The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (10 page)

Course, all this was horseshit, though I have to say it was flattering horseshit, and if you're going to horseshit someone, dressing it up
with flattery's a pretty good way to go about doing it. One more time I
told Ben there was no way I was letting that little son of a bitch get
within a country mile of my babies, though I said it with a faintness that
hinted I was reconsidering, such that by the time he walked off it was
general knowledge I had myself a new cage boy.

The next morning I showed Roger what he needed to know, figuring if
they're fixing to give him my kitties he might as well care for them proper. How at 6:30 I got out my tools and lined them up in the same
order against the same spot on the wall, and how you could tell they
were in the right order by matching them to the places where the paint
was scraped away. Then we put Goldie in the exercise pen and Toby
and Tiba in the ring so we'd have three free cages and could move the
cats around in order to clean all the cages. By seven I showed him how
to sweep the cages, something he'd been shown a hundred times but
never the Stark way, stressing you had to get every last flake of sawdust
for if it gets on their meat it'll stick inside them and gum them up something bad. (Course, straw's different. That gets inside them and it'll act
like a scour and clean them out. Problem is, straw's more expensive, so
guess which one gets used?) After the cages were cleaned and the cats
back in, we loaded up the wheelbarrow and I showed him how some of
the cats are finickier than others, Goldie liking a shoulder blade and
Mommy refusing everything but shanks. I also showed him how Prince
and Khan can be dangerous, they way they lunge at the footboards,
tearing meat from the fork tines.

At 7:45, with all the cats gnawing contentedly, I put on thick yellow gloves and showed Roger how you have to hose the blood out of
the cage gutters, and then use a wire-bristled brush to scrape off bits of
fat or tallow, for if they stay around they'll fester and cause disease.
Then we had coffee-he took his black, which was encouraging-and
by 8:45 we started boning out the cages and after that we put sawdust
down, making sure each big shovelful hit the footboard direct so's the
tigers could get at it and spread it around nice themselves. Then we
filled the water pans, which is important because after a feeding cats get
real eager to wash the blood from their mouths and throats. By nine
o'clock we were finished, the cats sleeping and Roger rushing off to
his lionesses.

Now. Did I look for the signs of laziness? Of him not wanting to
get his hands good and filthy? Of him maybe thinking he was too
important to scrub gutters because he had his marks and he'd worked with Beatty? Did I hope every day he'd come a minute late, or put my
rake in the wrong spot, or get the least bit snippy?

Sure. Problem was, the kid was like a machine of hard work and
politeness, and after a while you can't help admiring a man who's playing his cards right, even if he's using those cards to take your money.
One day, after the watering pans had been filled and I was on my way
to Annie's to have my first Hamm's of the day I said, "Roger, you want
a drink?" Practically swallowed his tongue, he was so surprised.

For a good long time we just sat there, sipping beer, me brooding
and him afraid to speak, when I thought, Ah hell, this is ridiculous.

"Roger. You tell me. You think the Professor's a fag?"

"Excuse me?"

"The Professor. I mean, he's got that Ginger all over him, day
and night, randy as a jackrabbit, hooters the size of acorn squash, and
still he puts her off. Sure she's about as subtle as a cannon act but Christ
almighty, he's on an island of seven people-he can't be that choosy.
Even if he is a fag they should get together. He'd be a good influence
on her. Maybe tame her some. Give her a baby. I've known a ton of
queers in my life and I can't say I've ever found them objectionable.
Hell, I even prefer their company-they don't seem to have that fear of
dying without leaving their mark on the world that makes regular men
act so rash and self-centred all the time."

Roger looked at me, confused as I'd ever seen a person. It practically hurt to watch, he was so dying to add to the conversation or even
understand one iota of it.

"Roger," I said. "You don't watch Gilligan'e Island?"

"Uh, no, ma'am."

