The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (37 page)

I stopped and looked around and realized I was standing next to
Lillian Leitzel's private dressing tent. Naturally, it was both the biggest
tent and the tent closest to the performers' curtain. Leitzel was sitting outside on a divan, smoking a cigarillo. She waved her left arm, the one gone
meaty from all her planging, and called again. I went over. Her two bulldogs, Boots and Jerry, were snoring at her feet. Her tent was filled with
flowers, courtesy of John Ringling, who had a devotion to her nobody
quite understood except that it bordered on the slavish. Like most people
I didn't like Leitzel but felt good when she paid me attention.

"Good morning, Mabel," she said. "Vood you like to join me for
a cigarette?"

She offered me one of the thin dark things she was puffing on and
because I didn't want to seem ungrateful I accepted. Lillian then passed
me a Ronson, and when I lit up it was like breathing bark smoke. I
worked hard to keep my face from roiling. Meanwhile Leitzel smoked
and let a smile form around the spot where her lips held the cigarillo.
After a few seconds, she took the cigarillo from her mouth and
motioned with it toward the empty divan beside her.

"Sit," she said. "Keep me company."

The imperious way she said it made me want to slap her but by
now I was so curious I reacted as though it was a kind invitation. So I
sat down and smoked with her while we both watched the busyness of
a circus lot only halfway put together. We could hear Negro canvasmen
chanting as they pounded in the tent pegs, and we could hear someone
warming the calliope.

"I vatched your act ze other day," Leitzel finally said. "It really is
somesing, how much control you have over ze tigers. I hope you vill be
on the show a long time. I know Mr. John, yell, he speaks very highly
of you. Alfred and I dined with him just before he vent to Sarasota and
he told me so himself. He said, `You know, Lillian. Hiring Mabel Stark
avay from Barnes vas one of ze smartest moves I ever made."'

"Really?"

"Oh yes. He told me he vass going to be looking at some more
tigers for you. He'd like to give you ze biggest tiger act in ze country."

"He said that?"

"Oh my vord, yes."

"I'm ... I'm surprised. I was beginning to think ... well, it's just
that you never see him."

"No no no. He vas insistent. He ask me to ask you if you prefer
cage bred or jungle."

"Don't really matter to me, so long as they're tigers."

"All right, zen, I vill tell him."

Just then, Con Colleano sauntered by and the two started chatting away in Spanish, Leitzel having picked up the language from her
distempered Mexican husband. After a minute, Colleano and Leitzel
said adios and Colleano walked off, his gait stiff-legged on account of
his toreador pants being so tight and thickly spangled.

"Ah ... zat man. He is enough to make you want to forget your
husband and be foolish, is dis not right, Mabel? Are not ze Spaniards ze
most vonderful? Spaniards and Russians. Both emotional as hyenas,
only difference being ze vay dey show it, hmmmmm?"

Not really sure what she was getting at, I murmured something
that was neither a yes or a no. Leitzel looked around.

"Speaking of husbands. Vell. Zey can be a trial, no? Zey can be
something us vomen put up with, no? Such boys, zey are.,,

"Lillian," I said. "Exactly whose husband are we talking about?"

"Yours, mine ..." Here she waved her muscle-bound arm in the
air and smiled. "Does it matter?"

Suddenly my hopefulness evaporated and I eyeballed Leitzel and
spoke in a way that wasn't my place given how rich and famous she was
and given how strict the class system in the circus was. "Lillian," I said
through teeth barely parted, "you got something to say, say it. I've got
tigers not yet fed. What I don't have is all day."

She let out a hiss of smoke and looked at me narrow-eyed. Then
she butted out her cigarillo and sat back in her divan and stared forward. Her voice was smoky and low and indignant.

"Mabel," she said, "vould you listen? I am trying to help you."

Then she told me what was obvious to everyone on the circus
but me.

The sound some words can make: was like she'd taken a four-hundredpound copper bell and rung it, her words reverberating for a full minute
afterwards. I could practically hear those words pushing the air around, clanging over and over. Thank God the two Ringlings had been down
in Sarasota for the past three months watching their palaces get built.

