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

by Robert Hough

  He rolled me around a little more before I finally pushed him off. I took only the quickest of bows. Truth was, I was embarrassed as hell, for his spunk had got all over my back, and when he'd rolled me over the tanbark shavings had stuck to it, my beautiful black leather uniform about as messed as it was possible to be: quite frankly, I looked like I'd been tarred and feathered, something I'd seen happen to more than one sideshow grifter. I left the arena red-faced, and as I did I passed two men who'd been standing just outside the door. The first was my tunnel man and cage boy, fled, who realized what'd happened, and who was laughing and pointing and enjoying the well-worn sight of me.

  The second was Louis, who also knew what'd happened, and who didn't find it funny in the least.

  CHAPTER 7

  JUNGLELAND

  JESUS CHRIST I'M GLAD YOU'RE HERE. IT'S ALL HAPPENING and if there was ever a time I needed a shoulder to lean on it's now. Was a few days ago. A pair of them, in black suits, like twin funeral directors, poking around like curious sons of bitches, inspecting cages, huts, wagons, I even saw one of them standing outside Annie's steam-belching snack hut and shaking his head like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. To add further emphasis in case anyone was watching he kicked it. Looked ridiculous, he did, like it was a used vehicle he was beginning not to think much of, pulling his foot back and inspecting it instead of the scuff he'd made on the side of the building.

  They were with Jeb and Ida practically the whole day, and on the odd times they weren't you'd see them having their breaks together, sipping iced tea and scheming. When I asked Roger, "Who in the hell're those two?" he told me he didn't have a clue, so I asked the same question of Uncle Ben. He shrugged as well, saying, "The only thing I know is they're in from Omaha. I'd ask Jeb if I were you." This was easier said than done, for I couldn't confront Jeb when Ida was around, and I sure as hell couldn't pin him down when he was showing around the strangers, they being the ones I wanted to talk about in the first place. In other words, I had to steam about it pretty much all day, until finally, near the time I was about to go home, I saw Jeb heading across the connection. As usual, he was wearing a cowboy hat and the frown that comes from owning a money-losing business. I timed it so I turned a corner and we practically ran headlong into each other.

  "Mabel!" he said after a quick sidestep.

  "Jeb! Christ, you scared the bejesus out of me."

  He laughed and made to move around me, causing me to shift into his line of vision, a signal I was in the mood for a chat.

  "Quite a day," I said.

  "Quite a day."

  "Sunny. Not too hot."

  "Wish it was always like this. Business would sure be better."

  "What we used to call a real circus day."

  "Oh, it's a circus day for sure."

  "See you got some visitors."

  "Visitors?"

  "Those men in suits keep following you around."

  "Oh. Them. They're hardly visitors, Mabel. To be visitors you have to be invited. They just phoned up and told us they was coming and I didn't have much choice in the matter."

  "That a fact?"

  "Well, Mabel I gotta ..."

  "Who are they, Jeb?"

  He peered at me for a second.

  "Who's who, Mabel?"

  "Oh for Christ's sake, Jeb, the guys in the pallbearer suits!"

  Here he took a breath and looked at me squarely.

  "Insurance folk, Mabel. The company that holds our policy got sold, and the new company says they have to poke around."

  "Oh."

  "Nothing to worry about."

  "No, course not."

  "One thing we never have to worry about is your tigers, Mabel, and neither will they. Not with the way you labour over them."

  "No, I'm not worried, just curious was all."

  This was followed by a few more seconds of awkwardness. We parted and walked in separate directions, me feeling jittery and air filled.

  Problem was, he'd told me I had nothing to worry about before I told him I was worrying.

  They were there again the next morning, poking about, generally trying to sink into the woodwork though achieving the exact opposite with their latest Nebraska fashions. Everyone was on tenterhooks and then some. Then, at midday, Jeb tracked me down in the cathouse and said, "Uhhhhh ... Mabel?"

  "Yes, Jeb?"

  "You're needed in the office."

  "What for?"

  "Those men. They need to talk to you."

  Was my turn to be cagey.

