The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (2 page)

To Sootie, Sally, Ella

THE BARNES SHOW

The Athenian Tailor
... 2

The Young Psychiatrist
... 24

JungleLand
... 46

The Southern Cotton Mogul
... 63

The Hungarian Military Officer
... 95

The Bengal Punk
... 134

JungleLand
... 164

The Handsome Bigamist
... 175

THE RINGLING SHOW

The Ringling Accountant
... 206

The Ex-Polar Bear Man
... 239

JungleLand
... 265

The New Menage Boss
... 298

Art
... 328

JOHN ROBINSON / BARNES

Lucky Barnes
... 394

JungleLand
... 422

Research Notes
... 425

Acknowledgements
... 429

HE IS: TALL, KNOBBY-KNEED, THIN AS A QUARTER POLE, IN HIS
shop on Seventh Street, craned over his tailoring bench, applying
white piping to a vest, when the pain in his lower right abdomen becomes
a searing white-hot agony. He moans and keels over his work table,
clutching at himself. This causes Mr. Billetti, the produce vendor in the
market stall next door, to come running. After a moment of panic (arms
flapping, hopping on one spot, saying, "Holy-a cow, holy-a moly"),
Mr. Billetti throws his groaning friend onto an empty wooden cart, laying
him on the flatbed ordinarily reserved for rutabagas and eggplants. He
rickshaws Dimitri all the way to St. Mary's, bursts through the doors,
and cries "Help! I needa help!" before collapsing at the toes of the
Virgin Mary.

Ten minutes later, they scalpaled Dimitri open and removed what
was left of his appendix, which by that point wasn't much, a squishy
burst purple thing the size of a prune split lengthwise. Then they
wheeled him into Ward 4 and parked him halfway down the right aisle, asleep and wearing a white flannel hospital gown. After about a half-hour
or so, I wandered over and took my first long gander. He was lean and
sharply boned and what the other trainee nurses called handsome, with
his fine nose and wavy hair and olive-toned skin. Even unconscious he
wore a smirk; later I figured out he wore it so much during the day his
face had learned to fall that way natural when he was asleep.

As the poison spread through his body, he plumped up and
turned the colour of a carrot. His hands looked like they'd burst if you
pricked them. He slept around the clock, the only painkillers in 1907
being the kind that put you out like a light. On day three, I happened to
hear two doctors discussing what all that stuff circulating through his
body was likely going to do to him. "Either it'll kill him," the older one
said, "or it won't. I suppose we'll have to wait around and see."

After three or four days, it became obvious Dimitri was choosing the second option, for his bloating eased, his skin returned to a
colour more salad oil than carrot and he didn't look so mortuary-still
when asleep. While emptying a chamber pot near his bed one morning, I took a moment to look him over, fascinated by the way his chest
hair curled like baby fingers over the collar of his gown. Suddenly he
opened his eyes and without bothering to focus said, "What is it your
name, beautiful girl?"

Now this had a discombobulating effect on me, for not only was
he the first person since my father had died to pay me a compliment,
but he'd come out of what was practically a stone-cold coma to do it. I
looked at him, perplexed at how he'd managed this, seeing as most people come awake so groggy and confused it takes them an hour to
remember which way is up. I finally put it down to instinct, like the way
you blink when onion vapour gets in your eye. When I turned and left
I could feel his eyes struggling to get a bead on my crinolined backside.

"Maybe next time you stay longer," he croaked, "maybe next
time, beautiful girl...."

That afternoon he asked for scissors, a bowl of hot water, a razor, a towel and a mirror, all of which I delivered when I was good and
ready. Over the next half-hour he hacked at, and then trimmed, and
then razored, the beard he'd grown over the past six days. When he was
finished he looked at himself, closely, angling the mirror a hundred different ways so he could examine every nook and cranny, including the
one burrowing deep and gopher-hole-like into the middle of his chin.
"Aaaaaah," he exclaimed, "now I am feeling like new man!" Only his
moustache remained, pencil thin and dark as squid ink.

Soon he was getting up and roaming around and starting conversations with other patients. Didn't matter those on the receiving end
were weak and pallid and in no shape at all to hold up their end; Dimitri
would sit and share his opinions on his country, or the tailoring business, or the hospital food, all of which he thought could be better. (He
was the sort of man who smiled when complaining.) When he wasn't
chatting, he was flirting with the nurses, both trainee and regular.
Once, I was having a drink at the water fountain near the end of the
ward when I felt a hand alight on my right hip and give it a little polish.
Course, it was Dimitri. I spun around and slapped him and told him
he'd better holster those mitts of his if he wanted to keep them. From
then on, every time he passed me he'd look like we shared a secret-a
secret he'd let me in on when and if it pleased him.

