by Robert Hough
Margaret was working in the little galley kitchen on the far side of the room. From the smells emanating I guessed she was making soup. She heard my rustling and came into the living room, wiping her hands on an apron decorated with pictures of kittens.
"Oh, hello. Did your visit go well?"
"He slept the whole time."
"Well, he needs his rest. Tell me. How long will you be in Portland?"
"I'm not sure. Four or five days, I think."
"Good!" She fished in her apron pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. "You could pick up some things for Al G. and me and bring them when you come tomorrow morning. Could you do that?"
Without waiting for an answer, she handed me the list and went searching for her purse. Before she could pull out any money I stopped her, putting my hand on hers and saying, "Oh no. It's on me. It's the least I can do. With this damn Depression, Lord knows every penny counts."
She looked at me, lips parted.
"Thank you, Mabel."
"You're welcome, Margaret."
The next morning, I brought Margaret her groceries and her soap and went to have another session visiting with Al G. He looked exactly as he had when I'd left him, except his pyjamas were changed and his bedding smelled faintly of lemon juice. I dampened his lips and sat down to have myself a read. After about five minutes I heard sputtering, and when I looked up some saliva was bubbling on Al G.'s lips. Then there was a little groan. His eyes popped open like they'd been dynamited apart, and I was relieved to see the one thing Al G.'s illness hadn't touched was the royal blueness of his eyes.
Seeing he had a visitor, Al G. sat up sharply, his back against the headboard. Though he was still rail thin and his skin deathly pale, was no denying something vital had popped into him when he'd come awake, and the only thing I could figure was it was the same force that'd always made Al G. the whirlwind he was. Felt like turning cartwheels, I did.
"Kentucky!" he said in a strong voice. "What on earth brings you here?"
"Dan told me you were sickly."
"Dan? Well that son of a preacher. I told him I didn't want anyone seeing me like this."
"Like what, Al G? I can promise you you aren't the first circus owner who's had himself a heart attack or three."
"If you're saying it's an occupational hazard, then I'm afraid I would have to agree."
We both laughed.
Al G. said, "I read in Billboard that you had some fairly grievous health problems yourself."
"You could say that."
"What happened?"
"There was a deluge and we were late and the cats didn't get fed. I went on anyway."
"Now, Mabel, why on earth would you do that? Why would that damn John Robinson let you?"
"I guess what it boils down to is he didn't know."
"Well, I can tell you I would have known and there's no way I would have let you perform. I would've had two big workingmen carry you off. Three, if that's what it took. I know you, Kentucky." Here he seemed to be studying me, those blue eyes flickering.
"Boy, it's good to see you, Kentucky. I'm glad Dan broke his promise. I'd offer you a Calvados if Margaret let me have any. You look good. Really good."
"That's because the curtains are drawn and I'm wearing a hat and foundation."
"We all have our battle scars, Kentucky. The ones who wear them on the outside are just a little more honest about it, that's all. Believe me. You look as pretty as you did that day we first met on the old Parker show. Remember that? Beside that ratty old Siberian? It seems like yesterday, doesn't it?"
"Sure does," I said in my maudlin voice. "At the same time, it seems like lifetimes and lifetimes have passed."
"See? Now there you go, Kentucky. Getting all broody. Dwelling on the bad. You always were that way, weren't you? Listen to me, Kentucky. Who cares about a little misfortune when you compare it to the experiences we've had? Remember that time in Oregon when a lion got free during parade? Or that time we blew down in Montana when the rubes were still in the tent? Or the time I tried hiding from John Ringling with those lunatic Doukhobors? Or that time we ..."
Here his voice trailed off, and I was thankful he didn't complete what he was going to say: Or that time we had dinner in San Francisco.
"Is there anything you need, Al G.?"
