Lives of the Circus Animals (34 page)

T
he police station remained quiet. It somehow felt both eerie and drab, like a spook house with fluorescent lights. Jessie looked back at the clock. It was just after five.

“Want something to eat or drink?” said Frank. “I could go out and look for an open deli.”

“No. But if you want to go get something for yourself, go ahead,” said Jessie. “Or you can go home if you like. I'm fine. Really.”

“No, I'll stay. I'm fine too.” He leaned back and folded his arms.

“I really liked your play tonight,” said Jessie. “I liked it a lot.”

“Thanks,” said Frank, but in a dry, automatic manner.

“I'm not just making small talk,” she said. “I
do
like it.”

He looked at her more closely. “Thank you very much then.” It didn't sound terribly different from his first thank-you.

“Frank? Why're we still angry with each other? We have so much in common. We should be real close. Especially now.”

His sleepy eyes opened a little wider in his round face. His face looked rounder than usual, the muscles slack with fatigue.

“This should be a lesson to us all,” he said, sounding lightly sarcastic. “There's no telling when someone's gonna pull out a gun and start shooting. So don't sweat the small stuff.”

Jessie narrowed her eyes at him. “We're not small stuff.”

“Not us.” The sarcasm vanished. “Our pride. Our egos.”

“Yours or mine?”

“I was thinking of mine. But you're not innocent either.”

Jessie drew a deep breath, tempted to argue. Then she said, “No. I'm not. But you need some pride to get along in life. Some ego.”

“But our egos have gotten all tangled up in our affection.” He
looked away for a moment. “We feel we don't deserve to be loved unless we're successful.”

“I told you back at the party. I'm a loser too. Remember?”

“You don't really believe that.”

She hesitated. “No. Not really. I'm having a great time playing Octopus Lady. And I'm good at it. But I have no illusions about Henry needing me or keeping me. No, when he finishes here and heads off to Capri or wherever, he's going to forget about all of us. Which is fine.” Was it? She hoped so. “Working for him will make a good story. But it'll be small potatoes compared to this one.”

Frank was looking at her, surprised, concerned. “We said some really vicious things to each other the other night.”

“I know. And I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry too.” His
sorry
sounded almost as dry as his
thank you
. He frowned. “But I
am
in love with you.”

“You love me like a pig loves mud,” she told him.

“Yes,” he said flatly. It wasn't a pretty phrase. “Which leaves me naked. I have a harder time forgiving you than you must have forgiving me. Because you're
not
in love.”

“No,” she admitted. “Not like you.”

He did not look hurt. He wasn't being manipulative, merely factual.

“But I don't want to lose you,” she told him. “I don't want us to have to be all or nothing.”

“Me neither. But I might have no choice. It's hard to be friends with an unrequited love. It can make you crazy. It can make you act like a real shit.”

“It's no picnic for the beloved either,” she argued. “Feeling guilty all the time. Getting sick of seeing puppy-dog eyes.”

They looked at each other, frowning, squinting, swallowing. They were nothing like puppy dogs now.

“Jessikins!” a gruff male voice called out. “My God. Will you look at you. Little Jessikins ain't so little anymore.”

A stocky red-faced man in his sixties strode into the room, holding out his hand, necktie flapping against his belly.

“Remember your Uncle Jimmy? I'm Captain Murtagh now.”

“Oh my,” said Jessie. She jumped up and shook his hand. She did not remember him—he must be one of the cops who regularly visited
them in Beacon when she was a toddler—but she played along. “I can't believe you're not retired yet.”

“Not dead, you mean. You and me both, sister. Good thing I was here tonight, though. No telling what might have happened to your dear old…”

Jessie saw her behind the captain: Mom, walking very slowly, uncertainly, looking somewhat
miffed.

There was no other word for her expression. The face was pinched and proud, like that of someone who was embarrassed but refusing to show it. Jessie was confused. She had been so full of fear for her mother that she didn't know what to think when she saw Mom looking so, well, like Mom. Nothing was changed. Her blouse and skirt were clean, her beige hair neatly waved, her purse still at her side.

“Now, Molly,” Captain Murtagh was saying. “You have to be at court on Monday. Like with a traffic violation. Except here there's hell to pay if you don't show. As of now you're charged only with illegal possession and reckless endangerment. But a judge in a bad mood could change it all to attempted murder. So you better be nice.”

