The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (39 page)

They both stood and walked out, though Jeb did say, "I'm sorry,
Mabel," before having his elbow yanked on by his wife. Just sat there
crying, I did. Crying and crying and crying. Parly came around the
desk and pulled up a chair and said, "Listen to me, Mabel. Jeb and Ida,
well Ida mostly, they wanted me to escort you out of here today. This
minute. I told them no way, uh-uh, we're talking about the greatest
woman big-cat trainer ever lived, maybe the best period, and if word
gets out you treated her this way you'll regret it. You have to let her say
goodbye to her cats. You've got to let her clean and feed and water them
tomorrow. I argued for it long and hard, Mabel, for Ida was dead set
against the idea. She said you'd vandalize something, or hurt one of the
tigers, shows you how much she knows. So you're not helping with all
this talk about killing yourself with the tigers. You're not helping one
bit. You've got to tell me you'll behave tomorrow, so I can go tell Jeb and Ida you can be trusted to have one last morning with them. Can I
tell them that, Mabel? Can I?"

A numbness set in, the same numbness I first knew way back
when with my Hopkinsville tubbings, the nerves firing until they
couldn't fire any more and then a calm that feels like cold exhaustion
takes root. Suddenly I didn't care. About me, about JungleLand, about
the tigers. I didn't care one whit. I'd done nothing but care for the past
sixty years and now I was worn out and in need of a lie-down.

"Yes," I told Parly. "You can."

Parly drove me home, parking my big old Buick in the spot behind my
house and then asking if I was sure I'd be okay. I told him yes, I'd just
been talking it up back in Jeb and Ida's hut, though before he'd let me
go inside I had to promise not to do anything stupid or rash. I was in
such a daze it never even occurred to me he had no way of getting himself home, and to this day I'm not exactly sure what he did. Probably
went to one of the neighbours', I suppose Pauline the cook, and called
himself a cab.

I went inside and got a Hamm's and sat in my easy chair. Just sat
there admiring the inside of my house-curtains, sofa, framed needleworks on the walls. Funny. It was the worst day I'd ever had and all I
could think was how satisfied I was with the colour I'd picked for my
wallpaper. A lot of people don't like green, but I think a nice light
shade's restful on the eyes. Makes you think of forests, or tended lawns,
or tiger eyes.

So I sat there for the longest time. Not so much thinking as mesmerized by the wallpaper. Time passed and there was a ring at the door
and I got up and Pauline was there holding my supper. Steam was rising between the gaps in the tinfoil and dampening the underside of her
chin. She took one look at me and started sniffling, her eyes filling with
water the same way Parly's had in the meeting. I ended up inviting her
in and sitting her down and giving her a cup of cool water and telling her that, really, it was all for the best, it's true I was upset before but I'm
okay now, besides who ever heard of a woman my age doing what I did
for a living? Was a blessing, I told her, for it'd give me time to do some
knitting and some gardening plus I had a whole bunch of Billboards and
White Tops and Bob Denver fan club newsletters to get through.

After a while she left, though not before I'd given her more of the
same don't-worry-I'll-be-fine assurances I'd given Parly. My head felt
foggy. I didn't feel like eating even though she'd made my favourite,
beef stew with tea biscuits to sop up the gravy. Wasn't a coincidence, I
figured.

Instead, I got another Hamm's and watched Gilligan and never
laughed harder. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and I was holding my stomach, I thought it was so funny. After that, I took two of
Dr. Brisbane's pills and slept like a log, and the next morning I took
another couple to see me through what I had to do that day. I ate my
corn mush squares and my bacon and my black coffee and, like any
other day, backed that big old Buick of mine into traffic. Pulled onto
the Ventura freeway, sticking to the slow lane, for one thing I've
never really liked is driving and in particular driving fast. That's the
reason I drive a car as long as my house is deep-it makes me feel
protected.

