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

by Robert Hough

  I stopped and looked around and realized I was standing next to Lillian Leitzel's private dressing tent. Naturally, it was both the biggest tent and the tent closest to the performers' curtain. Leitzel was sitting outside on a divan, smoking a cigarillo. She waved her left arm, the one gone meaty from all her planging, and called again. I went over. Her two bulldogs, Boots and Jerry, were snoring at her feet. Her tent was filled with flowers, courtesy of John Ringling, who had a devotion to her nobody quite understood except that it bordered on the slavish. Like most people I didn't like Leitzel but felt good when she paid me attention.

  "Good morning, Mabel," she said. "Vood you like to join me for a cigarette?"

  She offered me one of the thin dark things she was puffing on and because I didn't want to seem ungrateful I accepted. Lillian then passed me a Ronson, and when I lit up it was like breathing bark smoke. I worked hard to keep my face from roiling. Meanwhile Leitzel smoked and let a smile form around the spot where her lips held the cigarillo. After a few seconds, she took the cigarillo from her mouth and motioned with it toward the empty divan beside her.

  "Sit," she said. "Keep me company."

  The imperious way she said it made me want to slap her but by now I was so curious I reacted as though it was a kind invitation. So I sat down and smoked with her while we both watched the busyness of a circus lot only halfway put together. We could hear Negro canvasmen chanting as they pounded in the tent pegs, and we could hear someone warming the calliope.

  "I vatched your act ze other day," Leitzel finally said. "It really is somesing, how much control you have over ze tigers. I hope you vill be on the show a long time. I know Mr. John, yell, he speaks very highly of you. Alfred and I dined with him just before he vent to Sarasota and he told me so himself. He said, `You know, Lillian. Hiring Mabel Stark avay from Barnes vas one of ze smartest moves I ever made."'

  "Really?"

  "Oh yes. He told me he vass going to be looking at some more tigers for you. He'd like to give you ze biggest tiger act in ze country."

  "He said that?"

  "Oh my vord, yes."

  "I'm ... I'm surprised. I was beginning to think ... well, it's just that you never see him."

  "No no no. He vas insistent. He ask me to ask you if you prefer cage bred or jungle."

  "Don't really matter to me, so long as they're tigers."

  "All right, zen, I vill tell him."

  Just then, Con Colleano sauntered by and the two started chatting away in Spanish, Leitzel having picked up the language from her distempered Mexican husband. After a minute, Colleano and Leitzel said adios and Colleano walked off, his gait stiff-legged on account of his toreador pants being so tight and thickly spangled.

  "Ah ... zat man. He is enough to make you want to forget your husband and be foolish, is dis not right, Mabel? Are not ze Spaniards ze most vonderful? Spaniards and Russians. Both emotional as hyenas, only difference being ze vay dey show it, hmmmmm?"

  Not really sure what she was getting at, I murmured something that was neither a yes or a no. Leitzel looked around.

  "Speaking of husbands. Vell. Zey can be a trial, no? Zey can be something us vomen put up with, no? Such boys, zey are.,,

  "Lillian," I said. "Exactly whose husband are we talking about?"

  "Yours, mine ..." Here she waved her muscle-bound arm in the air and smiled. "Does it matter?"

  Suddenly my hopefulness evaporated and I eyeballed Leitzel and spoke in a way that wasn't my place given how rich and famous she was and given how strict the class system in the circus was. "Lillian," I said through teeth barely parted, "you got something to say, say it. I've got tigers not yet fed. What I don't have is all day."

  She let out a hiss of smoke and looked at me narrow-eyed. Then she butted out her cigarillo and sat back in her divan and stared forward. Her voice was smoky and low and indignant.

  "Mabel," she said, "vould you listen? I am trying to help you."

  Then she told me what was obvious to everyone on the circus but me.

  The sound some words can make: was like she'd taken a four-hundredpound copper bell and rung it, her words reverberating for a full minute afterwards. I could practically hear those words pushing the air around, clanging over and over. Thank God the two Ringlings had been down in Sarasota for the past three months watching their palaces get built.

