Numb (3 page)

Tilly said, “You've got to be ready. Why aren't you wearing the outfit I left you?”

“It didn't fit,” I lied. “Can I ask you something?” I walked around the cage and Tilly followed me. Watching for the cameraman so I wouldn't be overheard on tape, I said, “Is the lion drunk already?”

“No, but no worries. Look at him—he's exhausted. The heat is killing him and he barely slept at all.”

The lion yawned. His teeth looked sharper in the daylight.

“What do you mean, no? You said he'd be drunk.” He'd promised this the moment he suggested I take the bet.

“Well, he isn't. There have been people in here for hours; we didn't get a chance. Besides, I don't even know that you can get a cat drunk. Can you? Damned if I know.” He talked rapidly, words linked in chains. His bounce intensified.

“Listen to me,” Tilly said. We walked away from the cameraman, who had begun to follow. “You'll be like a superman facing down a savage beast. Damn, I wish that Tarzan getup had fit. That big kitten won't mess with you. He looks ready to drop dead from the heat. It's a hundred and fifteen in here. He'll never even touch you.”

His eyes looked everywhere but at me. For the first time I saw Tilly's desperation. If people would pay to see me hurt, then he would hurt me, lion or no.

“I don't know why I'm doing this, Mr. Tilly.”

He finally looked at me. “Hell, son. 'Cause you're an artist,” he said. “All these people are here to see you because you're a performer. That's the way it works.”

“I don't know about that.”

Artistry in my act was debatable, but audience enjoyment wasn't. There was always shouting and clapping and a small amount of nausea and vomiting. Even that seemed a positive reaction to my act. But this, somehow, felt odd. It didn't matter to me if people saw this or not. If no one was there at all, would I do this? I began to think I might, if just to save the circus.

I was looking for Darla in the crowd when Mal grabbed my arm and pulled me outside. We walked back
toward the trailers and stood between two of them, tried to stay in their shade. Heat reflected off the trailers and pushed over us in dry waves. Mal carried a brown paper bag and wore a heavy work suit like Yuri had worn the night before.

“What are you doing in that?” I asked.

“I've gotta stand by, be ready to pull that lion off you. But I don't have a nice suit like you.” He opened the bag and pulled out a large bottle of whiskey. A bright orange price tag read sale $9.99.

I said, “You shouldn't go in that cage. You'll get hurt.”

He stared at me. “You're gonna fuckin' wrestle with the thing, so shut up.” He handed me the bottle. “Have a drink.”

“Where'd you get this?” I tilted the bottle back and a sweet acid taste poured over my tongue.

“Tilly had me run into town last night. It was for Caesar. But Wally Big Bucks showed up and we couldn't give it to him.” He grabbed the bottle and took several large swallows. He coughed and said, “That's worse than the lighter fluid I use to spit fire.” He passed the bottle back to me and said, “I think that if the big cat isn't getting any, we should drink it for him.”

After my second gulp I said, “This is awful.”

“I was buying for the cat, not you.” He pointed at the label. “See, it has a bird on it. I thought that was a good sign.”

There was a bird. A haggard black crow, drawn in
profile, with circles under its eye. It looked ready to drop dead.

“How is that a good sign?”

Mal shrugged. “Cats like birds, right? But birds can fly out of danger, so you're like a bird now. You just let him dance around you and you fly out of danger.”

We spent a quiet half hour as we took turns choking down Caesar's whiskey. We finished, and Mal hurled the empty bottle over the nearest trailer. We heard it refuse to break with a solid thud on the other side.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the business card, and handed it to Mal. He looked at it, turned it over, turned it back. He flicked the bloody edge and some of the crusted paper broke free. The corners were gone, rounded to a scabby softness.

Mal said, “What do you think this is?”

I took a deep breath through my mouth, felt whiskey vapors follow it back out. “I guess it could be something about who I was. I don't know. Maybe a way to find out.”

“Maybe.” He played with the card and handed it back. Then he asked, “What're you going to do with that cat?”

“I don't know.”

“Why do it?”

“I owe Tilly, I guess. He saved me, took me in, gave me work and food. Maybe I can save his circus.”

