Masters of Illusions (24 page)

It was Martha who made her mother see that Charlie had wanted one thing from Margie for all the years that they were married—that
she read his mind, the mind he couldn’t read himself. But she’d refused. She hadn’t wanted to ruin a good and thrilling book.
And now Martha worked and worked to make her mother understand that Charlie never lied to her. That he didn’t know what he’d
done. That he really did suppress the memory. Until he was jolted. By Margie’s threatening to leave. That’s what got him to
stop after all.

Margie broke. First she said, “Martha, I need your help. You’re giving up on me. You’re resenting me.”

Now Martha could aim her big guns. She’d been waiting for Margie to signal the moment. Her brief was ready and set to go.
She spoke the way she was being taught to speak to her future clients; you give them the big speech the moment they first
begin to see straight. Before they can start lying to themselves.

“Mom, Daddy is finally able to face what he’d done. He gave up the search that night in the library because somewhere inside
him, he knew he’d be able to cope with what really happened. If that wasn’t so, he would have made a joke about what Cindy
said at the party. He would have allowed Chick to change the subject. But he didn’t. I don’t know what you’ve been pounding
him with these last few months, but it worked. You did it.”

Before Margie walked down the hall to visit Charlie, she said to Martha, “Who’s going to get poor Cindy back?”

Martha said, “Cindy will get herself back, I’d say. She’s been released, Mom.”

“Released. They were all released.”

“Mom?”

“What honey?”

“Mom, I don’t want you to think I’m not still caring, here, because I am. But I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Can
I tell you something about me?”

“Oh, Martha, what’s wrong?”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong. In fact, something’s right, believe it or not.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Remember the guy I told you about? Richard?”

Margie thought, Richard, Richard.

“I miss him. I’m going to get married.”

Martha’s smile was crooked because Martha, who could smile for four people, had gotten out of practice. Margie put her arms
out to her. Martha snuggled up to her mother, lay her head on her shoulder. Margie said, “I’m so glad, baby.”

Martha pulled back and her real smile was back. “Guess what else?”

“What, honey?”

“He’s Jewish, Mom. Just like us.”

The first thing Margie said to Charlie after Martha had gone was, “A ten-year-old cannot contain the kind of anger that you
had been forced to hold inside. Children aren’t supposed to even know about that kind of anger.” She was standing next to
his bed in the darkened room.

He didn’t say anything. She knew he didn’t want pity from her or anyone else. He wanted punishment. He wanted his father to
beat him to death. But all the same, he was piteous.

So then Margie said, “Tell me what happened.”

He didn’t say anything.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. She said, “I’ll be you, Charlie, and you be one of the people who comes to see the fireman
to tell him what he witnessed at the circus on the day of the fire.” Margie sat up straight. “Okay, now I’m you, and you’re
the witness. Here goes.…” She cleared her throat. “What happened on the day you went to the circus?” He said, “Margie.”

She said, “Tell me! It’s time to tell so that you can start getting into all this forgiveness bullshit that everyone expects
from each other these days. Jesus, Charlie, if one more person says to me that you’ve got to forgive your father before you
can heal yourself, I’m going to go buy a gun and shoot him.”

“I’ll never forgive him.”

“That’s right. Why should you? He never wanted forgiveness because he never saw himself as evil. To him, your mother was some
kind of sport—target practice. Denny O’Neill didn’t give a shit about you so now you don’t have to worry about not giving
a shit about him. But Charlie, here’s what I think. It’s time to say that you’ll never forgive your mother.”

He said, “My mother is a saint.”

And Margie took out her big guns. “A mother is supposed to protect you, same as a father, right? She didn’t. But any good
that might come out of this is that maybe she’ll ask your forgiveness. Maybe she’ll repent. Then you’ll be able to forgive
her. That’s when it makes sense to forgive—when the other person asks for forgiveness. Because then she’ll be saying that
you’re not the one at fault here. And you’re not.”

“Margie, my mother…”

“Okay, forget your mother. What about Bob Corcoran? Something triggered him and now something triggered you. Me. I triggered
you. It took me a goddamn long time. I’m sorry, Charlie. Will you forgive me?”

