Lives of the Circus Animals (33 page)

T
hree-thirteen. The clock on the precinct station wall was like the plain white wall clocks of elementary school. The whole station reminded Jessie of elementary school: bulletin boards, plate-glass partitions, yellow cinder-block walls, fluorescent lights.

She sat with the others in the plastic scoop chairs along the wall, Frank and Henry on her left, Caleb on her right.

“I see,” said Caleb. “And what time will that be? You're kidding? You mean nothing could happen until morning?”

He was using Jessie's cell phone to talk to Irene.

“Yes. I know it's Friday night. Or Saturday morning or whatever you want to name it. But don't you think—?”

The station on West Tenth Street was nothing like the police stations their father described in his war stories. A regular Friday Night Fight Club, he told his golf buddies, and the Saturday Night Knife and Gun Club was even wilder. But that was the Bronx in the 1970s. Here cops wandered in and out, and there were occasional arrests—an angry black drag queen, a drunk white college kid with a bloody nose—but things seemed relatively quiet. Jessie couldn't tell if it was just the neighborhood that was different or the decade.

“Right back,” she told the others and walked over to the desk sergeant. “Our mother's still here, right? They wouldn't load her into a paddy wagon and send her downtown without telling us, right?”

The sergeant assured her their mother was still here. Jessie returned to her seat.

It'd be different if they could see Mom, but she was out of sight, tucked away in an office down the hall or maybe in a cell.

Jessie's common sense continued to argue with her imagination of
disaster. Kenneth Prager couldn't die. Her mother couldn't be charged with murder. But he could sue. Or Mom could be charged with attempted murder. Or carrying a gun without a permit. Or something that would mean they'd spend the rest of their lives in court. There were so many awful things to imagine.

But more confusing was that Molly Doyle had done such a thing in the first place. She pulled out a gun and shot a man. Maybe not deliberately, but the emotion was real, the anger. Jessie was frightened not only
for
her, but
by
her. Who was this lady?

Around the corner, an older man called out, “Molly? Molly Doyle? What in blazes are you doing here?”

Jessie leaned to the left but could see nothing down the hall.

“Jimmy Murtagh,” the voice declared. “I used to work with Bobby, rest his soul. So what's this I hear about you and…”

The voice disappeared as a door was closed.

Jessie looked at Caleb. He had heard the man too. He paused for a moment, then resumed his talk with Irene.

“I know you're an entertainment lawyer. But if you can't reach that guy, you'll come, right? You promise? Thank you.”

He snapped the phone shut and passed it back to Jessie.

“She knows a good defense attorney,” he said. “Who she'll try to wake up and get here. If she can't get him, she'll come herself. But we can't expect anyone before six.”

Jessie let out a groan. “I can't leave while Mom's still here. I'm afraid they'll move her. Send her elsewhere and then we'll never find her again. I know it's neurotic, but it's how I feel.”

Caleb nodded. “I feel the same. But no point in us all waiting. Maybe I should walk over to St. Vincent's and see how Prager is.”

Jessie screwed up her eyes at him.

“I won't try to talk him out of pressing charges or anything like that,” he told her. “I'd just like to know how he's doing.”

“I'll go with you,” said Henry.

Caleb frowned. “That won't be necessary.”

“But I'd enjoy the walk. And I might be able to reason with Mr. Prager. Better than you. After all, he admires
me
.”

Caleb looked at his sister, wondering if she could explain Henry's motive.

She didn't have a clue. “Go ahead,” she said. “I'll be fine. I've got Frank here. You'll stay, won't you, Frank?”

He nodded. “Definitely.”

Frank seemed pleased that she needed him, and she was glad to have him here. But things were not entirely right between them, were they?

“Fear not,” Henry assured her. “All will be fine.” And he followed Caleb out the door.

I
t's nothing like the movies, thought Henry. After the big ado—the gunshots, blood, and cops—time stood still the way it does in hospitals. The police station was dull and awful like a hospital. So when Caleb Doyle announced that he was going to visit Prager, Henry seized the chance. “I'll go with you.”

Out on the street it was still dark, pleasantly dark after the glare of tube lights. The air was cool and faintly damp like a summer night on Hampstead Heath. The narrow street was lined with scrappy trees like bottle brushes. Henry walked alongside Caleb in silence, content to maintain a stoic, manly peace, for a few minutes anyway.

“Extraordinary,” he finally said. “Utterly. And I have to say it: my mother never shot a critic for me.”

Caleb grimaced.

Henry quickly added, “She seems like a tough cookie. She can hold her own in there.”

“Maybe,” muttered Caleb, not looking at Henry.

Henry knew he should probably shut up, but he wanted to talk, he needed to talk. “So, Mr. Doyle. We finally meet. I've heard so much about you. First from your sister. Then from our, uh, friend, Toby.”

Caleb shot him a look, then faced forward again. “You can't believe anything you hear from Toby.”

“Oh? Because he's still in love with you?”

Caleb grimaced again. “No. He only thinks he's in love with me.”

