“Mom? Are you okay? How are you feeling?” Jessie sat beside her. She took her hand. The skin was cold but the pulse clear.
“I’m fine!” Again she pulled away, yanking her hand back. “Why shouldn’t I be fine? It was an accident, for chrissake. Everybody carries on like I did it deliberately. Which is ridiculous. Which is such malarkey when nobody—”
She twisted around and seized Jessie’s shoulders with both hands. She buried her face in Jessie’s neck.
“I almost killed him!” she cried. “I could have killed him!”
Jessie was too stunned to speak or move. A hot, wet oven of tears pressed against her collar.
“I can’t do anything right! I either love you too much or love you too little! You and your brother get so unhappy. I’m a terrible mother. There’s nothing I can do to show my love except try to protect you. So I almost killed a man!”
Jessie timidly lifted a hand. She petted her mother’s shoulder, she stroked her mother’s hair.
“This city scares me. But I’m the one who’s scary. I’m dangerous. I’m crazy. I should be terrified of me, not the city.”
“You’re not crazy,” whispered Jessie. She felt tears prick her eyes, then fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She wrapped both arms around her mother and held her tight. “You’re not crazy,” she repeated. She wanted to say something wise and tender in response to her mother’s need. But all she could offer was, “You’re not crazy.”
When her sobbing passed, Jessie released her. And she saw Molly’s face, wet and twisted. She was terrified that her mother would be furious with her for seeing her like this. But if your daughter can’t see you in pain, who can?
“Here,” said Jessie. “You can wear this.” She handed her the T-shirt she’d found in the drawer and had held in her lap all this time, a shirt from Venus in Furs with the cartoon Claire Wade face/logo.
“Thank you,” said Molly, spreading the shirt on the bed. “Very much.” She pretended to thank her for the shirt, but Jessie understood she was thanking her for not making too much of her confusion and panic and tears.
Jessie wiped away her own tears with the heel of her hand. She got up and drew the calico curtain over the casement window. “So you can sleep,” she said. “We’ll all feel better after a little sleep.”
Molly nodded and Jessie gave her mother a motherly kiss on the cheek. A wet glaze remained on both their faces.
Frank was not in the living room. Jessie was grateful that he’d kept away when she was with Mom, but now she was afraid he’d gone home.
She found him in the office, stretched on the daybed under the bookcase, looking at Caleb’s copy of Chaos by James Gleick.
“Do you understand that science crap?” she said.
“No. But the pictures are pretty.” He held open the book on a computer-generated photo of manic paisley patterns, like a gorgeous mess of clockwork gears. “Here,” he said and put the book down and scooted over to make room for her.
“Sure,” she said and kicked off her shoes and lay beside him.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Wigged out. I can’t guess half of what she’s feeling right now. But I wonder if she knows everything she’s feeling.” Jessie idly tugged at one of Frank’s fingers. “Poor Mom. I’m always afraid I need her more than she needs me. But now? She needs me more.”
She lifted Frank’s arm so she could snuggle into his armpit and get more room on the narrow bed. She liked having him beside her, a solid weight like half a hug.
“Or not more,” she corrected herself. “As much. She needs me as much. Maybe.”
74
The sun rose and the birds sang louder. There was a riot of birdsong. One would never guess so many birds lived down here, hidden in the trees behind the cafés and stores and tenement buildings.
An early Saturday morning in New York can be so beautiful, especially when you know that a man wasn’t killed and your mother won’t be going to jail—not this week anyway. Caleb strolled down Seventh Avenue with Henry. They had been together long enough, and liked each other well enough, that they could be companionably silent. They were the only pedestrians in sight, except for a young woman walking a fat white bulldog wheezing like an asthmatic pig. An isolated handful of cars and trucks roared down the wide avenue.
“What a night,” said Henry. “What a drama. ‘We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.’”
“Were you ever fat enough to play Falstaff?”
