Lives of the Circus Animals Read Free

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—Gretchentoo. 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. Herauburn 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