Charlie finally looked into Margie’s eyes. He swallowed. His look became hard instead of piteous. He said, “You refused to
see what you were seeing. You saw heartache, Margie, and you made believe it was a game.”

“No,” she said, “a book. I saw a book. A goddamn book. I said I’m sorry” Margie put her face into her hands and tried to keep
herself from sobbing, but she couldn’t, so she sobbed and babbled to him. “A long time ago, Charlie, you found someone who
you thought would get you out of that pit your father threw you into. But I failed you. I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t touch her and he wouldn’t let himself comfort her, though that was all he wanted to do. He was waiting to see what
decision she’d made. She was going to do something and he had to wait and find out what it was.

Margie got up and left the room. She went into Martha’s room and she got a cassette and a recorder. She came back, put in
the cassette, turned on the recorder, and the tape began to go around. She said, “Charlie. Tell me everything that you remember
about the circus. The matinee performance of the Barnum & Bailey circus in Hartford, Connecticut, on July sixth, nineteen
forty-four.”

He said, “I remember everything.”

Margie said, “Begin at an appropriate time.”

He closed his eyes. She waited. Then he said, “I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep all night.” Several witnesses had said that
very same thing. And then they’d stop and Charlie would prod them.

So Margie said, “Go on.”

“Uncle Chick had chosen me of all the kids. I was really going to the circus. And with Aunt Annette, who would buy me a souvenir.
Aunt Annette would always buy me ice cream when the ice-cream man came. She’d never say, ‘We’ve got a box of Popsicles in
the fridge.’ That’s what my mother would say since my father wouldn’t let her buy me an ice cream. I was going to the circus
with my two cousins and my best aunt. Mama put out my lightest shirt because it was going to be such a hot day. She laid the
shirt on the end of the bed along with my blue shorts. I remember finally shutting my eyes when the birds started singing.
So I didn’t wake up until ten.

“Uncle Chick picked me up in his police car after lunch. He was in his uniform on his way to work. Aunt Annette and the girls
were in the back so I could ride in the front seat. He let me hit the siren once. Then he left us at the bus stop. I had to
hold hands with Cindy. Ruth-Ann held her hand on the other side. I didn’t have a little sister. I felt proud to be doing my
share to take care of her. My father came while we were waiting for the bus. He smiled at me. As soon as he smiled, I knew
I wasn’t going to the circus.

“Aunt Annette said: ‘Hi, Denny.’ The girls said: ‘Hello, Uncle Denny.’ But he never took his eyes off me. He said: ‘Hear you
slept late this morning, son.’ And I said: ‘Yes, sir.’ He said: ‘Your mother had to take out the garbage. Is that right, son?’

“I’d never thought once about the garbage. I’d gotten up so late. He said again: ‘Is that right, son?’ I said: ‘Yes, sir.’
And he asked me if that wasn’t my chore, which it was. Then he said: ‘And when you don’t do your chores, what happens?’ And
I said: ‘I get punished.’ He asked me what I thought my punishment should be. He always asked. He usually asked my mother.
I told him I didn’t know This was the one time I knew. That’s why he said: ‘I think you do, son.’ Then he said:
‘Son?’
And he kept saying:
‘Son? Son? Son?’
Then he screamed,
‘Son!’
into my ear. The girls were squashed together, hiding behind Aunt Annette. Aunt Annette tried to say something, but he was
bent to my ear. He hissed into my face; he said: ‘You get your skinny little ass home right now, and I don’t want to look
at your fucking puss for the rest of the day. I’ll see you tonight, when I get home.’ And then he smiled again. His face was
right up to mine. He said: ‘Give me your ticket.’ I knew that’s what he’d say.”

Charlie stopped talking. He was staring up at the ceiling. Margie couldn’t let him stop, even though she wished she could
stop breathing, could commit
suttee.
So she asked him if he’d like a glass of water just like he asked all the witnesses. He told her he’d like some orange juice.
Charlie loved orange juice with ice. All firemen do. Nothing else wipes out the taste of soot so well.

When she came back, she handed him the orange juice and asked, “Then what happened?”

“I ran home. I was hot and sweaty even before I started to run. I ran through the backyards, past the library, and instead
of crossing over the stream, I ran down into it. There was no water. The water had dried up. I climbed into the culvert. It
was cool and dark in the culvert. I used to go there a lot in the summertime.

