by Robert Hough
At any rate, two people also helped out that day. The first was me. Though my memory is foggy past a certain point, I'm told that after having his first mouthful or two of stomach muscle Zoo was so pleased with himself he picked me up by the hip and shook me like a ragdoll while roaring. This freed my right arm and I somehow got my pistol out of the holster and fired it point-blank into the big cat's face. He got singed bad with powder and backed off quick. The second was none other than Capt. Terrell Jacques, the future one-eyed Terrell Jacobs, who ran in the cage when no one else would and started dragging me out. Hunks of me were coming off in the mud, so after a foot or so he picked me up and being a strong, squat man carried me out like a bride.
I spent much of the next two years in hospital. Though I don't remember a lot, I do remember the drugs they gave me were full of the same analgesics I'd once taken for marital impediments, and because I had bad associations the hallucinations were frightful. Still, they were preferable to the pain, which I can't in any accurate way describe.
At times they'd think I was getting better and they'd let me out. I'd return to the circus, where they'd have me count tickets or invoice costumes, though after a few days or a few weeks something would go wrong. I'd have doubling-over pain, and the doctors would have to go in again, rooting around with needle and thread, looking for some tear they'd missed or something new that'd opened up since the last time. After a month or so, they'd release me, and something else would foul up. Infections were always setting in, the fevers horrendous. Was one period I couldn't make waste properly, causing me to swell up and turn orange and feel like I'd swallowed a watermelon whole. Back I went to hospital for more operations, and more recuperations, and more doctors huddled around my bed, stroking their chins. By the time I was shitting properly, my eyesight problems kicked in again. The partial scalping Sheik gave me-I wore hats now-had monkeyed with my vision, and there were days I couldn't see much more than quartersized circles of light surrounded by pitch-black. So I went in for the operation that scared me the most. Thank God, when they took off the bandages I could see what I was supposed to, though the headache caused by all that light made me wish I couldn't.
You name a problem, I had it. Arthritic pain from having my legs broke? Yep. Migraines from blod clots? Uh-huh. Nightmares? Panicky feelings? Digestive incidents? Indeed. Waking up in the morning with hardened blood on my lips and cheeks? With it cracked and dry in the folds of my neck?
Back I'd go.
Worry was another problem. Back then, circuses had a policy saying troupers paid their own medical bills. Each time I left hospital, the amount of money I owed the doctors grew, the numbers getting so big after a while they practically lost meaning. Each time I stared at one of those gargantuan bills I'd tell them the same thing: "Suppose about all I can do is try."
When I finally left the hospital for the last time, in 1930, I reckoned I owed almost $4000. An orderly wheelchaired me and my suitcase to reception. I stood, heart pitter-pattering, something that made my insides hurt. (Laughing, breathing heavily and coughing had the same effect. For hiccups I practically needed morphine.) Meanwhile, the woman at reception got my papers ready. I signed on dotted lines, not bothering to read what I was signing, figuring whatever it was was bound to be bad. Then the woman put her elbows on the desk and smiled and wished me luck.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
"I don't believe so, Miss Stark."
"The bill. The bottom line. How much?"
This triggered a look of confusion on the woman's face, and she began looking through the papers in my file.
"No ..." she said. "It says right here you're paid in full."
I looked at her piercingly, though why I'd do that to a person who'd just given me such good news is hard to say.
"Well, that makes me want to ask a question. Who in Sam Hill paid it?"
The woman's face furrowed and she thumbed through my file again. Then she shook her head and clucked.
"It doesn't say. Do you really want to know?"
"I really want to know."
She got up and wandered into a back room. I heard conversations. After a minute or two she reappeared, holding a sheet of paper that had the crinkly look of a receipt. She came back toward the desk.
"Apparently," she said, "it was the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus."
By this time, John Ringling had bought out Mugivan's American Circus Corporation, the story being that Ringling and Mugivan met in a hotel in Peru, both parties knowing they couldn't survive with each other as competition. Was a coin flip, the winner having the option of buying out the loser. If nothing else, this should teach you about the quirkiness of fame: had Jerry Mugivan won a single coin toss, history probably would've made him famous and not John Ringling.