"Well, as a matter of fact there is, Kentucky. As a matter of fact, there is. You wouldn't happen to have ten thousand you might want to invest? I've been thinking, Kentucky. The public's growing tired of the huge five-ring extravaganzas people like John Ringling put on. I think the public's ready for smaller, more intimate circuses. One ring, with nothing but human acts. Knockabouts and contortionists and acrobats and jugglers and rolla-bolla artists and teeter-board wizards. Each one the best of its kind. It could work, don't you think? With $10,000 I could purchase a canvas and hire some Europeans. Maybe even some Chinese chair stackers. What do you say, Kentucky? Do you have any money?"
"I'm afraid I don't, Al G."
Here he looked at me and grinned. "Ah, that's all right. Not too many people do these days."
I grinned too. A short silence passed.
"Can I ask you something, Al G.? Something I've wanted to know for years?"
"Of course, Kentucky."
"Why'd you change your mind and let Rajah go? Why'd you do that?"
"Kentucky! I did not change my mind."
I looked at him, confused.
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. I never changed my mind. I was going to let that tiger go all along. Unless of course you'd changed your mind and asked to stay. That would have been a different story. Tell me, did I ever say, straight out, that you couldn't have Rajah? Tell me, Kentucky, have you ever heard me say no to anyone? Much less a woman with curls and a prettiness about her?"
I thought about it hard, and realized I hadn't.
"So Rajah was mine all along?"
"Of course," he said. "For Pete's sake, he would have killed anyone else who tried to wrestle him. Common sense, Kentucky."
We talked a little while longer, mostly about the old days. Then, as suddenly as he'd woken, he tired. Seemed like one minute he was gesturing with his hands and the next minute he was sinking back on his pillow and pulling the blankets to his chin and saying in a voice gone breathy, "Maybe you should go, Kentucky. I'm feeling a little punk...."
A second later he was asleep. My cheeks dampened, for he'd been so animated and Al G.-like I'd forgotten the reason I was visiting was his being on his deathbed.
I stayed in Portland a lot longer than I'd originally intended. I'd visit during the mornings and run errands for Margaret in the afternoons. Often she'd invite me to stay for dinner, but I'd always beg off, saying I had plans with other friends in the city. If I was hungry I'd go eat someplace, though mostly what I'd do was spend the night walking. Truth was, having spent the better part of two years in a noisy hospital, I liked roaming around by myself, freer than most, the city quieting itself down.
As for my visits with Al G., they were variable. Some mornings I'd do nothing but thumb through magazines, Al G. asleep the whole time. Other times he'd come awake groggy, and murmur and grunt and make strange comments before drifting back to motionlessness. Other times he'd pop awake, as alert as you or me. I'd give him a little apple brandy I'd snuck in, and we'd talk about silly things, like fashion or news. One morning he taught me to play Chinese checkers, which I found a hell of a lot more interesting than American checkers. Other times I'd read dime novels to him; he liked westerns and gangster tales.
One morning, after I'd been coming for almost ten days, I stepped in the apartment and realized something: I hadn't once, in all that time, seen Margaret go outdoors, which may've accounted for the pastiness of her complexion.
I marched straight up.
"Margaret, you're taking the morning off."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You've been cooped up in this apartment for ten whole days and how much more before tha
t I hate to think. Take the morning off. Go get your nails done. Visit your mother. Take a long walk. I'm not asking, I'm telling."
Competing thoughts swirled through her head. Slowly, she raised a hand toward her brow. "Well," she said hesitantly, "I suppose I could get my hair done."
"Now you're talking."
"And I have cleaned him...."
"Well then, nothing's keeping you here. Don't you worry. I'm a trained nurse, so he couldn't be in better hands. Go on, now. Scram. Take a powder. And don't come back till people on the street start wishing you a good afternoon."
Slowly she turned and put on her coat. Before leaving she turned and said, "Thank you, Mabel."
After tidying a little, I went into Al G.'s bedroom and sat with him while he slept. At around ten o'clock, he sputtered and came fully awake, groaning and waving his arms and sitting up simultaneously.