“No. But it’d be lovely, wouldn’t it? To forget about exercise for a few months? Get fat in the name of art? Which way is uptown? I should be going home.”
“You can catch a cab here and it’ll turn around,” said Caleb.
But the avenue was deserted at the moment.
“How remarkable,” said Henry. “I can’t remember the last time I witnessed daybreak sober. When I wasn’t stumbling out of a club with some pretty piece of tail. But here I am with a clear head, going home alone. It makes one feel very virtuous. Or very old.”
“Too bad I have a full house,” said Caleb. “Or I might invite you home with me.”
Henry stared at Caleb. “Oh. I see. You’re kidding.”
“I am and I’m not.” Caleb was kidding until he saw that Henry took him seriously. And suddenly Caleb was interested. He shrugged. “We’ve shared everything else,” he admitted.
“We certainly have.” He looked Caleb up and down, brazen and satirical, yet Caleb felt a sexual shiver, as if goosed. “Too bad I have a matinee today.”
“And I have a full house,” Caleb repeated.
“And I don’t think we’re each other’s type.”
“We’d probably just lie in bed and talk.”
Henry produced a sly grin. “We could ask Toby to join us.”
Caleb froze. Then he burst out laughing. “Uh-uh. Sorry. That’s way too sophisticated for me.”
“Oh well,” said Henry sweetly. “Just an idea. But thank you for asking. It’s always nice to be asked. Oh look. Here comes a taxi.”
He stepped off the curb and waved. A block away, a lone cab saw him and swung toward their side of the street.
Henry turned to Caleb. “This has been an adventure. I’m glad we were able to share it.” And he stepped back up on the curb with one foot, lifting his face into Caleb’s face, and kissed him, hard.
It was a deep kiss in broad daylight, full of tongue and teeth.
The cab stood by, waiting.
Henry released him and dropped back down to the gutter, grinning. Then he jumped into the cab and drove away.
Caleb remained at the curb, catching his breath, then laughing. Did Henry’s kiss say “Let’s fuck” or simply “Fuck it”? Probably the latter, which was fine with Caleb. He resumed his walk home.
He liked Henry. He liked him very much. Jessie was right. Henry was not a bad fellow. But like all actors, the successful ones anyway, he was a people pleaser. So much so that Caleb wondered if he should trust his liking of him. Henry meant to win Caleb over, and Caleb was won. It had been fun to flirt. Caleb did not regret flirting. But he was relieved that he and Hamlet would not be seeing each other naked anytime soon.
Caleb entered his elevator, the door closed, and he remembered everything else. He had no business being happy. Nothing was settled yet. So much was left unresolved. God only knows what Dr. Chin would say when he saw her on Monday. And she thought that he was done with Kenneth Prager.
The elevator arrived. He dreaded what he’d find: the mess of the party, his mother and sister fighting, something awful. He trudged up the flight of stairs, unlocked his door, and—
The place was spotless. It was cleaner than it was before the party. It was quiet, so quiet that it felt haunted. But not haunted by ghosts. He heard people sleeping.
He stepped gently over the floor, afraid to disturb the peace. Snores came from the other side of the living room, not his bedroom but his office. If all the animals were asleep, then he cou
ld go to sleep too. He could wait until later to deal with the messes.
He heard a kitchen drawer grind shut. He turned the corner.
She stood in the kitchen, his mother. She was not startled; she’d heard him come in. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I was looking for warm milk or beer or something to help me doze off.”
Her face looked vague and colorless without its lipstick. She was wearing his robe, which swam on her. She shyly wrapped it tighter around her waist. Under the robe was a ratty T-shirt with a picture of Claire Wade.
“I could make some chamomile tea,” he said. “I could use some myself.” He went over to the sink and began to fill the kettle.
They had so much to say to each other. He didn’t know where to begin. So he said, “Who’s snoring? Is that Jessie’s friend Frank?”
“No. It’s Jessie. You didn’t know your sister snores?”
“She’s just full of surprises, isn’t she?”