“Thank you. You've been a big help, Jimmy,” said Mom in a surprisingly perfunctory manner.

“I'm just glad I was here to pull a few strings. It's the least I could do for Mrs. Bobby Doyle.”

Mom gave him a nod and a pained smile and hurried outside.

The captain turned to Jessie. “Don't worry. She's a cop's widow. No judge in his right mind will throw the book at her. But right now she needs sleep. That's why she's a little wacky. Take her to your brother's place and put her to bed. Oh, and don't forget this.” He gave Jessie an official form, the summons or citation, like a doctor handing over a prescription for an elderly patient.

Jessie joined her mother outside. She stood on the sidewalk with Frank.

“Did you want me to get you a cab, Mrs. Doyle?”

“Not at all. I can walk,” she said crisply. “Where're we going?” She stared at Frank. “
Who
are you?”

“This is Frank,” said Jessie. “My boyfriend.” It just slipped out, but nobody seemed to notice. “We can go back to Caleb's and you can get some sleep. Before you go home to Beacon. You want to walk?”

“Yes, I'd like that. I need the air.” She started walking, Jessie and Frank joining her on either side.

The sun was not yet up, but the street was full of light, a soft wash of color. The birds were singing, always a nice surprise in the city. The sweetness of the sound made Jessie feel sadder, more tender. She took her mother's arm.

“Don't be silly.” Mom tugged her arm back. “I'm fine. Perfectly fine. You don't have to fuss over me. I just thank my lucky stars I don't live here and nobody knows me. Because God knows what they'd think seeing me being let out of jail at the crack of dawn.”

Frank gave Jessie a worried look, as if this were strange behavior, but Mom was only being herself.

Sooner than expected, they were crossing Seventh Avenue to Sheridan Square. Caleb's building was closer to the police station in daylight than it had been at night. Jessie used her keys to get in the front door. There was no answer upstairs when she knocked. She went ahead and opened the door, dreading the mess inside.

But the apartment was neat and orderly, the rooms full of early-morning shadow, nothing more. You would never know there had been a party here last night, much less a shooting.

“Mom? Why don't you go lie down in Caleb's room. Get a little sleep. You'll feel better.”

Her cell phone rang. It was Caleb at the hospital. Frank walked Mom over to the bedroom while Jessie talked to Caleb.

“Only a flesh wound,” he reported. “Prager's fine. The shot ripped his arm like a knife, but nothing was permanently damaged.”

Jessie told him
her
good news.

“You're kidding. They just let her out? No bail or nothing? Jimmy Murtagh? I remember him. He was Dad's partner in Pelham Bay, a bachelor cop who lived with his mother. All right, I better call Irene and tell her we won't need a lawyer today. I'll be home in an hour or so. Henry? Oh yeah, he's still here. See you shortly. Bye.”

Frank returned from the bedroom and she relayed the news.

“Good,” he said. “One less thing to worry about.”

“I should tell Mom too, before she falls asleep.”

But she found Mom just sitting on the bed, feet on the floor, hands
balled in her lap. “I can't sleep in a strange bed,” she said. “And I don't have any pajamas.”

“Oh, Mom. It's Caleb's bed. A family bed. Here. I'll find you something to sleep in.” She knelt at his dresser and began to open drawers. “That was Caleb on the phone. He said Prager is fine. The bullet wound is no worse than a nasty cut.”

“Thank God for that.” She remained seated upright on the bed, as rigid as an Egyptian statue.

“Mom? Are you okay? How are you feeling?” Jessie sat beside her. She took her hand. The skin was cold but the pulse clear.

“I'm fine!” Again she pulled away, yanking her hand back. “Why shouldn't I be fine? It was an accident, for chrissake. Everybody carries on like I did it deliberately. Which is ridiculous. Which is such malarkey when nobody—”

She twisted around and seized Jessie's shoulders with both hands. She buried her face in Jessie's neck.

“I almost killed him!” she cried. “I could have killed him!”

Jessie was too stunned to speak or move. A hot, wet oven of tears pressed against her collar.

“I can't do anything right! I either love you too much or love you too little! You and your brother get so unhappy. I'm a terrible mother. There's nothing I can do to show my love except try to protect you. So I almost killed a man!”

Jessie timidly lifted a hand. She petted her mother's shoulder, she stroked her mother's hair.

