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

by Robert Hough

  Rajah burped and I walked away, feeling those green, green eyes on me.

  That afternoon, between the matinee and evening shows, I caught up to Art Rooney. He was sitting beside Rajah's cage, turned sideways, reading a newspaper, while Rajah lay panting and eyeing Art venomously. I asked him what lie was doing.

  "There's no reason this can't be worked through, Mabel. Rajah and I, we got off on the wrong foot, that's true, but I've always found some of the best friendships can start with some pretty serious dust-ups. Sometimes a good locking of horns will actually lay a foundation of respect and mutual admiration, and I figure once old Rajah gets used to the idea of me that's what'll happen. We're going to be the best of friends, just you wait and see."

  I looked at Art. With him it was always the same: you didn't know whether to laugh or shake some sense into him or say, Gee, now that I think of it, you may be right.

  Instead, something else blurted out of me: "Have dinner with me tonight, Mr. Rooney."

  The evening show went a little over that night, so when I rushed back to the train I found him having a smoke by my stateroom door. Inside, I made him a vegetable fry on my gas cooker. I even served supper with lacquered chopsticks bought in San Francisco, it not surprising me in the least that Art knew how to use them and use them well. (He said they were better for the health, as they slowed eating and promoted digestion.) We ate by candlelight and drank red wine that Art had brought, though I noticed he had no more than a few sips himself. Afterwards, he had himself a smoke, and when he offered me one I helped myself. I suppose you could say everything was right out of a romance novel, what with flowers on the table and violin music playing on my cylinder, the only difference being Art wore lavender fingernail polish and rouge highlighting his cheekbones.

  But the best thing about having a private meal with Art Rooney was I knew he wasn't going to be much in the way of manly desire afterwards, meaning I didn't have to worry so much about what was going to happen next. I relaxed totally, and the next thing I knew I was starting to feel desirous, something I never expected and surprised me so much that for the first minute or two I thought maybe my tingling was the result of something yeast related. But there was no denying what was happening. My cheeks flushed till they were as rosy as Art's, and my pulse quickened and I could feel my groin complain, much in the way a stomach does when empty.

  So instead of getting dessert, I stood and said, "Well, Mr. Rooney, you might as well understand the situation. I'm keen on you and that's something I've never felt for a man before, which maybe explains why I've been to the altar so many times. Now I can't have babies, you might as well know that, seems my womb isn't quite where it oughtta be, though at your age I'm hoping your impulses toward fatherhood might be dulled somewhat. So there you have it. Cards on the table. I'm a direct person and getting directer every day. How's about giving us a kiss?"

  He nodded, so I went over and sat on his lap, wrapping my arms around his head and clutching him to my heart and feeling his warmth and damn it if a safe, happy feeling didn't set in. We kissed softly, and it wasn't at all bad, so after a bit more smooching I took his hand and led him to the bed. He was trembling and his skin was clammy, so I sat him on the edge and asked him if he was sure he wanted to have a go at this. He said he did, badly, so I said, well fine then, and after necking like teenagers we got to seeing what was what.

  It took about ten minutes before I realized no amount of touching or tugging or caressing or stroking was going to get us past half mast. So I said to myself, Well, if that's going to be it, there's no point in complaining, so I sort of climbed on top and stuffed him in like sausage into a casing. Art was looking pleased with himself, and to make what we were doing feel more authentic he reached up and caressed me and said something loving.

  Was when I started to move I realized we had ourselves a problem. With any decent-sized buck or canter Art tumbled out, and I'd have to stop and stuff him back in again, something that began to lose its novelty after the third or fourth time. Plus Art was getting flustered, I could tell as he was wincing and the ends of his moustache were quivering and the rest of his face had gone the colour of his cheekbones. So I reverted to plan B, which was to slide myself back and forth rather than ride up and down. After a while this presented its own problem, namely that it felt like a pale imitation of the real thing and therefore silly. It didn't take long before Art was as soft as an oyster. So we stopped. I lay down beside him and told him I didn't care, that I'd never been much for fornication, that what I really needed was a closeness and just laying side by side with the feeling I had at that moment was fine enough for me. After Art mulled this over for a few seconds, I added that I could easily do without the sex, especially since I knew a baby wasn't going to come from it.