Ringling now owned every decent-sized circus in America (excepting a few renegade outfits operating out of Hugo, Oklahoma), and I suppose he thought he was being nice when he took me off the Robinson show and sent me back to the Al G. Barnes Wild Animal, which he now owned lock, stock and barrel as well. Mostly what it was was sad. Al G. hadn't had anything to do with the show since he'd sold to the Mugivan crew in 1929. Apparently most of the acts left too, feeling the Al G. Barnes Circus just wouldn't be the same without Al G. himself at the helm. Others who didn't care, workingmen and first-of-Mays, had long since moved on. Fact was, I didn't know a soul and didn't have much energy for socializing. Even winter quarters had changed; the show now bunked in a town called Lodi, a few hours south of Venice. Though the new quarters were cleaner and bigger and more efficient, something about them made me pine for old companions.
I started working up an act with eight Barnes tigers, which put me face to face with all kinds of things I wasn't exactly feeling strong enough to go face to face with. Ambition, for one. Memories of Art, for another. Or this: pondering why it is that chasing the exquisite should be so all-fired risky. Believe me, these were heavy questions, the kind that open up stitches if you think about them too much. No matter how hard I tried to push them away they kept coming: in dreams, in the quiet moments of morning, during the lull following a meal eaten alone.
This time I faced facts. For the first time in my life I made concessions. I didn't like doing it but I was too hurt inside to do otherwise. I taught the cats rollovers, sit-ups, hoop jumping, everything rubes liked in a picture act. Even trained up a ball roller, a trick that took me all of two afternoons. This got me written up in Bandwagon and White Tops and the local paper, though of course a lot more ink went to the Barnes fighting act, a young good-looking guy by the name of Bert Nelson. Whereas I had the third display, he went on as close to the end as was possible without bumping the flyers. When reporters came, it was his tent they crowded. When wild animals were portrayed on Barnes paper, they were his yellow lions and not my well-trained Bengals. I was no longer marquee status, and with my head half tore off I can't say I was the least bit sorry.
I started spending a lot of time in my rented bungalow, a neat little house with a backyard in a neighbourhood filled with Barnes troupers. It was a nice place, with shrubs and a sunny kitchen and more hot water than a single person could ever use. In the backyard I put a chaise longue, and in the morning I'd sit and watch the sun come up, a wool cap and sweater keeping me warm. I did a lot of knitting, and I followed Jack Benny. At night I ate early, and went to bed around the time most people start thinking about what they're going to do with their evening.
Then, one night, the taste of supper still lingering, there was a knock on the door. I answered it, and saw a person I'd never realized meant so much to me.
I pulled him to me.
"Jesus, it's good to see you!" Though he was wearing his serious face, a second tight hug turned it into the beginnings of a smile. "Well, don't just stand there-come in."
Dan nodded and took off his hat and stepped in. In the eleven years since I'd seen him, he'd made the switch from middle-aged Negro to elderly Negro, and it looked like the s
witch could've gone more smoothly. There was grey in his hair, mostly at the temples, though if you looked close little individual grey hairs spotted his entire head, not unlike the odd blue fibres in a red mohair blanket. He'd lost only a little weight, but since he didn't have much to lose in the first place, the impression he gave now was one of ricketiness. Plus all that stooping from worry had crooked him over for good, so that he now carried his spindly frame in the shape of a question mark. On the positive side, he wasn't suffering from any obvious disfigurements, Dan having always been one for staying out of fights.
I couldn't stop hugging him-it was like he was some totem from better times sent expressly for my relief. After a bit he got embarrassed. Started blushing and gently easing me away, so I sat him down and got us both a can of beer and started with "So how are you?"
Here he gave one of those shoulder-bobbing chuckles old black people give when contemplating hardship.
"Can't rightly complain. Retired, of course."
"You living in Venice?"
"Oh my, yes. Took the train down when I heard you was back with the Barnes show. Them trouping days is over for me. I'm settled now. In one spot."
"Takes some adjustment, doesn't it?"
"It sure do, ma'am. It surely do. Had Sunday-night insomnia for near half a year."
