The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (44 page)

"You'll need a section of newspaper," Art said in a voice lowered
but not quite a whisper. "Here, take the front. See that hay bundle
there? Have a seat so you're sideways to Tony, and start perusing.
Don't look straight at the bull or he'll be liable to get riled and lean over
and squash me. This shouldn't take long."

I did as I was told, feeling the sort of curiosity that makes your
heart speed. I tried to focus on the newspaper, at the same time peering
out the side of my eye, fascinated by what Art was up to.

Which was: after unshackling the juncture electrifying the enclosure wires, he stepped inside Tony's area. He never once looked at the
animal. Instead, he sat on a little chair that'd been placed in the most
dangerous spot imaginable, by which I mean right beside the elephant,
in a prime spot for a squashing. Was the stupidest thing I'd ever seen
anyone do, though it didn't seem to bother Art. He slowly unscrewed
the top of his thermos and he opened the sports pages and he leaned
back and acted like he was enjoying a coffee break, which in a way I
suppose he was. (For the record, he crossed his legs at the ankles and
not at the knee, thank you very much.)

Tony couldn't take his eyes off this strange fellow with the newspaper. His tail was snapping at flies so hard it was making little slapping
noises on his haunches. By the same token, he wasn't trumpeting or
sweating profusely or doing any of the things that indicate an elephant's in distress. He also didn't try to teeter himself on top of Art,
something rogue elephants are fond of doing and a plan of action that
must've crossed his mind at least once or twice.

He seemed content to keep an eye on what Art was doing, which
to my mind was not a whole lot. He just sat there, reading and taking
sips of coffee. You want to know the truth, it was sort of boring, watching Art gentle an elephant, the only action coming when Art turned a
page. After a bit, I went back to my own part of the paper.

Finally, and I mean finally, for I'd been sitting on that bale long
enough my underside was feeling pins and needles, Art swallowed the
last of his coffee. He made the sound people make when they're happy
and satisfied-an exhalation of breath with a hint of rasp tossed inand he carefully screwed the thermos top back on. Then he folded his
newspaper and placed it next to the thermos, which was a little tilted
due to the unevenness of the bull-pen bedding.

He got up and walked to the front of the elephant, held out his
hands, and God strike me dead if Tony didn't calmly place the tip of his
trunk in Art's hands. Every part of that elephant went completely still, the exception being the tip of his trunk, its movements so much like that
of a caterpillar I couldn't help but marvel at the similarity. After a bit, Art
lifted Tony's trunk end and placed it to his lips, and to this day I'm not
sure if he whispered something or simply breathed out warm air. It was
probably the latter, seeing as elephants can't hear out of their noses,
though with Art you never knew: he was the type of guy who could tell
you elephants can too hear through their noses, and because of the Indian
in him you felt narrow-minded and stupid insisting they couldn't.

This went on for ... what? A minute? Two at the most. When he
was done, he held the underside of Tony's trunk in his right hand while
stroking the top with his left. Throughout he kept saying, "Good boy,
good boy. That's it. We'll have no more trouble out of you, am I right
or am I a man gone crazy?"

That night, Tony rejoined the team of elephants used for tearing
down the big top, his immense size coming in handy with the centre poles.

The next day, I saw Art eating alone in the cookhouse. I asked to join
him, his face brightening when I sat. I took my first bite of roast beef,
and while I was chewing I noticed yet another curiosity about Art
Rooney: heaped on his plate were mounds of vegetables without the
slightest bit of meat in sight (which is something the hippies do all the
time now but back then raised eyebrows more than the fact he wore
makeup). We chatted about animals and my act and what I was going to
do about it. When we were near being done-which took close to an
hour, Art having a theory that food digested better if you chewed each
bite until there was nothing left to chew-I told him about Rajah.

"Ever since I stopped working him, he's turned a little surly.
Started growling at strangers, particularly highfalutin ones. And I've
noticed his gums are a little bloodied in the mornings."

"What's his age?"

"Seven."

"You feedin him innards?"

"I am now."

"His coat's fine?"

"Thin, in places."