  "Thank you," I said weakly.

  I took a short cut through the half-risen big top, the canvasmen yelling words of caution and me not listening, till I hit the connection and turned right and then half walked, half ran past the Congress of Freaks until I reached the red wagon parked next to the main entrance. I turned the door handle and found him in there, alone, so I started hitting him and slapping him and punching him and yelling, "You've got to put it back, Albert! You have to put it back! You know what they'll do to you if you get caught!"

  Through a lattice of fingers he cried, "Calm down Mabel put what back?!" and it was the fake innocence of this made me doubletime my hits and slaps and yell, "Don't play dumb with me, Albert! You're stealing from the Ringlings which is bad enough but you're also my manager. How do you think that looks!"

  Albert then had the nerve to cry, "Honest Mabel I haven't any idea what you're talking about!" This made me see red; I actually picked up a big metal three-hole punch and honked him a good one on the head so he fell to his knees and gripped his noggin with two hands. Suddenly, he was all ears.

  "Listen to me. You have to put the money back."

  "All right," he whimpered, "all right. I will. All right. For Christ's sake, Mabel, I will...."

  I dropped the three-hole punch to the floor and it hit with a wood-chipping thud. Then I stood breathing hard, wishing there was such a thing as killing a man without repercussions or feelings of guilt. After a time, Albert got up and sank back in his office chair and closed his eyes, still holding the pummelled portion of his forehead. I'd left a bump that'd swell to the size of an Easter egg, and I pitied him the headache that'd soon set in, though not enough to stop me from saying, "Find someplace else to sleep tonight, you cheap excuse for a man."

  Then I walked out, hoping that maybe a good bonk on the head might've knocked some sense into him. Course, this was wishful thinking, for making a man feel battered and ashamed only feeds the flames of his compulsion, particularly if that battering and shame comes at the hands of his wife.

  To make a long story short, Albert moved out, setting himself up in hotels until space opened in one of the office-staff Pullmans. He kept gambling too. Now that he was out of my life, I found I could tolerate keeping my ears open for the whisperings and rumour and gossip. Just goes to show you how stupid Albert was, for he'd always head to the best speak in town, and with two thousand people in the circus was a sure thing he'd be spotted by someone out for the evening. There was talk of him playing poker till all hours with mobsters; of him playing roulette, winning hundreds on one spin and losing it all the next; of him playing blackjack, one-armed bandits, even baccarat, which shows how talk gets exaggerated for there was no such thing as baccarat in America at the time. Still, there was no denying he was out of control. Worse, there were still times when I felt it was my job to save him, for you could practically hear the hey-rube boys dusting off their blackjacks while waiting for the word from Mr. John or Mr. Charles.

  Three-quarters of the way through the season, with the circus heading east, I got a message that the Ringling manager, Charles Curley, wanted to see me. I was walking Rajah so I took him along to Curley's office, a tent set up next to the one that would've been occupied by Charles Ringling were he not down south.

  "Mabel," Curley said, looking solemn.

  "Charles," I said, taking a seat in one of the chairs opposite his desk. Rajah sat in the other, licking his chops and looking pleased.

  "Suppose you know why I asked to see you."

  "Can't say I do, Charles."

  "It's about your husband."

  "Ain't no husband of mine. I'd make
it official but there's no time on tour. Believe me, my lawyer's on standby in Bridgeport. Moment we get there I'll be Mabel Ewing no longer."

  Here Charles's face looked like a shadow had fallen over it. He peered down at some ledger books on his desk and said nothing, though he did take a big breath, which he let go of in the form of a sigh.

  With a dry mouth I asked, "How much is it?"

  "About $7,000, Mabel. That's not inconsiderable."

  There were a few more seconds of silence. For $7,000 they'd redlight him, a punishment involved getting thrown off a moving train, your limbs scattering for miles and the cops so puzzled they wouldn't even bother trying to fit the bits and pieces back together.

  "All right. I'll see what I can do."

