The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (25 page)

"John Fischer," said longhair.

"Mabel Stark," I said, taking his hand.

"Kevin Taylor," said ketchup stain, to which I said, "Mabel Stark"
and gripped his hand. We all sat down around the card table and the two
men started shuffling through papers and generally looking perturbed.

The younger one started the talking: "Now, Mrs. Stark ..."

"Miss Stark."

"I'm sorry. Miss Stark. We understand you're the head tiger
trainer here at JungleLand."

"The only tiger trainer at JungleLand. Or leastways the only real
one. Have been for thirty-six years."

"Really?" he said. "That's quite an achievement."

"Yes," said the older one, "we understand in the circus world
you're something of a legend."

"Suppose you could say that."

"It's an honour to meet you."

"Yes. An honour."

"We just wanted to talk to you because-and I'm sure it's a clerical error, or something along those lines-but there doesn't seem to be
any record of your employment here."

True enough. The fact of the matter was I'd always been paid
under the table at JungleLand. I preferred it that way, for I'd signed a contract once before and it'd almost been the end of me. Course, Louis
understood, a fear of restrictions and legal responsibility being a common trait among ex-troupers.

"We suspected something like that. We just wanted to clear it up
with you. Nip it in the bud, so to speak. So you are an official employee
here ..."

"Course. And I'll thank you to keep your insinuations to yourself. They may not have told you but I'm a lady who doesn't like to be
riled."

Here they seemed to start up their own little two-sided conversation.

"Of course not."

"No, of course not."

"Who does like to be riled?"

"Nobody. No. Nobody."

"It's just that we have some questions pertaining to, well, our
business here, and it's difficult to get some answers without the proper
papers ...

"We're not questioning your status here at JungleLand-that's
not our intention at all-it's just that, well, we have to have some information in order to be able to do our jobs."

"Let me approach this from a different direction. Jeb tells me
you're sixty-nine years of age. Is that, uh, accurate?"

I looked at them, blinking. While it was true sixty-nine was my
official circus age, it was also true I always lopped about ten years off
my real age so I'd never have to account for years I'd rather not account
for. Truth was, my eightieth birthday was on the horizon, something I
never thought would happen and something they sure as hell weren't
going to find out from me.

"Yes," I said, "that's accurate," and the fact I said this through
slitted eyes amply communicated I was getting tired of being questioned. They rustled in their chairs and shot glances at each other.

"Well then," said ketchup stain, "that's all we need to know.
You'll get us something we can copy and show head office, a birth certificate, perhaps, and we won't have to bother you again."

With that, they were both on their feet, hands sticking out of
those cheap dark sleeves, saying good-day and acting like they were
doing me a favour. I shook both their hands, and left, thinking I had
myself a choice to make. Though I didn't have a birth certificate, I did
have a driver's license complete with fake name and fake age-believe
me it's not hard to get-and I supposed coughing it up would be
enough to keep them satisfied. On the other hand, I didn't like the way
they made me feel-i.e. creaky and past my prime-so I wasn't exactly in a hurry to make their jobs any easier. I pondered this all day. Did
my tiger act by rote. Percolated. Kept asking myself if this was a situation calling for my policy of never rolling over or whether this was a
different situation altogether. Finally I decided it was something different altogether, so I caught up to the two insurance rubes at a time when
Ida was with them, thinking at least I'd get the satisfaction of seeing her
figure out her trap wasn't going to work.

"Gentlemen," I called out, jogging up in a way someone wearing
splints ordinarily can't. "Been looking for you all day."

I handed my driver's license to the older one, who by then had
changed his tie and was looking a little less ridiculous. He glanced at it
and passed it on to the younger one, who hadn't done anything with his
hair and still did look ridiculous. They both smiled and said, "Thank
you, Miss Stark, we'll get this back to you later today," to which I said,
"No hurry, gentlemen. You have a good day."

And Ida?

You could've broken an egg on her face, it got so tightened up.

Whether this'll work or not I don't know. Most likely not. Whatever
Ida's cobbling together is going to get cobbled together no matter what
I do about it and that's a truth I'm just going to have to learn to deal with. Frankly, at this point I'm a little beyond caring: if the end comes
tomorrow at least I won't have to worry about regret, which I'm pretty sure is a feeling that haunts a lot of townies once old age hits.