Henry laughed. “Isn't that the same thing? But no. I know exactly what you mean. Often it's just love they love, or something else entirely, and we're caught in the middle.”

Caleb looked at him now more kindly, almost friendly. “I don't
want to talk about Toby. Why does everyone always want to talk about Toby? What's so special about him?”

Henry thought a moment. “He has a beautiful bottom.”

Caleb scowled, as if that were a crude insult. But then he sighed and said, “Yes. He has a beautiful bottom. And he's a good actor. And there's no malice in him. No meanness.”

“He's a very good actor. You should see him in this show.”

Caleb didn't seem to hear. “But there's no there there with Toby. No core identity. No understanding of the difference between self and others.”

Henry smiled, recognizing the traits, pleased to have Caleb talking. “He thinks you can't love him back because you're still in love with a deceased partner.”

Caleb's face shut down again. “He told you that, huh? What else did he tell you?”

“Very little. Except that he's in love with you. Which seems to cancel out every other particular.” Henry almost asked Caleb if Toby had talked about
him,
but he already knew the answer. “Don't you remember what first love is like? As solid and certain as rock. As stupid as rock too.” He laughed lightly. “I must say, I'm disappointed to learn you feel so little for him. I was hoping I'd get to play the Marschallin here and step aside for young love.”

Caleb shook his head. “I wanted to fall in love with him. But I couldn't. I didn't. So it was mostly sex. Which was nice. Except he wanted more. And I wanted more. Real conversation. Grown-up talk. Interest in something
besides
us.”

“Forgive me for asking, but—Did you find. That Toby.
Liked
. Sex.” The question was tougher to ask than he thought it'd be.

Caleb looked startled, confused, amused.

“I see,” said Henry. “I suppose it's all me then.”

“No, I didn't mean—” said Caleb. “I just—I'm surprised. By your honesty.”

But Henry noticed a pleased look on his face, a relieved look. The playwright was human enough to enjoy hearing that his ex wasn't spraying the walls in bliss with another man. Henry didn't need to tell him about the purely symbolic blow job on his roof.

“He liked sex well enough,” Caleb finally said. “But in a dutiful,
deliberate manner. Like he was a little afraid of it. Maybe he was just afraid of me not loving him back.” He made a face. “I'm not still in love with Ben. The dead boyfriend. Toby has no reason to think that. Except that I don't love him but I did love Ben.”

“Grief and love are not exclusive,” Henry agreed.

Caleb looked over, surprised he understood. “Except this isn't grief grief,” he explained. “Ben died six years ago. I don't
violently
miss him. But I miss missing him. Do you understand? Especially now. I wrote a new play and it bombed. Which hurt. It always hurts. But afterward I began to think more about Ben. Like I needed real hurt, real pain, to put the silly pain of bad reviews and a closed show into perspective.” He snorted at himself. “But Toby doesn't get it. He thinks it means I'm in love with Ben. But it's more like I'm in love with my loss. Just temporarily. Just for now.”

“What was Ben like?” asked Henry. “Was he in theater?”

“No. Which was one of his best traits.” He laughed. It was a willed laugh, but he clearly enjoyed talking about Ben. “He taught math in high school, a private school here in New York…”

And he described a man who dropped out of grad school to teach kids, who was eight years older than Caleb, who was with Caleb for ten years, who was hardly a saint: he liked to fool around and sometimes used it against Caleb. But these few facts did not mean as much to Henry as the way Caleb spoke about the dead, with warmth but no sugarcoating, an affectionate realism.

Caleb was still talking about Ben when they came out of the side street into a wide, empty boulevard: Seventh Avenue. A solitary bread truck hummed past. The bars and cafés were closed. The only place open was a fruit and vegetable market on the corner. A tall Korean in a chef's hat made of paper stood in the spill of light out front with a golf club, practicing his putt. The night sky in the east was paling into a pretty powder blue.

Caleb pointed to the left and they turned up Seventh. “He was sick for three years,” he said. “In and out of hospitals.”

“You were his caregiver the whole time?”

Caleb nodded.

“Isn't it a bitch?”

Caleb looked over at Henry.

“I lost Nigel
ten
years ago,” said Henry. “I was
his
wet nurse. His doctor, cook, and bum wiper.”

He smiled at Caleb, then faced forward again.

“Hard to believe, isn't it? Moonbeam that I am.” He shook his head. “I don't like to talk about it. People look at you funny. They treat you as special. Not good or evil, but as damaged, different. I can tell
you
because you've been through it too. You already know. How exhausting it is. How boring. How helpless you feel.” The old choke of anger came back into his voice. “So when Nigel finally died—and he was younger than I, fifteen years younger. But when Nigel died, I told myself: That's it. I'm done with being unhappy. I've paid my dues. I will not suffer unnecessarily. Not for love. Not for art. I will suffer no more than is absolutely necessary for my acting.” He smiled again, almost sneering, daring Caleb not to believe him.

“You've had no lovers since Nigel?”

