Free The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) by Robert Hough Page B

coat?"
    Here I could've killed her, the benefit of vegetable oil being a
wives' tale that got out on circus lots about fifty years ago, probably
started by a vegetable oil salesman for it does nothing but make their fur
look soggy plus it'll gum up pores and make them groggy. Was an
insult, pure and simple, my having to take instruction from a woman
who didn't even know that. Instead of losing control, I stared straight
ahead, communicating my displeasure through wordlessness and an
expression gone stern. After a while Ida took the hint and added, "Well,
of course it's completely up to you. Bye now."
    By that point I was fuming, so I went off to find Uncle Ben and
told him he better talk to Jeb and get him to rein in his wife if he didn't
want fireworks. Ben said he'd do what he could, which turned out to be
not much, for the very next morning Ida was back again, smoking and
drinking coffee and telling me how beautiful my tigers were, before
suggesting I give them a little milk of magnesia.
    "It's good for their bones," she added in that syrupy voice of
hers, and it was the intent her chirpy tone was disguising that finally
made me snap and call her the worst thing you can call a circus person.

    "Listen to me, Ida," I said. "Listen to me good. You're a carny.
You're a concessionaire. You really expect me to care what you think
about tigers?"
    Her face turned white and she stormed off, that silly back end of
hers wiggling like electrical current was running through it. Since then
we haven't talked. If we pass each other on the connection we both go
stony and don't say hello. Thank God, Jeb and I get on, or I'd be out
already. Still, you overhear things. Rumours, whisperings, snackbar
chatter. Like Ida's pressuring Jeb something hard. Like she figures
she's got more pull on account of she has a flat stomach and boobs
propped high as mountain peaks. Like she figures she can get what she
wants because a certain type of man goes for her.
    Like the great Mabel Stark might retire soon.
    Then.
    A few weeks later. Young squirt, Irish mug, wavy red hair, tiny
round eyes, keen as a wood plane, twenty-five at the most. I first laid
eyes on him at the beginning of the day, while in the process of wheeling my big old Buick convertible off the Ventura freeway and into the
JungleLand parking lot, where I was about to take my favourite spot by
the fence under the giant oak. Was exactly 6:20 in the morning. Same
time as I always got there. Only that day was different, for as I was
wheeling my big old Buick convertible into the parking lot I noticed
there was another car in the lot, and in that car was a guy behind the
wheel, coffee cup in hand, staring at the front entrance of JungleLand
so hard you'd swear he'd fallen in love with it.
    So I got out. He got out. Instantly I knew he was a new cat guy
and my day was ruined. First of all, he had marks on his forearms I
could see all the way from the other side of the lot. Second of all he
knew who I was-that much was obvious. He came toward me, beaming, and I looked at him, not smiling, until we got close enough I could
see he was fixing on introducing himself. Just walked on by, I did, acting like he'd never entered my line of vision.

    Shortly after nine, with the cats fed and dozing, I found Uncle
Ben and asked him who in the hell the new guy was.
    "The cage boy? Haynes is his name. Roger Haynes. From
Oklahoma, I believe."
    "Where they find him?"
    "Working the Beatty show. Trained with Beatty himself before
the cancer kicked in."
    "Beatty!"
    "That's what I heard."
    "Oh Jesus Christ Ben, there you go! They have to spell it out in
neon lights! No guy who's trained with Beatty and who's got his marks
is going to take a job as a cage boy unless he figures he's not going to
be a cage boy long! Oh Christ Ben you might as well start saying your
goodbyes now cause if anyone ever tries to take my cats away from me
I've got a neat little .38 in my bedside