The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (33 page)

"It wasn't hard figuring out how you escaped, Mrs. Aganosticus.
Your blessed Dr. Levine admitted it the moment we confronted him. In
fact, he seemed quite proud of it. He accused me of practising barbaric treatment methods. Of course, it's against the law to aid the escape of
a lunatic so I just wanted to know what you did to persuade him, hmm-
mmmm? I imagine a woman such as yourself has ways of being persuasive, hmmmmmmm?"

Here he looked me up and down as lecherously as is humanly
possible.

"Four months in jail. Too bad. He was an educated man. Kind,
sensitive, gentle. A Jew, and you know how much they enjoy the pleasures of the mind. Cerebral pursuits were more his cup of tea. Ill-suited
for prison life, I'm afraid."

He got up and crossed the cell and sat so close our legs touched.
I wiggled away, and then noticed it out of the corner of my eye: a bulge
in his pants the size of a banana. Sights started whispering inches from
my left ear: "No one makes a fool of me. No one. Two days from now
you will be back in my care. Two days, Mrs. Aganosticus. My care."

Hearing this, I stared ahead, thinking there was no way I was
going to give him any satisfaction, so even though I was trembling
inside I acted like a tiger would've, meaning my eyes narrowed and my
jaw muscles flexed and in a voice gone as bitter as possible I said, "Yeah
well go fuck yourself."

At this he attempted a laugh though it sounded false and in that
there was the smallest of victories. Then he stood, walked to the bars
and waited for the guards to spot him.

So. What did Mary Haynie slash Mary Aganosticus slash Mary
Williams slash Mabel Roth slash Mabel Stark slash Mabel the Jailbird
do? I did what people always do in times of deep and grievous stress: I
waited until Sights had slunk off before flopping on my knees and
clasping my hands and peering up like an altar girl. My eyes were wet
from pure fear.

"Dear Lord," I started, "I know I've done some bad things in my
life, but it seems to me I've been punished enough, especially consider ing I try to be a good person, I really do, you have to admit I do bring
smiles to people's faces and I do make them forget about dry growing
seasons and the price of feed and wars going on in Europe. Please,
Lord, I wouldn't ask you except I've got no one else to turn to, I really
don't, but if you could see me through this one little jam I promise I
won't feel entitled to your kind deeds ever again and will work hard to
make it up to you."

After that, I got good and tired. I'd had a long day and a longer
night and an even longer morning, and suddenly I'd had it. I lay down
on the tissue-thin mattress and guarded my chest with my knees like a
baby and had myself a long happy dream about being a normal woman.
One with kids and a husband and a house and a calmness of spirit. Later
I awoke and got up and looked out the tiny window at the back of the
cell and saw that the shadows cast by trees had grown long. A woman
looking pretty much like the woman who'd been in the night before sat
on the bunk opposite, no doubt waiting to sepia her way out.

I was still tired so I lay down again, though I was disturbed by a
guard bringing me a supper of chipped beef and bone-dry potatoes. I
tried to eat, couldn't, and lay down with my eyes open. About twenty
minutes later a guard came by. He was more boy than man, still fighting acne and gawkiness. While unlocking the cell he looked at me and
said, "Ma'am. This way please."

I stood, fighting sniffles. As far as I knew a bus was waiting to
take me back to Hopkinsville and whatever horrors Sights was having
fun thinking up for me. I kept my head down as I shuffled, trying to
shut everything out and muster courage. The daylight, though it was
waning, made me feel worse for I knew it'd be the last I'd see in a while.
For a moment I thought about bolting, or hollering for mercy, or crying like a girl, none of which would've helped. The guard trailed
behind me, steps matching mine. At the front of the station he pushed
open the door and said, in a way practically made me swallow my
tongue with surprise, "I'm a big fan, ma'am."

He pushed open the door, signalling I was going out while he was
staying in. I suppose he saw the confusion scribbled all over my face,
for he said, "You're free to go, ma'am" and nodded toward the street.
There, parked at the curb, was a car. A nice car. Plus a man was holding the door open with his left hand. In his other was a bouquet of white
tulips he handed over when I approached.

