Masters of Illusions

by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith

  She said, “Tell me! It’s time to tell so that you can start getting into all this forgiveness bullshit that everyone expects from each other these days. Jesus, Charlie, if one more person says to me that you’ve got to forgive your father before you can heal yourself, I’m going to go buy a gun and shoot him.”

  “I’ll never forgive him.”

  “That’s right. Why should you? He never wanted forgiveness because he never saw himself as evil. To him, your mother was some kind of sport—target practice. Denny O’Neill didn’t give a shit about you so now you don’t have to worry about not giving a shit about him. But Charlie, here’s what I think. It’s time to say that you’ll never forgive your mother.”

  He said, “My mother is a saint.”

  And Margie took out her big guns. “A mother is supposed to protect you, same as a father, right? She didn’t. But any good that might come out of this is that maybe she’ll ask your forgiveness. Maybe she’ll repent. Then you’ll be able to forgive her. That’s when it makes sense to forgive—when the other person asks for forgiveness. Because then she’ll be saying that you’re not the one at fault here. And you’re not.”

  “Margie, my mother…”

  “Okay, forget your mother. What about Bob Corcoran? Something triggered him and now something triggered you. Me. I triggered you. It took me a goddamn long time. I’m sorry, Charlie. Will you forgive me?”

  Charlie finally looked into Margie’s eyes. He swallowed. His look became hard instead of piteous. He said, “You refused to see what you were seeing. You saw heartache, Margie, and you made believe it was a game.”

  “No,” she said, “a book. I saw a book. A goddamn book. I said I’m sorry” Margie put her face into her hands and tried to keep herself from sobbing, but she couldn’t, so she sobbed and babbled to him. “A long time ago, Charlie, you found someone who you thought would get you out of that pit your father threw you into. But I failed you. I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t touch her and he wouldn’t let himself comfort her, though that was all he wanted to do. He was waiting to see what decision she’d made. She was going to do something and he had to wait and find out what it was.

  Margie got up and left the room. She went into Martha’s room and she got a cassette and a recorder. She came back, put in the cassette, turned on the recorder, and the tape began to go around. She said, “Charlie. Tell me everything that you remember about the circus. The matinee performance of the Barnum & Bailey circus in Hartford, Connecticut, on July sixth, nineteen forty-four.”

  He said, “I remember everything.”

  Margie said, “Begin at an appropriate time.”

  He closed his eyes. She waited. Then he said, “I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep all night.” Several witnesses had said that very same thing. And then they’d stop and Charlie would prod them.

  So Margie said, “Go on.”

  “Uncle Chick had chosen me of all the kids. I was really going to the circus. And with Aunt Annette, who would buy me a souvenir. Aunt Annette would always buy me ice cream when the ice-cream man came. She’d never say, ‘We’ve got a box of Popsicles in the fridge.’ That’s what my mother would say since my father wouldn’t let her buy me an ice cream. I was going to the circus with my two cousins and my best aunt. Mama put out my lightest shirt because it was going to be such a hot day. She laid the shirt on the end of the bed along with my blue shorts. I remember finally shutting my eyes when the birds started singing. So I didn’t wake up until ten.

  “Uncle Chick picked me up in his police car after lunch. He was in his uniform on his way to work. Aunt Annette and the girls were in the back so I could ride in the front seat. He let me hit the siren once. Then he left us at the bus stop. I had to hold hands with Cindy. Ruth-Ann held her hand on the other side. I didn’t have a little sister. I felt proud to be doing my share to take care of her. My father came while we were waiting for the bus. He smiled at me. As soon as he smiled, I knew I wasn’t going to the circus.

  “Aunt Annette said: ‘Hi, Denny.’ The girls said: ‘Hello, Uncle Denny.’ But he never took his eyes off me. He said: ‘Hear you slept late this morning, son.’ And I said: ‘Yes, sir.’ He said: ‘Your mother had to take out the garbage. Is that right, son?’

