Lives of the Circus Animals Page 2

  “You disagree?” she suddenly asked. “You think I’m talking through my hat?”

  “No, not at all. I’m thinking it over,” he claimed. “Digesting that idea”—even though he had no notion what the idea was.

  He was not yet ready to tell Chin that they were over. He could do it on Monday, by mail. Kenneth Prager always expressed himself more forcefully on the page than he did in person.

  2

  He stepped outside to West Tenth Street, happy to return to the real world. Chin’s office was in a burrow of therapists’ offices on the ground floor of an old West Village town house. It was early evening, the middle of May. Sunlight glowed in the soft green trees and rust-red brickwork. Kenneth walked this street regularly—he and his family lived just a few blocks over on Charles Street—but he felt strange here today, oddly undressed after his talk with Chin, as if he were walking down the sidewalk in nothing but a bathrobe.

  He hurried toward Sixth Avenue, passing one man in a suit, then another, relieved that he wasn’t the only corporate type out in the open. Kenneth often regretted that they lived in the Village, where one occasionally saw actors—on the street, at the post office, in the supermarket. None ever spoke to him in these public places, yet they noticed him, as he noticed them, killer and prey off duty, cheetah and gazelle between meals.

  But he did not feel guilty. No. He did not judge people, only their work. And he did not want people to love him, only that they respect his work. He wanted good theater, better plays, better audiences. He was an idealist—that’s what he should have told Chin. The world fell short of his ideals, suffocated by the age’s hunger for success at any cost. No wonder he was depressed.

  He crossed Sixth Avenue in the shadow of the Jefferson Market Library, an enormous brick cuckoo clock with an absurd tower, and headed uptown, past the Soviet antique store and the good Chinese restaurant. He felt much too tall and conspicuous here—the sidewalk was very crowded. He turned left at the next corner, where a public school stood, P.S. 41, a big white box with a grid of windows and green panels in front, like an ugly office building from the 1950s. The first-story windows, however, were full of cheerful crayon pictures of stick-figure families. Live parents stood on the sidewalk under the sycamore trees, chatting to one another or on cell phones, a few sucking down cigarettes, one of the smokers Gretchen.

  She’d come straight from the law office and wore her blue suit and plump running shoes. Kenneth was surprised by how glad he was to see her, his haven, his friend, his wife. He wanted to take her hand, but didn’t. They pecked each other hello. See, I’m not such a bad guy, he told himself.

  She ground out her cigarette. “You’re stooping, dear.”

  Gretchen had noticed it first, how he often slouched now when he walked alone, as if to make himself less visible.

  “So how did it go?” she asked. “Have a good session?”

  “My last session,” he declared. “The woman has no authority. No solid ideas. She talks like she just makes it up as she goes along.”

  “Which sounds reasonable to me.”

  “And she hates theater. Can you imagine? She’s not someone who’ll ever understand me.”

  Gretchen frowned. “Kenneth, you’ve barely started. There’s always a period of adjustment. And it might be good for you to talk to someone with a different religion.”

  Of course she’d say that, Gretchen, who hadn’t accompanied him to a play in ages. He could not help taking it personally. Gretchen was tired of theater, tired of the Times, tired of him.

  “Give her a month. Please? Just two more visits,” she pleaded.

  “Am I that difficult to live with?”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.” She pointed at the doors and the people going in. “Speaking of religion, shall we join the congregation?”

  “This has nothing to do with that,” he insisted. “Nothing at all.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. So let’s go inside.”

  Tonight was the opening night of P.S. 41’s seventh-grade production of Show Boat. Their daughter, Rosalind, was in the chorus.

  Kenneth entered the school, and it was like stepping into childhood, not his daughter’s but his own. The front hall was all tiles and painted cinder block like the front hall of Birdville Elementary back in Pittsburgh, with a harsh, timeless stink of pencil shavings and sour milk. Kenneth had hated being a child.

  The auditorium was full of ancient echoes and bolted rows of old plywood seats without cushions. He and Gretchen took two seats on the aisle. He opened his program.

  “Show Boat,” he murmured. “Not my idea of children’s theater.”

  “Nobody asked you,” grumbled Gretchen.