"Thank you," I said weakly.

I took a short cut through the half-risen big top, the canvasmen
yelling words of caution and me not listening, till I hit the connection
and turned right and then half walked, half ran past the Congress of
Freaks until I reached the red wagon parked next to the main entrance.
I turned the door handle and found him in there, alone, so I started hitting him and slapping him and punching him and yelling, "You've got
to put it back, Albert! You have to put it back! You know what they'll
do to you if you get caught!"

Through a lattice of fingers he cried, "Calm down Mabel put
what back?!" and it was the fake innocence of this made me doubletime my hits and slaps and yell, "Don't play dumb with me, Albert!
You're stealing from the Ringlings which is bad enough but you're also
my manager. How do you think that looks!"

Albert then had the nerve to cry, "Honest Mabel I haven't any
idea what you're talking about!" This made me see red; I actually
picked up a big metal three-hole punch and honked him a good one on
the head so he fell to his knees and gripped his noggin with two hands.
Suddenly, he was all ears.

"Listen to me. You have to put the money back."

"All right," he whimpered, "all right. I will. All right. For
Christ's sake, Mabel, I will...."

I dropped the three-hole punch to the floor and it hit with a
wood-chipping thud. Then I stood breathing hard, wishing there was
such a thing as killing a man without repercussions or feelings of guilt.
After a time, Albert got up and sank back in his office chair and closed
his eyes, still holding the pummelled portion of his forehead. I'd left a
bump that'd swell to the size of an Easter egg, and I pitied him the
headache that'd soon set in, though not enough to stop me from saying,
"Find someplace else to sleep tonight, you cheap excuse for a man."

Then I walked out, hoping that maybe a good bonk on the head
might've knocked some sense into him. Course, this was wishful thinking, for making a man feel battered and ashamed only feeds the flames
of his compulsion, particularly if that battering and shame comes at the
hands of his wife.

To make a long story short, Albert moved out, setting himself up
in hotels until space opened in one of the office-staff Pullmans. He kept
gambling too. Now that he was out of my life, I found I could tolerate
keeping my ears open for the whisperings and rumour and gossip. Just
goes to show you how stupid Albert was, for he'd always head to the
best speak in town, and with two thousand people in the circus was a
sure thing he'd be spotted by someone out for the evening. There was
talk of him playing poker till all hours with mobsters; of him playing
roulette, winning hundreds on one spin and losing it all the next; of him
playing blackjack, one-armed bandits, even baccarat, which shows how
talk gets exaggerated for there was no such thing as baccarat in America
at the time. Still, there was no denying he was out of control. Worse,
there were still times when I felt it was my job to save him, for you
could practically hear the hey-rube boys dusting off their blackjacks
while waiting for the word from Mr. John or Mr. Charles.

Three-quarters of the way through the season, with the circus
heading east, I got a message that the Ringling manager, Charles
Curley, wanted to see me. I was walking Rajah so I took him along to
Curley's office, a tent set up next to the one that would've been occupied by Charles Ringling were he not down south.

"Mabel," Curley said, looking solemn.

"Charles," I said, taking a seat in one of the chairs opposite his
desk. Rajah sat in the other, licking his chops and looking pleased.

"Suppose you know why I asked to see you."

"Can't say I do, Charles."

"It's about your husband."

"Ain't no husband of mine. I'd make it official but there's no time on tour. Believe me, my lawyer's on standby in Bridgeport. Moment we
get there I'll be Mabel Ewing no longer."

Here Charles's face looked like a shadow had fallen over it. He
peered down at some ledger books on his desk and said nothing, though
he did take a big breath, which he let go of in the form of a sigh.

With a dry mouth I asked, "How much is it?"

"About $7,000, Mabel. That's not inconsiderable."

There were a few more seconds of silence. For $7,000 they'd redlight him, a punishment involved getting thrown off a moving train,
your limbs scattering for miles and the cops so puzzled they wouldn't
even bother trying to fit the bits and pieces back together.

"All right. I'll see what I can do."