  “I’d never thought once about the garbage. I’d gotten up so late. He said again: ‘Is that right, son?’ I said: ‘Yes, sir.’ And he asked me if that wasn’t my chore, which it was. Then he said: ‘And when you don’t do your chores, what happens?’ And I said: ‘I get punished.’ He asked me what I thought my punishment should be. He always asked. He usually asked my mother. I told him I didn’t know This was the one time I knew. That’s why he said: ‘I think you do, son.’ Then he said: ‘Son?’ And he kept saying: ‘Son? Son? Son?’ Then he screamed, ‘Son!’ into my ear. The girls were squashed together, hiding behind Aunt Annette. Aunt Annette tried to say something, but he was bent to my ear. He hissed into my face; he said: ‘You get your skinny little ass home right now, and I don’t want to look at your fucking puss for the rest of the day. I’ll see you tonight, when I get home.’ And then he smiled again. His face was right up to mine. He said: ‘Give me your ticket.’ I knew that’s what he’d say.”

  Charlie stopped talking. He was staring up at the ceiling. Margie couldn’t let him stop, even though she wished she could stop breathing, could commit suttee. So she asked him if he’d like a glass of water just like he asked all the witnesses. He told her he’d like some orange juice. Charlie loved orange juice with ice. All firemen do. Nothing else wipes out the taste of soot so well.

  When she came back, she handed him the orange juice and asked, “Then what happened?”

  “I ran home. I was hot and sweaty even before I started to run. I ran through the backyards, past the library, and instead of crossing over the stream, I ran down into it. There was no water. The water had dried up. I climbed into the culvert. It was cool and dark in the culvert. I used to go there a lot in the summertime.

  “Then I heard the bus go by. I waited a few minutes, and then I climbed out. My mother would cry when I got back home. I tried to think about waiting a few hours and then going home and making believe I’d been to the circus. But she’d find out the truth anyway. I walked up the hill, down the street, and then I saw another bus coming. My mother had given me a quarter for cotton candy. I ran back to the corner, the bus came and stopped for me, and I got on. I told the bus driver I was going to the circus. He said, ‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ He handed me a transfer. I asked him what bus I had to take next.

  “He said: ‘Get off at Main Street in front of the Loew’s Poli, and take the Bloomfield Avenue bus. Only have to wait five minutes. Don’t worry,’ he told me, ‘you got plenty of time.’ When I got off at Main, he said: ‘Have a swell time, kid.’

  “And I kept thinking that I wasn’t going to have a swell time because my father took my ticket. I kept thinking that even though I wasn’t going to have a swell time, Ruth-Ann would. Ruth-Ann was a snotty kid, always in trouble. But she was going to the circus all the same. And I wasn’t. I always tried to be good, but I didn’t know how to be good. I couldn’t figure out how to be good. So I wasn’t going.”

  He stopped. He was sweating just like he’d been sweating on that humid July day. Margie was as cold as ice. She said, “What did you do?”

  He said, “I killed your mother and I nearly killed you.”

  Margie hung on. “My mother would have been the first person to forgive you. You’ve repented. You’ve devoted your life to repenting to her. She would have forgiven you.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Charlie. Please tell me that you can see I’ve forgiven you.”

  “Margie…”

  “Wait. I need to get back to where we were. What did you do when the bus left you off?”

  He reached out and brushed at her arm. “Your voice sounds like mine, Margie, when I asked people.”

  “Is it any wonder?
Just tell me, Charlie. It’s my turn to need to know.”

  He took his eyes from her. He sipped his juice. He said, “I walked down from the bus stop at the corner of Barbour Street. I walked all the way around the lot. The circus tent was beautiful, flags flying everywhere. Thousands of people were milling around the tent. There’s such a mystery about a circus tent, Margie. Because there are no windows to peek through. And inside, where you can’t see, you know there’s danger. No nets. It’s human nature to love danger when there isn’t a threat to you. No threat.” Margie placed her hand on his forearm. It was slippery. Across his knuckles, his own scars, the ones from the broken mirror, were still pink.