  "What men would that be, Jeb?" though I immediately regretted it for Jeb wasn't my enemy, no matter who his wife was, and he gave me a spent look reminding me of that fact. I followed him out of the training barn and then headed alone to his office, where the men had set up on a card table in front of mounds of paper. I entered and suspected right off this wasn't going to be pleasant.

  The two men. One was taller than the other, and he wore his hair in a fashionable cut, by which I mean silly: Little Lord Fauntleroy bangs and wisps travelling down over his ears before doing a little flip up sideways. Why a man close to forty years of age would let himself get influenced by what those hippies are doing is beyond me, but there it was: he had himself a hairdo that made me yearn for the 1940s, a time men knew how to dress, as opposed to today, a time men just plain don't. The other man was older, maybe in his fifties, and slightly more dignified, his hair greyer and sparser so he was less tempted to follow the trends. Both were in cheap suits, poorly stitched and dumpy, the older of the two with a ketchup stain on his tie that sacrificed what little he had in the dignity department.

  "John Fischer," said longhair.

  "Mabel Stark," I said, taking his hand.

  "Kevin Taylor," said ketchup stain, to which I said, "Mabel Stark" and gripped his hand. We all sat down around the card table and the two men started shuffling through papers and generally looking perturbed.

  The younger one started the talking: "Now, Mrs. Stark ..."

  "Miss Stark."

  "I'm sorry. Miss Stark. We understand you're the head tiger trainer here at JungleLand."

  "The only tiger trainer at JungleLand. Or leastways the only real one. Have been for thirty-six years."

  "Really?" he said. "That's quite an achievement."

  "Yes," said the older one, "we understand in the circus world you're something of a legend."

  "Suppose you could say that."

  "It's an honour to meet you."

  "Yes. An honour."

  "We just wanted to talk to you because-and I'm sure it's a clerical error, or something along those lines-but there doesn't seem to be any record of your employment here."

  True enough. The fact of the matter was I'd always been paid under the table at JungleLand. I preferred it that way, for I'd signed a contract once before and it'd almost been the end of me. Course, Louis understood, a fear of restrictions and legal responsibility being a common trait among ex-troupers.

  "We suspected something like that. We just wanted to clear it up with you. Nip it in the bud, so to speak. So you are an official employee here ..."

  "Course. And I'll thank you to keep your insinuations to yourself. They may not have told you but I'm a lady who doesn't like to be riled."

  Here they seemed to start up their own little two-sided conversation.

  "Of course not."

  "No, of course not."

  "Who does like to be riled?"

  "Nobody. No. Nobody."

  "It's just that we have some questions pertaining to, well, our business here, and it's difficult to get some answers without the proper papers ...

  "We're not questioning your status here at JungleLand-that's not our intention at all-it's just that, well, we have to have some information in order to be able to do our jobs."

  "Let me approach this from a different direction. Jeb tells me you're sixty-nine years of age. Is that, uh, accurate?"

  I looked at them, blinking. While it was true sixty-nin
e was my official circus age, it was also true I always lopped about ten years off my real age so I'd never have to account for years I'd rather not account for. Truth was, my eightieth birthday was on the horizon, something I never thought would happen and something they sure as hell weren't going to find out from me.

  "Yes," I said, "that's accurate," and the fact I said this through slitted eyes amply communicated I was getting tired of being questioned. They rustled in their chairs and shot glances at each other.

  "Well then," said ketchup stain, "that's all we need to know. You'll get us something we can copy and show head office, a birth certificate, perhaps, and we won't have to bother you again."

  With that, they were both on their feet, hands sticking out of those cheap dark sleeves, saying good-day and acting like they were doing me a favour. I shook both their hands, and left, thinking I had myself a choice to make. Though I didn't have a birth certificate, I did have a driver's license complete with fake name and fake age-believe me it's not hard to get-and I supposed coughing it up would be enough to keep them satisfied. On the other hand, I didn't like the way they made me feel-i.e. creaky and past my prime-so I wasn't exactly in a hurry to make their jobs any easier. I pondered this all day. Did my tiger act by rote. Percolated. Kept asking myself if this was a situation calling for my policy of never rolling over or whether this was a different situation altogether. Finally I decided it was something different altogether, so I caught up to the two insurance rubes at a time when Ida was with them, thinking at least I'd get the satisfaction of seeing her figure out her trap wasn't going to work.

  "Gentlemen," I called out, jogging up in a way someone wearing splints ordinarily can't. "Been looking for you all day."

  I handed my driver's license to the older one, who by then had changed his tie and was looking a little less ridiculous. He glanced at it and passed it on to the younger one, who hadn't done anything with his hair and still did look ridiculous. They both smiled and said, "Thank you, Miss Stark, we'll get this back to you later today," to which I said, "No hurry, gentlemen. You have a good day."

  And Ida?

  You could've broken an egg on her face, it got so tightened up.

  Whether this'll work or not I don't know. Most likely not. Whatever Ida's cobbling together is going to get cobbled together no matter what I do about it and that's a truth I'm just going to have to learn to deal with. Frankly, at this point I'm a little beyond caring: if the end comes tomorrow at least I won't have to worry about regret, which I'm pretty sure is a feeling that haunts a lot of townies once old age hits.

  Think of what I've done. Think of it. I've been to every town in America, small or large, most of them more than once. I've seen the mountains, the swamps of southern Florida, the buttes, both oceans. All of them were sights, every last one. I've heard every kind of accent, including the funny ones, and here I'm thinking of southern Louisiana. Or that valley in the middle of Connecticut where they speak like the Queen, only gone silly-sounding with hiccups. Or northern Minnesota, where we used to go when taking the long way into Canada; you'd swear they were all Swedish lumberjacks, which of course a lot of them were.

  Tell me this. You ever seen a vanishing point over water? Course you have-Art used to say if a person didn't gaze out over water from time to time it could have grave implications for the health of that person's spirit, something I began to believe myself. Yet it doesn't compare to seeing space vanish over land, like you do on the plains of western Canada, not a tree or building or butte in sight. Was something I saw every year on the Barnes show, and I can tell you quite honestly there isn't anything like it.

  Or: the sun setting fire-engine red in the desert, where it'll plant itself for hours, casting a violet hue over the cactus and sand and tumbleweed, before finally dipping over the edge. Beats Key West, where you're liable to miss the whole show if you blink at the wrong time. I know because I've seen 'em both more than once.

  I've been to Cecil B. DeMille's house. I've ridden parade with Mae West. I've kissed Douglas Fairbanks (though not in any way meaningful). I've wrangled on a dozen movies, so many the idea of being a star no longer impresses me, probably because I used to be one myself. I'm a woman who's had John Ringling give her flowers. I've visited the Tower of London, I've tried Devonshire cream, I've seen the Changing of the Guards. I'm a woman who's had her beer at room temperature. I'm a gal who's eaten raw steak in fine restaurants, who's swum in a salt lake of all things. I'm a woman who's worn spangled costumes, who's ridden in limousines, who's breakfasted on mountains, who's been deafened by applause. I'm also a woman who, on a steamy day in Bangor, got what she deserved and was torn limb from limb by tigers, and if there's anything that'll zest up a life faster than that, well, you'll just have to tell me about it.

  Sorry. It's a subject gets me worked up, my losing my babies. Haunts me, if you must know. Without them, I'll have hours and hours each day, and I know very well I won't be thinking about all the places I've been and all the things I've seen and all the worthwhile things I've done. Instead it'll be springtime, 1927, North Carolina, Mabel finally in love with a man she's married, a rainstorm brewing and the circus gets hooked up to the wrong water supply and people start getting sick and was it my fault I was a nurse? Was it my fault I could help out? Was it my fault I couldn't tolerate contentment pure and simple?

  Well?

  Jesus. There I go. Guilt. What a smiting that is. Worse than any tiger mauling, I'll tell you right now. You let it get to you and pretty soon you can't sleep and you can't eat with your normal gumption and you start to wondering why you even bother going on.

