I looked to the green curtain and saw Clyde Ingalls peering right at me. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go and no way to avoid the confrontation I had been dreading. As we approached, he aggressively stepped forward. “May I have a word, Jake?” he asked, loud enough to be heard above the throng.
“I’ve got to take care of this, Harry.” I stepped out of line and lowered my little friend carefully to the ground.
Harry walked on and was swept away with the rest of the procession. I was scared of the tongue-lashing and ultimatum I was sure to receive. I was still ambivalent about what I wanted to do. Leaving would be a big gamble. Where would I go? The Depression enveloped the world with no sign of letting up. If I left how would I support myself? And if Ingalls let me stay, what prospects might I miss? How much time did I have to waste?
“Hello, Jake. Have you been avoiding me?”
I had no idea what to say to him. “Well . . . Well . . . ” I stammered. “Clyde . . . Clyde, you were furious with me last night and, to be honest, I was very embarrassed by what I did.” Unable to look him square in the eye, I stared over his right shoulder as if I were speaking to someone standing behind him.
“Look, Jake, I’ve put that behind me. That rube ended up with a bad bruise on his butt and on his ego. A lot of your friends say he had it coming. Our lawyers gave him two C-notes and he decided to forget the whole damned thing. As far as that affair goes, I just need your promise it will never happen again; and I mean never!” Ingall’s demeanor shocked me. I had expected him to tear off my head and hand it to me on a platter, but he was levelheaded and calm.
“Absolutely. I give you my word,” I answered reflexively, grateful for the apparent reprieve. I felt relieved, but I also knew I still owed him my decision about my future in the circus.
“I know you have not made up your mind yet about next season. With the way things are in the world, for the life of me I can’t figure out why.” Here it comes, I thought. “We’re in the middle of worst hard times any of us can remember. Men are begging for work, getting their food in bread lines. You’re in the Big Red with the largest and most respected of any freak show. If you’re not careful you’ll end up in a mud show or worse.” He shook his index finger at me. I just listened, nodded my head, and wished I were a million miles away. “You’re the only one in the troop who hasn’t signed up for next season. I need to know what you plan to do by next Monday before the show, and no later. If I don’t have a signed contract, I will assume you are resigning as of next season. Do you understand, Jake? Have I made myself clear?”
“Crystal clear,” I answered, now making direct eye contact but just for a few seconds. “You’ll have my answer by then.”
I turned around and started to walk away. That had not gone at all as I anticipated. I felt shell-shocked. What other unexpected surprises are in store for me? I wondered.
“One more thing, Jake.” I turned around, expecting the other shoe to drop. “That dame I saw you and Buck talking to in the menagerie—you know, the artist. She had a messenger drop this off for you before the matinee.” He reached up, handed me a small envelope, and walked away.
Without any hesitation I tore it open and read the note on the sweet-smelling monogrammed stationary.
Dear Mr. Erlich,
It was such a pleasure to meet you today. I know it is last minute, but my husband and I are hosting a soiree this Wednesday evening at our home in the city. I would love for you to come. There are some people attending whom I would like you to meet. Frank Buck is coming. There is no need to RSVP. I know that you are not done until about nine, so if you would like, just get here when you can. Our address is:
376 Madison.
Your new friend,
Val McPhearson
P.S. I do hope I see you there.
I reread the note several times. Surprise and anticipation washed over me just like stormy waves in Santa Monica. I didn’t want to admit it, but I hoped there was something written between the lines. My jitters about Val’s note didn’t make any sense. Even though I had just met her, I felt as eager for the party as a kid counting down the days to his birthday. What’s more, she was married. Yet I was all twisted up inside. I hadn’t felt that way about anybody since I left Hollywood. Recalling what a fiasco that turned out to be, I was determined not to make that same mistake.
CHAPTER 9
Madame Lya
“Damn it!”
A new roustabout on bucket brigade must have missed it, I thought, scraping freshly dropped manure from my shoes. My logic was of little consolation. I had been thoughtlessly rushing to avoid the long lines at Western Union and now I had to pay the price for my carelessness. Once my shoes were as clean as they were going to get, I raced to Lexington Avenue and the nearest telegraph office.
“For the love of Mike!” I growled when I saw the eighteen others who had beaten me to the punch. That’s just what I need to start my day—a half-hour wait in line with a bunch of palookas being serviced by one Methuselah of a clerk. Just the thought of it made my back ache.
The other customers looked like a regular rogue’s gallery. They were as different from one another as night is from day. But when I walked into the place, they all did the same thing: In a simultaneous ballet of rudeness, all eyes turned and stared at me. Then, as if collectively trying to erase their bad manners, in unison they quickly looked away. I was accustomed to how herd-like people could be in demonstrating and then attempting to hide their lack of manners. As time had gone by, I thought I’d gotten better at ignoring that kind of negative attention. But for some reason, that morning it particularly irked me.
Because of the mess on Monday night and my dithering about whether to stay or leave the circus, I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Add to that the horse shit on my shoes and the prospect of an hour-wait in line and you have a recipe for my foul mood and my short fuse. It’s not hard to fathom why I had a hell of a time ignoring their discourtesy. I wanted to be anywhere else but in that crowded Western Union office, but I didn’t have a choice.
That morning at 8:30 a.m. on the dot, as I did on the fifteenth and the thirtieth of every month, come rain or shine, I collected my check at the pay-car, cashed it, and made my way to the nearest Western Union office. Like clockwork, every two weeks I would then wire my folks money. Ever since they went mahulla (bankrupt) after the Crash, Mama and Papa needed my help to make ends meet. Even though things were going a bit better for them, I still sent a little something every time I got paid. Looking back on it now, I can say that needing to help my folks gave me a reason to put up with the lousy things I had to endure on the road; not the least of which was my loneliness, occasionally stepping in fresh manure, and long waits in line.
I just wanted to send my money order to my folks, make it through the rest of that day with no more aggravation, and attend Val’s party that evening. My jaw was clenched as I stomped through the crowd in the Western Union office toward the wooden tables in the back where they kept the forms for money orders.
That’s where I found her. She was standing on tiptoes between two tables, trying to get hold of one of those forms. The little woman could barely reach the counter,