  Art smiled, looked over and held up the arm that wasn't in a bandage. For a second, I thought he was picking that moment to show me his anchor-with-rope tattoo.

  "You know," he said, "there is more than one way to skin a cat."

  Well.

  I've heard it said that necessity is the mother of invention. I'd say it's more the mother of improvisation, and believe me we had ourselves some improvising that night. The things that man could do with a stretch of arm-was as though the ropes popped out of his tattoo and lassooed themselves around my interior, refusing to let go until there was a whole symphony of sounds undignified. Suffice to say I straddled that arm until late and the train was running. We both lay back and listened to the clacking of the wheels. For the longest time we didn't talk, the sounds of lovemaking conveying information far more important than is generally handed over with words.

  Nevertheless, the train had been moving for about forty minutes when Art blurted out something confessional.

  "You know, I shot a man once."

  I turned and looked to see if he was serious. "You telling the truth?"

  "Always do."

  "Well, why then?"

  "Jealousy."

  "I see. I think."

  "It happened in Laramie, Wyoming, which is about as stupid a place as you can find to draw on someone. I was still drinking in those days."

  "And you shot him because you were jealous?"

  "Yep. That's right."

  "Interesting reason."

  "Only good reason, far as I can tell."

  "He live?"

  "Sure did. I'm a terrible shot."

  "You sorry you did it?"

  "Yep. Son of a bitch shot back. That's why I walk with a lurch. I went to jail, too."

  "How long?"

  "Long. And it would've been a whole lot longer except I was injured worse than my victim. Still, I guess I can't complain for I got myself straightened away in jail, which I can tell you doesn't happen often. When I got out I took the only job I could get."

  "You were a workingman?"

  "With Hagenbeck. For almost four years. Finally they made me a groomer, and then when they saw my way with animals they made me a cage boy."

  I digested this information, thinking it was sort of funny, the way even the gentlest of men can turn out to have been wildcats when young. In fact I practically giggled, thinking about the silliness of men, when information of my own came bubbling out of nowhere. At first I fought it, thinking, Don't say it whatever you do when it just sort of popped up all on its own: how I should've stopped my mother from tracing up that crazy old mountain horse, Tom. How her absences and loony behaviour had been annoying me so much I was half hoping something would go wrong when she headed out the door. How when she left that day I was wishing her ill and nothing but. By the time I was finished unburdening myself, I was feeling misty and weak.

  "Mabel," he said, "listen to me. That wasn't your fault. It just wasn't. If it was anyone's it was your mother's for it sounds to me like maybe she didn't mind the idea of having a bad accident, which was nothing but irresponsible given she had a girl to take care of. Trust me. If you told that story to a hundred people, a hundred people would tell you the
same thing. You were wronged. Not her."

  I lay there enjoying the rare sort of weakness that feels good all over.

  "You think so?"

  "I know so."

  I looked at him like he was crazy. What he'd said was like telling me up was down and down was up. Art looked over, so we were staring eye to eye. Then he gave me one of those sly little grins that in Arttalk meant, just you wait.

  Just you wait and see.

  That winter we rented the same house I'd had the year before. Art sewed curtains and crocheted sofa-arm protectors and painted the kitchen a shade of yellow veering closely toward peach. With no High School act to perform or cats to train, I now had plenty of time to spend with Rajah, taking him on walks and wrestling with him and just letting him know he hadn't been thrown over. This helped; by March his surliness and his gum problems eased, though he still couldn't be let anywhere near Art, his aversion to the man smell-based and difficult to overcome.

