by Robert Hough
This was a whole lot to digest (though later I'd learn this was usually the case with Art's take on things). So I just sat pondering, the mad gone out of me, thinking, Who is this little man?
"So," he said after a bit, "the question is, How're you going to get back in a tiger cage where you belong?"
Was a question made my situation come rushing back. I sighed and said, "It's a problem."
"Everything's a problem. That's hardly an excuse not to do anything about it. That way when the next problem comes along you'll only have the one problem to deal with instead of two. The way I see it, the Ringling Brothers don't want a cat act, but they also don't want any other circus drawing with your name. Am I right?"
"You're right, all right."
"Well, maybe they need a little convincing."
"They," I said, "are never around. They're always gallivanting around Europe, buying up art or violins, or they're down in Florida building homes the size of Rhode Island. They're impossible to get to."
"If they were easy to get to it wouldn't be much of a problem, now would it? Listen, I got an elephant who needs a little TLC. You want to come?"
I thought about this a second, said yes and followed Art out of the menage toward the bull yard. On the way, Art picked up a newspaper and a thermos of coffee. Meanwhile, he talked a blue streak.
"I'll tell you something. They weren't a second too early hiring me. The condition of this menage-terrible. Terrible. I thought things were bad with Hagenbeck, but this! When I took my first look I practically called up those crazy Jack Londoners just to tell them what was what. Take a look for yourself." Here he motioned with his arms. "Cockatoos losing their feathers, chimps with cage fever, distempered camels, hyenas so depressed they've quit laughing, poxed lemurs, scurvied wombats, there's a Sicilian burro I swear has psoriasis-the poor bastard's practically standing in a hill of his own dandruff. Plus Zak-Zak being a llama they'd painted red and attached horns to so he'd look suitably hell-sent during the new spec, "The Wrath of Moses"-you had a look at him lately? All that paint has clogged his pores so he doesn't sweat properly. It's no wonder he's been so draggy of late. No, I'll tell you the truth. If those Ringlings had waited just a little while longer they wouldn't have had a menage for a new menage boss to take care of."
We reached the bull pens. Art began walking down the aisle separating the rows of enclosures, looking for the elephant that concerned him. He stopped in front of the space holding Tony, a big African bull who three years earlier had gotten loose during parade and had sat on a knockwurst stand, killing no one but causing so much damage he might as well have. He was about to be shipped off when John Ringling, feeling drunk and silly, noted Tony's actions as being patriotic and deserving of a spot in the menage. Since then, the old elephant had spent his time scaring children and trumpeting aggressively. Each of his feet were shackled, something the bull men did with bulls gone rogue.
"You'll need a section of newspaper," Art said in a voice lowered but not quite a whisper. "Here, take the front. See that hay bundle there? Have a seat so you're sideways to Tony, and start perusing. Don't look straight at the bull or he'll be liable to get riled and lean over and squash me. This shouldn't take long."
I did as I was told, feeling the sort of curiosity that makes your heart speed. I tried to focus on the newspaper, at the same time peering out the side of my eye, fascinated by what Art was up to.
Which was: after unshackling the juncture electrifying the enclosure wires, he stepped inside Tony's area. He never once looked at the animal. Instead, he sat on a little chair that'd been placed in the most dangerous spot imaginable, by which I mean right beside the elephant, in a prime spot for a squashing. Was the stupidest thing I'd ever seen anyone do, though it didn't seem to bother Art. He slowly unscrewed the top of his thermos and he opened the sports pages and he leaned back and acted like he was enjoying a coffee break, which in a way I suppose he was. (For the record, he crossed his legs at the ankles and not at the knee, thank you very much.)
Tony couldn't take his eyes off this strange fellow with the newspaper. His tail was snapping at flies so hard it was making little slapping noises on his haunches. By the same token, he wasn't trumpeting or sweating profusely or doing any of the things that indicate an elephant's in distress. He also didn't try to teeter himself on top of Art, something rogue elephants are fond of doing and a plan of action that must've crossed his mind at least once or twice.