Think of what I've done. Think of it. I've been to every town in
America, small or large, most of them more than once. I've seen the
mountains, the swamps of southern Florida, the buttes, both oceans. All
of them were sights, every last one. I've heard every kind of accent,
including the funny ones, and here I'm thinking of southern Louisiana.
Or that valley in the middle of Connecticut where they speak like the
Queen, only gone silly-sounding with hiccups. Or northern Minnesota,
where we used to go when taking the long way into Canada; you'd swear
they were all Swedish lumberjacks, which of course a lot of them were.

Tell me this. You ever seen a vanishing point over water? Course
you have-Art used to say if a person didn't gaze out over water from
time to time it could have grave implications for the health of that person's spirit, something I began to believe myself. Yet it doesn't compare
to seeing space vanish over land, like you do on the plains of western
Canada, not a tree or building or butte in sight. Was something I saw
every year on the Barnes show, and I can tell you quite honestly there
isn't anything like it.

Or: the sun setting fire-engine red in the desert, where it'll plant
itself for hours, casting a violet hue over the cactus and sand and tumbleweed, before finally dipping over the edge. Beats Key West, where
you're liable to miss the whole show if you blink at the wrong time. I
know because I've seen 'em both more than once.

I've been to Cecil B. DeMille's house. I've ridden parade with
Mae West. I've kissed Douglas Fairbanks (though not in any way
meaningful). I've wrangled on a dozen movies, so many the idea of
being a star no longer impresses me, probably because I used to be one
myself. I'm a woman who's had John Ringling give her flowers. I've
visited the Tower of London, I've tried Devonshire cream, I've seen
the Changing of the Guards. I'm a woman who's had her beer at room temperature. I'm a gal who's eaten raw steak in fine restaurants, who's
swum in a salt lake of all things. I'm a woman who's worn spangled costumes, who's ridden in limousines, who's breakfasted on mountains,
who's been deafened by applause. I'm also a woman who, on a steamy
day in Bangor, got what she deserved and was torn limb from limb by
tigers, and if there's anything that'll zest up a life faster than that, well,
you'll just have to tell me about it.

Sorry. It's a subject gets me worked up, my losing my babies.
Haunts me, if you must know. Without them, I'll have hours and hours
each day, and I know very well I won't be thinking about all the places
I've been and all the things I've seen and all the worthwhile things I've
done. Instead it'll be springtime, 1927, North Carolina, Mabel finally in
love with a man she's married, a rainstorm brewing and the circus gets
hooked up to the wrong water supply and people start getting sick and
was it my fault I was a nurse? Was it my fault I could help out? Was it
my fault I couldn't tolerate contentment pure and simple?

Well?

Jesus. There I go. Guilt. What a smiting that is. Worse than any
tiger mauling, I'll tell you right now. You let it get to you and pretty
soon you can't sleep and you can't eat with your normal gumption and
you start to wondering why you even bother going on.

So I called Dr. Brisbane's office.

Because he'd been treating me for years and had a sympathetic secretary, I got an appointment the next day. On my lunch hour I piloted that
big old Buick of mine to his office. I parked and took the elevator and
entered a waiting room full of other old circus folk. I gave a series of
half nods and sat. Across from me was Luigi Concello, last of the original Concellos, who, like all old flyers, suffered from terrible elbow and
shoulder pain and was probably in having his weekly freezing needles.
Next to me two chairs over was a midget I knew only by sight though
I'd heard he'd been with Yankee Robinson back when that show was something. He now suffered from the back pain that sets in when a
midget gets old; often I'd see him shopping at the Safeway, wincing
with each step. To my left was a Cole Brothers veteran named Eddie
the Cannonball Frecoldi. Supposedly what happened to him was he hit
the net funny one matinee such that his head stayed in one place while
his whole body carried over and made a loud popping noise from somewhere between the neck and shoulder. Apparently his suffering
demanded an armload of pills, such that Eddie was always either a little bit out of it or a lot out of it, depending on a number of factors like
the dampness of the weather or the strenuousness of the previous day
or how brave he happened to be feeling. When I nodded at him, he
nodded back with a fearfulness in his eyes; you could tell he was hoping he really did know this person and it wasn't someone just tricking
him into looking stupid.