Mal shook his head and said, “And that card, you think it means something?”

“I guess.”

Mal looked down at his feet. “You ought to spend more time thinking about who you are right now. Who you want to be, understand? Think about that.” Sweat dripped off his nose. “Right now, why are you going into that cage?”

“I don't know.” Again I wondered if Darla would be in the stands.

“You're full of shit. You know.” He looked out over the field beyond the trailers. Brown grass refused to bend as the hot breeze pushed past it. It looked abrasive and rough, like it never had been and never would be green.

I said, “You know how The It talks about me? How he says that what I do has no drama? He says it isn't an act. He says that I'm a spectacle, not a performer.”

Mal nodded. “So you think this is different?”

“I don't know.”

“Is that why you're doing it?”

I shrugged.

“Whatever the reason, you better really be sure. Really think it over. And when you decide you want to do it, make sure you mean it. And if you decide you don't, run away and don't come back, or hide, or say fuck you very much to Tilly and Captain Moneybags. I'll go with you. We'll get to LA and make something happen there. Whatever. Just make sure you're doing it for a good reason. And if you think you have one, I'll be waiting for you there.” He pointed at the tent opening. I could hear the crowd inside now. I had about fifteen minutes. “I'll be waiting for you to tell me your good reason. And if I'm
not satisfied with it, I'll knock you out and call the whole thing off.”

Mal walked to the tent. He spat as he walked away, a slight wobble noticeable in his carriage.

I wandered around the compound, searching for a reason to go into the lion's cage. When I got to Darla's door I tried to think of a good reason for being there. I knocked and heard a muffled answer.

“It's me,” I said. I heard something again. “I can't hear you.” I grabbed the handle and pulled. The whiskey and sun conspired against me; I lost my footing and fell backward. For a moment I propped myself up on the door, but then it broke off its hinges. I fell on my back, and the door spun as it tore free. I saw Darla's Garfield suncatcher coming at me and heard the crash.

I lay still for a second. After I pushed the door off me I sat up and felt blood run down my forehead. The suncatcher was bloody, and the window spiderweb-cracked. I wiped at my forehead, and tasted a whisper of blood in my mouth. I sat in sunlight, looking up into the dark hole where the door had been. I couldn't see into the trailer but heard Darla say, “He broke my fucking door.” Then I heard The It say, “Retard.” I crawled toward the doorway and looked in, found Darla in a bra and panties, small image of a snake in one hand and a wet yellow sponge in the other. It was The It's tattoo, a decal. The It sat in a vinyl-topped chair, in white boxers, his neck and chest free of any of his signature ink. They were all
sitting on plastic sheets by the sink, still waiting to be applied.

“Hurry up,” he said, “before the glue dries.”

“He'll see.”

“He's already seen. Now hurry up. Those are expensive.”

As I squatted in the doorway, Darla pulled her eyes off me and put the snake on The It's face. She laid it against his skin, gave it a gentle push with the sponge. Darla put it right where it should be, where it had always been. I stood, shaking, and stepped into the trailer.

“What are you looking at, freak?” The It said. His eyes were brown. A bottle of contact lens solution sat near the sink behind him.

“They're fake,” I said. I meant the tattoos, or his yellow eyes, or maybe all of him.

“He's afraid of needles,” Darla explained. She pulled away the sponge. The snake's head curled beneath his eye and ended abruptly. There must have been a second fake tattoo that would continue the snake's body past his cheek and down his neck. Darla stood up, arched her back. Her panties had little flowers on them.

“Don't tell him that.” The It smacked her thigh, a playful, touchy slap, with the back of his hand.

“Hey, asshole, he already saw me put one on, remember?” She threw the sponge in the sink. She looked at me through her long bangs. “What do you want, Numb? Why the hell did you break my door?”

The It grinned. “Don't you know? Today's the freak's big day. Came over for a good-luck kiss.”

She handed me a paper towel and said, “You're bleeding.” I pressed it to my head and the blood soaked in. She pushed by me, pressed into me for a moment to get through the door, and said, “You sure did a job on this thing.” She stepped into the sunlight, and her white underwear caught the rays. I followed her out.