  “You’re right. Absolutely. I’ll shut up.”

  No, this isn’t about theater. It’s about being a good parent, a loving father, a warm human being.

  The rows slowly filled with other parents, a motley mix of ages, races, clothes, and classes. Nobody noticed Kenneth. They probably didn’t know who the Buzzard was here. Or care. They’d come to watch their kids play make-believe.

  There was no orchestra in the pit, only a piano, and not much pit either. The stage was small, with a shallow apron and shabby red curtain. A man popped out of the wings, presumably the director, a stocky fellow of indeterminate age and sexuality. His face was young, but he had a receding hairline. His plaid shirt was unbuttoned, the tail out, the sleeves rolled up. He came down to the pit and spoke to the piano player, a short, wiry, elderly black woman with a pearl necklace and busily articulate hands.

  Finally, the principal got up onstage, a jolly lesbian in a tuxedo. Kenneth loved their neighborhood for such anomalies. See, he told himself, I’m not homophobic. She thanked the audience for coming, thanked the kids and their directors, Harriet Anderson and Frank Earp, for putting together such a fine show. Also the parents who raised money with bake sales. “Now sit back and enjoy: Show Boat.”

  It was still light outside; no curtains hung over the high windows. Ms. Anderson clattered fiercely through the overture—her instrument needed tuning, but she didn’t seem to notice. Then a flock of kids in black jeans and black T-shirts, Rosalind among them, shuffled out onstage with lowered gazes and nervous smiles.

  Kenneth’s heart swelled to see his daughter up there, blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh. She was taller than the others, a happy, long-legged colt, her panicky grin bound in braces. Lately she’d seemed distant. Or maybe Kenneth had less love for everyone these days—Gretchen too. But his love for his daughter gushed instantly when he saw her onstage.

  Then the children burst into song:

  Niggers all work on the Mississippi.

  Niggers all work while the white folks play.

  Kenneth was startled that they used the original Hammerstein lyric. The entire audience, in fact, lurched backward. The word stung even in a multicultural context—the chorus included white and Asian as well as black faces. But the kids looked tickled to be able to sing out a word that none were allowed to use at home.

  The show then stumbled into the familiar songs and scenes, everything stripped to essentials. The text was cut, there was no scenery, the costumes were minimal. The entire cast was dressed in black, with only hats and coats to indicate their characters, prop costumes that were too big for the performers. They looked like kids who’d been rummaging in an attic. Kenneth assumed it was just a happy accident, giving the production a sweet innocence, a primitive charm. It was such a relief to see theater for theater’s sake again, the joyful ritual of it, the raw pleasure.

  Rosalind reappeared with a pack of girls carrying parasols for “Life Upon the Wicked Stage,” sung by a tiny Hispanic girl. The father in Kenneth was indignant that Rosalind didn’t get the solo, even as the Times critic recognized that her voice wasn’t strong enough.

  But none of the children were great singers, except for the Joe—“Old Man River” had a new kind of hurt when sung in a choirboy alto. No, it wasn’t accidental.
Someone involved in the production knew exactly what they were doing. At twelve and thirteen, the girls were already girls but the boys still had an unbaked childish androgyny, which gave a fresh twist to the book’s multiple story lines of tough women suffering for their weakling men.

  A pretty young mother sat directly behind Kenneth. He first noticed her laugh, a loud, sharp squeal over the smarter bits of business. Later, when he turned to Gretchen, he noticed out of the corner of his eye the woman scowling at him. He assumed she was a mother. Her auburn hair was cut lesbian short, but so many mothers nowadays had a butch, practical look.

  Whoever she was, during the applause after “Can’t Help Loving That Man of Mine” she suddenly leaned forward to whisper, in a plummy put-on accent, “When you write about this one day, and you will, be kind.” And she sat back, happily cackling to herself.

