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

by Robert Hough

  Basically, it felt like I had shoulders so the world would have someplace to rest. Knowing this, Art was nicer than ever. He brought me roses and gave me a box of chocolate macaroons. That night, he put my feet in a tub of water mixed with peach-scented bath oil, and as he rubbed them lie assured me everything was going to be all right and one day I'd get off the Ringling show and I didn't have a thing to worry about. Afterwards he read to me, Art Rooney being the sort of man who owned poetry books. When I told him all that flowery language was making me feel romantic, he moistened up his forearm in the same peach-scented oil I'd had my feet in. Then he was as loving as is possible for one human to be. Afterwards lie slept with those muscular vase-shaped arms wrapped around me. Having never been with a kind man before, I had to wonder why I'd always been so dead set against the notion.

  I had a fitful night, waking over and over to noises that ordinarily helped me sleep, like whistle stops and clacking. I slept late. When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see Art still in our stateroom, for he was usually up and out the door early to oversee the animals being unloaded. Instead he was sitting at my desk, hunched like a dwarf, reading something. I got up to see what he had. This proved to be difficult, for it looked like he'd been at it for quite a while, his back having hunched way over, so that he now completely covered whatever he was working on. In the end I just asked him what he had.

  He sat up, stretched and peered at me through eyes gone blurry.

  "This," he answered, "is your contract."

  For the next week or so, most of my time was spent fighting off old demons. I found making full sentences a trial, and if I didn't so keenly understand what can happen to woman if she weakens and shows what sadness has done to her, I think I would've given up talking altogether. I forced myself to keep going, making mistakes where I made them. During High School one day, I forgot where I was, and while making a turn my body went one way and my horse the other. I stayed mounted only by grabbing poor Alvin's mane, which made him whinny loudly and lose step. It was an inelegance that disrupted the act and earned me an earful from the equestrian director. Mostly I was worried my old friend neurasthenia was paying another visit, the stress of this realization not helping in the least.

  Art, however, had reacted to Charles Ringling's death with a shrug and the comment: "So it's a setback. Pretty much everything in this world is. We'll think of something else. Mabel, you mustn't worry so. Believe me it's unhealthy."

  Basically he was looking for a loophole. Seemed every time I saw Art he was carrying my contract, a dictionary and a magnifying glass for the small print. The document was twenty-seven pages, crowded with subsections and subclauses and legal gobbledygook, so poring over it was taking some time. I'd see him in the pie car, his coffee long stopped steaming beside him, puzzling over the meaning of every section, forehead supported by a clawed, hammy, nail-polished hand. One day I found him in the menage, sitting next to the distempered yak. He was turned sideways and craned over reading, contract in one hand, legal dictionary in the other, magnifying glass at his feet.

  He read through it once, just to understand it, then he started in on it again, this time looking for what he called "areas of interpretability." Soon the document picked up animal stains and began to look dogeared. When the staples went, he started keeping it rolled up like a scroll, the whole thing bound with a thick elastic band.

  Six days into the project he found me in the female change tent. He just walked right on in, despite there being half-dressed ladies present. None of them shrieked, however, seeing as it was only Art.

  He came over, the contract opened to page sixteen. He pointed to a line he'd circled. My mouth fell open as he said, "After the matinee, I do believe we'll pay Mr. Curley a little visit."

  I was so eager for my display to end I kept spurring Alvin to move through his steps a little faster, hoping the others would follow my cue and get the thing over with faster. Course, this didn't work, Alvin being the one in charge and the two of us both knowing it. When I finally rode out through the blue curtain, I dismounted and practically ran to the change tent where I met up with Art. We strode over to the tent belonging to the Ringling manager, Charles Curley.

  Now, I'd had meetings with Curley already, and he'd seemed genuinely sorry I was a cat woman having to work with horses. By the same token, he always told me a contact's a contract, and though lie felt for me there was no way he could farm me out without talking to John Ringling, who quite frankly had bigger fish to fry.