“Door was nearly busted off anyway,” she said. “Let's hope Tilly uses some of that money you're getting for this show to get me a new one, right?”

I looked down at the door, the bloody Garfield.

From inside the trailer The It shouted, “Why don't you go do your thing and let us do ours?”

“Shut up,” Darla yelled. She shook her head and stepped around the door. She looked up at me and said, “You can't tell anyone about his tattoos, you know. He'd be out of the show for sure. Our little secret, okay?” She covered her eyes with her hand, as if saluting.

With my hand pressing the towel to my forehead, I mumbled, “Why did he tell me he got used to the pain?”

“Because he's a performer. No one looks if you don't have an act, right?”

She turned and stepped back into the trailer. The moment she stepped out of the light she disappeared, and The It chuckled. I walked away, paper towel against my cut. I stepped on the door, window glass crunch
ing beneath me, and then I retraced my path between the trailers, back to the main tent. There were clouds to the south, but hazy and weak. Nothing like the last storm.

Mal stood at the entrance. His eyes grew wide as I approached. I felt a resolve that I hadn't felt before and knew that he could sense it.

“What the fuck happened to your head?” I pulled the paper towel away but pieces stuck to my head like adhesive.

“I got cut.”

“It looks like Garfield.” The suncatcher's metal frame had cut into my forehead like a stamp. He examined the cat on my head. “Doesn't Darla have a Garfield suncatcher on her window?”

“Not anymore.”

He stared at the wound. “That girl's gonna kill you. You get cut every time you talk to her.”

“I'm going to do it, Mal.”

“I need a reason.” He wouldn't look at me, just the cut.

“Because I'm the only one who will.”

“That's not a good reason.”

“Who are you to decide that?”

Mal thought a moment. “I guess you're right. Fuck it. Let's go.”

We entered the tent. Sonny pointed at me and said, “There's the freak now.” The camera spun around.

Mal looked at me and then at my forehead. “It already stopped bleeding. You clot fast. That's good.”

“Why?”

“In a few minutes you'll be in a cage with a lion. I'd think you would want to clot.”

“That's true.” It was a good thing. I began to wonder how I could use it to my advantage. “Good. I'm ready.”

A shout burst from the group of roadies by the door. “He's ready.” Another voice shouted the same thing from outside. I could hear word being spread across our sorry little circus village. It suddenly struck me as bizarre that anyone would even be there but me and the  lion. What did I need Mr. Tilly, the cameraman, or the trainer for? I didn't even need Murdoch, Sonny, or the money. This seemed like the most natural thing  to be doing, going into the lion's cage. I was the freak who played with danger, the only one who would wrestle the big cat. This was who I was. I straightened my suit jacket.

“Open the cage up.” I rubbed my palms on the thighs of my pants.

“Wait,” Mal said. “What about a time limit?”

“Time limit?” Murdoch said, as if Mal had asked for a solid gold pocket watch.

“You don't expect him to spend the rest of his life in that cage, do you?”

“It might be the rest of his life,” someone shouted. The crowd laughed.

Mal stood between me and Murdoch. “How long? Sixty seconds?”

“Too short. Five minutes.”

“Unless the cat is on him. Then we pry him loose and he's out of there.”

“Right.”

“This ain't so tough,” said Sonny.

“Open it up,” I repeated. I looked at the dirt between me and the cage. An ant crawled by, several of its legs not working. It hobbled in an odd semicircle past my left foot.

Caesar sat on his haunches, panting. Everyone there formed a ring around the cage. I stood near the door. I looked over my shoulder and saw people wandering in from outside, the other circus hands, performers, some of the Mexicans who'd been hired as part-time help. Mr. Tilly looked ready to pop out of his suit.

“Mr. Tilly,” I shouted, “I quit after this.” Tilly simply nodded.

Yuri stood at the center with me. He looked proud and artificial in front of the camera—his hair plastered to his head, a part down the middle. Like a child, he smiled nervously at me, then looked back at the camera and said, as if he'd been rehearsing in front of a little mirror in his dirty trailer, “Are you ready, sir, for your trip into the lion's den?” Tilly had paid him $20 for that line.