"Jesus, Al G. You scare me when you do that."
"I'm sorry about that."
"Well, the next time you come out of your coma, would you do it a little more peacefully?"
He yawned and stretched and looked full of hope. "Ah, I'm getting better, Kentucky. I can just feel it."
"Glad to hear it." The truth was, he did look a little pinker that morning. "So, Al G., tell me. What're you in the mood for this morning. Some crime stories? Those Chinese checkers? How about a coddled egg? Margaret's gone out, so you're all mine."
He didn't answer, unless you counted the grin that was in the process of crossing his features.
"What is it, Al G.? What's running through that head of yours?"
He suddenly looked a little embarrassed.
"It's just that ... well ... the thing of it is..." He took a deep breath and collected himself, an action that made him wince. "Have a seat, Kentucky. I need to explain something. You see ... it has to do with Margaret. It has to do with ... well, what I'm trying to say is she's a wonderful woman and she excels in many departments. Cleaning and making soup, for instance. And keeping her hands off my money, not that I have any money for a woman to keep her hands off nowadays, but if I did I know I wouldn't have to worry. There is, however, one area in which she's proven a little, shall we say, reluctant?"
I looked at him, less confused than I pretended to be.
"You see, Kentucky, whenever I wake up fully rested and full of vim and vigour, like right now for instance, I have a tendency to suffer from a certain, uh, shall we say, sprightliness?"
Here I suppose I should've been offended, but the fact was I was just too amused by the mischievous little boy still inside Al G.-all the heart attacks in the world weren't about to curb that rascal. To make sure Al G. and I were talking about the same thing, I reached under the covers and let my hand travel southward and sure enough he was stiff as a man in traction.
"Goodness."
"Jesus, Kentucky, I hate asking but you're the only comely thing to have come within a country mile of this apartment for weeks and weeks. If there's anything you could do to relieve my misery I'd be grateful."
I thought about this for a minute, understanding what a kind and honourable thing it would be to help Al G. out. Only problem was, I'd made a solemn pledge I'd never be biblical with a man again, not after what I'd done to Art. I sat there weighing upsides and downsides. What finally tipped the meter was my realizing there was precious little I could do to harm him, considering he wasn't going to live much longer anyway. And even if he was, it wouldn't be in a fashion a man like Al G. Barnes could ever put up with. I decided to break my policy, just this once, and make Al G. Barnes the last man I ever joined in bed, clothed or otherwise.
"Think your heart can take it?"
"Frankly, Kentucky, I don't much care if it can."
"Will you be cold if I pull back the covers?"
"Probably."
I chuckled and pulled down his blankets and tried to keep my eyes off the spindliness of his body. He was poking up through the fly in his pyjamas, and it was nice to see his penile girth was the one thing hadn't been affected by heart disease. In fact, it looked like the property of a young man. I couldn't help but think of the first time I ever saw a thickened member: hard to believe I'd been so shocked and scared and curious by something so out-and-out homely.
Was then I decided if I was going to kill Al G. Barnes, I might as well do it grand fashion. I bent over and geared up to do something I'd never done but had seen done twice: the first time in a sepia presented to me by Dimitri Aganosticus, the second time in a jail cell in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Yet beyond having a mind's-eye image of what was involved I swear I didn't have a clue how to start. For this reason, my first few licks and kisses were on the feeble side. Finally, I decided I'd treat it like an ice cream cone filled with my favourite flavour: with each swirl I imagined my tongue coating with strawberry. This must've been more than agreeable, for after a time the patient gave a little moan. A second later he came fountaining up. Course, it didn't taste like strawberry ice cream. Was more like an egg cream flavoured with anchovy.
After spitting his froth into a tissue, I sat back down and was glad to see he was still among the living. In fact, he was smiling.
"You can still breathe?" I asked.
"It appears so."
"No big pains in your chest?"
"None whatsoever."