"Well. I gotta say it doesn't sound like he's sick, which leaves
only one other possibility."

I had a feeling he'd say that.

"But don't you think if he was going to go rogue he would've
done it already?"

"Not always. I figure animals and humans are alike, in that most
of them all do the same thing the same way, except for the odd few who
march to the beat of a different drummer. Now they're the ones I usually take to and vice versa. Fact is, I'd very much like to meet your
Rajah. I've a feeling we'd get on."

I hesitated, but only for a second.

"Take our coffees?"

Seeing as the lot was close to the trains, and it was a nice cool sunny
day, we didn't wait for a service wagon. Course, we got plenty of sidelong glances during the three-block walk through town, partly because
I was wearing my riding costume (long divided skirts, English jacket,
white tricorne hat) and partly because Art was wearing lipstick that
made him look like he'd been sucking on an orange. We reached the
yard and found the performers' train.

As Art and I walked along the cars you could tell he was
impressed by how far up the train I was: Colleano, Pallenberg, the
Christensen horse family, Bird Millman and May Wirth all had their
staterooms around mine. A little farther up was the Pullman occupied
by Lillian Leitzel and Alfred Cadona, and beyond that were the opulent
private cars occupied by John and Charles Ringling when they travelled with the circus.

I knocked to let Rajah know I was coming in and pushed the
door open. Art looked at what little there was to look at: dresser, bed, washbasin. Above the bed was the only piece of art in the room: the gold
poster Al G. Barnes had made when he was courting me so I wouldn't
leave his circus. I'd framed it and put it behind glass so it wouldn't yellow.

Rajah was in the corner, groggily licking his lips and coming
awake.

I didn't think twice when Art moved over to make Rajah's
acquaintance, Art having the gift and Rajah looking completely at
home with the idea. His head was resting on one of his paws and he was
licking a stretch of fur.

Art kneeled in front of Rajah and said, "Good boy, good boy,"
and he followed this by scratching Rajah's ear. Rajah yawned, and
resumed licking himself. Art was turning his head and saying, "I think
he likes me," when it happened: without a sound, Rajah swiped a nail
along Art's forearm, removing a considerable chunk of flesh.

Art howled and jumped to his feet. I rushed over and batted
Rajah on the nose. Then I turned to Art and apologized like a ninny.

"Don't worry," lie said through gritted teeth. "It's nothin'. A
scratch. I guess I shouldn't have been so forward."

"Let me see."

Art was reluctant to pull away his hand, though when blood and
goopy orange started seeping up through his fingers I insisted, peeling
back a pinky to promote the idea. A sizable chunk of arm had been torn
out and was left in place only by a flap of skin up toward the elbow.
He'd have some nasty mashed potato scarring, though my concern at
that moment was his nerves, so I asked him if he could make a fist. He
could, though when he did he winced and a bubble of orange geysered
up from the wound. Seeing this, I grabbed one of my riding blouses and
told him to clamp it hard over the entry.

"It isn't bad," I said. On our way out I flashed Rajah a glance that
said he'd have a talking to and maybe more when I got back.

We stepped outside, Art hunched and holding his wound, our
immediate problem being I wasn't sure he could walk the three blocks back to the lot, given his eyes were tearing and his nose was snotting
and if he wasn't feeling light-headed he would be soon. Just then, a
wagon pulled up with a bunch of spec aerialists, all of whom gasped
when they noticed the rag on Art's arm was soaked crimson. The driver shooed them off and helped me get Art into the wagon cab. He drove
back to the lot quicker than normal.

"Now don't you worry," I said on the way. "I've been bitten a lot
worse so I know what to do. I'm not saying it won't smart some, but
you'll be okay. I knew it as soon as I saw your fingers wiggle. Trust me.
It'll be more of an inconvenience than anything."