“Then I heard the bus go by. I waited a few minutes, and then I climbed out. My mother would cry when I got back home. I tried
to think about waiting a few hours and then going home and making believe I’d been to the circus. But she’d find out the truth
anyway. I walked up the hill, down the street, and then I saw another bus coming. My mother had given me a quarter for cotton
candy. I ran back to the corner, the bus came and stopped for me, and I got on. I told the bus driver I was going to the circus.
He said, ‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ He handed me a transfer. I asked him what bus I had to take next.

“He said: ‘Get off at Main Street in front of the Loew’s Poli, and take the Bloomfield Avenue bus. Only have to wait five
minutes. Don’t worry,’ he told me, ‘you got plenty of time.’ When I got off at Main, he said: ‘Have a swell time, kid.’

“And I kept thinking that I wasn’t going to have a swell time because my father took my ticket. I kept thinking that even
though I wasn’t going to have a swell time, Ruth-Ann would. Ruth-Ann was a snotty kid, always in trouble. But she was going
to the circus all the same. And I wasn’t. I always tried to be good, but I didn’t know how to be good. I couldn’t figure out
how to be good. So I wasn’t going.”

He stopped. He was sweating just like he’d been sweating on that humid July day. Margie was as cold as ice. She said, “What
did you do?”

He said, “I killed your mother and I nearly killed you.”

Margie hung on. “My mother would have been the first person to forgive you. You’ve repented. You’ve devoted your life to repenting
to her. She would have forgiven you.”

“And what about you?”

“Charlie. Please tell me that you can see I’ve forgiven you.”

“Margie…”

“Wait. I need to get back to where we were. What did you do when the bus left you off?”

He reached out and brushed at her arm. “Your voice sounds like mine, Margie, when I asked people.”

“Is it any wonder? Just tell me, Charlie. It’s my turn to need to know.”

He took his eyes from her. He sipped his juice. He said, “I walked down from the bus stop at the corner of Barbour Street.
I walked all the way around the lot. The circus tent was beautiful, flags flying everywhere. Thousands of people were milling
around the tent. There’s such a mystery about a circus tent, Margie. Because there are no windows to peek through. And inside,
where you can’t see, you know there’s danger. No nets. It’s human nature to love danger when there isn’t a threat to you.
No threat.” Margie placed her hand on his forearm. It was slippery. Across his knuckles, his own scars, the ones from the
broken mirror, were still pink.

“So I watched everyone go in. I never spotted Aunt Annette or the girls. I was watching out for them, but I didn’t see them.”
He looked over at Margie. “Cindy saw me.”

“Yes.”

“I never knew it. I never knew it till the party.”

“Your mother knew it.”

“Yes.”

Margie removed her hand from his arm. “I wonder if Cindy will ever forgive her.”

His eyes filled with agony at the exposure of the martyred saint. “Please, Margie.”

“What happened next, Charlie?”

“I saw a book of matches on the ground.”

Margie swallowed back the gagging reflex. So did Charlie.

“I stared at them and then I picked them up and put them in my pocket. I walked around the tent. The roustabouts were backing
the animal trailers up to the chute. The music started inside the tent. I got to watch the animals run through the chute.
Then they were inside. There was a real hot breeze that kept coming up. Papers were blowing around. I picked up some crumpled
newspaper pages. When the animals started running back out of the tent, I took the matches out and I lit the papers. I held
the papers to the bottom of the tent, but the wind came up again and blew pieces of the burning papers up over my head and
against the tent. The tent caught fire in a dozen places, maybe more. In one place, it got to be a big circle of fire. It
grew bigger and bigger. No one came to put it out. I turned around and ran to the edge of the lot. I heard the fire before
I saw it. I heard the freight-train roar that a fire makes when it sucks up oxygen.”

And Margie thought about the inside of the tent where the people were hearing the music that Merle Evans played with the volume
turned up as high as the bandleader could get it. Margie wasn’t conscious of Charlie’s weeping. She had no idea he was weeping
until she looked at him.

She brought out the cannon. “When you lit the newspaper, what did you think would happen?”