"I tried it once myself. Remember when I married that millionaire and settled in the Cajun end of Texas? One of the main reasons I upped and left was I found being stationary a chore."
"Well, I know what you mean, Miss Stark. I know what you mean fo' sure."
"You renting a bungalow?"
"Nope. Living at the St. Charles."
"The St. Charles? That old place? What's it like now?"
"Different. Filled with folk less reputable than circus folk."
"Jesus, I didn't know that was possible."
"Well, it is, Miss Stark! It surely is!"
Here we both laughed, heartily, though when we stopped there were long moments of silence.
"Do you have enough money to live on, Dan?"
"I wouldn't say enough exactly. But some."
"It's a crime, what happens to circus folk, isn't it?"
"It surely is, Miss Stark. It surely is."
That silence, again.
"Dan, was money the reason Al G. sold his circus?"
"Course. He'da never sold otherwise. Not him. Got taken to the cleaners by Miss Speeks. I suppose she got herself better lawyers than Mr. Barnes's first wife had. Was a crying shame, seeing what it did to Mr. Barnes. One day I walked into his office, and his head was in his hands and he said, `It seems, Dan, I have found myself in a deplorable situation financially.' Can't you just hear him saying that? In that way he spoke? It was the way he said it scared me, like the fight had gone out of him and that was something I never thought I'd see happen to Mr. Barnes. A week later Jerry Mugivan came calling with an offer."
"Was it a good one?"
"Maybe yes. Maybe no. He never told me. Suppose it don't matter, because Miss Speeks got most of it. Miss Speeks and other assorted vermin. Course, I don't think Mr. Barnes cared a tinker's ass---cops, sorry Miss Stark, here I am getting burned up just thinking about it. I don't think Mr. Barnes gave two hoots about the money. He sold off that half-built ranch in Nevada and that didn't seem to bother him either. Was losing the circus broke his heart. That's what I believe, anyway. Broke it right in two."
Here he looked down and started turning the brim of his hat in his hands.
"Dan," I said. "How is he?"
"'Fraid that's what I came all this way to tell you, ma'am. Truth is, he's poorly."
"How poorly?"
Dan's eyes glanced up for just a second. They'd gone milky with age, the brown of his irises having turned into a colour that was practically robin's egg.
"Poorly."
My taking the train back north with Dan wasn't a problem; I picked a cage boy to feed and water the cats and I knew they'd be fine. We did have to put up with some fairly nasty looks on the train, though, my being a white woman travelling with a black man; least we weren't in Alabama or Mississippi, or we might've been tossed in the slammer. When Dan got off in Venice I hugged him in front of some people who'd been giving us the dirtiest of looks, just to rile them further.
It took a day and a half more to reach Portland. As I didn't want to waste money on a berth, I slept sitting up, and by the time I reached the rainy part of the country I wished I hadn't: all that jostling had pained my stitched-together insides something fierce. After deboard- ing, I rested awhile and had myself a frank with sauerkraut in the station diner. Mostly it refluxed and tasted terrible, and I wished I'd stuck to cottage cheese and a banana. Afterwards, I took a taxi to the address Dan had given me. Though it wasn't in the part of town where Al G. used to go whoring, it was getting there.
The taxi pulled up in front of an old five-storey building with a fire escape running down the front. The entrance was dark. Though I didn't exactly trust the lift, I took it anyway, three flights of stairs being a little much after that long train ride. I knocked on Al G.'s apartment door and wasn't surprised when a woman answered. What did surprise me was this woman's appearance, for she couldn't have been plainer. Her dress was long and grey and uncinched at the waist, her shoes a muddy brown colour. Her red hair sprung out in frizzy shocks. Her face was too round and freckly, and her nostrils flared sideways, the upshot being her features reminded me of a pig with a clown's wig on. Basically, she was one of those woman who inspire a feeling of superi ority in other women, though as soon as this feeling hit I remembered I was no one to talk, what with my droopy eye and a big hunk of scalp that wasn't ever going to grow hair again. I decided I'd be as nice to her as I possibly could, no matter who she was.
"Hello?" she said. Her voice was so kindly I immediately knew why Al G. had picked her for his last days. I held out my hand, and she took it. Her grip was as warm as a steamed bun and just about as comforting.