“This city scares me. But I'm the one who's scary. I'm dangerous. I'm crazy. I should be terrified of
me,
not the city.”

“You're not crazy,” whispered Jessie. She felt tears prick her eyes, then fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She wrapped both arms around her mother and held her tight. “You're not crazy,” she repeated. She wanted to say something wise and tender in response to her mother's need. But all she could offer was, “You're not crazy.”

When her sobbing passed, Jessie released her. And she saw Molly's face, wet and twisted. She was terrified that her mother would be furious with her for seeing her like this. But if your daughter can't see you in pain, who can?

“Here,” said Jessie. “You can wear this.” She handed her the T-shirt she'd found in the drawer and had held in her lap all this time, a shirt from
Venus in Furs
with the cartoon Claire Wade face/logo.

“Thank you,” said Molly, spreading the shirt on the bed. “Very much.” She pretended to thank her for the shirt, but Jessie understood she was thanking her for not making too much of her confusion and panic and tears.

Jessie wiped away her own tears with the heel of her hand. She got up and drew the calico curtain over the casement window. “So you can sleep,” she said. “We'll all feel better after a little sleep.”

Molly nodded and Jessie gave her mother a motherly kiss on the cheek. A wet glaze remained on both their faces.

Frank was not in the living room. Jessie was grateful that he'd kept away when she was with Mom, but now she was afraid he'd gone home.

She found him in the office, stretched on the daybed under the bookcase, looking at Caleb's copy of
Chaos
by James Gleick.

“Do you understand that science crap?” she said.

“No. But the pictures are pretty.” He held open the book on a computer-generated photo of manic paisley patterns, like a gorgeous mess of clockwork gears. “Here,” he said and put the book down and scooted over to make room for her.

“Sure,” she said and kicked off her shoes and lay beside him.

“How is she?” he asked.

“Wigged out. I can't guess half of what she's feeling right now. But I wonder if she knows everything she's feeling.” Jessie idly tugged at one of Frank's fingers. “Poor Mom. I'm always afraid I need her more than she needs me. But now? She needs me more.”

She lifted Frank's arm so she could snuggle into his armpit and get more room on the narrow bed. She liked having him beside her, a solid weight like half a hug.

“Or not more,” she corrected herself. “As much. She needs me as much. Maybe.”

T
he sun rose and the birds sang louder. There was a riot of birdsong. One would never guess so many birds lived down here, hidden in the trees behind the cafés and stores and tenement buildings.

An early Saturday morning in New York can be so beautiful, especially when you know that a man wasn't killed and your mother won't be going to jail—not this week anyway. Caleb strolled down Seventh Avenue with Henry. They had been together long enough, and liked each other well enough, that they could be companionably silent. They were the only pedestrians in sight, except for a young woman walking a fat white bulldog wheezing like an asthmatic pig. An isolated handful of cars and trucks roared down the wide avenue.

“What a night,” said Henry. “What a drama. ‘We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.'”

“Were you ever fat enough to play Falstaff?”

“No. But it'd be lovely, wouldn't it? To forget about exercise for a few months? Get fat in the name of art? Which way is uptown? I should be going home.”

“You can catch a cab here and it'll turn around,” said Caleb.

But the avenue was deserted at the moment.

“How remarkable,” said Henry. “I can't remember the last time I witnessed daybreak sober. When I wasn't stumbling out of a club with some pretty piece of tail. But here I am with a clear head, going home alone. It makes one feel very virtuous. Or very old.”

“Too bad I have a full house,” said Caleb. “Or I might invite you home with me.”

Henry stared at Caleb. “Oh. I see. You're kidding.”

“I am and I'm not.” Caleb
was
kidding until he saw that Henry
took him seriously. And suddenly Caleb was interested. He shrugged. “We've shared everything else,” he admitted.

“We certainly have.” He looked Caleb up and down, brazen and satirical, yet Caleb felt a sexual shiver, as if goosed. “Too bad I have a matinee today.”

“And I have a full house,” Caleb repeated.

“And I don't think we're each other's type.”

“We'd probably just lie in bed and talk.”

Henry produced a sly grin. “We
could
ask Toby to join us.”

Caleb froze. Then he burst out laughing. “Uh-uh. Sorry. That's way too sophisticated for me.”

“Oh well,” said Henry sweetly. “Just an idea. But thank you for asking. It's always nice to be asked. Oh look. Here comes a taxi.”