I sat there reading one of the Billboards Dr. Brisbane was smart
enough to put out. There was more news about the Ringlings' new
owner and whether Mr. Feld could really make a go of it and save the
circus in America. Given the dourness of my mood, I figured probably
not. Funny. I'd joined the circus in its golden years and then stuck with
it, directly or indirectly, for the rest of my life. Made me feel like its
story was my story and vice versa and that I ought to be in a museum
because of it. Course, the same could be said about pretty much everyone else in that orange-carpeted waiting room.

As I moved up the waiting list, a parade of old troupers came in
and got half nods from yours truly; you've never seen a sadder gathering of limps and manglements and people just plain moving in a way not
normal. Though I'd been to Dr. Brisbane's office dozens and dozens of
times, for some reason his waiting-room pageant was bothering me
more than usual, so I was relieved when his secretary finally looked up
from her desk and called "Mabel Stark" in a loud croaky voice.

I went in. He had his desk and bookshelves set up in one corner,
an examination table in the opposite one. As usual, he was sitting at his desk, so I took the seat across from him and waited another few seconds
while he scribbled something with a pen so fat it looked uncomfortable
to write with. He was wearing a white lab coat with a tie underneath
and his black plastic Steve Allen glasses.

"Mabel!" he said. "How nice to see you. How are you?"

"Fine," I said. "Just fine."

"Tigers treating you okay? Had any scratches lately?"

"Not a one."

"Good. Good. One of these days I'm going to come out to
JungleLand with my little grand-niece. Cute as a monkey's tail, she is.
Two years old and lives right here in Thousand Oaks."

"Well if you do make sure you tell them you know me and you
can come backstage and meet the cats in person."

"I'll do that, Mabel. I'll do that. Now what's the problem?"

Here I paused so as to make it clear I wanted the conversation to
shift gears.

"Sleeping. Sleeping's the problem."

"Having a touch of the insomnia, are we?"

"Yes."

"The kind in which you can't get to sleep or the kind in which you
wake up in the middle of the night and can't fall back to sleep?"

"The kind I wake up in the middle of the night and stay that
way."

Already he was reaching for his fat pen and prescription pad.

"I wouldn't worry too much, Mabel. This happens a lot when
people get a little on in years-"

"No," I interrupted. "This is ... well, this is different. I can't fall
back asleep because I've got memories popping up and staring me in the
face. I don't suppose you'd have something that medicates against
memories, would you?"

He looked at me for a second, puzzled, before regaining an
expression that beamed with confidence and comfort. Often I've told myself I'd go to see Dr. Brisbane even if that expression was the only
thing he had in the way of medicine. Fortunately it wasn't, for he handed
me a paper covered in chicken scratch and said, "One before bedtime. If
that doesn't work, make it two."

I made it through the day, tired as usual, just wishing something
would happen for anything'd be better than this infernal waiting game.
On my way home, I stopped at the pharmacy and got myself a vial of
red-and-white capsules. I washed two down with a Hamm's right after
Gilligan's Island and put myself under the covers. Next thing I knew,
morning had come, and though it took a cold shower and an extra cup
of coffee before the cobwebs started to clear I had to admit I felt better,
by which I mean rested and less raw, the only side effect a mild fuzziness on the tongue.

So now my pills sit on my bedside table. They're next to a silver
hairbrush, a glass of water, a .38 calibre pistol bought years ago in
Kansas and a silver frame holding a photo more than forty years old.
Was taken on our wedding day, my last wedding day, thank you very
much, which explains why Art's wearing a tuxedo and pink frills. The
smile that man had-there are smiles born from manners and there are
smiles born from an understanding of how bad things can get, and
by now I hope I don't have to tell you which one I consider the most
attractive. Hell, I'd show you what I mean except his picture's in my
bedroom and no one other than myself has set foot in that room in the
thirty-six years I've lived here. I'd probably die from the shock of it.