The driver dropped us in front of the infirmary tent. Of course
the doctor was out somewhere so I laid Art out on a gurney and put his
arm over a bowl and I cleaned the arm with cloths dipped in boric solution. Then I let it drip. After a while Doc Ketchum heard he had some
business and came hustling over and agreed it looked about as good as
a wound oozing pus has a right to. Art slept while I went off to do the
matinee. For dinner I spooned him some soup along with some reassurances, and it was around this time Doc Ketchum and I decided his
wound had drained enough to be bandaged, there being no defined cut
or place to do any stitching. The evening show started and shortly after
that some workingmen showed up, wanting to take down the tent, so
we had to gingerly load Al back on a gilly and take him to the rail car
reserved for those recovering from sickness and injury. When we finally got him settled, he looked tired and a little pale, all of which was
understandable given the day he'd had. I left him dozing and made it
back to the lot in time for my High School display.

Believe you me, as soon as the show was over and I'd gillied back
to the trains I went to have a word with Rajah. Soon as I entered my
stateroom, I trod over and slapped him on the nose hard and said,
"Naughty boy." Being a smart cat, he knew why he'd been smacked
and he whimpered. Then he rolled over to face the wall, his body quivering a little.

"Now you listen here," I told him. "I've had myself a total of four
marriages and my one-nighter with Al G. and each one's been a disaster.
You get so you want to swear off the opposite sex altogether and maybe
with Art that's what I'm doing. Truth is, Rajah, this is a tough time for
me and some human company would help. I know he's unconventional
but I don't exactly fit well with conventional men and remember, I'm
technically a bigamist and a fugitive and a woman who's been locked up
for nervous problems so I'm hardly one to be picky. What I'm saying is
this: I think I'm going to be giving Art a go, and I don't care that you're
a tiger and bred to get your way. Get used to the idea, is my advice."

He shook but didn't say anything beyond a whimper.

"Rajah? You hearing me, Rajah?"

I had a feeling he was sulking.

I checked on Art whenever I could over the next day. His wound didn't
reek or fester, so the doctor said he could stay on the show. Art's only
complaint was the jiggling of the train made his wound throb, something I told him I knew all about.

On the third day, the doctor said Art was recuperating fine and
could go back to his stateroom. I looked at Art's wound and since the
bandages weren't green or red and the wound wasn't excessively
painful I told him the doctor was probably right. The bandage stretched
from the middle of his upper arm right to the wrist, making it hard to
bend at the elbow.

"Does it hurt bad?" I asked.

"Nope," he said, by which he probably meant some.

So I took him by the good arm and walked him back up the
train, though we slowed when we got to the stateroom he shared with
a cookhouse boss, the pad-room boss and some guy who kept the elec-
tricals going.

"Why're we stopping?" he asked.

"You live here, remember?"

"No, uh-uh, there's something we have to do."

He saw my confusion. "We can't let that cat get the better of me,
Mabel. You know it as well as I do. He and I need to have another eye
to eye or he'll never respect me, and a lack of respect is something I do
not and will not tolerate in an animal."

This was true enough, so even though I didn't like the idea I
agreed, for the last thing I wanted was Rajah thinking he could push
Art around.

It was midmorning, the train lot deserted. We continued along
the length of the train, Art whistling and smoking and looking not at all
nervous. It was late in the season, and we were somewhere in the east,
winding our way back to Bridgeport; I remember the ground was covered with damp, fallen leaves. On either side of the trains were suburbs,
something we were seeing more and more of. I could hear lawn mowers and kids crying and men repairing fences, all of which were noises
that tended to make a trouper break out in a nervous sweat.

We reached my suite. I took a breath, prayed things would go
better this time and went inside. Art stepped in as well, still whistling,
though he stopped when Rajah's head perked up and his ears tucked
back and sputum rattled in the back of his throat. A second later, he
sprang at Art. Would've got him, too, had I not thrown myself in the
way and wrapped my arms around Rajah's shoulders and yelled "No!"
into those emerald eyes gone reckless with jealousy. My full weight
seemed to slow him a little, and I got dragged a few feet along the stateroom floor, Rajah stopping only when lie saw Art hightailing it outside.

I let Rajah go and he sat up on his haunches and licked his lips and
generally tried to regain his composure. I was panting and noticing the
sleeve of my costume had gotten ripped.