  Which turned to be: pretty much nothing. I saw Albert in his suite that night, only to find it's pretty difficult to get your point across when neither one of you is talking. Finally, I just up and outed with "For Christ's sake, Ewing, the least you can do is run. You might stay healthy that way."

  This made him spitting mad. He got on his feet and started ranting, "For the love of Mike how many times do I have to tell you? I haven't stolen a penny. I'm the show accountant. I have rearranged some accounts on a short-term basis so that certain high-ranking Ringling employees have some operating capital. I'm allowed to do that, Mabel. It's in my contract. The books will balance at the end of the season, though I cannot for the life of me see how it's any of your concern so why don't you go off and play with your cats seeing as how you love them so much...."

  He went on and on, his true feelings about the value of my profession coming out in great big dollops, for which I was thankful as it made getting up and walking out easier. Course, he kept right on gambling. As far as I can tell he gambled even heavier, no doubt desperate to put back the money he'd borrowed and feeling the whole time that's what he was going to do. I started hearing rumours the figure had grown to $8,500, and by October an even ten.

  Then John Ringling rejoined the circus.

  I never saw him, what with his sleeping all day and working all night, though I didn't have to. You could sense his presence. Everywhere I went, I heard chatter that Mr. John had been speaking to so-and-so, or that he'd been seen doing this or that, or that someone had passed his Pullman late at night and heard his voice, booming and rich, hollering at the stock ticker. Plus there were changes in the operation of the circus. Performers sharpened their acts and smiled more in case Mr. John's private box got used. The animals looked better. Though the band always played during mealtimes, they started playing songs designed to please Mr. John in case he was in earshot. The day he came back they played "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" at both lunch and dinner. Days passed, though not enough to make a week. I wasn't sure what Albert was doing and convinced myself I didn't at all care. One night after the show I was in the ladies' side of the dressing tent when one of the spec riders came in and said, "Someone's outside for you, Mabel."

  So I went outside, still in my leathers, and found Bailey; he was standing close enough to a light I could see his hangdog face was even more hangdog than usual. I said three words only: "Where is he?" to which he answered, just as simply, "Da trains, Miss Stark. He at da trains."

  As the rail yard was close that night, and the transport wagons wouldn't start going for another twenty minutes, I started running. After a hundred feet or so I remembered my abduction in Bowling Green so I turned and ran back to the menage and got Rajah and we set out together, Rajah thinking this running across a field in the middle of the night was some kind of game and enjoying himself because of it.

  I was out of breath by the time I could make out the station light in the distance. As we got closer I saw something that would've horrified me if I'd stopped and let it. Hanging from the mail gantry was a bag, and judging from its size it sure wasn't mail inside.

  I got there and sure enough it could've only been a body. I was afraid to open it, figuring him for dead or near to it, so instead I stood there, shivering. Fond memories surfaced, though it's true I had to go all the way back to that night in the back of a chauffeur-driven car and Albert not being able to take his eyes off my left leg. At this thought I sniffled loudly, causing a muffled sound to come from inside the bagwas a mmmm mmmm, mmmmm mmmm mmmmmmmmmm ...

  I looked down at Rajah, confused, and he looked up at me with ears cocked. I reached out and unzipped the bag. Sure enough, Albert was inside, face beet-red, hanging upside down and naked, wriggling to beat the band and trying to talk through the adhesive tape stretched over his mouth. His body had been blackened somehow, and for one second I thought maybe the rube-boys had burnt him to a crisp. This thought persisted for less than a half-second, however, for Albert was wriggling and swinging and doubling up so frantically you'd swear someone was tickling the soles of his feet with a feather. So I reached out and pulled a forefinger down his midsection. It came away damp with motor oil.

  There's one other thing worth mentioning: stuck to all that oil was feathers. Hundreds and hundreds of little feathers-chicken, most likely. It looked like a good old tar and feathering, a traditional punishment for grifters, card cheats and confidence men. The only difference was oil had been used instead of hot tar (which had a habit of leaving burns so bad a man could die later of infection). All in all, it showed John Ringling had both a sense of humour and a respect for yours truly.