He seemed content to keep an eye on what Art was doing, which to my mind was not a whole lot. He just sat there, reading and taking sips of coffee. You want to know the truth, it was sort of boring, watching Art gentle an elephant, the only action coming when Art turned a page. After a bit, I went back to my own part of the paper.
Finally, and I mean finally, for I'd been sitting on that bale long enough my underside was feeling pins and needles, Art swallowed the last of his coffee. He made the sound people make when they're happy and satisfied-an exhalation of breath with a hint of rasp tossed inand he carefully screwed the thermos top back on. Then he folded his newspaper and placed it next to the thermos, which was a little tilted due to the unevenness of the bull-pen bedding.
He got up and walked to the front of the elephant, held out his hands, and God strike me dead if Tony didn't calmly place the tip of his trunk in Art's hands. Every part of that elephant went completely still, the exception being the tip of his trunk, its movements so much like that of a caterpillar I couldn't help but marvel at the similarity. After a bit, Art lifted Tony's trunk end and placed it to his lips, and to this day I'm not sure if he whispered something or simply breathed out warm air. It was probably the latter, seeing as elephants can't hear out of their noses, though with Art you never knew: he was the type of guy who could tell you elephants can too hear through their noses, and because of the Indian in him you felt narrow-minded and stupid insisting they couldn't.
This went on for ... what? A minute? Two at the most. When he was done, he held the underside of Tony's trunk in his right hand while stroking the top with his left. Throughout he kept saying, "Good boy, good boy. That's it. We'll have no more trouble out of you, am I right or am I a man gone crazy?"
That night, Tony rejoined the team of elephants used for tearing down the big top, his immense size coming in handy with the centre poles.
The next day, I saw Art eating alone in the cookhouse. I asked to join him, his face brightening when I sat. I took my first bite of roast beef, and while I was chewing I noticed yet another curiosity about Art Rooney: heaped on his plate were mounds of vegetables without the slightest bit of meat in sight (which is something the hippies do all the time now but back then raised eyebrows more than the fact he wore makeup). We chatted about animals and my act and what I was going to do about it. When we were near being done-which took close to an hour, Art having a theory that food digested better if you chewed each bite until there was nothing left to chew-I told him about Rajah.
"Ever since I stopped working him, he's turned a little surly. Started growling at strangers, particularly highfalutin ones. And I've noticed his gums are a little bloodied in the mornings."
"What's his age?"
"Seven."
"You feedin him innards?"
"I am now."
"His coat's fine?"
"Thin, in places."
"Well. I gotta say it doesn't sound like he's sick, which leaves only one other possibility."
I had a feeling he'd say that.
"But don't you think if he was going to go rogue he would've done it already?"
"Not always. I figure animals and humans are alike, in that most of them all do the same thing the same way, except for the odd few who march to the beat of a different drummer. Now they're the ones I usually take to and vice versa. Fact is, I'd very much like to meet your Rajah. I've a feeling we'd get on."
I hesitated, but only for a second.
"Take our coffees?"
Seeing as the lot was close to the
trains, and it was a nice cool sunny day, we didn't wait for a service wagon. Course, we got plenty of sidelong glances during the three-block walk through town, partly because I was wearing my riding costume (long divided skirts, English jacket, white tricorne hat) and partly because Art was wearing lipstick that made him look like he'd been sucking on an orange. We reached the yard and found the performers' train.
As Art and I walked along the cars you could tell he was impressed by how far up the train I was: Colleano, Pallenberg, the Christensen horse family, Bird Millman and May Wirth all had their staterooms around mine. A little farther up was the Pullman occupied by Lillian Leitzel and Alfred Cadona, and beyond that were the opulent private cars occupied by John and Charles Ringling when they travelled with the circus.