  We barged in. Found him seated at the same desk where we'd encountered Charles Ringling a week earlier. Art slapped the contract on Curley's desk and pointed to the circled sentence.

  It read: "Under no circumstances, during the duration of the contractee's tenure with the contractor, will the contractee have the option, right or freedom to perform or otherwise labour or otherwise appear, in any capacity, for an American circus, vaudeville, carnival or theatric troupe other than the one owned and/or operated and/or presided over by the contractor."

  Curley read it. From the looks of it, twice.

  "What's your point, Rooney?"

  Art pointed at the part of the sentence most germane to our little visit.

  "American circus? So what? That's something people just say."

  In a way he was right; back then the phrase American circus was as apt to roll out of people's mouths as the single word circus. Art, however, wasn't put off.

  "Now you know as well as I do when it comes to lawyers there's no such thing as `something people just say."'

  Curley looked at the phrase in question again, this time holding it up for closer inspection. For a few seconds his face was hidden. I heard a sigh and he put the contract back on his desk. Then he grinned.

  "You might just have something here, Rooney."

  A week later, Art and I said goodbye on a platform next to an idling train that was about to take me all the way to New York City, where I'd board an ocean liner to England. There, I'd do my wrestling bit for an outfit called the Mills Circus of London. Rajah was in a crate in the baggage car, sleeping the sleep of kings, owing to a tranquilizing pill he'd had with his horsemeat that morning.

  Art kissed me, and it was one of those moments when equal parts joy and sadness mix together and make everything feel right. His arms were wrapped around me, and I was dampening the front of his flannel shirt. We stood that way for the longest time, Art dripping tears on the top of my head and me snuffling. Finally, we gave each other a little shove and I turned and mounted the train. He followed along the platform as I looked for my seat. As the train pulled out, I waved and blew kisses and soggied a hanky. I stopped to wipe my tears with the back of my hand, and by the time I was finished the train had pulled out of the station. I sat back, took a deep breath and marvelled at how pulling away from a place makes you think hard on the things that make life worth all the problems. A few minutes after that and I was slumped in my seat, feeling warm and drowsy and not at all bad to be me.

  CHAPTER 19

  ART

  THE THING THAT SCARES ME THE MOST? THE THING THAT makes me jittery, that makes me dart for one of Dr. Brisbane's pills, that makes me contemplate rash actions? What if neither God nor luck has anything to do with it? What if we make our own luck? What if everything that happens to us happens because we wanted it that way?

  I need you to understand this totally, so just this one time back up with me and recall that head doctor in Hopkinsville, the one who used three slightly bent fingers to push away a wet spindle of hair when a single straight one would've done fine. Before, I described him as one of the kindest men I've ever come across, it's true, but as I dig deeper and deeper into this thing called my confession it's starting to occur to me maybe he wasn't. Fact is, the more I think of it, the more I start thinking he was the cruellest of the lot, for there was this one tubbing when I was complaining bitterly about all the bad hands fate had dealt me and wondering what I'd done to deserve it all and feeling as sorr
y as sorry gets for myself in the process.

  "I swear, Doctor," I told him, "if it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all."

  Here I expected him to say something encouraging, like he usually did, like "Don't worry, Mary, you're an intelligent young woman and once you put all this behind you, your life will work out fine." Instead came the sound of him breathing heavily through his nose, a sign he was going to tell me something I might not particularly want to hear. What he said was "It's true there is such a thing as bad luck and there is such a thing as good luck. But there is also a third type of luck, Mary. There is also the sort of luck we create for ourselves. There is also the type of luck we think we deserve."

  I didn't pay much attention to what he'd said then, answering with my usual, "Yes yes, Doctor, I see what you mean." Still, what he said stuck with me, and it's starting to make more and more sense, and as it makes more and more sense, one particular thought concerning the good Dr. Levine keeps bubbling to the surface.

  How dare he?

  How dare he make me understand that?

  The answer, of course, is he loved me, and there's nothing like love for turning you mean. There's nothing like love for picking you up and turning you crazy and in that craziness there's a loss of control and when people lose control?