Got into work at exactly 6:20. It hardly seemed possible this was
going to be my last day with Goldie, Tiba, Toby, Ouda, Mommy,
Prince and Khan. Thinking about this, I felt a twinge of loneliness for
old Dale, a magnificent cat with a head like a bear's, who'd died about
a year previous. Course, Roger's car was the only other car there; I
went inside for the last time and he was waiting at my cage line, fretting and reminding me of Dan the educated valet, the way every
thought that ever went through his head was splashed across his face.
First thing he did was rush up and say how sorry he was and that firing me was a disgrace and a situation somebody ought to do something
about. Then he stopped and came a little closer so he could be heard in a lowered voice, something that struck me as unnecessary seeing as
there wouldn't be another person around for at least another hour.

"Mabel," he said, "you won't ... I mean ... you're not really
thinking ..."

I looked at him sternly and said, "Oh for goodness' sake Roger.
What's wrong with everybody? It's high time you remember I'm an
old lady and old ladies have a habit of blowing off steam once in a
while. It's called crankiness, Roger. It's called sore joints and bad sleep
and indigestion. It's called knowing the best's so far behind you it
might as well never've happened. It's called not having a man since 1932.
For heaven's sake I'll be fine."

By this point he was laughing, and though amusing him hadn't
been my intention I didn't mind that it had. We went to work. I took
out my tools and put Goldie in the exercise pen and put Toby and Tiba
in the ring and started sweeping cages, moving tigers as we needed. As
we'd done a hundred times before, we cleaned the wheelbarrow at
seven and started feeding, making sure Goldie got her shoulder blade
and Mommy her shank. While the animals ate, we scrubbed the blood
gutter, leaving everything spotless and then having ourselves a cup of
coffee, Roger telling me what he thought of last night's episode as he'd
made himself a fan of Gilligan's Island just to please me, and damn it if
I wasn't sitting there, chatting with him as though this day was the same
as any other.

At 8:45 we boned out and by nine I was watching my tigers settle
down to sleep, thinking, Never ever again, though at the same time feeling like it was someone else who was having these thoughts. Maybe it
was my mother's voice, forcing me not to feel anything, or maybe it
was Dr. Brisbane's pills, which forced me not to feel anything as well.
Either way, I was looking at claws and whiskers and tails and beautiful
black-and-orange coats and wet pink noses, and none of these features
were adding up to tiger. Whether I was cheated or whether I was spared
is hard to say.

Some time went by, how much I couldn't honestly say, though
after a bit I noticed Roger was standing on one side of me and Parly was
on the other side of me and maybe a dozen feet away were
JungleLand's carny owners, just looking on, grim-faced.

In other words, it was time.

"Mabel," Parly said, "we thought maybe Roger and I could see
you got home safe and sound."

"Yes," Roger echoed, "safe and sound," and when I agreed I was
happy at least there was a little forethought this time around, Roger
driving my car and Parly following behind in his Ford. We got to my
house and they both looked so worried and sheepish I thought, Ah what
the hell they might as well come on in.

"You boys like a Hamm's?"

There must've been something unusual in the way I said it for
they peered at each other, all surprised, before looking relieved and
saying yes. To tell you the truth, it was unusual, for it's been my policy
for the past thirty-six years to keep a manless house. A lot of my neighbours are ex-circus but at the same time a lot aren't, and the last thing I
need is them seeing men traipsing in and out and getting wrong ideas
about the old circus woman at 3076.

Roger and Parly came on in. They looked kind of nervous, like
they'd stepped inside a museum, until I told them to take a load off. I
gave them each a can of beer and watched as they pulled the tabs and
slurped. Then I opened a bag of Cheezies and it was like we were having a little party, only one without much in the way of talking. If they'd
been women, I suppose they would've given me a pep talk, or maybe
they would've sobbed a little on my behalf, or one would've gone off
and come back with a Bundt cake and coffee. They weren't, however,
meaning they just sat there, looking glum and taking glugs of beer and
making grim small talk about the weather and baseball and the general
state of the circus world. Though they meant well, it was depressing as
hell, so when they'd both finished their beers I stood and said, "Well, boys, was great seeing you but I suppose things're busy at JungleLand.
Suppose you've all got a lot to do."