  In April, the circus opened its week-long stint at Madison Square Garden. This meant I had to watch Clyde Beatty spend a full eight minutes getting a single cowed lion to do a sloppy sit-up (and then almost get himself killed before emerging sweaty and shaky and bathed in applause that rightly should've been mine.) The only thing that made it bearable was having Art beside me, tut-tutting and shaking his head in disgust. Afterwards he brought me flowers and massaged my feet and cooked me omelettes.

  "Don't worry," he told me more than once. "History has a way of figuring out what's crap and what isn't, and I got a feeling one day history's going to be mighty accurate when it comes to the subject of Mabel Stark, tiger trainer."

  "The only problem," I'd respond, "is there's nothing history can do for me now."

  That year the circus took its normal route, skirting the lower half of the U.S. during the spring and then wending its way north for the hotter part of the year. Business was good, it being 1926 and people having money to spend, though it would've been better were it not for all the circuses owned by the Ringlings' main rival, Jerry Mugivan, by which I mean Hagenbeck and Cole Brothers and John Robinson and a handful of others. That year John Ringling decided he'd buy an albino elephant some trapper had taken in Siam. It was the only known albino bull in existence, so the cost was high: $100,000 American. Ringling put him in the spec and the menage, where for a while he earned his keep. Shortly thereafter, Mugivan began displaying albino elephants as well, though his were regular elephants covered with whitewash. This worked until one day a rainstorm hit. While it embarrassed Jerry Mugivan, what it did to Ringling was worse: every Tom, Dick and Harry now believed his white elephant was fake as well, a $100,000 bull suddenly worth no more than a circus lot mongrel.

  When what was happening sank in, it's said John Ringling flew into a rage, tossing furniture and throwing lamps and smashing sculptures worth almost as much as his white elephant. Meanwhile, his solemn and brooding brother, Charles, looked on. Around this time rumours started that the Ringlings were trying to buy the Mugivan shows. This sounded too extraordinary to be true, for it'd mean the Ringlings would own every decent-sized circus in America, and it was impossible to imagine any two men having that much power. Mostly the rumours were dismissed. I know I didn't pay them much attention, mainly because I was busy with my own concerns, such as was I or was I not going to get my damn cat act back.

  About two months into the season, the circus was someplace south, Mississipi or Alabama I believe. Hot, I do remember that. I was in the menage, filling water pans toward the end of the day, feeling depressed my tigers were starting to look like run-of-the-mill menage creatures, by which I mean flabby and lacking in gumption. I heard whistling, and when I turned I saw a trail of smoke rising above the cages one aisle over. Art turned the corner and gimped up quickly. When he spoke he was practically squealing.

  "Mabel! Charles Ringling is on the show!"

  "Well, good for him."

  "No, no, you're not listening ... he wants to meet me. He just sent for me. He wants to hear how the menage is doing."

  "Well, good for you."

  Here he grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around and I saw he was beaming about something.

  "Mabel," he said, "you're coming."

  "Me? Coming?"

  Art nodded and that did it. I was off, Art struggling to keep up. I stopped outside the flap of the manager's tent and caught my breath and then whispered to Art, "Oh my God I'm so nervous I don't think I can do this."

  "You can. You can. Just let me go first...." and with that two things happened. First, Art stepped inside the tent and said, "Hello, Mr. Ringling." Second, he reached back through the tent flap and grabbed my forearm and yanked me on in.

  Charles Ringling's face was just as jowly and round as Mr. John's, though less prone to expressions of pleasure. When I stepped through the tent flap he was lifting himself up from a chair parked behind a desk on the other side of the tent. The exertion seemed to be taking all of his attention, so at first he didn't notice me. Finally, he made it to his feet, though he was puffing and leaning over and supporting himself on his hands. He looked up and spotted me, a step behind Art.

  They say that John Ringling always kept people a little off guard by refusing to sit during business meetings. With Charles it was that mug of his: sour, as though he'd just swallowed borscht turned to vinegar. He sighed and sat back down with a huff, a way of signalling he was no longer going to shake Art's hand given the inconvenience he'd brought along with him. Instead, lie held up the ring and middle fingers on his right hand and gave them a waggle, indicating we were supposed to approach. Was like something an emperor of Rome might've done, and I admit my initial reaction was to comment on his rudeness by turning and walking out. Fortunately, Art still had a hold on my forearm, and lie led me, half against my will and half not, to the two chairs in front of Charles Ringling's desk. I took one, Art the other.