"My name's Mabel. Mabel Stark. Al G. and I trouped together for years and years."
"Really? How interesting. My name's Margaret Welsh. I'm Al G.'s wife. Pleased to meet you."
"Pleased to meet you."
"I'm glad you're here. Al G. would love a visitor."
I stepped in and she took my coat. When she went for my hat, I flinched, so she let it be, immediately pretending it was common for people to keep their hats on indoors.
"How long have you and Al G. been married?"
"Well, that's the thing of it. Not long. Not long at all." As she spoke, she put my coat in the closet. "Four weeks, actually. Our onemonth anniversary is tomorrow. I was his nurse after the third attack."
"You're a nurse?"
The suddenness of my question made her hesitate for a second. She looked worried she'd accidentally committed some rudeness.
"Yes."
"I was, too. Long time ago."
"Really? Where?"
"St. Mary's Catholic Hospital. Louisville, Kentucky."
"What happened?"
"Suppose you could say the circus came to town."
"Really? How wonderful. How wonderful, indeed. Have a seat, Mabel. I have to explain something to you. I don't know if you've been told but Al G. isn't well. In fact, he's very, very ill. The doctors say he hasn't much time left but Lord knows they've been wrong before. You see, it's his heart. It's not circulating the blood properly so he's weak. Stress and fried foods, as far as I'm concerned. But I'm confident he'll be fine. I'm sure of it."
"Knowing Al G. he'll pull through. He'll probably have himself another circus before the year is out."
"Well, I wouldn't be too sure about that but your confidence is heartening. Would you like to go in now?"
I followed her to a door leading off the back wall of the living room. During those five or six steps, I was thinking how Al G. was such a slippery operator this probably was some sort of ruse, a hoodwink designed for him to lie low and get creditors off his back while he thought up h
is next operation. If his latest wife had turned around, she would've caught me with a little grin on my face.
Margaret pushed open the door and we went inside.
"Al G.?" she said softly. "Al G.?"
Though it was gloomy in the room, there was enough light peeking through the break in the curtains I could see him on his bed, mouth cratered open and blankets pulled chin-ward. Right off I knew this wasn't a ruse, and that if he was going to get better it wasn't going to be anytime soon.
We approached the bed. Al G.'s face'd gone gaunt, his cheekbones as pronounced as eggs, his eye sockets grown slightly too big for his eyes. The only other parts of him visible were his hands, which were folded over the hem of the blanket. Blueish and thin, they were, with valleys between each knuckle.
"Al G.?" Margaret said again, though this time she was gently nudging one of his shoulders. "Al G.? You have a visitor...."
Because she thought I was looking at Al G., her cheeriness vanished and was replaced by nothing but a sorrowful concern. After a second she took a sharp breath, and her smile popped back as surely as a duck in a shooting gallery.
"He just took his medicine. He needs his rest. Perhaps you'd like to keep him company?"
She motioned to a chair beside Al's bed, and I sat. Margaret left, returning a half-minute later with copies of The Saturday Evening Post.
"Here," she said. "You can look at these if you get bored."
I took the magazines and she left and for the longest while I didn't know what exactly it was I was supposed to do. Mostly I watched Al G. breathe, which in itself was a scary business: sometimes he'd go so long between inhalations I'd swear he'd taken his last one ever, and I'd be fighting the urge to pound his chest and scream for Margaret when it would finally come: a deep, rasping, chest-rising suck of air, which he'd hold for ages. When he'd extracted every last bit of oxygen he'd exhale slowly, making a sound like a sigh.
The only other movement was the odd flutter of his eyes behind lids grown thin as tissue. There was a bowl and cloth on Al G.'s bedside table, and with the radiators making the room so dry I'd dampen his lips every five minutes or so. Beyond that, there wasn't a lot of nursing I could do for him, my only hope being he sensed my presence and it was a presence comforting to him. After a bit of useless fretting, I moved my chair to the opposite side of the bed, where it caught whatever light was sneaking into the room. I picked up a magazine. After an hour my insides started to hurt so I got up and went into the living room.
