Lives of the Circus Animals (32 page)

M
olly was at the zoo. The animals were having cocktails: martinis and highballs and manhattans and sidecars.

A sudden banging drove the animals away. And a door opened, letting in an angry bright light. “Excuse me! Sorry!” said a man. He instantly pulled the door shut.

Molly lay in the dark, wide awake now. She'd been dreaming. Of course. She had fallen asleep. But where was she? There seemed to be a party in the next room, not animals but people. This was not home. Was she still dreaming? Was she drunk? There was a mild ache in her head, but she did not feel tipsy.

She slowly sat up. A big window hung over the bed. Outside the window hung an enormous building full of more windows, most of them dark. And she remembered: she was in Manhattan, visiting her son Caleb for his birthday party.

What a night. What a pack of chatterboxes. She felt like she'd been talking to people ever since she arrived. She rubbed her jaw to make sure it was still there. Well, they did the talking. All she had to do was listen.

She was reluctant to go back outside, but her daughter should be here by now. Once she said hello to Jessie, she could say good-bye and go home. She hoped it wasn't too late.

She opened the door and peeked out. The party still sputtered and fussed. She slipped around the corner into the bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face and freshened her lipstick, so she wouldn't look like an old souse. She was confused by the heaviness of her purse until she remembered why. She felt silly for keeping the purse
with her, as if someone would steal it. But you never knew who might show up at a New York City party. Not that she didn't trust Caleb's friends, but what about friends of friends?

She came back out to the living room. There were no familiar faces left, except for Jack, the bartender with pirate earrings.

“Molly. Where have you been?”

“Hello, Jack. Just needed to rest my eyes. I was going to help clean up before I went home, but this thing isn't over yet, is it?”

“Oh no, it's going to go for a while. Irene left two hours ago.”

“Two hours ago?” Molly said worriedly. “What time is it?”

“After one.”

“Oh for pete's sake.”

“We're not in Kansas anymore,” teased Jack. “This'll probably go on until four or five.”

Caleb came over. “Mom. Hi. You feel better after your nap?”

“Do you know what time it is?” she scolded. “Why did you let me sleep? Why didn't you wake me? I got to get home.”

“It's too late to go home. You can spend the night. It won't kill you,” he pleaded. “Oh, Jessie's finally here.”

“Jessie?”

“My sister. Your daughter.”

“I know who she is! Don't be a smart-aleck. I'm still half asleep.” That's right. She needed to see Jessie. To prove to her daughter that she loved her as much as she loved Caleb. Or some such nonsense. So now she was trapped for the night in this godforsaken city.

“I'll go get her,” said Caleb. “Right back.”

“Would you like something to drink?” asked Jack.

“I'd love something, Jack. But I better not. My daughter'll think I'm a lush. Just give me some seltzer.”

Jack poured her a glass of cold, bubbling soda water. Molly took it to the sofa and sat down. It was silly to worry that Jessie might think she was drunk. She couldn't understand why she feared her children's judgments. Was she such a terrible mother? Just because she never came into town to see her kids?

She impatiently waited for Caleb to return with his sister. Was Jessie refusing to come? What had Molly done wrong now?

“Excuse me? Do you mind if I sit here?”

A tall scarecrow of a man in a trim gray suit stood over her.

“It's a free country,” she said.

But as soon as he sat she wished she'd said no. She did not need to have her ear talked off by another damn actor. And she should be saving the seat for Jessie.

“Nice party,” said the scarecrow.

“Very,” she replied.

And he said nothing more. Which was a wonderful change from all the other chatterboxes. She looked around for Caleb and Jessie.

A heavy, hairy fellow stood in front of the scarecrow. “Prager?” he said. “Kenneth Prager. You don't remember me? Michael Feingold. The
Voice
? We keep meeting at previews.”

“Oh yes. Hi,” the man mumbled.

“I can't believe
you're
here. After you trashed Doyle's play.”

“Doyle? What Doyle?”

“Caleb Doyle. Who wrote
Chaos Theory.
” He broke into a hearty laugh. “You didn't know where you were? That's a good one! Well, don't worry. I won't tell him.” He walked away, still chortling.

And the scarecrow just sat there, screwing his eyebrows together like a man trying to thread a needle, only there was no needle and thread in his hands.

Molly stared. It was him. The critic. The know-it-all critic who had destroyed her son's show. Who had made Caleb so unhappy.

“You?” she said. “You write for the
Times
?”

He slowly faced her. “Kenneth Prager,” he said wearily. “Pleased to meet you.” He wore a small, pinched smile. He didn't bother to hold out his hand or even ask her name.