  I said a little prayer of thanks and started laughing, something that seemed to enrage Albert for his eyes popped open and he started mmmmm-mmmmm-mmmmming in a girlish pitch. The frenzy in his voice made me laugh even harder, so that after a few seconds I had to lie down and hold my stomach and laugh away all the pressure of the past year. Fact is, I laughed so hard tears were rolling down my face and I couldn't catch my breath and my head was exploding though in a good way. Rajah started arfing, concerned maybe I'd gone crazy. This went on and on, Albert squealing and me laughing and Rajah arfing. Around the time the first wagons started coming from the lot I got up, collected myself and walked off, leaving Albert and his privates dangling upside down for every performer, groomer, menage man and stake driver to see.

  Next morning, he was gone for good.

  That day, I caught up to Charles Curley walking down the connection and said, "I've got to see Mr. John."

  He stopped and looked at me and said, "He's busy, Mabel. It's season end ..."

  I put my hand on his forearm and communicated how serious I was by saying, "Charles ... please."

  He nodded.

  Course, this took some doing. John Ringling didn't get up till ten in the evening and refused to conduct any business till after breakfast. By that point, the train was moving and the only car connected to his was his brother's, who was still in Sarasota making sure the palaces got built right. So I had to wait until the next Sunday, a night called insomnia night because the train didn't move and everyone had trouble sleeping without a lot of clacking and jostling underneath. I was told to go to the Pullman around midnight, by which time he would've finished eating what he ate every day for breakfast: corned-beef hash washed down with Old Curio.

  I knocked on the door and wouldn't you know it the man himself answered, cloth napkin still tucked in his shirt collar.

  "Mabel!" he cried, as though I was in the habit of dropping by on a regular basis. "How nice to see you!"

  He held out his hand and I shook it, my little white paw com pletely disappearing inside his meatiness. He shook my hand so long and so heartily it was more a case of my extracting it than him letting it go.

  He offered me a seat and I took it while he, for some reason, remained standing behind his desk. A waiter in black pants, white shirt and a red velour vest was putting Mr. John's dirty plates on a silver tray, Mr. John wiping his lips and then tossing the dirty napkin on top of the dishes. I waited for his valet to go back into the private kitchen at the end of Mr. John's Pullman before I said, "Mr. Ringling, I just want to thank you for the way you handled the situation with my h
usband. What he had coming was way worse than what you gave him and even though he's a snake in the grass I still want to say how thankful I am and that I hope what he did won't affect your opinion of me."

  He lit a double corona, so I wasn't sure whether cigar smoke or the unseemliness of my apology made him squint. When he was finished, he shook the match out by waving it in the air, though at the same time he seemed to be waving away the conversation topic. From where I sat he looked about ten feet tall.

  "How are you, Mabel?"

  "I'm good, Mr. Ringling."

  "And the act? How's the act coming along?"

  "Fantastic. Been working hard on some new tricks. By next season we'll have a double flaming hoop jumper and a pair of tigers riding a see-saw and with any luck a tightrope walker."

  Here John Ringling's eyes widened.

  "A tightrope-walking tiger? Really? Mabel, you have to be kidding me? Which one is it?"

  "The Himalayan."

  "My God, she's a beauty too, isn't she?"

  "All my cats are beauties, Mr. John. It's not hard keeping them that way on this show."

  "Oh no, I won't hear it, Mabel. If those cats are healthy it's your doing and your doing alone." Here he finished a half tumbler of Old Curio-just picked it up and threw it down his throat like it was punch. Was when he placed the glass back on the table I noticed his hand was puffy and a little pink.

  "Now listen, Mabel, I know I promised you a twelve-tiger act when I hired you off the Barnes show and you've been very patient and I want to reward that patience. I've got my eye on fifteen tigers a game warden's got himself in India. Once he figures a way to, uh, extract them from the country, they're yours. It's only a matter of time. Think you could train a twenty-two-tiger act, Mabel?"