Lives of the Circus Animals

by Christopher Bram

  “Look. Henry’s the winner. I’m still a loser.”

  He studied her a moment, then shook his head. “Excuse me. I got to go get something to drink. To wash down this crap.” He lifted his overloaded plate to show that he was being literal as well as metaphorical, and went back inside.

  Jesus, thought Jessie. When did tonight suddenly become Shit on Jessica Night? And she hadn’t even talked with Mom yet.

  There was a commotion inside as more guests arrived, which was a surprise at this hour. But it was the 2B cast—Allegra, Dwight, Chris, and Melissa—who had come downtown by subway. Allegra came out on the terrace with Dwight, still yammering about the play.

  “Whatever happens was meant to happen,” she was saying. “I fell in love with Chris not because I’m queer but because I needed to fight with Boaz. Because once Boaz walked and Frank took over, the play began to work. Hey, Jess! Nice party. Where’s Henry? I need to ask Henry if he could add just one more tiny thing to his quote.”

  Caleb appeared behind Allegra, waiting to ask Jessie something.

  Then a new disturbance indoors made everyone turn around and look.

  67

  Kenneth stayed in the bathroom longer than he intended, sitting on the lowered toilet lid with the tape recorder pressed to his ear, listening to what he had and trying to come up with one last good question for Henry Lewse. He’d hoped to beat Bick by turning his punitive assignment into a nice little article, but circumstance and Lewse himself worked together to reduce the night to a wild Lewse goose chase. The show uptown had been a nice surprise, but Kenneth needed to focus now. He would try one more question—Is there a single actor or actress you hope to work with before you die?—and then he could go home.

  He came out of the bathroom and looked for Lewse. A swell party, he thought. He wondered whose party. A swell apartment too. He and Gretchen could never afford such a place.

  He found the assistant out on the terrace, but she hadn’t seen Lewse and did not seem terribly interested in finding him. He went back inside and checked the kitchen, then an office full of the strangest assortment of books: artist biographies and books about math. He tried the bedroom next, lightly knocking on the door, which was already open, so he pushed it. A fan of light spread over a bed with an old lady stretched out on the covers.

  “Excuse me! Sorry!” he exclaimed and pulled the door shut.

  He hurried back out to the living room. He asked the bartender if he’d seen Henry Lewse depart.

  “Henry Lewse? The actor? He’s here? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I arrived with him.”

  The bartender excitedly looked around the room. “Wow. Hey, I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

  Kenneth went back out to the terrace.

  “No luck?” said the assistant.

  He shook his head and hurried past her, wondering if she were hoaxing him. Were they all hoaxing him? They would soon claim that Lewse was never here and Kenneth must be crazy. It would be their revenge for all the awful things the Times had done to actors.

  Kenneth headed toward the far corner of the terrace, which was darker. All he could see were the silhouettes of guests standing in front of the orange-tinted cityscape.

  “Henry?” he said. “Henry? Has anyone here seen Henry?”

  “Not me,” said a young man. “Unless your name is Henry?” he asked his companion.

  “No. Is your name Henry?”

  “I don’t think so,” the first man replied. “My brother used to call me Thomasina. But it’s not the same thing, is it?” He turned back to Kenneth. “Sorry. No Henrys here.”

  Kenneth came up beside the pair of the silhouettes. They were two skinny young men in jeans and black T-shirts leaning against the parapet. He sensed that they were gay, maybe even a couple.

  “Hen-reeee! Henry Aldrich!” cried out the first man. Or maybe it was the second. They were like an East Village Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

  “Hey,” said his friend, closing one eye and studying Kenneth with the other. He was slightly drunk. “You’re Kenneth Prager.”

  This often happened at public gatherings. There was nothing to do but accept it. “Guilty,” he joked. “Glad to meet you.” He held out his hand, which was all most people needed.

  But neither of them took his hand.

  “I wouldn’t stand too close to the edge if I were you,” said the second man. “Not while you’re talking to us.”

  And Kenneth laughed, as if it were a joke, although he suspected it wasn’t. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  “No. You don’t know us at all,” said the first man.

  “You might think you know our alter egos,” said the second. “But you don’t know them either.”

  “Does the name Leopold ring a bell?” said the first man.

  “Does the name Lois?” said the other.

  “Oh?” said Kenneth, squinting, trying to see two shabby nightclub performers in the scrubbed blandness of these two boys, even as he took a healthy step back from the parapet.

  “Murderers?” said the first man.

  “More in need of therapy than a review?” said the second.

  Actors took their notices much too seriously. Directors and writers could be grown-ups about criticism, but actors were children. A bad review was like telling them there was no Santa Claus.

  Kenneth drew himself up to his full height. “Sorry. I call them as I see them. Your audience seemed to enjoy you well enough.”

  “And that’s why you hated us, old man?” said the first one.

  “Damn but you’re old,” said the other. “Couldn’t they have sent someone our age? Someone who was alive enough to get it!”

  Being called “old” didn’t hurt. Of course these brats would see him as old. But their desire to hurt him? That hurt.

  “You’re upset,” he told them. “Which is natural. But you did your job, and I did mine—”

  “Our job is to make art and yours is to destroy it?”

  “I’m sorry we can’t be more mature about this. But it was nice meeting you. Good night.” He nodded to each, then turned and walked away, very calmly, he thought, very adultly.

  His heart was pounding like a drum. He remained in control of his body even as it braced itself for a blow to the back of the head or kick in the seat of his pants. But nothing happened. Leopold and Lois didn’t even shout a last insult.

  He went straight to the bartender inside. “Gin and tonic.” That’s all he needed, a quick drink before he took a last look for Lewse, and then he’d go home. He wouldn’t be fleeing. It was late. “Thank you,” he told the bartender and gripped the cold glass. The first sip brought him back to himself. He decided to take his time with the drink and enjoy it.

  Glancing around the room, he saw a middle-aged lady perched alone on a sofa. She sat with a purse in her lap, drinking something clear, looking faintly lost. With a suburban hairdo and old-fashioned lipstick and earrings, she did not look like a theater person, but like somebody’s mother: safe and sane. Kenneth wanted to sit down anyway, and she looked like good, grown-up company.

  68

  Molly 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.

  69

  When 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?”