“You,” she repeated. “You—!” Words tumbled from her brain to her tongue, so many words that she couldn't begin to speak. She had to open her mouth wide just to make room. “What gives you the right to say a show is bad or a show is awful? Who voted you God?”

He lifted his chin and lowered two tired eyelids at her, as if she were an insect telling off an exterminator.

“You think
Chaos Theory
was awful? I know people who loved it. And I should know, because my son wrote it.”

“You're the playwright's mother?”

“Yes!” she said proudly. Now he would have to show some shame or guilt.

But his weary smile widened into a grin. He squeezed his eyes shut, then snapped them back open, as if he couldn't believe this. The grin became a chuckle. He thought she was just a harmless old lady.

She opened her purse and reached inside. She would show him the service revolver that she'd tossed in there with her Kleenex and lipstick on her way out the door this afternoon. Just show it to him. That's all. It would be enough to let him know she wasn't harmless. Nobody in the world is harmless. You must always behave well and speak well in this life, because you never know who might be armed.

W
hen the playwright's mother pulled a gun from her purse, Kenneth assumed she was joking. It was just another absurdity on top of the first absurdity that this
was
the playwright's mother. It must be a toy or a stage prop or maybe even licorice. It was black like licorice. Would a white woman even carry a gun? She waved it at him as if it were nothing worse than a steam iron.

 

The first time the gun went off, Molly nearly jumped out of her skin. And then it went off
again,
which was damn embarrassing.

 

The first shot sounded no worse than a cap pistol to Kenneth's untrained ear. Then he saw the woman's face. She looked frightened, as if the gun were suddenly alive and out of her control. She seemed to grab for it, even though the gun never left her hand.

It went off again and something bit Kenneth's arm: his right arm, the underside, between the wrist and the elbow.

Was he shot? Was that possible?

His arm stung, but not much worse than a bad insect bite or a cigarette burn. In fact, his coat sleeve bore a tiny rip like a cigarette burn. The worst physical pain Kenneth had ever experienced was a toothache. This wasn't nearly as bad.

Not at first. But it grew, a white pain that became whiter, stronger. Kenneth decided to be a man and bear it in silence. But the pain became white hot. Until there was no possible response except to shout or cry something. And the first words to come to mind were: “Oh my God, I've been shot!”

And someone laughed. Kenneth actually heard some son of a bitch laughing.

Then another voice shouted, “Oh shit, he's bleeding!”

 

Caleb was out on the terrace waiting to speak to Jessie and bring her inside when he heard the odd noises. Popping ballons? Firecrackers? He turned around and saw people facing the sofa, where his mother sat. He stepped through the door. He saw Molly sitting like a statue on the sofa with—Kenneth Prager? He recognized the long, lean critic from photos and television.
What is
he
doing at my birthday party?
He was clutching his right arm, which seemed to be bleeding. And Caleb's mother held a small black revolver.

“Mom?”

He hurried over and knelt beside her. Without time to think it through, he heard himself say, “Mom? Just give me the gun. Please? Everything's fine. Just give me the gun.”

She looked at him as if he were nuts talking to her in such an insipid tone. “Here. Take it. Please.”

He recognized their father's old snub-nosed .38 from home. She handed it to him with the barrel pointed at the floor.

“Careful,” said Jessie, standing directly behind him. “You'll get your fingerprints on it.”

“What? And get charged with murder instead of Mom?” Only this wasn't murder, not yet. But Caleb didn't know what to do with the gun. He kept it pointed at the floor, clicked the safety on, then snapped the cylinder out and began to pry out bullets.

Toby rushed into the room. “Oh my God! Oh my God! He's been shot? Somebody. Quick. Dial 911.”

“I'm dialing it already!” Jessie snarled as she punched the beeping numbers of her cell phone.

“Here, let me look,” said Toby. “Good grief, you're bleeding. You're bleeding bad. Lie down. I know first aid. Lie down on the floor. Keep your arm up.”

Prager didn't move. He stared at his coat sleeve, which was now wet and black, then he looked up and saw the audience.

People stood scattered around the room, watching, wondering, worrying, not knowing what to do.

Caleb handed the revolver and bullets to Jessie and came forward to help Toby ease Prager down to the floor.

“I don't think it's an artery,” said Toby. “So we don't need a tourniquet. Direct pressure'll do. We need some towels or cloths.”

He sounded a bit too sure of himself, falsely confident, like an actor overdoing a part, which worried Caleb. But Toby knew the part and nobody else did, so he let Toby take charge.

“Towels in the bathroom!” Caleb shouted. “Bring some towels.”

