The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book)

by Robert Hough

  What I'm saying is, a little battle kicked up inside old Mabel. On one hand, he was obviously in the business of snaring my livelihood, whether he'd figured it out or not, so it was natural my giving him the cold shoulder and nothing but. On the other hand, he was working so damn hard he really did deserve an act of his own, especially considering he'd done it all before with that philistine Clyde Beatty.

  Come July, and Uncle Ben took his annual two-week vacation betting on horses in Santa Anita. A few days before he left, he came up to me and said, "Well, Mabel. You're gonna need help in the morning."

  "I know."

  "I've asked Roger."

  "Roger? You say Roger? Uh-uh. No way. Ain't no way that little Okie pissant's gonna gum up my cage bars with those ham-shaped hands of his. I won't stand for it, Ben, and you know it."

  "Now, Mabel," he said in his smoothest simmer-down voice, you and I both know Roger's the only cage boy with tiger experience, and you and I both know he's the most qualified." To this I sputtered something in protest, something with a few swear words thrown in, though we both knew he was right. In response he said, "Ah now, Mabel, don't you worry, I had a talk with Roger myself and I said point-blank, `Listen here, kid. You tryin' to take Mabel's job?' You should've seen the look on his face. Horror, is what. Started stammering and saying, `Shit no Mr. Bennett I'm not here to take her job. I'm here to learn from her and her only. Why you think I took a job as her cage boy? Oh Mr. Bennett don't think that.' So I said, `You sure `bout that, Roger?' And he said, `Sure I'm sure. Beatty's up and gone and that makes Mabel Stark the greatest living trainer on the planet. Hell, she might've been that when Beatty was alive. I've learned the Beatty way and now I want to learn the Mabel Stark way.' He said that, Mabel. Said every word. You know what else he said? He said, `Mabel Stark's a hero of mine, Mr. Bennett, and there's no way I'd ever do something like that to one of my heroes.' You gotta meet this kid, Mabel. Not an insincere bone in his body."

  Course, all this was horseshit, though I have to say it was flattering horseshit, and if you're going to horseshit someone, dressing it up with flattery's a pretty good way to go about doing it. One more time I told Ben there was no way I was letting that little son of a bitch get within a country mile of my babies, though I said it with a faintness that hinted I was reconsidering, such that by the time he walked off it was general knowledge I had myself a new cage boy.

  The next morning I showed Roger what he needed to know, figuring if they're fixing to give him my kitties he might as well care for them proper. How at 6:30 I got out my tools and lined them up in the same order against the same spot on the wall, and how you could tell they were in the right order by matching them to the places where the paint was scraped away. Then we put Goldie in the exercise pen and Toby and Tiba in the ring so we'd have three free cages and could move the cats around in order to clean all the cages. By seven I showed him how to sweep the cages, something he'd been shown a hundred times but never the Stark way, stressing you had to get every last flake of sawdust for if it gets on their meat it'll stick inside them and gum them up something bad. (Course, straw's different. That gets inside them and it'll act like a scour and clean them out. Problem is, straw's more expensive, so guess which one gets used?) After the cages were cleaned and the cats back in, we loaded up the wheelbarrow and I showed him how some of the cats are finickier than others, Goldie liking a shoulder blade and Mommy refusing everything but shanks. I also showed him how Prince and Khan can be dangerous, they way they lunge at the footboards, tearing meat from the fork tines.

  At 7:45, with all the cats gnawing contentedly, I put on thick yellow gloves and showed Roger how you have to hose the blood out of the cage gutters, and then use a wire-bristled brush to scrape off bits of fat or tallow, for if they stay around they'll fester and cause disease. Then we had coffee-he took his black, which was encouraging-and by 8:45 we started boning out the cages and after that we put sawdust down, making sure each big shovelful hit the footboard direct so's the tigers could get at it and spread it around nice themselves. Then we filled the water pans, which is important because after a feeding cats get real eager to wash the blood from their mouths and throats. By nine o'clock we were finished, the cats sleeping and Roger rushing off to his lionesses.