“Don’t make fun of your sister.”
“I didn’t mean anything bad. She’s surprising in a good way. We don’t have to stand. Let’s sit while we wait for the water to boil.”
They went out to the living room. The sofa was back in its place facing the television. They settled into opposite corners.
“How’re you doing?” he asked. “You okay?”
“You don’t have to worry about me. Your sister got an earful of that. A pity party for myself. But I was exhausted. I feel better now. I’m more myself again. Even though I’m having the damnedest time falling asleep in a strange bed.”
Caleb wondered what Jessie had heard. They knew two very different sides of Mom. If she got under Jessie’s skin more than she got under his, Jessie was also closer to their mother than Caleb. He envied her the knowledge if not the aggravation.
He noticed something lodged in the wood by his shoe, like a misplaced nail. It was a bullet. It burrowed in the varnished wood, as if trying to hide. It was ludicrous to pretend nothing extraordinary had happened here. But where to begin?
“I know things got out of hand last night,” said Caleb. “But I can’t help feeling touched by what you did. I never knew my work meant so much to you.” It was not really about his “work,” but he didn’t know how else to say it.
She made a face at him, a skeptical grimace. “It was very stupid of me. Very foolish.”
“I know. But nobody got killed. So it was a beautiful gesture.”
“Yes. It’ll make a very funny story,” she bitterly declared. “One that you’ll be telling your friends for years and years.”
“Why not? I like funny stories. So do you.”
“Not when I’m in them!”
The kettle whistled. Caleb jumped up and escaped to the kitchen. He busied himself with the tea: setting bags in the mugs, pouring the hot water, letting the bags steep.
He didn’t know what else to say to her. He didn’t know yet what needed to be said. It would take hours spread out over weeks and months. All he really wanted to tell her this morning was: Thank you, I love you, Are you okay?
He thought that he’d said those things already.
SUNDAY
75
Toby woke up in his room on West 104th Street. Sunlight spilled through the blinds, painting yellow stripes over the floor and futon and the sheet that covered the large nude body sprawled beside him: Sasha, the Russian. He lay on his back with the sheet pulled up to his belly button, an arm thrown over his crew cut, the cup of his armpit fizzy with blond fur. His red lips were drawn back from his big teeth in a joyful smile. It took Toby a moment to realize that Sasha was still asleep.
Most of the men that Toby slept with looked better dressed than naked. Not Sasha. He was beautiful naked. Usually Toby couldn’t wait to get out of bed the next morning, take a shower, and be “good” again. But not today. Sasha looked so humpy. Toby barely knew him—he didn’t even know his last name—but sex last night had been perfect, as hot and mutual and easy as the sex in dreams.
Toby wanted to stay in bed forever, but he needed to pee. He got up and pulled a pair of gym shorts over his cumbersome erection. His clothes were happily strewn over the floor with Sasha’s. They both wore Old Navy jeans and 2(x)ist briefs.
Out in the hall Toby saw nobody, but he heard the TV in the living room: a boring Sunday-morning news show. It still felt funny that their home was also their stage. They had given another performance last night, and it went well again, even after the craziness on Friday. But the gunshot wound and ambulance ride felt like weeks ago. It felt like weeks since he’d met Sasha too, but both events were only thirty-six hours old. There had been a reporter in the audience last night, but it wasn’t half as exciting as seeing Sasha in the front row. He had come to see Toby. Standing over the toilet, Toby couldn’t help sniffing his own shoulder and smelling another man’s brand of soap there.
He hurried back to his room, whipped off the shorts, and hopped under the sheet. He crawled against Sasha, laying an arm across his chest, a leg over his middle. He wanted to be here when Sasha woke up. He was amazed by how happy he felt, how joyful.
He heard the front door open and close. There were voices in the living room. Feet stamped over the floor.
A fist knocked on Toby’s door and the door flew open.