Frank Earp ran off to fetch towels.

Henry Lewse appeared. He sat on the sofa arm, leaned down, and set a hand on Molly's shoulder. “There, there,” he told her. “There, there.” His trousers were marked up with black chalk or soot. He too seemed to be playing a part in a scene, and playing it well.

“They're on their way,” said Jessie, closing up her cell phone. “They're sending an ambulance from St. Vincent's, but the cops'll be here first. So what do we tell them?”

Caleb looked up again, first at Jessie, then at their mother.

Molly sat perfectly still, as calm as stone, watching the men at her feet. Her hands were locked in her lap, her left hand gripping her guilty right hand.

There was a blink of bright light, a camera flash. Cameron Ditchley stood across the room with a pocket-size digital camera.

 

Toby laid the man on his back. He pulled off the man's jacket and passed it to Caleb. The man wore a white shirt. Suddenly his blood was bright red like paint. Toby took a deep breath—he was sure he would faint—but the swoony nausea passed. The moment took over, the action continued. He applied pressure to the flat of the arm with both hands, one on top of the other, like they'd taught him in the Boy Scouts in Milwaukee. The blood felt hot on his hands, then sticky. Then he was using towels, white terry cloth, and the blood became squishy.

“You'll be okay,” he told the man. “You'll be fine.”

The man had turned away, unable to look at his own blood. His face was candle-wax white. His five o'clock shadow looked like black pepper on his white skin. His head was raised. Caleb had rolled up the man's jacket and set it under his neck.

Toby didn't know if he was helping the man or hurting him. Maybe the wound was minor and would stop bleeding on its own. Or the man would bleed to death anyway. Toby didn't know, yet there was nothing else for him to do but continue. He could only go through the motions and hope they were the right motions.

Here was Caleb beside him. What did Caleb think? But he was not doing this for Caleb. No. Caleb no longer counted. And here was Henry too, but Henry didn't count either. His dick in Toby's mouth was nothing compared to a gunshot wound. No, Toby was taking action solely for the sake of this poor man, this stranger. And for the experience. Toby was able to hold himself together, keep his panic under control by thinking, Remember this. Every sensory memory, thought, and emotion. You can use them all one day.

N
obody fled the party, but people knew to get out of the way. Half of the guests were on the terrace watching through the French doors when the police and paramedics arrived.

The two paramedics went straight to Prager and knelt beside him. A cop with a dense mustache stood over them, talking to Caleb.

“It was an accident,” Caleb told the cop. “My mother was showing this man her gun and—”

“She shot me!” cried Prager from the floor. “I gave him a bad review and his mother shot me!” The critic had not said a word since the “accident,” and his anger startled everyone. He was furious, but he sounded panicked too, his voice breaking. There was more fear than righteousness in his bugged-out eyes.

“Chill, buddy,” said a medic. “Relax.”

Molly still sat on the sofa, Jessie beside her, holding her mother's hand. “I don't know how it happened,” said Molly. “I was just talking to the man and the next thing I knew I was waving my gun to make a point.”

“Where is the gun?” said the cop.

Jessie passed him the large sandwich Baggie in which she had put the revolver and loose bullets.

The cop examined it. “Why's a nice lady like you carrying?”

Toby remained with the medics, watching them, studying their movements, gently whispering to Prager, “You're gonna be fine, you're gonna be fine.”

The bloody shirtsleeve was torn away, the forearm swaddled in a blue bandage, the arm locked in a clear plastic tube. A third paramedic appeared with a stretcher. Toby helped them lift Prager onto it. They
strapped him in. He grew calmer, hugged by the straps, but he was still angry.

“Is there anyone we should call?” asked Caleb. “So we can tell them where you are?”

“Your mother shot me and you want to be nice?”

“Sir,” said Henry. “She was following her instincts. Like a mama lion.” He spoke with only the faintest hint of a smirk.

Prager looked left and right in a panic when the medics lifted the stretcher. They swung him out the door and down the stairs to the elevator. Toby went with them, carrying Prager's jacket.

A detective arrived, a thirtyish fellow named Plecha. He had two-toned bleached hair, which looked odd on a cop, and a gym body, which looked odder still. Even cops changed with the times. He conferred with the patrolman, then spoke to Molly, then Caleb. He spoke to Henry too, but only because Henry radiated a certain authority. “I know you from somewhere. Like TV or movies.”

“It's possible,” said Henry. “I
am
an actor.”

But Plecha didn't pursue it. He addressed the room. “That's all, folks. You don't have to stay. You can go home. Just don't walk through the blood on your way out, okay?”