  “So I watched everyone go in. I never spotted Aunt Annette or the girls. I was watching out for them, but I didn’t see them.” He looked over at Margie. “Cindy saw me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I never knew it. I never knew it till the party.”

  “Your mother knew it.”

  “Yes.”

  Margie removed her hand from his arm. “I wonder if Cindy will ever forgive her.”

  His eyes filled with agony at the exposure of the martyred saint. “Please, Margie.”

  “What happened next, Charlie?”

  “I saw a book of matches on the ground.”

  Margie swallowed back the gagging reflex. So did Charlie.

  “I stared at them and then I picked them up and put them in my pocket. I walked around the tent. The roustabouts were backing the animal trailers up to the chute. The music started inside the tent. I got to watch the animals run through the chute. Then they were inside. There was a real hot breeze that kept coming up. Papers were blowing around. I picked up some crumpled newspaper pages. When the animals started running back out of the tent, I took the matches out and I lit the papers. I held the papers to the bottom of the tent, but the wind came up again and blew pieces of the burning papers up over my head and against the tent. The tent caught fire in a dozen places, maybe more. In one place, it got to be a big circle of fire. It grew bigger and bigger. No one came to put it out. I turned around and ran to the edge of the lot. I heard the fire before I saw it. I heard the freight-train roar that a fire makes when it sucks up oxygen.”

  And Margie thought about the inside of the tent where the people were hearing the music that Merle Evans played with the volume turned up as high as the bandleader could get it. Margie wasn’t conscious of Charlie’s weeping. She had no idea he was weeping until she looked at him.

  She brought out the cannon. “When you lit the newspaper, what did you think would happen?”

  He took several long, deep breaths. He said, “Margie. I thought the tent would catch fire, what else could I think? What would a ten-year-old think?”

  “Yes. That is what a ten-year-old would think. But what else would he think? What did you think would happen after the tent caught fire?”

  His eyes grew focused over Margie’s head, back to a scene in 1944. He put himself back there one last time. “I thought it would be like a fire drill at school. Everyone would file out. But since this was a real fire, and not a drill, the firemen would come.”

  “Then what would happen? When the firemen came?”

  “They’d put the fire out.”

  “You set a fire you knew the firemen would put out.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’d have to cancel the circus for that day. Everybody would miss out, just like I had to miss out. Even that brat, Ruth-Ann.”

  There was just silence. Then Margie said, “Your father caused the fire. Your mother caused it, too, as if she struck the match herself” The room became silent again. He didn’t get angry. Charlie reached over and took Margie’s hand. His voice stayed a little boy’s. “I thought the firemen would put it out.”

  Margie said, “I know.”

  She took off her sneakers and climbed into bed with him. She snuggled up to him. They made love.

  Charlie would be the one to get Margie out of the jar of horseradish. Not Martha, not Radcliffe, not a million books. Charlie. He’d pull her out-the little girl who wouldn’t have plastic surgery, who had refused and refused. The teenager who wouldn’t go to college, wouldn’t go anywhere, just like her father. The woman who just wanted to make sure everyone saw what they’d done to her. Fuck you, Miss Foss, and fuck everybody else. Look what you people did to me!

  Now Charlie was finally able to read her mind.

  AFTERWORD

  The backdrop of this novel, the great Hartford circus fire, was a real event. And the unidentified child who was known as Little Miss 1565 was a victim of that fire. In 1991, after an intensive nine-year search, a Hartford firefighter, Lt. Rick Davy, discovered the identity of that child. Her name was Eleanor Cook.

  Of the 169 people who died in the fire, there remain six who have yet to be identified, including an infant, less than a year old.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mary-Ann Tirone Smith grew up in Hartford, Connecticut.