  3

  Backstage in the wings, Frank Earp was all eyes and ears during the first act, as if the show were a mirage that would vanish if he even blinked. His entire body was engaged, a kinetic sympathy of muscles and nerves. When their Ravenal, as dumb and handsome as a Ravenal should be, jumped ahead several pages, he and Carmen, his student assistant—she stood at Frank’s side with the open prompt book—hissed and whispered him back to his cue. The Magnolia was a pro, however, and didn’t even flinch. Then Tony, their Joe, sang his reprise of “Old Man River” as sweetly as always. Frank quickly pulled the curtain closed, and the first act ended.

  Instantly, Magnolia, Joe, and the rest turned back into children. They all went a little crazy, giggling and jumping around, scuffing up the dust backstage and spilling out into the hall.

  “Guys!” cried Frank. “Chill! You did great, but we got one more act.” He refused to play dictator-schoolteacher. That was Mrs. Anderson’s job. She was a music teacher, while Frank wasn’t any kind of teacher, only a ringer hired to help stage a school show. He’d never worked with kids before. They weren’t so different from other actors, just shorter.

  The show was going well, however. Nobody froze, no cues were flubbed beyond repair. The audience was nicely slapped by niggers. Frank had been surprised Mrs. Anderson wanted to use the lyric, but the old lady wasn’t as old-fashioned as she liked to pretend. Tonight was opening night, tomorrow closing. It felt funny to work for six weeks on a show for just two performances, yet it gave the thing a kind of purity. Frank rode the same adrenaline roller coaster that had carried him through shows back when he was an actor himself.

  “I’m only in it for the long green,” he joked to friends. The P.T.A. actually was paying him two thousand dollars. In his darker, hour-of-the-wolf moments, however, Frank feared a show like this was a dirty trick to play on kids, giving them a taste for something they could never get in real life.

  Frank Earp had come to New York ten years ago, straight out of college in Tennessee, thinking he could have an acting career, a life in the theater. Well, he couldn’t. After a decade of showcases, road shows, regional theater gigs, and temp work, last year he had taken a full-time job as office manager for an investor. It was good to have a steady income. It was a joy to say good-bye to acting. Yet the job left him with mental space and time for projects like this one. He was also directing a play for his former roommates uptown, a set of skits to be performed in their apartment on West 104th Street—Frank had his own place now, in Hoboken. It was wild to be doing two shows simultaneously, one with kids, the other with grown-ups, so-called, especially after his decision to say “Fuck theater.” It never rained but it poured. This was only his hobby now, not his life. He preferred it that way. He had more time for life, meaning leisure, money, love.

  He had spotted Jessie Doyle out front tonight. First he heard her laugh—single, sharp, birdlike notes of delight—then he recognized her goofy, lopsided grin out in the shadows. Frank was overjoyed that she’d come. He was distracted too, but it was a good distraction, like looking forward to the next movie in a double feature. When a song or scene went well and Frank could relax, he felt this show was not the only good thing that could happen tonight.

  He stepped out into the hall to compare notes with Mrs. Anderson. He could call her Harriet to her face, but she radiated such old-lady authority that he still thought of her as Mrs. Anderson.

  He found her at the drinking fountain. “So what do you think, Harriet? Will we get through this in one piece?”

  She looked at him with her enormous, world-weary eyes. “Oh, they’ll enjoy whatever their little darlings do,” she said. “But I’m having a lovely time. Aren’t you?”

  He laughed. This was the smart approach to theater, the sane approach. Mrs. Anderson was well into her old-lady Zen years, and Frank was constantly learning things from her. “I’ll have fun if you have fun,” he promised. “See you later.”

  He found Carmen waiting for him backstage. “Guess who’s here, Frank? You’ll never guess. Not in a hundred years.”

  “Just tell me, sweetcakes. We got work to do.”

  Carmen, who was twelve, took on a chummy, big-sister air around Frank. He suspected she had a crush on him—a safe, make-believe crush. She was no Lolita, just a smart kid with bib overalls and pierced ears who was eager to be a grown-up.

  “The Times!” Carmen announced.

  “Yeah, right. Get out of here.”

  “No, really. Not Bickle, but the number two guy. Prager.”

  Leave it to Village kids to know the pecking order at the Times. “I should hope so. He’s Rosalind’s daddy.” The girl had innocently dropped the fact early in rehearsals. “My daddy says that the problem with theater today is…” And who’s your daddy? “Kenneth Prager of Arts and Leisure.”