  Mr. Charles had returned to his work, signing paper after paper after paper. Even this made him lose his breath. I noticed his hands were slightly puffed up and that he had the pallor of a gecko's belly.

  He spoke without looking up.

  "I don't recall issuing an invitation for two."

  He stopped scribbling. The silence that followed made my stomach quiver. He leaned back, his chair squeaking. Then lie gave a little grin, though it was a grin designed solely to intimidate.

  "I'd heard the two of you were friendly," he said while looking straight at me. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Stark?"

  "It's about, well, the upshot of it is, sir, well, it's about my being in the High School chorus. It's just that I'm not a particularly good rider, though I am a good cat trainer."

  He arched the bushier of his eyebrows. "Your point being, Miss Stark?"

  I started sputtering so Art took over.

  "You see, Mr. Ringling, now that cat acts are a thing of the past, Mabel here is riding High School chorus, which seems a waste of talent and an undue frustration for a committed cat trainer like herself."

  "Rooney," he snapped. "Of course I'm aware of the situation. It was my brother's decision. Are you saying my brother and I don't talk?"

  Was then I saw something I wouldn't've thought possible. Art's mouth dried up, the only noise coming out of it a poorly pronounced "oh" that sounded more like a pop bottle cap coming off than actual speech. He went still, too, the only motion the quivering of his moustache. My heart sank and sank deep. The three of us sat in silence, Art and I looking like a pair of dimwits while Charles Ringling's brow grew more and more furrowed. At least ten seconds passed, and believe me that's a long time under such circumstances. Finally Mr. Charles's face lightened and his brow unfurrowed slightly and the formation of his lips approached a condition that was almost a grin but not quite.

  "You're right," he said. "It was a stupid idea. That brother of mine can be a real horse's ass sometimes. I'll make a call or two tomorrow and get this foolishness taken care of. The menage doing fine?"r />
  After rushing to tell Rajah the good news, Art and I celebrated cautiously, having a fish dinner in town. Had it been Mr. John, we probably wouldn't have celebrated at all, what with his reputation for forgetting promises one minute after issuing them. Mr. Charles, though considered a hard-nosed bastard, had a tendency toward doing what he said, unless of course what he'd said had only been said to get him out of a sticky situation, which wasn't the case with us. I suppose guarded is the word describing how we felt.

  The next day Charles Ringling died bloated and pale, a victim of the same thing that killed every last one of the Ringlings: heart attacks related to high living. It rained that day, though you wouldn't've known it, given how well paraffined the big top was. Flags flew at half mast, and the ringmaster, Fred Bradna, dedicated that evening's performance to Mr. Charles. John Ringling, who had trained in from Florida or some damn place, snuffled throughout in the owner's box. During cookhouse the orchestra played sad, slow music, like the kind you'd hear during the first half of a Dixieland funeral. The next day, rumour had it the last surviving Ringling was carried blind-drunk to his private rail car and taken to Cape Cod for an application of sea air.

  Course, no one mourned more than me. When I heard the news I went to the menage and I leashed up Rajah and we took a long walk; he seemed to sense my deflated mood, and was kind enough not to snarl or air swipe or micturate at anyone. When we'd wandered far from the lot, I let him off his leash and we rolled in the earth and I nuzzled his pleasure spot, making him purr. After that, he lay on top of me. I felt safe and warm under his full weight, the world totally blocked out. Honestly-if I had to choose between a few Hamm's or a tiger lying full weight on my back, I'd choose a tiger every time. The two of us were out for a full hour that day, having the sort of sad-hearted fun you have when trying to fend off hopelessness. At the end of it, I wished I didn't have to put him back in his cage.