“Many lovers, no boyfriends. Young fellows like Toby. Who are wonderful company for a few months. Before they move on. They always move on. And when they do, my heart isn't broken. I don't have the emotion for it. All emotion goes into my work. Actors need low-maintenance boyfriends anyway. Which might explain why I turned in so many bad performances during Nigel's illness.”

Henry had wanted to walk with Caleb so that he might know Caleb better. But no, it seemed that he wanted Caleb to know
him.

“But I'm not entirely certain what I want anymore,” he continued. “As implied previously, sex with Toby was not totally successful. But here's what's strange. I didn't care. I still enjoyed being with him. Sometimes. I don't know if it's age or him or hormones. But it's more than that. Part of me wants to find another way to express love besides fucking.”

He noticed the confused, cold twist of Caleb's mouth.

“Listen to me,” he scoffed. “Your mother just shot a man, and all I can talk about is my changing libido.”

“Not at all,” said Caleb. “I was just thinking about
my
life. And about Toby. He should be having fun at his age. Not wasting his time pining after an old coot like me.”

“Like us, you mean,” said Henry. “I agree. When I think of how I wasted
my
twenties. London in the seventies. I went to the parties, but
I didn't partake. I was always working. I was so damned earnest. A gloomy sort of boy. I wasn't terribly out, either. I've been trying to make up for it ever since. Too late. Is this it?”

They were approaching a huge redbrick structure with rounded corners, an enormous building out of scale with the row houses across the street.

“Over here,” said Caleb, who clearly knew the place.

He led them past an ambulance loading dock into a waiting area for the emergency room. A plate-glass window faced the street. Inside were molded chairs similar to the chairs in the police station. They had walked from the metaphor of a hospital to a real hospital. A dozen people sat in the chairs; most of them were black, but a few were white, and one was Toby.

He didn't see them come in. He was too busy talking to the man sitting beside him, a handsomely thuggish white man with a crew cut. Henry did not recognize the man until he stood up.

“Mr. Loooz. You are here. Good.” It was Sasha, his driver. “I get late to the party. I hear what happened. So I come here. I find Toby. We talk.” He twisted around to grin at his new friend.

“Hello,” said Toby. He remained seated, looking very solemn, very grave. He gave no special notice to the fact that Henry and Caleb were together. “They're treating his wound. I think he's okay, but they won't let us in. They let his wife in, but not us.”

Sasha set a hand on Toby's shoulder. “This is some man. He is a hero, I think.” He jostled his shoulder. “A big hero.”

He was obviously taken with Toby. And why not? They were roughly the same age. They shared the same beefy blond pinkness, two muscular cherubs, though Sasha was more muscular. His arms were like leg-of-mutton sleeves. Henry couldn't guess what Toby thought of Sasha, but he'd have to be a fool not to be interested.

Caleb was warily eyeing the Russian.

“Sasha, my driver,” said Henry. “Caleb Doyle.”

“Your mother shot the man!” He eagerly shook Caleb's hand. “Very sad story! So sad!”

Caleb glanced at Henry, as if to ask if Henry suspected what Caleb suspected, and why did they suspect it? Only then did Henry feel it: a tiny stab of jealousy, like a splinter in his pride.

“We should find Prager,” Henry declared and hurried over to the receiving window. “We're here to see Kenneth Prager.”

“Are you family?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He smiled his wittiest smile. “We're in theater and he's a critic. He gave me a rave notice and my friend here a bad one. You could say we're bound as close as any family.”

The nurse was not convinced. She said they could fill out a message card, however, and she'd take it in to him. “Or you can speak to his wife. That's her coming out now.”

A confused-looking woman in a man's windbreaker slipped through the swinging door.

“Mrs. Prager?” said Henry. “We're friends of your husband. We came down to see if there was anything we could do.”

She looked up, squinty and red-eyed. “Yes? Who? Sorry. I absolutely need a cigarette right now. Can you talk to me outside?”

They followed her out to the sidewalk. She didn't seem to know who Henry was, which was just as well. She lit up a cigarette, filled her lungs with smoke, and gratefully exhaled.

“How is he?” asked Caleb. “I can't tell you how sorry I am about what happened. Really.”

“He's fine. He was scared out of his wits, but he's fine now.” She sounded remarkably calm. “I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. That it doesn't happen all the time.” She shook her head. “It shows how civilized the world really is.”

“There is nothing like being shot at to make one appreciate the rest of one's life,” Henry offered.

She automatically nodded. “So who was this crazy lady anyway? An insulted actress? A failed writer?”

“Uh, no. She's my mother,” said Caleb. “I'm the failed writer.”

Gretchen Prager stared at him. “Your mother. Your
mother
?” And she burst out laughing. She bent forward and it spilled out, hard little cackles of mirth.

Henry and Caleb looked on in disbelief, Caleb openmouthed like a fish.

She abruptly recovered. “Sorry,” she said. “Not funny. No.” She straightened up, blinking and gasping, trying to catch her breath. “I know it's not funny.” She faced Caleb again. “But your
mother
?”