  Well. They're capable of pretty much anything, has been my experience.

  After six months of drinking warm beer, of deciphering Cockney accents, of visiting crown jewels and famous bridges, of writing letters every day no matter what, of suffering from the emptiness spurred by homesickness, of getting used to my food either deep-fried or baked into the shape of a pie, of riding on the top deck of buses for the sheer novelty of it, of almost getting run over every time I stepped off a curb because traffic all ran the wrong way, I turned around and came home happy. My return was to a greeting of flowers, tears, embraces, a homecooked meal and a dose of affection that veered toward the frantic and maybe even beyond. Afterwards, Art announced he needed a walk, and he left me lying in bed. About a half hour later, there was a commotion outside our stateroom, so I pulled back the curtains on the Pullman window and had a look. Couldn't believe my eyes. One of the gold Roman chariots used in the opening spec was hitched to a pair of Friesians. Inside the buggy was Art, holding a whip and wearing a top hat, livery boots and white cotton jodhpurs. People were milling and mulling, gawking and chattering. Poodles Hannaford was standing on his hands. Bird Millman's parrot announced it wanted a cracker. I even saw Leitzel on the sidelines, smoking and trying to look unimpressed, which wasn't easy given Art had highlighted his cheeks with a powder that could only be described as sparkly.

  "Your chariot," he said with a sweep of his right hand, "awaits."

  So I got in, giggling, and he clicked his teeth and the horses trotted us away and down a country lane leading from the rail yards. Art stopped by a creek he must've scouted out earlier that day, for it was lovely and moonlit and trickling. He jumped out and went around the other side of the chariot and helped me down by taking my hand. He led me to a tree stump and motioned for me to sit. He went down on one knee, though not in the way you're probably imagining, for instead of facing me straight on he knelt sideways, such that I was looking into the side of his face.

  "Mabel," he said, "it's about time I explained my theory of life, love, animal training, the pursuit of happiness, the reason we choose to be alive and last but not least what we mean when we yammer on about God. You might call it Art's Theory of Absolutely Everything, or you could call it a damn fool's take on things-that's up to you. Either way, it goes like this: I believe if you see something and it immediately strikes you as the most beautiful thing you've ever seen it probably ain't. What you're seeing is flash or dazzle or razzmatazz, or even more likely what you're seeing is what everybody around you figures is beautiful. And while there's nothing wrong with that it doesn't mean what you're seeing is beauty of the truest sort. Beauty, and I mean the real McCoy, sneaks up on you. It bushwhacks a fellow. It's the sort of thing you don't notice at first, until one day it appears in the corner of your eye and you turn to look and you say, by gum, why didn't I notice that in the first place? You understand, Mabel? You see what I'm driving at? Mabel Stark, I do believe you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen in the whole of my life, and I'm not talking about your blond curls or your shapely figure or your natural pluck. I am talking about what's inside you, and what allows you to do the things you do with tigers."

  Here I swallowed, which was no easy feat as my voicebox was swollen to discomfort.

  "Will you marry me, Mabel Stark? Will you be my wife forever? And before you answer, I encourage you to consider that forever is a long stretch of time."

  He finally turned his head toward me, looking as hopeful as a child wanting seconds on dessert.

  Mostly I answered by blushing. Blushing and folding my hands between my knees. Art rose and went to the buggy and with his back turned said, "Mabel, close your eyes, I have a surprise." I did as he asked and listened to him rummage around. When he neared he said, "All right, now, hold out your hands," and when I did I guess I was expecting him to drop in a ring of some sort.

  Instead I felt something square and cardboard, about the size of a box of chocolates though heavier, lowered into my hands.

  "All right," Art said. "You can open it."

  What I had was an album of some sort, covered with two pages of decorative cardboard, the whole thing bound with yellow ribbon. My stage name was inscribed on the front.

  I looked at Art, mouth agape.

  "Open it," he said. "Go on. Have a look."