He stepped off the curb and waved. A block away, a lone cab saw him and swung toward their side of the street.

Henry turned to Caleb. “This has been an adventure. I'm glad we were able to share it.” And he stepped back up on the curb with one foot, lifting his face into Caleb's face, and kissed him, hard.

It was a deep kiss in broad daylight, full of tongue and teeth.

The cab stood by, waiting.

Henry released him and dropped back down to the gutter, grinning. Then he jumped into the cab and drove away.

Caleb remained at the curb, catching his breath, then laughing. Did Henry's kiss say “Let's fuck” or simply “Fuck it”? Probably the latter, which was fine with Caleb. He resumed his walk home.

He liked Henry. He liked him very much. Jessie was right. Henry was not a bad fellow. But like all actors, the successful ones anyway, he
was
a people pleaser. So much so that Caleb wondered if he should trust his liking of him. Henry meant to win Caleb over, and Caleb was won. It had been fun to flirt. Caleb did not regret flirting. But he was relieved that he and Hamlet would not be seeing each other naked anytime soon.

Caleb entered his elevator, the door closed, and he remembered everything else. He had no business being happy. Nothing was settled yet. So much was left unresolved. God only knows what Dr. Chin would say when he saw her on Monday. And she thought that he was done with Kenneth Prager.

The elevator arrived. He dreaded what he'd find: the mess of the
party, his mother and sister fighting, something awful. He trudged up the flight of stairs, unlocked his door, and—

The place was spotless. It was cleaner than it was
before
the party. It was quiet, so quiet that it felt haunted. But not haunted by ghosts. He heard people sleeping.

He stepped gently over the floor, afraid to disturb the peace. Snores came from the other side of the living room, not his bedroom but his office. If all the animals were asleep, then he could go to sleep too. He could wait until later to deal with the messes.

He heard a kitchen drawer grind shut. He turned the corner.

She stood in the kitchen, his mother. She was not startled; she'd heard him come in. “I couldn't sleep,” she said. “I was looking for warm milk or beer or something to help me doze off.”

Her face looked vague and colorless without its lipstick. She was wearing his robe, which swam on her. She shyly wrapped it tighter around her waist. Under the robe was a ratty T-shirt with a picture of Claire Wade.

“I could make some chamomile tea,” he said. “I could use some myself.” He went over to the sink and began to fill the kettle.

They had so much to say to each other. He didn't know where to begin. So he said, “Who's snoring? Is that Jessie's friend Frank?”

“No. It's Jessie. You didn't know your sister snores?”

“She's just full of surprises, isn't she?”

“Don't make fun of your sister.”

“I didn't mean anything bad. She's surprising in a good way. We don't have to stand. Let's sit while we wait for the water to boil.”

They went out to the living room. The sofa was back in its place facing the television. They settled into opposite corners.

“How're you doing?” he asked. “You okay?”

“You don't have to worry about me. Your sister got an earful of
that.
A pity party for myself. But I was exhausted. I feel better now. I'm more myself again. Even though I'm having the damnedest time falling asleep in a strange bed.”

Caleb wondered what Jessie had heard. They knew two very different sides of Mom. If she got under Jessie's skin more than she got under his, Jessie was also closer to their mother than Caleb. He envied her the knowledge if not the aggravation.

He noticed something lodged in the wood by his shoe, like a misplaced nail. It was a bullet. It burrowed in the varnished wood, as if trying to hide. It was ludicrous to pretend nothing extraordinary had happened here. But where to begin?

“I know things got out of hand last night,” said Caleb. “But I can't help feeling touched by what you did. I never knew my work meant so much to you.” It was not really about his “work,” but he didn't know how else to say it.

She made a face at him, a skeptical grimace. “It was very stupid of me. Very foolish.”

“I know. But nobody got killed. So it was a beautiful gesture.”

“Yes. It'll make a very funny story,” she bitterly declared. “One that you'll be telling your friends for years and years.”

“Why not? I like funny stories. So do you.”

“Not when I'm in them!”

The kettle whistled. Caleb jumped up and escaped to the kitchen. He busied himself with the tea: setting bags in the mugs, pouring the hot water, letting the bags steep.

He didn't know what else to say to her. He didn't know yet what needed to be said. It would take hours spread out over weeks and months. All he really wanted to tell her this morning was: Thank you, I love you, Are you okay?

He thought that he'd said those things already.