People began to leave. A few spoke to Caleb as they passed, saying such things as “Good luck” or “Sorry” or “If you need help, call.” Nobody said anything clever or sarcastic, which surprised Caleb. But people prefer to be kind, even theater people. They saved the smart, cool jokes—and there must be jokes—for later.

Plecha put the Baggie with the gun and bullets into a black rubber evidence bag and began to take down addresses and phone numbers.

“So our mom's not under arrest?” said Caleb.

“Of course she's under arrest. There's firearms involved.” He looked down at Molly. “I hereby inform you that you have the right to remain silent. Until you are with counsel of your own choosing or assigned by the state.”

Molly nodded and offered him her wrists.

“Please,” said Plecha. “What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

“You're a reasonable man,” purred Henry in his most English accent. “This is a good woman. She's old enough to be a grandmother. You can't possibly arrest her for what was clearly an accident?”

“Sorry, pal. That's for a judge to decide. I'd book my own granny under these circumstances.” He helped Molly to her feet.

Molly straightened her dress and picked up her purse. She seemed terribly reasonable herself, disturbingly reasonable, like a robot. “
This
is why I don't like to come into the city,” she declared.

“I'll talk to Irene,” Caleb told her. “We'll get a lawyer tonight. You won't be there long.”

“I'll go with you,” said Jessie. “I'm going too,” she told Plecha.

“Sorry, miss. You can't ride with us. Procedure. You can meet us there. We're taking her to the Sixth Precinct. Over on Tenth Street.”

The cop with the mustache pulled Henry aside. “You're not just any actor. You're the star of
Tom and Gerry.
” The mustache brushed Henry's ear. “How can I get tickets?” he whispered. “My wife'd love me forever if I got us into that show.”

Henry told him he'd see what he could do.

The cop rejoined Plecha, and they escorted Molly down the stairs to the elevator. The others followed.

“I'll meet you over there,” Jessie called out.

“I'll be there too,” said Caleb. “With the lawyer.”

Their mother looked so strange stepping into an elevator between a detective and a uniformed cop. She tried to smile at her son and daughter, but the smile looked broken, almost psychotic. Then the elevator door closed and she was gone.

Everyone else started down the stairs. Caleb ran back up to the apartment. “We have to go to the police station,” he told Jack. “You can lock up after you finish, can't you?”

“Sure thing, friend. What a night. What can I say? Hey.” And his caterer gave him a warm, brotherly hug.

Caleb did not use the elevator but walked down the five flights, worrying about his mother, wondering about Prager, finding the unreality of tonight so, well, unreal. But if a flesh wound isn't real, what is?

Outside there were no police cars or ambulance, no sign that anything extraordinary had happened. It was a soft, mild spring night with herds of people still strolling the street.

The others were waiting for him, not just Jessie, but Frank and Henry.

“Does anyone know what happened to Toby?” said Henry.

Caleb had forgotten about Toby.

“My guess is he went to St. Vincent's with the ambulance,” said Frank. “The police station's over this way.” He pointed toward Seventh Avenue, and they all started walking.

Caleb saw no point in everyone's going, but they had already started, so he said nothing. He needed other people right now, no matter how superfluous. He felt terribly superfluous himself.

 

The apartment upstairs was nearly empty. There was nobody on the terrace. A light breeze fluttered the canvas umbrella and blew empty plastic cups off the table, one by one.

Inside the only people left were the two caterers, Jack and Michael, and the cast of
2B
.

“Crazy party,” said Dwight. “Psycho party.”

“Poor guy,” said Jack. “Even if he is a critic. Poor Molly too.”

They all knew one another. Dwight, Chris, and Allegra sometimes worked for Jack as cater waiters. Chris and Dwight now helped clean up. Allegra sat cross-legged on a table, eating a piece of Caleb's cake.

“Wow, wow, wow,” she said. “Kenneth Prager was at
our
show. And Caleb's mom shot him? He's not gonna think well of tonight.”

“Oh well,” said Jack. “Maybe next time.”

“Just when the fun was starting,” sang Chris in a low sweet contralto. “Comes the time for parting.”

Jack laughed and sang with her:

“What do we do about this blood on the carpet?” said Dwight. “Do the police want us to save it? Should we put salt on it?”

“That works only for wine,” said Michael. “Look at this. Yuck.” He held up the bloody shirtsleeve the paramedics had torn off.

“Bring me the arm of the Buzzard of Off-Broadway,” said Allegra. “Maybe we can sell it on eBay.”

Meanwhile Jack and Chris continued with the song from
On the Town,
a wry, sad, sweet number with a slippery, difficult tune: