Lives of the Circus Animals Read Free Page B

“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.”
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œThe Times !” Carmen announced.
    â€œYeah, right. Get out of here.”
    â€œNo, 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?”
    â€œIt’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 finale began, each performer taking one last turn. Frank held his breath. And