I knocked to let Rajah know I was coming in and pushed the door open. Art looked at what little there was to look at: dresser, bed, washbasin. Above the bed was the only piece of art in the room: the gold poster Al G. Barnes had made when he was courting me so I wouldn't leave his circus. I'd framed it and put it behind glass so it wouldn't yellow.
Rajah was in the corner, groggily licking his lips and coming awake.
I didn't think twice when Art moved over to make Rajah's acquaintance, Art having the gift and Rajah looking completely at home with the idea. His head was resting on one of his paws and he was licking a stretch of fur.
Art kneeled in front of Rajah and said, "Good boy, good boy," and he followed this by scratching Rajah's ear. Rajah yawned, and resumed licking himself. Art was turning his head and saying, "I think he likes me," when it happened: without a sound, Rajah swiped a nail along Art's forearm, removing a considerable chunk of flesh.
Art howled and jumped to his feet. I rushed over and batted Rajah on the nose. Then I turned to Art and apologized like a ninny.
"Don't worry," lie said through gritted teeth. "It's nothin'. A scratch. I guess I shouldn't have been so forward."
"Let me see."
Art was reluctant to pull away his hand, though when blood and goopy orange started seeping up through his fingers I insisted, peeling back a pinky to promote the idea. A sizable chunk of arm had been torn out and was left in place only by a flap of skin up toward the elbow. He'd have some nasty mashed potato scarring, though my concern at that moment was his nerves, so I asked him if he could make a fist. He could, though when he did he winced and a bubble of orange geysered up from the wound. Seeing this, I grabbed one of my riding blouses and told him to clamp it hard over the entry.
"It isn't bad," I said. On our way out I flashed Rajah a glance that said he'd have a talking to and maybe more when I got back.
We stepped outside, Art hunched and holding his wound, our immediate problem being I wasn't sure he could walk the three blocks back to the lot, given his eyes were tearing and his nose was snotting and if he wasn't feeling light-headed he would be soon. Just then, a wagon pulled up with a bunch of spec aerialists, all of whom gasped when they noticed the rag on Art's arm was soaked crimson. The driver shooed them off and helped me get Art into the wagon cab. He drove back to the lot quicker than normal.
"Now don't you worry," I said on the way. "I've been bitten a lot worse so I know what to do. I'm not saying it won't smart some, but you'll be okay. I knew it as soon as I saw your fingers wiggle. Trust me. It'll be more of an inconvenience than anything."
The driver dropped us in front of the infirmary tent. Of course the doctor was out somewhere so I laid Art out on a gurney and put his arm over a bowl and I cleaned the arm with cloths dipped in boric solution. Then I let it drip. After a while Doc Ketchum heard he had some business and came hustling over and agreed it looked about as good as a wound oozing pus has a right to. Art slept while I went off to do the matinee. For dinner I spooned him some soup along with some reassurances, and it was around this time Doc Ketchum and I decided his wound had drained enough to be bandaged, there being no defined cut or place to do any stitching. The evening show started and shortly after that some workingmen showed up, wanting to take down the tent, so we had to gingerly load Al back on a gilly and take him to the rail car reserved for those recovering from sickness and injury. When we finally got him settled, he looked tired and a little pale, all of which was understandable given the day he'd had. I left him dozing and made it back to the lot in time for my High School display.
Believe you me, as soon as the show was over and I'd gillied back to the trains I went to have a word with Rajah. Soon as I entered my stateroom, I trod over and slapped him on the nose hard and said, "Naughty boy." Being a smart cat, he knew why he'd been smacked and he whimpered. Then he rolled over to face the wall, his body quivering a little.
"Now you listen here," I told him. "I've had myself a total of four marriages and my one-nighter with Al G. and each one's been a disaster. You get so you want to swear off the opposite sex altogether and maybe with Art that's what I'm doing. Truth is, Rajah, this is a tough time for me and some human company would help. I know he's unconventional but I don't exactly fit well with conventional men and remember, I'm technically a bigamist and a fugitive and a woman who's been locked up for nervous problems so I'm hardly one to be picky. What I'm saying is this: I think I'm going to be giving Art a go, and I don't care that you're a tiger and bred to get your way. Get used to the idea, is my advice."