"Good evening, Miss Stark," the man said, smiling and holding
out a gloved hand. "My name is Mr. Ewing. Albert Ewing. I'm the
Ringling Brothers' accountant. John and Charles Ringling asked me to
deal with this matter personally. I can assure you they were incensed.
Enraged, actually. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

I took his hand. Was the handshake of a man who'd never
gripped anything tight in his life, and given the last hand I'd felt on my
body it was a welcome change.

"On behalf of Mr. John and Mr. Charles and myself I'd like to
apologize for any, er, discomfort you might have experienced while a
ward of the city. I assure you we did everything in our power to secure
your release as soon as was possible. Would you care to join me?"

He stood aside and I got in. After closing my door he walked
around the car and climbed in and asked the driver to go. Then he
turned to me and said, "I'm afraid the circus has left Bowling Green, so
we'll have to catch up to them in Nashville."

I leaned back, enjoying the feel of soft leather. The whole car
smelled unused.

"You know," lie said, "if you don't mind my saying, you might
want to secure yourself some management. Such a move might prevent
these sorts of occurrences in the future."

"Will these sorts of occurrences occur again?"

"Probably not. There were some negotations. They went rather
smoothly, all things considered."

"What about Sights?"

"I suspect he won't be bothering you again."

No doubt the Ringlings had bought his co-operation as well.
Mind you, there was a possibility that Sights had refused, given his
thirstiness for revenge, so I asked what happened. This caused the
accountant to go a little quizzical about the mouth and eyes.

"Well, of course, I don't know. I wasn't there. Apparently there
were discussions. At first Mr. Sights didn't understand that a Ringling
star is, well, beyond reproach."

"What kind of discussions we talking about, Mr. Ewing?"

Here his face broadened into the grin.

"As far as I understand it they were, well, discussions."

Funny how sometimes a euphemism can be like music to the
ears. A deep contentment took root, the kind that comes from feeling powerful. Was as though I was friends with gangsters or politicians or people with money, and that's a sensation everyone should
have a least once a lifetime. I closed my eyes and thanked God for
helping me out. I rode this way for quite a while, not sleeping but
relaxing, and when I opened my eyes again I had a good long look at
the side of Mr. Ewing. He was a medium-sized man, with freckled
baby-soft skin, thin curly hair and some mild lumpiness around the
jawline. On the plus side, he had dimples and high cheekbones and
green eyes. Even though he was slightly younger than me, thirty at
the most, he carried himself with the weight of a fifty-year-old, and
if the truth be told weariness is something I've always thought
looked good on a man. Plus what was left of his curls was a pleasing
shade of marigold.

All of this I mention because when I opened my eyes he was in
the process of taking a good long gander at the tightness of my leather
costume, particularly as it pertained to the length of my left leg. (I
always did have nice gams-comes from chasing after tigers all day.)
Had he known I was watching he no doubt would've pretended he
was fascinated with the floor of the car or the workmanship of my
boots. But seeing as how he didn't know I was watching there was no denying a simple fact, one I could either do something with or leave
completely alone.

All eyes, he was.

We got married halfway through the season, during a three-day
stand in Portland, which I picked because my divorce happened there
and I figured my divorce had worked out a damn sight better than
any of my marriages. Both Ringling and Barnes troupers came,
though more of the latter seeing as I'd been on the Ringling show for
only six months and was having my usual trouble making friends. I
wore white-cheeky, I know-but by then white was my signature
colour so I figured I had an excuse bordering on legitimate. Rajah
was my best man, he and I turning heads when he walked me to the
altar. There I handed him off to my Barnes tunnel man, Red, who
Rajah had always liked and respected and had never once tried to
eviscerate. They both took seats in the front pew, Rajah for the
most part behaving himself though afterwards Albert and I did get
invoiced for one chewed-up Bible and one torn-to-shreds book of
wedding Psalms.

There were streamers and daffodils and a soprano with piper, all
of it tasteful and sophisticated and too good for the likes of a farm girl
from the ugly end of Kentucky. My only disappointment was Al G.
wasn't there, though he did send a telegram expressing his condolences;
thankfully, he hinted his wranglings with Leonora Speeks were the culprit so I didn't blame the weight that settled over us the last time we'd
seen each other. The only other invitees who couldn't make it were
John and Charles Ringling, Mr. John having gone off to Italy on an artbuying trip and Mr. Charles looking at a four-hundred-year-old violin
someone had turned up in an attic in Durban, South Africa. To apologize, Mr. John sent me another gross of roses. Mr. Charles must've
heard this, for the day of the event he sent a bouquet containing two
gross in an arrangement the size of a Ford.