  Now. Did I look for the signs of laziness? Of him not wanting to get his hands good and filthy? Of him maybe thinking he was too important to scrub gutters because he had his marks and he'd worked with Beatty? Did I hope every day he'd come a minute late, or put my rake in the wrong spot, or get the least bit snippy?

  Sure. Problem was, the kid was like a machine of hard work and politeness, and after a while you can't help admiring a man who's playing his cards right, even if he's using those cards to take your money. One day, after the watering pans had been filled and I was on my way to Annie's to have my first Hamm's of the day I said, "Roger, you want a drink?" Practically swallowed his tongue, he was so surprised.

  For a good long time we just sat there, sipping beer, me brooding and him afraid to speak, when I thought, Ah hell, this is ridiculous.

  "Roger. You tell me. You think the Professor's a fag?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "The Professor. I mean, he's got that Ginger all over him, day and night, randy as a jackrabbit, hooters the size of acorn squash, and still he puts her off. Sure she's about as subtle as a cannon act but Christ almighty, he's on an island of seven people-he can't be that choosy. Even if he is a fag they should get together. He'd be a good influence on her. Maybe tame her some. Give her a baby. I've known a ton of queers in my life and I can't say I've ever found them objectionable. Hell, I even prefer their company-they don't seem to have that fear of dying without leaving their mark on the world that makes regular men act so rash and self-centred all the time."

  Roger looked at me, confused as I'd ever seen a person. It practically hurt to watch, he was so dying to add to the conversation or even understand one iota of it.

  "Roger," I said. "You don't watch Gilligan'e Island?"

  "Uh, no, ma'am."

  "Didn't you know Bob Denver lives right here in Thousand Oaks? Why I see him every time I go to the Oakdale market. And the Skipper's living just up the road in Ventura county. Christ Roger where you been? See you start tuning in. I like to jaw about it sometimes. There're reruns every night at seven. You'll like it."

  Next day he came in and when we sat down for my first Hamm's I said, "Well, Roger, you tell me," and you what the son of a gun said?

  "He's married to his work, is all."

  Heh heh heh. Makes me laugh. Roger would say that. Married to his work. Could be he's talking about himself, you think? Working fourteen hour days, with a wife and baby at home, no less?

  About a week ago, during break, I finally up and outed with it.

  "Roger," I said, "you take good care of my babies."

  "What do you mean?" he said, all innocent, maybe acting maybe not. Knowing Roger, probably not.

  "Roger, you're going to have yourself a tiger act and you're going to have one soon."

  "No way," he said, once my meaning had sunk in. "I don't want your job. There's no way I'm gonna be the guy who takes a job away from the great Mabel Stark. There's just no way."

  "Listen to me, Roger. Big cat training's a dying industry. It's like scuttling coal, or sweeping chimneys. Not what you'd call a growth sector. Goddamn animal groups running around everywhere, people with TVs, theme parks the size of Rhode Island, even the Felds about to go bust, how could animal shows survive? If you're sure it's what makes you happy, you might have to do things you aren't proud of to get it. You follow?

  He blinked and said yes, though I really don't think he was getting it.

  Nope, now that I think of it, he wasn't getting it at all.

  Just so you know: I never saw Dimitri Aganosticus or Dr. Levine again. Dimitri's for sure passed on by now, and if I found out today he died slow and before his time I can't say as I'd be any the worse for it. As for Levine, it
's my considered opinion he was one of two men who really cared for me, the other being my one true love Art Rooney, the man who sat me down sideways and taught me how things work.

  Jesus. Art. These days you'd almost think I'm addicted to the hurt I get when I think of him, which I suppose in a way I am: when presented with a choice between achy remembrances and nothing, it's my experience people choose achy remembrances every time. I suppose it makes them feel like they've had their lives for a reason.

  See, what you have to understand is this: I used to go up to him and bury my nose in that hollow between the jaw and neckline, and I'd have myself great big huge inhalations that'd make him go all highpitched and girly (which, granted, for Art wasn't much of a stretch). I could barely help myself. I'd do it again and again, for the thing he smelled of was: familiarity. Places you liked as a kid. Food you had on picnics. Kites. Coffee. Neither one of us knew our parents past a certain age and if you think that doesn't scent a person, think again.

