The ash had gotten to be about half an inch long, and if it fell the breeze would've scattered it over the buttered buns, the cheese-and-pickle roll-ups, the pigs in a poke, the tuna-filled cherry tomatoes and most important the devilled eggs, which in my books are the only excuse for having a picnic in the first place.
She noticed me eyeing her.
"Oh hello," she said, while straightening. I had to lift my chin to look her in the eye.
"Hello," I replied, and I wish I could say there wasn't a hint of frostiness in my voice. If she noticed she didn't act like she did. Instead, she shuffled around her plate and her cigarette and her glass of rose wine so it was all teetering in her left hand, thus freeing up her shaking hand. She held it out and said, "I'm Ida Ritter. How do you do?"
My whole body sank.
"Mabel Stark. I'm fine."
This answer caused
her to chew more vigorously while looking up and away. "Wait a minute," she finally said. "Aren't you that tiger lady?"
Here I looked at her, trying to keep the daggers out but by God it wasn't easy. As you know I was centre-ring with the Ringling show of the twenties, and saying to me, `Aren't you that tiger lady?' would be akin to going up to a Cadona and saying, `Aren't you from that flying family?' or asking a Wallenda if he'd once walked a highwire. It was disrespect, pure and simple, not to me particularly but to the whole history of the circus. Had it been anybody else, I would've told them so and stormed off, devilled eggs or no devilled eggs.
Instead, I said, "Yes, that's right," and was pleased when someone recognized her and came over and told her how great she looked.
Well. With that introduction problems were bound to happen and sure enough they did. I was with my tigers one morning, about to lay down sawdust, when who should come up but Ida, this time wearing tight leopard pants, an insult to the leopard world if you ask me, along with cat's-eye sunglasses and a pink blouse tied just above her navel. She had a cup of coffee in one hand and a menthol in the other.
"Beautiful," she said, gesturing at my babies, "beautiful animals."
I stopped working and paid attention for I was still acting like there was respect between us.
"You got that right, Ida. There's nothing more beautiful."
"But chubby. I see some sway on a few of 'em. For instance, that one. What's his name?"
"Her name."
"Sorry. What's her name?"
"Goldie."
"Well, what do you think, Mabel, is it just me or is Goldie looking a little padded around the haunches? I was just wondering if maybe these cats could do with a half pound less of chuck a day."
Here I looked at her, doing my best imitation of calm, though inside I was seeing red, for tigers need at least fifteen pounds of meat daily or their coats pucker. Was nothing but cheapness, Ida's suggestion, and designed to aggravate; everyone knows if it were up to me I'd feed them their favourite hippo steaks each and every morning.
"Well now that's an idea Ida," I said. "I'll talk it over with Uncle Ben and see what he thinks."
"Good," she said and walked away, those teetery pink slippers making her ass wiggle.
A few days later, the same thing happened. I'd just thrown the cats their meat and was taking a breather when I heard those slippers slapping the ground. I turned, fearing the worst, and there she was, smiling and chewing gum, gesturing with a lit cigarette.
"Well, good morning, Mabel. My oh my those tigers are looking gorgeous as ever.
"Suppose they can't help it."
"Yep. They sure do look fantastic. You're doing one bang-up job around here, Mabel."
I took a deep breath and waited for it.
"But I couldn't help notice one or two of them have coats that could use a little shine. Like that one. What's his name?"
"Her name," I said, "is Mommy."
"Beautiful tiger. Beautiful bones. Ever thought of rubbing a little vegetable oil into her coat?"
Here I could've killed her, the benefit of vegetable oil being a wives' tale that got out on circus lots about fifty years ago, probably started by a vegetable oil salesman for it does nothing but make their fur look soggy plus it'll gum up pores and make them groggy. Was an insult, pure and simple, my having to take instruction from a woman who didn't even know that. Instead of losing control, I stared straight ahead, communicating my displeasure through wordlessness and an expression gone stern. After a while Ida took the hint and added, "Well, of course it's completely up to you. Bye now."
By that point I was fuming, so I went off to find Uncle Ben and told him he better talk to Jeb and get him to rein in his wife if he didn't want fireworks. Ben said he'd do what he could, which turned out to be not much, for the very next morning Ida was back again, smoking and drinking coffee and telling me how beautiful my tigers were, before suggesting I give them a little milk of magnesia.
"It's good for their bones," she added in that syrupy voice of hers, and it was the intent her chirpy tone was disguising that finally made me snap and call her the worst thing you can call a circus person.
