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

by Robert Hough

  When I was finished teasing him I kissed him and stood and looked in the mirror once more and took a deep, nerve-steadying breath. I stepped outside and saw a car waiting. A chauffeur was holding the door open, though most of what I could see inside was shadows. There was, however, a leg protruding from the gloom, covered in striped material and ending in a polished spat, and my assumption was it belonged to Al G.

  I got in the car and was proven correct.

  That evening Al G. took me to one of the best restaurants in Chicago, and though I forget the name I remember the menu was all in French French and not the uncommon French they speak in the Bayou. The table was decorated with candles and fresh flowers and real silver, and there were men in tuxedos who wandered around playing whatever you wanted on the violin so long as you gave them a dollar afterwards. Al G. joked we should ask for something minor key and frigolet-ish, a joke that made me chuckle, though in the end he paid for "I Dreamt I Dwelt In Marble Halls," a song popular back then and one I liked because it was something I'd dreamt as well.

  Was the twenties, you see, and with all that money starting to float around people were looking for new ways to spend it. Everything we ate that night had names I'd never heard before: Waldorf Salad and Lobster Newburg and Oysters Rockefeller and Baked Alaska. Before dinner we started with a brand-new drink that came in a long-stemmed glass with a cone-shaped bowl. They called it a martini, and it tasted a little like the ethyl propolene we used to run the generators (though with a hint of taste given by the olive plopped in the middle of it). The sight of all these people in expensive suits and fox stoles sipping these drinks like they were the nectar of the gods was enough to make me believe old P.T. had been right when he'd said the public could be made to believe anything. Hell, I even tried one myself. After two I could've yodelled from a mountaintop.

  Still.

  I figured we were here to discuss business, and around the time the white wine came, along with the funny salad crammed with nuts and apples and slices of celery, I upped and outed with it: "Al G. We have to talk about Rajah. Mr. Ringling needs an idea what he's going to cost."

  Al G. looked weakened. His mouth shrivelled and his eyes rounded and his eyebrows slanted up and toward the middle, so that they looked like the sides of a pup tent. He wiped his mouth on a linen napkin and said, "Kentucky. Please..." and without giving me enough time to figure out what that please was supposed to mean he started telling me about the first sideshow act the Barnes dog-and-pony ever employed, a prestidigitator with a sickness that made him keen on burning things to the ground. One night, when they were playing in a room above an Odd Fellows Hall, this particular prestidigitator went back to the hall in the middle of the night and did just that, the building reduced to a mound of cinders in minutes. The whole town got in a ruckus and when Al G. heard about it he knew what'd happened. In a flash he packed up his dog, his ponies, his performing mule and his Edison Vitascope and he hightailed it out of town before the rubes figured out the travelling show was the culprit. As he fled he kept looking over his shoulder and seeing smoke funnel toward the skies, and as he did he wished he had a pair of horses instead of two short-legged ponies incapable of flat-out running.

  Course, it was a story that made me laugh heartily, for being chased by rubes is a panic I'd known once or twice myself. As I laughed, it occurred to me this was the best sort of story there is: sad then, funny now, with miles and miles of honest picked up along the way.

  The fish came and after that a huge slab of meat, chateau something or other, that Al G. and I were meant to share. I lost count of the glasses of wine the waiter brought, though I do remember they kept changing colours, from white to garnet to a light green one we had with our flaming ice cream. Throughout, Al G. kept telling one story after another, and as the wine made me number and number and his stories made me giddier and giddier, I began to feel like a spoilsport for wanting to discuss matters of commerce. Afterwards we took a walk down Michigan Avenue, the Windy City not living up to its name that night for the air was balmy and still and the sidewalks full of people strolling. It felt good to be with someone I'd known for nearly a decade and had never rubbed the wrong way. It was like it proved something good about myself.

  When Al G. finally brought me back to the train it was after one in the morning and I was drunk as a skunk and, for the first time in my life, wishing I could slough the next day's matinee off on someone else. Maybe it was the high time Al G. and I had just had, or maybe it was the fact I was going to be leaving soon, both of which are states of affairs that make people do things they've always wanted to do but never realized they wanted to.

  What I'm saying is: I came a hair's breadth from inviting Al G. in, though thank God before the words came out of my mouth I gave my head a rattle and contented myself with a quick sisterly peck on the cheek. "Good night, Al G." were the last words out of my mouth. I went inside my stateroom, at first being quiet so as not to rouse Rajah, but then thinking the comfort of a body warm and soft was just the thing I needed. I undressed and got under the covers and stroked Rajah's cat ears, and as he started to purr I helped myself to some rubbing that made the front of me slick with coat oil.

  Next day, the jump was to a place called Clinton, Illinois, and after that the circus started making long jumps south, training straight through the west tip of Kentucky and down through Mississippi before entering the state of Florida during a tropical storm that turned the Barnes show into a regular old mud show-we put a full ton of tanbark down on the midway and when it sank into the quagmire we switched to straw and when this didn't work we finally resorted to hay, only to see it eaten up by the mud and rain as well. Didn't matter, though. Folks couldn't get enough of the circus, and not only did the houses get filled but they got filled by people wanting to lighten their pockets. That year everyone on the show made more money than they would've ever thought possible, from the candy butchers to the chameleon vendors to the sideshow freaks. There were grifters who made so much money they left the show mid-season to buy small farms or ranches, saying they were bound and determined to straighten up and fly right and maybe even have a kid or two. Most were back by the end of the year, having lost their deeds in high-stakes poker games and looking not at all regretful.

  From Talahassee and Baton Rouge we were on to Natchez, Mississipi, followed by Port Gibson and Vicksburg and Greenville and Clarksdale before making a 123-mile Sunday jump to Wynne, Arkansas, where cold damp weather again had no effect on the size of the houses. This was followed by another hundred-plus mile jump, this time to a place called Yellville, Kansas; seems the Yellvillians had never seen a live hippo before, and they were so fascinated by Lotus we could barely get them out of the menage to start the main performance. Then it was on to Colorado, Utah and Nevada before winding our way back into the state of California via the north end.

  Now, all this is a matter of public record. What Billboard and White Tops and the dailies didn't know is in the top end of Mississippi, in a town called Holly Springs, Miss Leonora Speeks left the Al G. Barnes 4-Ring Wild Animal Circus. No one knew why-was a rumour her mother had passed away, something no one believed for she looked more aggrieved than grieved. All we knew is one day she was Al G.'s big-hipped wife and the next she was standing outside Al G.'s rail car, surrounded by trunks and suitcases and dress bags and hat boxes, looking exceedingly wronged. When her car came she let the driver move every piece of luggage while she stood looking impatient. Then she got in, flashing a last bit of leg for the workingmen.

  There was one other thing Billboard and White Tops didn't know. While the well-endowed Miss Speeks prepared a divorce suit back in Oregon, Al G. Barnes, a man whose fortunes were growing by leaps and bounds, was turning his attentions to a certain blond tiger trainer whose fetching days may or may not've been behind her.

  If there was a particularly good performance, say I'd gotten another cat to ball roll or sit up, there'd be flowers and a congratulatory note. Sometimes he'd come in the co
okhouse when I was eating and sit with me; this gave me the status of management and was therefore hard not to appreciate. During an evening show someplace in Colorado, one of the cats, Lady was her name, got a little pissed off about something and took a swipe at my arm. It wasn't serious, though her nails had taken a good rip out of my white leather bodysuit. Instead of having Mrs. Mac, the head of wardrobe, stitch it up, I came back to my car and found three brand-new leather suits with a note from Al G. saying he couldn't afford to have his star act looking dingy out there (even if it was only for the rest of the year).

  Then. During a matinee in Carson City I finally got that evil little Sumatran to ball walk. It'd taken over two years of gentling and was something you do for personal satisfaction only-though Billboard made a brief mention of jewel's new trick, the vast majority of rubes never realized it was a trick once considered impossible, given how mean and pouncy Sumatrans are. Al G. noticed, though. Two mornings later, I was sitting in my car, resting, when there was a knock on the door. Al G. was standing there, alone. He was carrying a round cardboard tube.

  "Good morning, Kentucky."

  "Morning."

  "Do you mind if I come in?"

  "No," I said, stepping aside. "Please do."

  He walked in, all smiles, saying, "I thought you might like to see my newest paper."

  I said I would, and he walked over to Louis's old desk and pulled the master copy of a poster from the tube and laid it on the desk, flattening it down by leaning on it with either hand. I walked over and so did Rajah, who sensed something interesting was about to happen. I stood to Al G.'s left, and Rajah planted his forepaws to Al G.'s right, something that made Al G. a little nervous for he always believed it was only a matter of time before Rajah started acting like a normal tiger.

  I looked down. My eyes turned misty.

  The line running across the bottom of the poster read, "The Queen of the Jungle Presents a Notable Congress of the Earth's Most Ferocious Performing Lions and Tigers." Above it was a picture of my face, filling the whole poster. Furthermore, it was my face before I'd had accidents, back when I was unscarred and perfect, skin like porcelain, eyes as blue as Kentucky skies. Was like my face when I was eighteen, and as I looked at it one word kept popping into my head.

  Before. Before before before.

  Plus the poster was gold. The border was gold and my hair was gold and my uniform was gold, thick and pure and solid. This was something that never happened back then, gold being a colour printers had a tough time with, and it must've cost Al G. a fortune. But there I was, smiling and beautiful and eighteen again, in the first gold poster ever in the history of the circus. Was sheer stupidity, Al G. only being able to use it for another two months, but it was a stupidity that made me feel warm and wanted, and that's a feeling few women can resist. Even Rajah started purring, though I had to keep him away from the poster so he wouldn't paw it to shreds.

  Later that week, when we pulled into San Franciso, Al G. took me to dinner again. Was a lot like the first time, there being a violinist and French on the menu and each wine a different colour than the wine previous. By the time we hit the meat course there was no doubt what was going to transpire when we returned to the train, something that made the rest of the meal practically solemn. We skipped dessert and rode back to the train in silence. We stopped in front of the Holt car, and he held the door for me. I took a good look around while Al G. poured apple brandy: the ceiling was dark wood and there were brass fixtures and a huge polar bear rug covering a floor made from beech. There was a hearth and a dining table for eight. The bed he escorted me to was framed in mahogany.

  We never even sipped our drinks, for what commenced was a flurry of kissing and clothing removal, and the next thing I knew I was on my back, naked except for my jewellery, thankful the lights were dim and Al G. couldn't see my scars. Took his time, he did. I could tell he considered himself a Casanova of the highest order, for there were flourishes and fine touches and figure eights that simply didn't need to be there. He even suckled a part of me I thought men simply wouldn't, the sensation being one of astonishment more than anything else. Suppose I shouldn't complain, for there was a sureness and a slowness I'd never noted in a man before. Plus he was so handsome he didn't even lose his looks when it came to that moment, a time when most men's faces tend to flap slightly and lose their definition. He was gentle about it, too, meaning it all took a while, such that when he finally sped up and yelled, "Oh my Sweet Dinah," I was starting to feel a mild cramping in my upturned legs. To make him feel better I called out myself, something to do with the heavens above, and dug my nails into his shoulders.

  Was then he pulled off me and a strange thing happened. With no more lust or desire between us, the situation attained a clarity and announced itself as surely as a new day announces itself. At exactly the same moment, we both understood why we were together, in Al G. Barnes's sumptuous rail car, and with that came a weight. It settled over us like a bank of heat. Was a weight that talked, too, meaning we didn't have to say a thing, the weight having the conversation for us.

  Him: You still joining the Ringling show?

  Me: You still refusing to sell Rajah?

  Him and me, chiming together like a choir: Yes.

  I dressed in silence, feeling slutty and used and guilty Al G. probably felt the same way. At the door I took a quick glance over my shoulder and had a last look at that handsome, handsome man, lying naked under a sheet, looking up at the ceiling, barely able to believe he hadn't got what he'd wanted. It must've been a shock to his system. Was the only time I ever saw him looking sad (and it still strikes me as odd that Al G. looking sad is the Al G. I picture whenever he comes to mind).

