The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (58 page)

"Was it a good one?"

"Maybe yes. Maybe no. He never told me. Suppose it don't matter, because Miss Speeks got most of it. Miss Speeks and other assorted
vermin. Course, I don't think Mr. Barnes cared a tinker's ass---cops,
sorry Miss Stark, here I am getting burned up just thinking about it. I
don't think Mr. Barnes gave two hoots about the money. He sold off
that half-built ranch in Nevada and that didn't seem to bother him
either. Was losing the circus broke his heart. That's what I believe, anyway. Broke it right in two."

Here he looked down and started turning the brim of his hat in
his hands.

"Dan," I said. "How is he?"

"'Fraid that's what I came all this way to tell you, ma'am. Truth
is, he's poorly."

"How poorly?"

Dan's eyes glanced up for just a second. They'd gone milky with age, the brown of his irises having turned into a colour that was practically robin's egg.

"Poorly."

My taking the train back north with Dan wasn't a problem; I picked
a cage boy to feed and water the cats and I knew they'd be fine. We
did have to put up with some fairly nasty looks on the train, though,
my being a white woman travelling with a black man; least we
weren't in Alabama or Mississippi, or we might've been tossed in the
slammer. When Dan got off in Venice I hugged him in front of some
people who'd been giving us the dirtiest of looks, just to rile them
further.

It took a day and a half more to reach Portland. As I didn't want
to waste money on a berth, I slept sitting up, and by the time I reached
the rainy part of the country I wished I hadn't: all that jostling had
pained my stitched-together insides something fierce. After deboard-
ing, I rested awhile and had myself a frank with sauerkraut in the station diner. Mostly it refluxed and tasted terrible, and I wished I'd stuck
to cottage cheese and a banana. Afterwards, I took a taxi to the address
Dan had given me. Though it wasn't in the part of town where Al G.
used to go whoring, it was getting there.

The taxi pulled up in front of an old five-storey building with a
fire escape running down the front. The entrance was dark. Though I
didn't exactly trust the lift, I took it anyway, three flights of stairs being
a little much after that long train ride. I knocked on Al G.'s apartment
door and wasn't surprised when a woman answered. What did surprise
me was this woman's appearance, for she couldn't have been plainer.
Her dress was long and grey and uncinched at the waist, her shoes a
muddy brown colour. Her red hair sprung out in frizzy shocks. Her
face was too round and freckly, and her nostrils flared sideways, the
upshot being her features reminded me of a pig with a clown's wig on.
Basically, she was one of those woman who inspire a feeling of superi ority in other women, though as soon as this feeling hit I remembered
I was no one to talk, what with my droopy eye and a big hunk of scalp
that wasn't ever going to grow hair again. I decided I'd be as nice to her
as I possibly could, no matter who she was.

"Hello?" she said. Her voice was so kindly I immediately knew
why Al G. had picked her for his last days. I held out my hand, and she
took it. Her grip was as warm as a steamed bun and just about as comforting.

"My name's Mabel. Mabel Stark. Al G. and I trouped together for
years and years."

"Really? How interesting. My name's Margaret Welsh. I'm Al
G.'s wife. Pleased to meet you."

"Pleased to meet you."

"I'm glad you're here. Al G. would love a visitor."

I stepped in and she took my coat. When she went for my hat, I
flinched, so she let it be, immediately pretending it was common for
people to keep their hats on indoors.

"How long have you and Al G. been married?"

"Well, that's the thing of it. Not long. Not long at all." As she
spoke, she put my coat in the closet. "Four weeks, actually. Our onemonth anniversary is tomorrow. I was his nurse after the third attack."

"You're a nurse?"

The suddenness of my question made her hesitate for a second.
She looked worried she'd accidentally committed some rudeness.

"Yes."

"I was, too. Long time ago."

"Really? Where?"

"St. Mary's Catholic Hospital. Louisville, Kentucky."

"What happened?"

"Suppose you could say the circus came to town."

"Really? How wonderful. How wonderful, indeed. Have a seat,
Mabel. I have to explain something to you. I don't know if you've been told but Al G. isn't well. In fact, he's very, very ill. The doctors say he
hasn't much time left but Lord knows they've been wrong before. You
see, it's his heart. It's not circulating the blood properly so he's weak.
Stress and fried foods, as far as I'm concerned. But I'm confident he'll
be fine. I'm sure of it."

"Knowing Al G. he'll pull through. He'll probably have himself
another circus before the year is out."

"Well, I wouldn't be too sure about that but your confidence is
heartening. Would you like to go in now?"

I followed her to a door leading off the back wall of the living
room. During those five or six steps, I was thinking how Al G. was such
a slippery operator this probably was some sort of ruse, a hoodwink
designed for him to lie low and get creditors off his back while he
thought up his next operation. If his latest wife had turned around, she
would've caught me with a little grin on my face.

Margaret pushed open the door and we went inside.

"Al G.?" she said softly. "Al G.?"

Though it was gloomy in the room, there was enough light peeking through the break in the curtains I could see him on his bed, mouth
cratered open and blankets pulled chin-ward. Right off I knew this
wasn't a ruse, and that if he was going to get better it wasn't going to
be anytime soon.

We approached the bed. Al G.'s face'd gone gaunt, his cheekbones as
pronounced as eggs, his eye sockets grown slightly too big for his eyes.
The only other parts of him visible were his hands, which were folded
over the hem of the blanket. Blueish and thin, they were, with valleys
between each knuckle.

"Al G.?" Margaret said again, though this time she was gently
nudging one of his shoulders. "Al G.? You have a visitor...."

Because she thought I was looking at Al G., her cheeriness vanished and was replaced by nothing but a sorrowful concern. After a second she took a sharp breath, and her smile popped back as surely as
a duck in a shooting gallery.

"He just took his medicine. He needs his rest. Perhaps you'd like
to keep him company?"

She motioned to a chair beside Al's bed, and I sat. Margaret left,
returning a half-minute later with copies of The Saturday Evening Post.

"Here," she said. "You can look at these if you get bored."

I took the magazines and she left and for the longest while I didn't know what exactly it was I was supposed to do. Mostly I watched Al
G. breathe, which in itself was a scary business: sometimes he'd go so
long between inhalations I'd swear he'd taken his last one ever, and I'd
be fighting the urge to pound his chest and scream for Margaret when
it would finally come: a deep, rasping, chest-rising suck of air, which
he'd hold for ages. When he'd extracted every last bit of oxygen he'd
exhale slowly, making a sound like a sigh.

The only other movement was the odd flutter of his eyes behind
lids grown thin as tissue. There was a bowl and cloth on Al G.'s bedside
table, and with the radiators making the room so dry I'd dampen his lips
every five minutes or so. Beyond that, there wasn't a lot of nursing I
could do for him, my only hope being he sensed my presence and it was
a presence comforting to him. After a bit of useless fretting, I moved my
chair to the opposite side of the bed, where it caught whatever light was
sneaking into the room. I picked up a magazine. After an hour my
insides started to hurt so I got up and went into the living room.

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?"