  I opened the cover. On the first page was an old Billboard article. It was small, maybe four paragraphs on a single column, surrounded by stretches of white border, and it was reviewing that first mixed act I did on the Barnes show way back when. I turned the pages. There were articles, reviews and write-ups from Billboard, White Tops and local papers, recounting every step of my career. All the highlights were there-my balloon act with Samson, my being the first to train Sumatrans, my debut with Rajah, my battle with Nigger, along with a hundred lesser moments.

  I closed the album and held it to my chest and felt myself go weak.

  "Thank you, Art," I said.

  Seemed he wasn't out of surprises yet. Instead of saying you're welcome, he reached out and slid the album from my grip and walked back to the buggy.

  "This," he said, "is not for you. Leastways not yet."

  It was all so utterly confusing I didn't even ask him what he meant. Instead I contented myself with watching him walk back to the chariot and return the album to a canvas sack, handling it the whole time like it was treasure. When he came back, he knelt and plucked a dandelion from the earth. He pulled off the flower and twisted the stalk into a little ring. I held out the right finger and he slipped it on.

  "Mabel Stark," he said solemn as a judge, "with this ring I thee-"

  He couldn't continue, my arms being around him and our lips pressed firm.

  We decided we'd hold out till winter quarters in Bridgeport. Art suggested mid-November as a date, specifically his birthday, and as I figured this was as good a day as any, I agreed.

  Hearing this, Art got so pleased he hopped up and down, those big hands doing an air dance in front of him. After that, his spare time was busied with preparations, even though there was precious little we could do before getting to winter quarters. Still, in every town he'd go downtown and look at dress shops, florists and male clothiers. Ideas, was the way he justified these outings. "I'm just getting ideas, Mabel. I'm getting the creative juices flowing. By the way, what do you think of lilies of the valley?"

  He'd also poke around in churches. Neither one of us was particularly religious, so Art figured we'd marry into a faith with, as he put it, "an appreciation of grandeur." Roman Catholic, Anglican, Presbyterian, Lutheran, United, Seventh Day Adventist, Methodist, Jehovah's Witness, Evangelical, Buddhist, Confucian-he even went to the odd Baptist ser
vice on the wrong side of town, the only white man in a congregation of heavy-bosomed black women speaking in tongues. In the end he said he favoured the Catholics because of all the stained glass and expensive wood. I told him no way any priest worth his salt was going to marry a non-devout circus performer about to take her fifth husband. This made Art pout for the rest of the day, though the next morning, in Athens, Georgia, he got up and went church hunting with renewed vigour. That day he started hinting Unitarian might the way to go.

  Was one other thing he started work on. Though he knew about my first two marriages, he considered them mistakes made long ago when I went by a different name and besides I'd never even screwed James Williams so that one didn't count. Albert Ewing was a different story. Ewing was known on circus lots, and it was known I'd been married to him. Marrying Art without divorcing Albert would be bigamy pure and simple, if only because everybody would know about it.

  Problem was, Albert had dropped off the face of the earth. No matter how many people Art talked to he always heard the same thing: the last recollection they had of the man was watching him dangle from a mail gantry, his privates pointing at his chin. Art sent letters to all the major circuses and a few dozen smaller ones besides. The answers all fell into one of two categories. The first was "Heard about what he did to the Ringlings, no way he's working here." The second was "Who?"

  After two or three weeks of this fruitlessness, Art decided we should run a small ad in Billboard. It read:

  $100 Reward!

  One hundred dollars paid to anyone able to furnish information regarding the whereabouts of one Albert Ewing, former Ringling accountant. Cash upon location, all information confidential, no questions.

  Turned out this didn't work either, not because we had no responses but because we had thousands, every last one from hysterics, the Ringling postmaster coming to our stateroom one morning and hinting he wanted cherry pie for handling all our mail. Looking into all the leads was going to be impossible, so we didn't look into any, Art deciding we'd best talk to a private eye. Charles Curley helped out by calling up Pinkerton's, the agency Mabel Ringling used when she thinned the grift on the circus back in the earlier part of the decade. They sent someone over, and we all met, and two weeks later we had a second meeting.