"And you feel okay? No arm tingling? No bright lights? No visions of heaven?"
"I feel fine, Kentucky. More than fine, in fact."
"Good. I'm glad."
For the longest time, we didn't say a word, instead enjoying a moment that would've made us giggle had we been teenagers. "Thank you, Kentucky," he said, and a minute later he was asleep, his breathing deep and slow. Watching my old friend, I realized there was something else new I wanted to do that day, something I'd never done with a man (or leastways one who didn't make his eyes up with shadow).
Reached out, I did, and for the longest time just sat there, holding Al G.'s hand.
CHAPTER 15
JUNGLELAND
SUICIDE NOTE, FOUND ATOP A FOLDED CHILD'S SWEATER ON THE desk of Mabel Stark:
Well. Here it is, Roger. Like I promised. I made it big, so she'll grow into it. Buttons shaped like teddy bears.
Yours truly,
Mabel Stark
P.S.: Hand wash, cold water only.
RESEARCH NOTES
Charting the broad strokes of Mabel Stark's career was not difficult. The Robert L. Parkinson Library and Research Center, which operates under the auspices of the Circus World Museum in Baraboo, Wisconsin (birthplace of the Ringling brothers), has indexed every issue of Bandwagon, White Tops and a few lesser-known circus publications; I had only to write the name Mabel Stark on a sheet of paper and hand it to the head librarian, an endlessly helpful person named Fred Dahlinger, to be presented an hour later with a sheet of references. Mostly, these mentions were no more than a line or two tossed off in general news sections. My job was putting them in order.
This, then, is what we know for certain about Mabel Stark's professional life. She joined the Parker Carnival as a sideshow dancer in 1909, and that at the time she was using a Greek last name. (I saw different versions of that name, the one I preferred being Aganosticus.) She left to marry a rich man in Texas, only to get a job cooching a few months later with the Cosmopolitan Amusement Company. By the beginning of the following season, she was doing the free act for the all-new Al G. Barnes Circus, Barnes having been the head animal man on the Parker show. Later that year, she was performing a mixed act with two tigers and a pair of lions borrowed from Barnes's lion trainer, Louis Roth. Stark soon graduated to a tiger act, her career rising meteorically until, by the early twenties, her wrestling bit with Rajah was the best-known cat act in the American circus. Her fame dwindled when the Ringling circus ended cat acts in 1925, and by 1928 she was with the John Robinson show, where she suffered her worst mauling. She ended her circus career with the Al G. Barnes show of the thirties, before moving on to JungleLand.
&nb
sp; As for Mabel Stark's private life, I refer to a series of letters written by Stark herself, which are also found at the Circus World Museum library. It seems that in the thirties, Mabel Stark wanted to publish an honest account of her life in and out of the circus. She contacted a ghost writer named Earl Chapin May, and the two started corresponding. These letters are a wealth of information; in them, she described Louis Roth as a drinker, and her next husband, Albert Ewing, as a cheque forger who left the Ringling circus owing $10,000. She described her next man, Art Rooney, as "the only one I ever loved enough to give up the tigers for," and also wrote, "I was told he never went with any girl, he was supposed to be a woman."
In another letter, this one devoted solely to Rajah, Stark revealed the highly intimate nature of her famous act: "When I turned and called him he would come up on his hind feet and put both feet round my neck. Pull me to the ground, grab me by the head, you know a male tiger grabs the female by the neck and holds her and growls till the critical moment is over. So in this fashion Rajah grabbed me and held me. We kept rolling over till he was through and while the audience could not see what Rajah was doing, his growling made a hit."
Though Earl Chapin May's book never materialized, a Mabel Stark autobiography titled Hold That Tiger was published by a circus vanity press in 1938. Like most circus autobiographies of the time, it was intended to promote the circus, and may have even been written by the Ringling press department. Suffice to say, it is highly sanitized and highly inaccurate; I found it useful only in its descriptions of her maulings and her animal-care methods.