  So I called Dr. Brisbane's office.

  Because he'd been treating me for years and had a sympathetic secretary, I got an appointment the next day. On my lunch hour I piloted that big old Buick of mine to his office. I parked and took the elevator and entered a waiting room full of other old circus folk. I gave a series of half nods and sat. Across from me was Luigi Concello, last of the original Concellos, who, like all old flyers, suffered from terrible elbow and shoulder pain and was probably in having his weekly freezing needles. Next to me two chairs over was a midget I knew only by sight though I'd heard he'd been with Yankee Robinson back when that show was something. He now suffered from the back pain that sets in when a midget gets old; often I'd see him shopping at the Safeway, wincing with each step. To my left was a Cole Brothers veteran named Eddie the Cannonball Frecoldi. Supposedly what happened to him was he hit the net funny one matinee such that his head stayed in one place while his whole body carried over and made a loud popping noise from somewhere between the neck and shoulder. Apparently his suffering demanded an armload of pills, such that Eddie was always either a little bit out of it or a lot out of it, depending on a number of factors like the dampness of the weather or the strenuousness of the previous day or how brave he happened to be feeling. When I nodded at him, he nodded back with a fearfulness in his eyes; you could tell he was hoping he really did know this person and it wasn't someone just tricking him into looking stupid.

  I sat there reading one of the Billboards Dr. Brisbane was smart enough to put out. There was more news about the Ringlings' new owner and whether Mr. Feld could really make a go of it and save the circus in America. Given the dourness of my mood, I figured probably not. Funny. I'd joined the circus in its golden years and then stuck with it, directly or indirectly, for the rest of my life. Made me feel like its story was my story and vice versa and that I ought to be in a museum because of it. Course, the same could be said about pretty much everyone else in that orange-carpeted waiting room.

  As I moved up the waiting list, a parade of old troupers came in and got half nods from yours truly; you've never seen a sadder gathering of limps and manglements and people just plain moving in a way not normal. Though I'd been to Dr. Brisbane's office dozens and dozens of times, for some reason his waiting-room pageant was bothering me more than usual, so I was relieved when his secretary finally looked up from her
desk and called "Mabel Stark" in a loud croaky voice.

  I went in. He had his desk and bookshelves set up in one corner, an examination table in the opposite one. As usual, he was sitting at his desk, so I took the seat across from him and waited another few seconds while he scribbled something with a pen so fat it looked uncomfortable to write with. He was wearing a white lab coat with a tie underneath and his black plastic Steve Allen glasses.

  "Mabel!" he said. "How nice to see you. How are you?"

  "Fine," I said. "Just fine."

  "Tigers treating you okay? Had any scratches lately?"

  "Not a one."

  "Good. Good. One of these days I'm going to come out to JungleLand with my little grand-niece. Cute as a monkey's tail, she is. Two years old and lives right here in Thousand Oaks."

  "Well if you do make sure you tell them you know me and you can come backstage and meet the cats in person."

  "I'll do that, Mabel. I'll do that. Now what's the problem?"

  Here I paused so as to make it clear I wanted the conversation to shift gears.

  "Sleeping. Sleeping's the problem."

  "Having a touch of the insomnia, are we?"

  "Yes."

  "The kind in which you can't get to sleep or the kind in which you wake up in the middle of the night and can't fall back to sleep?"

  "The kind I wake up in the middle of the night and stay that way."

  Already he was reaching for his fat pen and prescription pad.

  "I wouldn't worry too much, Mabel. This happens a lot when people get a little on in years-"

  "No," I interrupted. "This is ... well, this is different. I can't fall back asleep because I've got memories popping up and staring me in the face. I don't suppose you'd have something that medicates against memories, would you?"

  He looked at me for a second, puzzled, before regaining an expression that beamed with confidence and comfort. Often I've told myself I'd go to see Dr. Brisbane even if that expression was the only thing he had in the way of medicine. Fortunately it wasn't, for he handed me a paper covered in chicken scratch and said, "One before bedtime. If that doesn't work, make it two."