Which turned to be: pretty much nothing. I saw Albert in his suite that
night, only to find it's pretty difficult to get your point across when neither one of you is talking. Finally, I just up and outed with "For
Christ's sake, Ewing, the least you can do is run. You might stay
healthy that way."

This made him spitting mad. He got on his feet and started ranting, "For the love of Mike how many times do I have to tell you? I
haven't stolen a penny. I'm the show accountant. I have rearranged some
accounts on a short-term basis so that certain high-ranking Ringling
employees have some operating capital. I'm allowed to do that, Mabel.
It's in my contract. The books will balance at the end of the season,
though I cannot for the life of me see how it's any of your concern so
why don't you go off and play with your cats seeing as how you love
them so much...."

He went on and on, his true feelings about the value of my profession coming out in great big dollops, for which I was thankful as it
made getting up and walking out easier. Course, he kept right on gambling. As far as I can tell he gambled even heavier, no doubt desperate
to put back the money he'd borrowed and feeling the whole time that's what he was going to do. I started hearing rumours the figure had
grown to $8,500, and by October an even ten.

Then John Ringling rejoined the circus.

I never saw him, what with his sleeping all day and working all
night, though I didn't have to. You could sense his presence.
Everywhere I went, I heard chatter that Mr. John had been speaking to
so-and-so, or that he'd been seen doing this or that, or that someone
had passed his Pullman late at night and heard his voice, booming and
rich, hollering at the stock ticker. Plus there were changes in the operation of the circus. Performers sharpened their acts and smiled more in
case Mr. John's private box got used. The animals looked better.
Though the band always played during mealtimes, they started playing
songs designed to please Mr. John in case he was in earshot. The day he
came back they played "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" at both lunch
and dinner. Days passed, though not enough to make a week. I wasn't
sure what Albert was doing and convinced myself I didn't at all care.
One night after the show I was in the ladies' side of the dressing tent
when one of the spec riders came in and said, "Someone's outside for
you, Mabel."

So I went outside, still in my leathers, and found Bailey; he was
standing close enough to a light I could see his hangdog face was even
more hangdog than usual. I said three words only: "Where is he?"
to which he answered, just as simply, "Da trains, Miss Stark. He at
da trains."

As the rail yard was close that night, and the transport wagons
wouldn't start going for another twenty minutes, I started running.
After a hundred feet or so I remembered my abduction in Bowling
Green so I turned and ran back to the menage and got Rajah and we set
out together, Rajah thinking this running across a field in the middle of
the night was some kind of game and enjoying himself because of it.

I was out of breath by the time I could make out the station
light in the distance. As we got closer I saw something that would've horrified me if I'd stopped and let it. Hanging from the mail gantry was
a bag, and judging from its size it sure wasn't mail inside.

I got there and sure enough it could've only been a body. I was
afraid to open it, figuring him for dead or near to it, so instead I stood
there, shivering. Fond memories surfaced, though it's true I had to go
all the way back to that night in the back of a chauffeur-driven car and
Albert not being able to take his eyes off my left leg. At this thought I
sniffled loudly, causing a muffled sound to come from inside the bagwas a mmmm mmmm, mmmmm mmmm mmmmmmmmmm ...

I looked down at Rajah, confused, and he looked up at me with
ears cocked. I reached out and unzipped the bag. Sure enough, Albert
was inside, face beet-red, hanging upside down and naked, wriggling to
beat the band and trying to talk through the adhesive tape stretched
over his mouth. His body had been blackened somehow, and for one
second I thought maybe the rube-boys had burnt him to a crisp. This
thought persisted for less than a half-second, however, for Albert was
wriggling and swinging and doubling up so frantically you'd swear
someone was tickling the soles of his feet with a feather. So I reached
out and pulled a forefinger down his midsection. It came away damp
with motor oil.

There's one other thing worth mentioning: stuck to all that oil
was feathers. Hundreds and hundreds of little feathers-chicken, most
likely. It looked like a good old tar and feathering, a traditional punishment for grifters, card cheats and confidence men. The only difference
was oil had been used instead of hot tar (which had a habit of leaving
burns so bad a man could die later of infection). All in all, it showed
John Ringling had both a sense of humour and a respect for yours truly.