  (Some free advice? You want to get yourself a good match in life, you take a cue from animals. You walk on up, you lean close, and you take a great big snootful.)

  Goddammit, there I go. Telling the story like time was gumballs instead of flowing sand. Probably I'm confusing you already, not that you're the type to confuse easily-don't think I meant that.... Where was I? Oh yes. Levine. Dr. Levine. What always puzzled me was the fact he never laid a hand on me, never even tried to lay a hand on me, though most of the time he had me alone and helpless and up to my armpits in hot water. This is a curious fact, and one that contradicts my general opinion of the way men act when opportunity knocks. Basically, my hope is he's someplace nice and has himself a distinguished grey beard and a wife still comely and a whole lick of grandchildren. I also hope he's still sitting behind people while listening to them spill their guts and periodically saying, "I see. I see. But how did you feel?" Hearing that'd indicate there's a fairness to this world, and that's a concept I wouldn't mind coming nose to nose with these days.

  My next husband?

  That was the Texan.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE SOUTHERN COTTON MOGUL

  I FIRST LAID EYES ON HIM FROM A BALLY PLATFORM IN BEAUMONT, just over the Louisiana border. I remember because he was the sort of man you couldn't help but notice, there being something in the shoulders and the slow sure manner of his walk that drew the eye. Plus he wore a big brushed-suede ten-gallon, and because he and his hat were so noticeable I watched as he took his seat, alone, in the back of the Superba tent, which I thought was strange as it was an afternoon show and the crowd was small and usually the men get as close as possible to the action. Maybe he didn't want to block anyone else's view, for lie was real partial to that hat and showed little inclination to take it off. That or he didn't want to be seen, which didn't work because, like I say, he had a silent iceberg presence good for nothing but drawing attention to itself.

  The show started, and because we were curious (we being me and the four other Dancing Girls of Baghdad) we kept peeking through the backdrop at him during the first half of the program. He sat there unblinking through the sword fighters, the knife throwers, the Moroccan tumblers, the Whirling Dervishes of Constantinople, the midget who could stand on his head while circling the ring on camelback and finally the old white-bearded swami who lured a cobra out of a basket while playing something tinny and horrid on a frigolet. The educator, a man named Ned Stoughton, then came on and announced a brief intermission to be followed by the beautiful and enticing Dancing Girls of Baghdad. "And in the meantime, gentlemen, if you'd care and if you'd dare, the Parker Amusement Company is pleased to offer you various diversionary pastimes...."

  Grifters, in other words. Three of them, setting up on little folding tables called tripes, one with the shell game, one with a numbers board and one with three-card monte ("Keep your eyes on the lady, gentlemen, it's as simple as that-just keep your eyes on that pretty pretty lady"). By the time the plants made a big show of winning the rubes were lined up five deep, except for my future husband, the man in the big hat, who seemed content to sit perfectly still at the back of the Superba tent, hands folded and thinking about who knows what. The price of cotton maybe, or where he'd tell his wife he was at all day. The grifters went on for about twenty minutes, stopping just before the mood started to turn ugly. Then Stoughton sprang back on stage and said, "Showtime, gentlemen, showtime."

  Meaning us. We went out, and while Sanjay and a bongo drummer played something whiny and Oriental we stomach danced, it being considered a talent back then to wiggle your belly while keeping your chest and hips as still as possible. This was followed by an excess of jeering and catcalls and men basically behaving like howler monkeys, the one exception being my Texan, who watched quietly from his stringer at the back of the Superba tent, legs crossed and applauding politely after each number, so well behaved it was hard not to have the suspicion he was up to something. At the end, he got up and walked out, straight-shouldered and looking far too composed for a man who'd just been to a girlie show.

  Came every night, he did, and after a while it was obvious I was the one he was coming to see. Course, it wasn't me who figured this out, for he'd show interest in something else whenever I glanced in his general vicinity. Was the other Dancing Girls of Baghdad who filled me in, as they started noticing that anytime they looked his way he was in the middle of taking a good hard look my way. Was a theory they came up with the third night, and was a theory supported over the fourth, fifth and sixth nights, before being upgraded to simple fact our last night in town, when on his way out he momentarily looked up at me and tugged the brim of his hat, which I'd later learn is Texan for "I am not in any way displeased by your presence, ma'am."