All this fraternization infuriated our head nurse, the jowly and
old-before-her-time Miss Weatherspoon, no doubt because she was the
only one he didn't turn beet-red with attention. She'd order him back to
bed, only to have him grin, shrug his narrow shoulders and pretend he
couldn't speak English. It was a show of insolence that perked my ears,
for I'd had my problems right off with Miss Weatherspoon, my not being
the world's greatest fan of people in love with their own authority. One
day when Dimitri was up and roaming and responding to her bossiness
in Greek, she grew flustered and decided to complain to one of the
doctors. I happened to be walking by and saw her, salmon coloured,
motioning with a crooked finger, face muscles tight as fencing wire. "But you said bedrest only" was the bit I heard. This caused the doctor, an
older man named Jeffries, to roll his eyes and say, "Oh, all right, Beatrice,
periodic bedrest if it'll make you happy." This put Miss Weatherspoon in
an even worse mood than usual, which is saying something.

Suddenly everything needed doing all at once. Worked off our
feet, we were. I got sore joints from scrubbing body parts. Two of the
other nurses-lucky ones, I mean, with options-up and quit that
afternoon. Right near the end of shift, Miss Weatherspoon decided
Dimitri needed a sponge bath, so she ordered another trainee nurse
named Victoria Richmond to do the job. Now, at that time it was popular for girls from good families to have a stint at nursing too, mostly
because it gave them something to do while waiting to bag a husband.
Victoria was such a girl: sixteen years old, skin like alabaster, blond
ringlets, father a tobacco baron from the right side of Louisville, had a
home to go to at night instead of the dorm for live-aways. In other
words, she was the kind of girl I had trouble seeing eye to eye with, for
every time Miss Weatherspoon told her to do something she'd lower
her eyes, curtsey and say, "Of course, ma'am. Right away."

She did so this time as well, after which she turned on her heel,
practically a pirouette it was, and went off to fetch a bowl and her
favourite pink bathing sponge. When she reached Dimitri's bed she
pulled the curtain and stepped inside, at which point I got bored and
started doing something else. About a minute went by before me and
everyone else on the ward, patient or staff, got interested again. And I
mean real interested, for there was a screech, sounded like metal being
sawed, and then Miss Richmond sprinted all girly toward the doors,
elbows tight against the body, knees pressed together, lower legs windmilling sideways. Her sponge was still gripped in one hand, and as she
ran it left a series of watery drips on the floor. When she was gone it
looked like an oversized slug had passed by.

When the commotion was over, Miss Weatherspoon marched to
Dimitri's bed and turtled her head through the split in the curtain. We all watched. She extracted herself and stood, her face featureless as a
plank. A thought crossed her mind-you could practically see it passing, as her eyes slendered and her features sharpened and the edges of
her mouth crept ever so slightly in the direction of the ceiling.

"Miss Haynie!" she bellowed.

I moved fast enough so's not to be insubordinate but definitely
not running like Victoria Richmond would have.

"Yes, Miss Weatherspoon?"

"It seems Miss Richmond has had to take her leave. I'd like you
to complete the patient's sponge bath."

"Yes, Miss Weatherspoon."

"Oh ... and Mary?" She hesitated, savouring the moment. "If you
enjoy your employment here, I suggest you be as thorough as possible.
For unless I miss my guess, this patient is not the ... how shall I put this?
This patient is not the cleanest of individuals, particulary in regard to
his daily ablutions. His private daily ablutions. Do I make myself clear?
I'll inspect him when you're finished."

"Yes, Miss Weatherspoon," I said again, this time stressing the
part of her name that announced to the world she was unmarried and
thick at the ankles and not about to get younger anytime soon. Truth
was, I was annoyed and mightily so, for I barely had an inkling of what
she was driving at, Miss Weatherspoon being the sort of woman who
never said what she meant for fear of breaking some social convention
invented so recently she hadn't yet heard about it. Instead, she went at
things in circles, erasing her tracks with words that did little more than
eat up time. Fortunately, with people like that body language generally
makes up for any vaguenesses; the gloating leer plastered across her
face informed me this task was lewd and distasteful and intended solely
to show who was boss. My only defence was to pretend it didn't faze me
in the least, so with as much calm as was musterable I turned and went
looking for my sponge.