"Didn't you know Bob Denver lives right here in Thousand
Oaks? Why I see him every time I go to the Oakdale market. And the
Skipper's living just up the road in Ventura county. Christ Roger where
you been? See you start tuning in. I like to jaw about it sometimes.
There're reruns every night at seven. You'll like it."

Next day he came in and when we sat down for my first Hamm's
I said, "Well, Roger, you tell me," and you what the son of a gun said?

"He's married to his work, is all."

Heh heh heh. Makes me laugh. Roger would say that. Married to his
work. Could be he's talking about himself, you think? Working fourteen hour days, with a wife and baby at home, no less?

About a week ago, during break, I finally up and outed with it.

"Roger," I said, "you take good care of my babies."

"What do you mean?" he said, all innocent, maybe acting maybe
not. Knowing Roger, probably not.

"Roger, you're going to have yourself a tiger act and you're
going to have one soon."

"No way," he said, once my meaning had sunk in. "I don't want
your job. There's no way I'm gonna be the guy who takes a job away
from the great Mabel Stark. There's just no way."

"Listen to me, Roger. Big cat training's a dying industry. It's like
scuttling coal, or sweeping chimneys. Not what you'd call a growth sector.
Goddamn animal groups running around everywhere, people with TVs,
theme parks the size of Rhode Island, even the Felds about to go bust, how
could animal shows survive? If you're sure it's what makes you happy, you
might have to do things you aren't proud of to get it. You follow?

He blinked and said yes, though I really don't think he was getting it.

Nope, now that I think of it, he wasn't getting it at all.

Just so you know: I never saw Dimitri Aganosticus or Dr. Levine again.
Dimitri's for sure passed on by now, and if I found out today he died
slow and before his time I can't say as I'd be any the worse for it. As for
Levine, it's my considered opinion he was one of two men who really
cared for me, the other being my one true love Art Rooney, the man
who sat me down sideways and taught me how things work.

Jesus. Art. These days you'd almost think I'm addicted to the hurt
I get when I think of him, which I suppose in a way I am: when presented with a choice between achy remembrances and nothing, it's my
experience people choose achy remembrances every time. I suppose it
makes them feel like they've had their lives for a reason.

See, what you have to understand is this: I used to go up to him
and bury my nose in that hollow between the jaw and neckline, and I'd
have myself great big huge inhalations that'd make him go all highpitched and girly (which, granted, for Art wasn't much of a stretch). I
could barely help myself. I'd do it again and again, for the thing he
smelled of was: familiarity. Places you liked as a kid. Food you had on
picnics. Kites. Coffee. Neither one of us knew our parents past a certain age and if you think that doesn't scent a person, think again.

(Some free advice? You want to get yourself a good match in life,
you take a cue from animals. You walk on up, you lean close, and you
take a great big snootful.)

Goddammit, there I go. Telling the story like time was gumballs
instead of flowing sand. Probably I'm confusing you already, not that
you're the type to confuse easily-don't think I meant that.... Where
was I? Oh yes. Levine. Dr. Levine. What always puzzled me was the
fact he never laid a hand on me, never even tried to lay a hand on me,
though most of the time he had me alone and helpless and up to my
armpits in hot water. This is a curious fact, and one that contradicts my
general opinion of the way men act when opportunity knocks.
Basically, my hope is he's someplace nice and has himself a distinguished grey beard and a wife still comely and a whole lick of grandchildren. I also hope he's still sitting behind people while listening to
them spill their guts and periodically saying, "I see. I see. But how did
you feel?" Hearing that'd indicate there's a fairness to this world, and
that's a concept I wouldn't mind coming nose to nose with these days.

My next husband?

That was the Texan.

I FIRST LAID EYES ON HIM FROM A BALLY PLATFORM IN BEAUMONT,
just over the Louisiana border. I remember because he was the
sort of man you couldn't help but notice, there being something in the
shoulders and the slow sure manner of his walk that drew the eye. Plus
he wore a big brushed-suede ten-gallon, and because he and his hat were
so noticeable I watched as he took his seat, alone, in the back of the
Superba tent, which I thought was strange as it was an afternoon show
and the crowd was small and usually the men get as close as possible to
the action. Maybe he didn't want to block anyone else's view, for lie was
real partial to that hat and showed little inclination to take it off. That or
he didn't want to be seen, which didn't work because, like I say, he had a
silent iceberg presence good for nothing but drawing attention to itself.