Allegra charged in, followed by Dwight and Melissa. “Look, look!” They shook a fat tabloid newspaper at him, the Sunday Post. “Do you believe this? Do you fucking believe this?”
They all crouched around the futon, paying no attention to the other body.
Across the middle of the front page was a washed-out color photo of a young man on his knees beside an old man on his back. They weren’t doing anything dirty. Toby couldn’t figure it out until he read the headline—“Everybody’s a Critic”—and the caption—“Actor gives first aid to gunned theater reviewer.”
“You’re famous!” cried Melissa.
“They talk about you!” said Allegra. “They talk about us!”
“We’re all gonna be famous!” said Dwight.
Toby propped himself up on an elbow and opened the paper. Inside was a story, two full pages with black-and-white photos: an old picture of Caleb looking stuffy; a police mug shot of Caleb’s mom, front view only, looking drunk; a fancy-dress photo of Kenneth Prager, the wounded man—he was theater reviewer for the Times?—and finally, Toby himself, an ugly old head shot—where did they find that?—of a skinny dork with a shaggy Brady Bunch haircut. There was no picture of Henry, which surprised Toby and pleased him.
He felt Sasha waking behind him, rolling over, and seeing the people around them. Sasha didn’t care. He scooted up behind Toby and embraced him from the back, locking both arms around Toby’s chest. “That is you?” he murmured at Toby’s shoulder.
Toby turned back to the front page.
“Look at the byline,” said Dwight. “Cameron Ditchley. He must have been the guy who took the picture.”
“See!” said Allegra. “They mention the play. They give the title and the address. We’re gonna go through the roof tonight.”
“It’s still a showcase,” said Melissa. “We can charge only fifteen bucks, right?”
“Oh fuck Equity,” said Allegra. “We’re not legal anyway. People are gonna pay through the nose to see our celebrity here. And that’s just the beginning. Everybody’s gonna talk about this for weeks.”
But Toby stopped listening. He lay among admiring friends, naked under his sheet, snug in the muscular life jacket of Sasha’s arms, Sasha’s boner nuzzled against his bottom—he was hard too—while he gazed at himself on the front page of the New York Post.
Could the world get any sweeter?
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel was written with the generous help of a fellowship from the Guggenheim Foundation.
I was also helped by friends who remain my sharpest, toughest readers: Victor Bumbalo, Mary Gentile, Damien Jack, Paul Russell, Ed Sikov, and Brenda Wineapple. My agent, Edward Hibbert, shared bo
th his literary expertise and his experience in his other profession, acting. Neil Olson and Jesse Dorris provided important support and advice. I owe special thanks to my editor, Meaghan Dowling, her assistant, Rome Quezada, and my copyeditor, Shelly Perron.
Even more than on previous books, Draper Shreeve gave me so much here, not just his intelligence, humor, and sanity but also his firsthand knowledge of the world of circus animals. He brought me into that world. I could not have written this novel without him.
About the Author
CHRISTOPHER BRAM is the author of eight novels, including Father of Frankenstein, which became the Academy Award–winning movie Gods and Monsters, and The Notorious Dr. August: His Real Life and Crimes. He also writes book reviews, movie reviews, and screenplays. He was a 2001 Guggenheim Fellow and received the 2003 Bill Whitehead Lifetime Achievement Award. He lives in New York City.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
PRAISE FOR
Lives of the Circus Animals
“A supreme comedy of errors…. The story encompasses all the joys and sorrows of everyday life, revealing that circus animals are much like the rest of us.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Anyone whose misbegotten past includes time on or around the boards will recognize the loving accuracy Bram brings to his often hilarious take on love spurned, mismatched, and rearranged on and way-off Broadway…. Slick, smart, and funny.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“One of those perfect New York City books that explores the layers of human interaction in the city…. Like a miniature masquerade, tipping its hat to the conventions of historical fiction by incorporating real-life celebrities with their roman à clef peers.”
—Genre
“[A] sexy, witty novel.”
—Detroit Free Press
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