  And what of me? What of Mary Haynie slash Mary Williams slash Mabel Roth slash Mabel Stark, soon-to-be Ringling star? What did I do? Went back to my car and pushed my face into Rajah's fur and bawled at the prospect of leaving him. Rajah woke but he didn't get playful or mad. He just lay there, quiet and listening, maybe licking his lips a few times. Was this bit of comfort that made me decide I couldn't do without him. So I got up and dressed and threw a few clothes into a bag and got Rajah off the bed and put a leash on him. I opened the door to my car and looked both ways.

  The problem was I'd never stolen anything in my life, and if you're going to steal something as big as a 550-pound tiger it's good to get some practise beforehand. After all these years of hard work and trying to stabilize my life, here I was, in the dark, readying to flee, relying on nothing but reflexes and pluck again. Was a misery there I had to ignore if I was going to get this done, so I bucked myself up and whispered, "Come on, Rajah, there's a good boy." Doggone it if Rajah didn't pick that moment to grow a sudden attachment to the Al G. Barnes Circus, for he looked over his shoulder and gawked at the train and his whiskers turned down like a person regretful. Or maybe he saw the foolishness of a woman and her tiger just wandering off planless into a dark field, animals sometimes showing an instinct for preservation that most humans lack. Whatever it was, he planted his royal orange-and-black haunches. Just sat them in the dirt and refused to budge.

  "C'mon, Rajah," I hissed, pulling hard on his leash. "Come on."

  Course, there's no way even a large man can move an animal the size of a full-grown Bengal, though in times of desperation simple facts tend to get lost in the kerfuffle. By the time another half-minute of tugging had gone by, I was at a forty-five-degree angle from the ground, pulling with all my might, feet digging into the dirt, pleading through tears, "C'mon baby please please please we have to go...."

  And then Dan appeared out of nowhere.

  "Mabel," came a voice.

  I stopped heaving, looked up and saw him, his expression saying what I was doing was cheap and felonious and worthy of pity all at the same time. I couldn't believe it. I hadn't even gotten off the lot and the jig was up. Feeling as though a pinprick had let any and all energy out of me I dropped the leash and half fell and half sat in the dirt. I co
uldn't look at Dan or Rajah, could only sit with my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands, feeling like an old scarred woman, even though I'd barely cracked thirty. Didn't even cry, for I didn't have the gumption, and believe me that's about the worst way in the world a person can feel.

  Time got lazy playing itself out. It felt like we stayed in those positions, frozen like chess pieces, for minutes and minutes, though it was probably just seconds. Throughout, Dan just stood there, monitoring, while Rajah panted and for some damn reason looked pleased. Finally, I just got up and walked back to the rail car and left the door open, and when Rajah followed me in I closed the door and told him in a sharp voice he was sleeping on the floor.

  I slept heavily and dreamless that night, and then woke late, feeling achy and tired. By the time I got to the lot Red had done more than half the work, which was bad for he was already mad enough at me for getting friendly with Al G. and not him.

  What happened then is still a mystery. Maybe Dan had had a word with Al G. Maybe Al G. had stopped to consider how I'd feel if Rajah was taken from me. Or maybe he woke up remembering a circus owner is a businessman, first and foremost, and that the moment I left for the Ringling show Rajah would pretty much be worthless. Or (and this was the one I found the likeliest), maybe he couldn't stand the prospect of leaving a bad taste in a woman's mouth, particularly one he'd been with the previous night. All I know is I found an envelope with my name on it stuck to the door of my Pullman room. I opened it. Was an offer to sell Rajah the Wrestling Tiger for $10,000, roughly twenty-five times what a healthy trained adult Bengal went for in 1920.

  Still, it was an offer, and I had it delivered to John Ringling, who apparently wrote out a cheque without thinking. I never even had a chance to thank Al G., Dan telling me he'd gone off to Nevada to oversee the construction of some house he was having built in the middle of the desert. After that, I finished out the season as quietly as possible. Word got round I was giving up the Barnes show for the Ringling show, and though there were a lot of congratulations and back-slapping there was a feeling on the lot I wasn't "with it and for it," which meant a slight frostiness every time I came upon a group of people. Or maybe it really was jealousy, something that brings out the worst in people. Mostly I spent my time with the tigers I'd have to say goodbye to.