  We made the jump to Galveston, a short distance off from Beaumont, and he started showing up there too.

  Now. Being singled out like that can make a girl conscious of what she's doing and more particularly what she's wearing, which in my case was: lame slippers, the toes narrowing to the width of a lamp wick and then curling up into a backward somersault; billowing harem pants, the material not sheer enough to see through but coming close; a fake ruby stuck in my bare navel and kept in place with stickum; a sequined halter top that gripped my rib cage and upper arms so tightly it left red lines afterwards. Above my veil, which was lassooed to the ears with elastic, my eyes were enlarged with a thickness of makeup you didn't see anywhere else in those days (or leastwise not anywhere respectable). Finally, I had to bunch my hair on top of my head and tie it with a long yellow ribbon, not unlike the kind a flower girl might wear for a wedding. This was the most important part of the costume, Stoughton explained, as it lent an innocent touch that made the rest of the getup look extra slutty by comparison.

  Every night and practically every matinee, my admirer was there, in the audience, at the back, a man in a fine suit and snakeskin boots and a hat made of fine brushed suede leather and sometimes you'd see him checking the time on a pocket watch that must've cost him a fair penny. All of this added up to an aura of mystery, a hard fact being that the thing women like most about men is generally the thing they can't put their finger on. When he looked at me, unblinking, from back there in the Superba tent, I could never quite tell whether he was someone who'd do a good job protecting me or whether he was someone I needed protecting from, and it was this mixture that grabbed my attention.

  We finally met the last night in Galveston. I was rounding the Superba tent corner, fixing on a cup of coffee at the pie car, when I ran headlong into him. He was so broad his shadow was twice the width of mine and for a second it felt like I'd wandered into the darkness cast by an eclipse.

  He slowly removed his hat, and I had my first close look. His face was rectangular, the jaw and forehead taking up a goodly portion of surface area, and his hair was cut short enough it stuck straight up, looking sandy and stiff as brush thistles. Though he wasn't handsome, he was close to it, with the rugged look that comes from having the s
un grow creases around the eyes. Plus he was older, probably Dimitri's age. (Advice to women: if you want to attract older men, just have your father die on you when you're thirteen. They can practically smell it on you.)

  He just stood there, slowly rotating that big brushed-suede hat in his hands, until finally I had to say, "Is there something I can help you with, mister?"

  "No ma'am," he said in a voice quarry deep, "I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your dancing."

  "Thank you."

  "I think you're the best one up there."

  "Well. Thank you again."

  "No, really, ma'am. I mean it."

  There were a few moments of silence. I suppose he was hoping I'd continue the conversation, a chore Texan men usually leave to the women. Finally, all he could do was say, "Name's Williams. James Williams. From Beaumont, Texas. Pleased to meet you."

  "My name's Mary Aganosticus."

  "Funny name."

  "Funny world."

  He smiled, and a whole whack of wrinkles I hadn't seen before came trampolining to life. Then he put his hat back on his head, tapped the brim and strode off. Late that night we made the jump to Pasadena, just outside of Houston, and he went back to whatever it was that kept him busy when he wasn't taking up space on the last stringer at a Superba show.

  When we finally emerged from Texas (you can get lost in there for months, the damn place is so big), we spent the winter in Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and Southern California, the first two not even states of the Union yet so it was like visiting different countries, with different money and cooking and types of houses. We headed north once the weather turned spring-like, which in a city like San Diego happens sometime around mid-February. Mostly I was learning how to fit in on a show, which wasn't hard, a carnival not being all that much different from a madhouse. For one thing, whenever people talked about themselves you heard pretty much the same stories as the ones I heard in the madhouse. Stories of woe, mostly, with heavy doses of bad planning tossed in. I was already used to sleeping in a room full of others, so occupying a stateroom with the other Dancing Girls of Baghdad wasn't a hardship. The food was a crime, powdered this and dehydrated that, without fruit or anything milk or meat related, but I was used to that too.