The show started, and because we were curious (we being me and
the four other Dancing Girls of Baghdad) we kept peeking through the
backdrop at him during the first half of the program. He sat there
unblinking through the sword fighters, the knife throwers, the Moroccan tumblers, the Whirling Dervishes of Constantinople, the
midget who could stand on his head while circling the ring on camelback and finally the old white-bearded swami who lured a cobra out of
a basket while playing something tinny and horrid on a frigolet. The
educator, a man named Ned Stoughton, then came on and announced a
brief intermission to be followed by the beautiful and enticing Dancing
Girls of Baghdad. "And in the meantime, gentlemen, if you'd care and
if you'd dare, the Parker Amusement Company is pleased to offer you
various diversionary pastimes...."

Grifters, in other words. Three of them, setting up on little folding tables called tripes, one with the shell game, one with a numbers
board and one with three-card monte ("Keep your eyes on the lady,
gentlemen, it's as simple as that-just keep your eyes on that pretty
pretty lady"). By the time the plants made a big show of winning the
rubes were lined up five deep, except for my future husband, the man
in the big hat, who seemed content to sit perfectly still at the back of the
Superba tent, hands folded and thinking about who knows what. The
price of cotton maybe, or where he'd tell his wife he was at all day. The
grifters went on for about twenty minutes, stopping just before the
mood started to turn ugly. Then Stoughton sprang back on stage and
said, "Showtime, gentlemen, showtime."

Meaning us. We went out, and while Sanjay and a bongo drummer played something whiny and Oriental we stomach danced, it being
considered a talent back then to wiggle your belly while keeping your
chest and hips as still as possible. This was followed by an excess of
jeering and catcalls and men basically behaving like howler monkeys,
the one exception being my Texan, who watched quietly from his
stringer at the back of the Superba tent, legs crossed and applauding
politely after each number, so well behaved it was hard not to have the
suspicion he was up to something. At the end, he got up and walked out,
straight-shouldered and looking far too composed for a man who'd just
been to a girlie show.

Came every night, he did, and after a while it was obvious I was
the one he was coming to see. Course, it wasn't me who figured this
out, for he'd show interest in something else whenever I glanced in his
general vicinity. Was the other Dancing Girls of Baghdad who filled
me in, as they started noticing that anytime they looked his way he was
in the middle of taking a good hard look my way. Was a theory they
came up with the third night, and was a theory supported over the
fourth, fifth and sixth nights, before being upgraded to simple fact our
last night in town, when on his way out he momentarily looked up at
me and tugged the brim of his hat, which I'd later learn is Texan for "I
am not in any way displeased by your presence, ma'am."

We made the jump to Galveston, a short distance off from
Beaumont, and he started showing up there too.

Now. Being singled out like that can make a girl conscious of
what she's doing and more particularly what she's wearing, which in
my case was: lame slippers, the toes narrowing to the width of a lamp
wick and then curling up into a backward somersault; billowing harem
pants, the material not sheer enough to see through but coming close; a
fake ruby stuck in my bare navel and kept in place with stickum; a
sequined halter top that gripped my rib cage and upper arms so tightly
it left red lines afterwards. Above my veil, which was lassooed to the
ears with elastic, my eyes were enlarged with a thickness of makeup
you didn't see anywhere else in those days (or leastwise not anywhere
respectable). Finally, I had to bunch my hair on top of my head and tie
it with a long yellow ribbon, not unlike the kind a flower girl might
wear for a wedding. This was the most important part of the costume,
Stoughton explained, as it lent an innocent touch that made the rest of
the getup look extra slutty by comparison.