  Carmen looked disappointed. Frank assumed that would be the end of it, but then the cast returned from the hall and toilets and he overheard Captain Andy and Magnolia whispering, “Did you hear? The Times!” Then Tony, his beautiful Joe with the church angel voice, came up and said, “Is it true, Mr. Earp? The Times is here tonight?”

  “It’s Rosalind’s daddy, dammit!” He clapped his hands. “Come on, guys. Get your butts in the wings. Now!”

  The second act began, and the kids performed differently, more deliberate and determined. They turned into little marionettes of self-consciousness, clumsy and coquettish—all for the sake of the New York Times. It broke Frank’s heart. Damn Prager. He imagined him sitting out there like God, as if the show were solely for his benefit. Slowly, however, by the third number, the kids became themselves again, their self-consciousness turning back into I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this ticklishness. They came back to life, gracefully awkward, awkwardly graceful. They were beautiful.

  Frank loved children. He was in awe of them, touched and fascinated by their look and size and needs. He wanted one of his own. It was a recent development, the real reason he took this job, in fact. He hoped to cure himself. Just as walking a neighbor’s collie two years ago had killed his desire to own a dog, he thought a school play would end his fantasies about fatherhood. And they were fantasies. He was thirty-one, a bachelor. There were a couple of girlfriends in the past, but none he wanted to marry. He knew his desire to populate the world with half-shares of his chromosomes was solely about him, not his love of a particular woman. Some Russian author, not one of the giants but a later, forgotten figure—even Frank couldn’t remember his name—once wrote that a man wants children only when he’s given up on his own life. Frank pleaded guilty.

  Nevertheless, his love for Jessie Doyle—and he was in love with her, in a hopeful, sketchy kind of way—did not include telling her “I want you to have my child.” He might be getting primal but he was not Neanderthal. Besides, Show Boat had done its job. It had taken the romance out of children. Frank still liked them, as people, but he also understood that, like people, they could be real pains in the ass.

  As the show approached its end, the players quickened their pace, like horses returning to the stable. Their eagerness gave their performances a new liveliness. Then the f
inale began, each performer taking one last turn. Frank held his breath. And suddenly, he could breathe again. It was over.

  The applause started, the curtain calls began. Frank remained backstage, playing traffic cop for kids going out for bows. He had counted on curtain calls and rehearsed them, but he did not immediately appreciate the noise out front. It filled the auditorium: a sun shower of approval, a rainstorm of love. The kids stood out onstage openmouthed, delighted to find themselves adored. They began to wave at Frank to join them, first Magnolia, then the others, insisting he share this glory. Frank started out, then remembered Carmen and grabbed her hand. He hauled the startled girl with him into the shower that turned into a waterfall, a cataract. A few people even shouted, “Bravo!”

  Frank was surprised by the old rush of joy. The auditorium was only two-thirds full, but the whoops and hollers and beating hands suggested an audience as big as the world.

  Mrs. Anderson stood by her piano, applauding her cast, taking a few bows herself, then applauding Frank.

  Frank and the kids applauded her. His tear ducts prickled and he told himself, Don’t be a fool. It’s just a school play. This is just the love of parents for their own.

  Yet the high did not pass. He wished he could tell his stars, “Enjoy this now. Remember this. It will never be so pure again.”

  4

  The kids snapped out of their trances and hurried offstage, jostling and steering Frank with them out to the hall. The tuxedoed principal pounced on him there, followed by a mob of parents. Everyone congratulated Frank, and he smiled and nodded and said what a joy it had been to work with Felix or Tiffany or Josh or Elektra while his eyes impatiently scanned the crowd.

  And there she was. She stood against a wall in her khaki trench coat, a briefcase under her arm, grinning like a happy conspirator. She looked lovely and lovable, cool and smart, the source of tonight’s most appreciative laughs. And Frank had seen her naked. That was two whole weeks ago, and they’d only talked on the phone since then, but here was Jessica in the flesh. Frank did not picture her naked now, but a memory of nudity seemed to illuminate her face—crooked smile, sharp cheekbones, short reddish hair—making it more real than any other face here.