He shook but didn't say anything beyond a whimper.
"Rajah? You hearing me, Rajah?"
I had a feeling he was sulking.
I checked on Art whenever I could over the next day. His wound didn't reek or fester, so the doctor said he could stay on the show. Art's only complaint was the jiggling of the train made his wound throb, something I told him I knew all about.
On the third day, the doctor said Art was recuperating fine and could go back to his stateroom. I looked at Art's wound and since the bandages weren't green or red and the wound wasn't excessively painful I told him the doctor was probably right. The bandage stretched from the middle of his upper arm right to the wrist, making it hard to bend at the elbow.
"Does it hurt bad?" I asked.
"Nope," he said, by which he probably meant some.
So I took him by the good arm and walked him back up the train, though we slowed when we got to the stateroom he shared with a cookhouse boss, the pad-room boss and some guy who kept the elec- tricals going.
"Why're we stopping?" he asked.
"You live here, remember?"
"No, uh-uh, there's something we have to do."
He saw my confusion. "We can't let that cat get the better of me, Mabel. You know it as well as I do. He and I need to have another eye to eye or he'll never respect me, and a lack of respect is something I do not and will not tolerate in an animal."
This was true enough, so even though I didn't like the idea I agreed, for the last thing I wanted was Rajah thinking he could push Art around.
It was midmorning, the train lot deserted. We continued along the length of the train, Art whistling and smoking and looking not at all nervous. It was late in the season, and we were somewhere in the east, winding our way back to Bridgeport; I remember the ground was covered with damp, fallen leaves. On either side of the trains were suburbs, something we were seeing more and more of. I could hear lawn mowers and kids crying and men repairing fences, all of which were noises that tended to make a trouper break out in a nervous sweat.
We reached my suite. I took a breath, prayed things would go better this time and went inside. Art stepped in as well, still whistling, though he stopped when Rajah's head perked up and his ears tucked back and sputum rattled in the back of his throat. A second later, he sprang at Art. Would've got him, too, had I not thrown myself in the way and wrapped my arms around Rajah's shoulders and yelled "No!" into those emerald eyes gone reckless with jealousy. My full weight seemed to slow him a little, and I got dragged a few feet along the stateroom floor, Rajah stopping only when lie saw Art hightailing it outside.
I let Rajah go and he sat up on his hau
nches and licked his lips and generally tried to regain his composure. I was panting and noticing the sleeve of my costume had gotten ripped.
"All right, mister," I said, "that is it."
I stood up and got his leash and snapped it on his collar and barked, "Let's go!" He must've known what I had in mind, for he whimpered and cocked his face to one side and made his eyes go round and blinky.
I started to pull on Rajah, something that didn't work fir he centred himself on his haunches and dug his forepaw claws into the floor beams and refused to budge. The collar dug into his jawbone.
"Goddantmit Rajah!" I said, and to show him I meant business I let the leash go slack and socked him hard on the nose. I yanked again and this time got somewhere, Rajah taking little tiny steps toward the stateroom door. Once he got outside he blinked into the sun and became more agreeable, letting me gilly him down to the lot, though he whimpered and arfed mightily throughout the ride. When I dragged him into the menage he really started complaining and spinning his paws against the tanbark and generally pleading with me to reconsider. The fact I was starting to weaken made me even madder, so I closed my eyes and got the job done, heaving Rajah into the empty cage next to the twolings Boston and Beauty.
I slammed the cage door shut and suddenly felt guilty as hell.
"Come here," I said, and when Rajah did I cradled his gorgeous face through the bars and said, "Now this isn't permanent, sweetheart. Soon as you figure no man is ever gonna replace you, well, you can leave the menage and live in the stateroom again. So I recommend you spend this next little while doing yourself some thinking. Maybe I'll do the same."