They looked at each other, stunned. Parly said, "You don't want
us to stay a little longer? Maybe help with the dishes?" to which I said,
"And what dishes would those be, Parly? The bowl holding the Cheezie
dust? C'mon. I'm an old woman and I may not have a job but I've got
my health and I've got my marbles and that's a lot more than a lot of
ladies my age have. Tell you what. You don't feel sorry for me and I
won't feel sorry for me, deal?"

This made them confident I wasn't about to do anything rash, so
they put on their jackets and it was a moment in which it would've been
appropriate for them to each give me a hug or a kiss. It was also a moment
in which I regretted the guard I'd built up over the years, the one
communicating to the world Mabel Stark doesn't accept humanly contact. So instead I saw them to the door. From my stoop I watched them
each give a little wave before getting into Parly's Ford and driving off.

What happened next was this. I went inside the house and I
turned on the TV and I turned on the radio and I opened windows so I
could hear lawnmowers and gamboling children and the rushing noises made by the nearby freeway. Then I plunked myself down in my
Laz-E-Boy and closed my eyes and let my head fill with noise.

It took about three days of feeling sorry for myself to start figuring
activity would be the best tonic (or leastways the only one I could
think of), so I drove out to the garden centre and when it opened I
bought myself a shovel and a trowel and some annuals and a bag or
two of planting soil. I came home, unloaded the stuff myself and carried it all out to the little square of backyard I keep next to my parking
spot. I'd been looking at that backyard for close to thirty years, and
had always thought planting some flowers come springtime might be
pretty, a chore easier said than done when you've got kitties that need
tending each and every day, weekends no exception. With that excuse out of the way the time had come. I went out back and started rooting.
Wasn't sure exactly what I was rooting for, so I just kept at it, copying
what I'd seen my neighbours do, which was digging up weeds and
tossing in soil and basically moving earth from bottom to top to back
on bottom again. Eventually, the bed looked churned and black and
ready, and I had memory scents of West Kentucky come planting season. Raked it out nice and smooth. Got on my hands and knees and
planted the petunias and when I was finished went into the kitchen and
got myself a Hamm's. Then I went back outside and stood in the backyard admiring my handiwork. Was then I checked my watch. It was
10:30 in the morning.

Now this truly was a shock, how slowly time can pass when a
mind and body's unoccupied. A minute passed, and I started feeling
mouth-dry and fearful, which is how it always begins. I closed my eyes
and rubbed them and none of it if helped, for it was all there, in my
mind's eye, refusing to leave me alone: pelting rain, the green of
springtime, smoky mountains and that knock on the door because May
Wirth was sick and maybe I could help seeing as I was a nurse and all.
Half crying, I choked down the Hamm's and got myself another one
and took two of Dr. Brisbane's pills just to take the edge off. Then I got
Parly on the phone and said, "Goddammit Parly. You're my agent now
get me some work."

He sounded delighted. "You bet, Mabel. Just you wait and see.
You may not be working the tigers anymore but no one's going to hold
that against you. You're still Mabel Stark. You're still the tiger queen. I
was thinking something along the line of personal appearances. How
does that sound to you?"

"Will it get me out of the house?"

"Yes."

"Then it sounds good to me."

I hung up and commenced to wait. Fell asleep and woke up and
made myself some corn bread that wasn't as good as Pauline's and I watched the channel six daytime rerun of Gilligan I always used to
miss: a spider the size of a hippo trapped them all in a cave and it
looked like curtains until Gilligan accidentally tripped over it, accidentally kicking what the Professor figured was the spider's sensitive
spot and killing it. When it was over I played solitaire. Went shopping. Buffed my corns. Oiled my scars, a practise making them more
supple and less likely to bind. Later, I visited Pauline the cook and we
had coffee and while I was sitting there passing comment on stupid
things, like sewing and daiquiri flavours, I kept thinking, This is what
women do? This is what keeps them busy? A day later I was standing in
my garden, drinking a Hamm's and thinking I might rearrange the
petunias just to keep me busy and stop my memories from kicking in,
when the phone rang. I raced inside, or leastways moved as fast as a
woman my age has a right to.

Was Parly.

"Good news, Mabel."

"How's that?"

"You're working again."