"Listen to me, Ida," I said. "Listen to me good. You're a carny. You're a concessionaire. You really expect me to care what you think about tigers?"
Her face turned white and she stormed off, that silly back end of hers wiggling like electrical current was running through it. Since then we haven't talked. If we pass each other on the connection we both go stony and don't say hello. Thank God, Jeb and I get on, or I'd be out already. Still, you overhear things. Rumours, whisperings, snackbar chatter. Like Ida's pressuring Jeb something hard. Like she figures she's got more pull on account of she has a flat stomach and boobs propped high as mountain peaks. Like she figures she can get what she wants because a certain type of man goes for her.
Like the great Mabel Stark might retire soon.
Then.
A few weeks later. Young squirt, Irish mug, wavy red hair, tiny round eyes, keen as a wood plane, twenty-five at the most. I first laid eyes on him at the beginning of the day, while in the process of wheeling my big old Buick convertible off the Ventura freeway and into the JungleLand parking lot, where I was about to take my favourite spot by the fence under the giant oak. Was exactly 6:20 in the morning. Same time as I always got there. Only that day was different, for as I was wheeling my big old Buick convertible into the parking lot I noticed there was another car in the lot, and in that car was a guy behind the wheel, coffee cup in hand, staring at the front entrance of JungleLand so hard you'd swear he'd fallen in love with it.
So I got out. He got out. Instantly I knew he was a new cat guy and my day was ruined. First of all, he had marks on his forearms I could see all the way from the other side of the lot. Second of all he knew who I was-that much was obvious. He came toward me, beaming, and I looked at him, not smiling, until we got close enough I could see he was fixing on introducing himself. Just walked on by, I did, acting like he'd never entered my line of vision.
Shortly after nine, with the cats fed and dozing, I found Uncle Ben and asked him who in the hell the new guy was.
"The cage boy? Haynes is his name. Roger Haynes. From Oklahoma, I believe."
"Where they find him?"
"Working the Beatty show. Trained with Beatty himself before the cancer kicked in."
"Beatty!"
"That's what I heard."
"Oh Jesus Christ Ben, there you go! They have to spell it out in neon lights! No guy who's trained with Beatty and who's got his marks is going to take a job as a cage boy unless he figures he's not going to be a cage boy long! Oh Christ Ben you might as well start saying your goodbyes now cause if anyone ever tries to take my cats away from me I've got a neat little .38 in my bedside table. Oh Jesus Christ this is awful...."
On and on I went, practically hysterical-that's the way I get sometimes-until Uncle Ben started telling me I was wrong, no one's trying to take my job, that Haynes was taken on for the lionesses and no one's going to have to shoot herself anytime soon. On and on he went, painting a rosy picture, and because he has a voice that naturally calms people I started to feel a little better even though there wasn't a thing in the world to feel better about. In the end I promised I wouldn't march up to Ida's office and clobber her personally, Uncle Ben saying he was mighty relieved to hear that.
That was a Wednesday. Come Saturday, I was getting ready to do the biggest show of the week when who should turn up and start moving my pyramids around but Roger Haynes. You could tell he really wanted to prop the act, and for a second it occurred to me he didn't even realize he was there expressly to oust yours truly, a thought I immediately chased away because in the long run it really didn't matter.
This, more or less, was what I said: "You little son of a bitch. Don't you ever come around my goddamn tigers and don't you ever show up round this cage line and don't you ever walk up and down my cages." Then, because of the way I've
been feeling of late, by which I mean broody and tallying the things I've done, I tossed in a piece of information even he didn't deserve. "I killed a man once," I told him, "and I'd gladly do it again now get."
The boy went white, turned and walked off. As for me, I felt bad about doing it, and would've gladly felt bad doing it a second time. Suppose I'm fear-aggressive, a term normally reserved for wild animals but suits some people too.
Six months go by. I don't say boo to him. Pretend like he's not even there. Problem is the little bugger's so eager and driven he reminds me of me, and when that happens it's a struggle keeping your hostility at a pitch where it'll do any good. Plus it's obvious he has the tiger bug in him and he has it in him bad, and there's so few of us around who do it's hard not being gracious when you meet one. Plus he's always the first one to work in the morning, which is saying something seeing as how I'm there by 6:15, and I'm told he's often still there eight at night, offering to help where help's needed, a time I'm already asleep. And goddamnit if those lionesses don't look better than ever.