When we got to the part where the minister asked the question
answered by "I do," he had to ask it twice for my hearing picked that
moment to go on the fritz. After an uncomfortable pause, I realized
what everyone was waiting for, so I said, "I do," and Albert said, "I do,"
and we both signed the book and then we all went to the New
Westminster Hotel where we had a sit-down dinner for forty, speech
making and dancing and cavorting afterwards. Fred Bradna, the
French-born ringmaster, was the emcee, and he made a toast wishing us
a long and happy future after joking that he knew Albert would be as
"tame and tractable as all the other wards of Mabel's stable." At this
everyone but everyone laughed.

Course, White Tops and Billboard were there-ravenous is the
word comes to mind when I think about reporters-so to give them
something good I did a quick two-step with Rajah, who I could tell had
had a few sips of the hooch being brought in through the service
entrance. Practically placid he was, and more in step than usual. He
didn't even blink when flash pods went off.

We danced till three in the morning, which was probably longer
than Albert cared to, seeing as by one in the morning he seemed pretty
eager to get up to the room. Naturally, this ran counter to my desire to
stay out of the room as long as possible, seeing as I was a woman who'd
never had much luck in the wedding-night department. Still, there
came a time when he approached me with that look men get, half
Valentino and half child wanting a cookie, and I realized I'd have to
face the music sooner or later. We went upstairs. Of course there were
flowers and of course there was champagne in a bucket. After a bit of
prelimary kissing, I asked Albert to turn out the lights. We both
undressed and climbed into bed and came together and it was:

Fine. No inabilities or weird noises. Nothing I felt too much or
not at all. Nothing made me want to break out laughing. Nothing left
chafe marks or bruising. Nothing produced rank odours or odours
period. Was just a good old-fashioned man-on-top roll in the hay, and without a lot of fussing or frills, so it had the advantage of not taking
all night. (Sorry, Al G., wherever you are.) Albert was even gentlemanly enough to stay awake until after I'd fallen asleep, something I'd
never had happen before, there being something about losing their seed
that makes men as drowsy as a snake in hot weather.

Throughout the rest of the 1921 season Albert and I settled into
a life of quiet ordinariness, or at least as ordinary as a pair of circus
people could ever hope for. My days I spent fussing with my Bengals
and Rajah and Nigger. Albert spent his days in the red car, fidgeting
with the books, as he'd been hired specifically to look for ways to trim
the budget. This was no easy feat, given he worked for a circus that,
each and every day, went through three hundred pounds of butter,
three hundred gallons of milk, twenty-five hundred pounds of fresh
meat, two thousand loaves of bread, fifteen hundred pounds of fresh
vegetables and two hundred bushels each of oats, ice, coffee and loose
tea. "And that," Albert moaned one night, "is just for the humans. Have
you ever counted how many elephants are out in that menage? Four
dozen. Four dolen. Of course, I suggested to Mr. John if lie sold off a
few it would help things considerably. `Wonderful idea, Al,' he told me.
`Wonderful idea. I'll get on that immediately.' The next day he bought
a half-dozen more from a circus that had gone out of business and was
stranded in the middle of a farmer's lot in Oklahoma. He told me he
couldn't afford not to buy them."

I'd listen attentively and then give Albert a shoulder rub, my latest husband being a man who took things too seriously for his own
good. Meanwhile, Rajah would watch, his head cocked, from the shelter I'd had built into the end of our Pullman suite. Once Rajah had nodded off for the night I'd ask Albert if he felt like burning off any excess
tension. If he didn't, his usual complaints being fatigue or stress
headaches, I'd shut the lights and undress so as not to dim any future
appetite with my scars. If he did, we'd jump in bed and proceed, keeping as quiet as a couple with a baby in the room. After a couple months of no results, I started doing handstands afterwards, though I told
Albert it was a means of strengthening my shoulder muscles. Or I'd
prop my waist on my hands and sit on my shoulders, legs poking
straight into the air. On such occasions I'd tell him I was practising
yoga tips I'd picked up from Colombo the Indian Rubber Man.