Dare Devil Dogs
and Cupie Dolls
I love dogs. Darwin was wrong; we are descendents of dogs. At least I know I am, and I knew it when I was eight years old. Consequently, when the circus with its Dare Devil Dog Show set up camp at the edge of Leescreek, I was vibrating with desire. Desire—according to God, everyone I knew, and especially my mother, Doreen—was evil, and so apparently was the circus with its vulgar displays, gambling, and feathered show girls. But I only want to see the dogs, I cried. Over back fences and at every pulpit the debate intensified. Sinful or not, one way or the other I was going to get through those pearly gates.
I can still smell and feel the shimmering white-heat of that summer. Powerful heat. Powerful as that circus that forced even our mother to her knees, and that's saying something. The allure of the circus plus seven begging children overwhelmed her piety, fueling a family myth: her childhood of poverty had deprived her of a career as a singing actress. Even acting as a mother she was always dressed, on stage, and ready with a song, and I loved it. Of course a seedy circus act would beckon to her; it might kill her, but she could not resist.
Saturday afternoon. Clutching our beggared coin, we passed through the temporary gates of heaven together, mouths open to receive the sacrament of dust that rose from our own anxious steps. We were breathless, dazed by splashes of color, shrill unfamiliar music, the smell of fried onions, and adventure that beckoned, beckoned, beckoned. In typical Doreen fashion we were partnered, chained by threats into twos: Lorna with Nora, Dylan with Justine, Cameron with me, and Tadpole Thad with her. Instructions and threats for disobeying went on eternally as half the town passed in ahead of us. I was rocking anxiously from side to side. Had to pee. Grabbed my spigot, and when she slapped my hand the maternal cord snapped. We sprang loose. Gripping each other's gritty hands, we were liberated.
I was tingling with fear of the unknown as Cameron and I ran straight to the Dog Show. We paid and hiked up to the highest row and sat like gods grinning down and sucking it all in. Lights. Drums. And an impressive group of hounds that raced through a variety of obstacles. On and on it went, lulling us into the easiness of pleasure. Then came what I thought was the grand finale; Dexter the Dare Devil dashed out, jumped at his master's chest, and obeyed the command to defy death and leap through a series of flaming hoops. We cheered as he trotted off to receive his biscuit and a good-boy pat.
Suddenly something about this whole thing seemed wrong.
Dexter reminded me of my dad, S.B.; perhaps it was the obligatory pat. The good-dog, good-boy pat. That's where I began to be concerned about the dog connection. "Smart dog," Cameron said. "Stupid dog," I replied, imaging howls of pain as Dexter burned to ashes for a pat.
The smartest dog was undoubtedly the brown, shaggy mutt named Thatcher who was the surprising finale. Thatcher bounded out just as the drums began the injection of anticipation, and the announcer begged to us to be quiet. "Believe it," he said, "Thatcher is the most fearless canine in the world." We cheered, then went obediently quiet. Thatcher was going to leap over three ascending walls of flame, the last one ten feet tall. Our silence was guaranteed—except for the cacophony of distant circus noises, nothing could be heard except the steady beat of the dog-drums and the pounding of our communal hearts. Thatcher strained at his leash. A gun fired. We gasped as he lunged forward. But then he stopped, scratched at his collar, lifted his leg, and pissed on the nearest flames. We all burst with laughter, holding our stomachs, and wheezing into the thickening air. Everyone just loved it; I wasn't alone. But it was a curious thing to me that everyone loved that disobedient dog. I was glad Dad wasn't there; disobedience was the number one sin on his list.
For his final act Thatcher was to leap through a window of flames into a big tub of water. The drums rolled. A gun exploded. He leaped toward the flames then changed his mind, flopped onto his back, and stuck his leg in the air. The thunder of applause was deafening. The lights went up as dog and master took a bow and I dashed down through the throng to meet them. Heart in throat. Gripping what was left of my allowance, I grinned up at that sweaty, shitty-smelling man.
"Could I buy that bad dog sir . . . please?" Thatcher sniffed my crotch. The man blinked, and I blinked back tears of excitement. Then did he ever laugh.
"Are you kiddin'?" He hawked a gob. "This here's the smartest damned dog in the circus. Now get lost, kid." He walked away and Thatcher followed without looking back, and I was glad because my tears had unblinked down my face. I agreed with that foul turd of a man; Thatcher was the smartest damned disobedient dog I'd ever seen.
Cameron caught up with me, grabbed my hand, and cussed me out for running away, but when I couldn't stop bawling he stopped.
"What the heck's the matter now?"
"I don't know! It's Thatcher. Maybe!"
"Stop it, Jonah. Sit down. There now. Tell me." He was my big brother. God how I loved him. I told him that the trainer admitted that Thatcher was the smartest damned dog in the circus, and that he loved his dog because he was disobedient. But I was wrong.
"Look Lumpy, you're right. Thatcher is a smart dog, but not because he refuses to do those dangerous stunts. He has no idea his hair could burn up or he could break his neck. He was trained to be disobedient."
"No, I don't believe you."
"No, no, you're right. That's not it either. I think. No. I'm sure Thatcher was not disobedient at all, Jonah. He did exactly what he was trained to do. Don't you see? It was the announcements that were lies. The joke was on us and we laughed because we all love a joke. It's just a circus, Lumpy. It's not real." He wiped my face, tucked me all back together, and dragged my body out of the tent, but I was still squinting backwards at what I'd believed was real. Squinting at my ability to get it wrong.
I understood that it was a joke and I liked jokes, but it was also a lie. A joke that is a lie is a twisted weird thing to a kid. I squinted at the circus for the next few hours, wondering if it had truths of its own, guessing without having to be told that God was not present. He was in charge of everything in our Leescreek world, but the circus was beyond His realm, and that's why it had been forced to set up camp at the edge of town.
The fact that disobedience in the circus world could earn applause refused to leave me as Cameron and I rode the Ferris wheel, threw darts at balloons, raced through the fun house, and shared a candy apple and a hive of pink cotton candy. After that we went on the spinning tea cups, which initiated my puking up piles of pink foam behind the fun house. It felt so uncontrollable and violent that I wondered if God had stretched forth his hand into the circus just to make me pay for my sins of desire and questioning the laws of obedience. But I was not alone; could there be redemption from our community's collective immersion into the sins of the circus? Without discussion Cameron and I headed for the west gate. We wanted to go home.
The sun went down and lights were blinking in vain when the rest of the family finally joined us. Doreen looked miserable; red blotches on her cheeks blossomed in the lights. Tadpole had fallen asleep, forcing her to heft his dead weight with her skinny arms as she searched frantically for Justine who had gotten lost. Justine had burst a blood vessel in her right eye from screaming so hard; her face was streaked with dirt and tears, and one braid had lost its elastic, sending a blond frizz shooting out one side of her head. "I jus' wanna go home," she gasped. "Hush," Mother said, "we're going home."
In dead silence we contemplated the burden of our sins as we rumbled back to the ambit of God's protection. But was it too late? Could there be an act of redemption for sneaking a peek at the godless heaven beyond the borders of Leescreek? Yes, there could. My big brother was always my savior, and he was there with his gifts of compassion and benevolence. At the balloon and dart game he had won a Cupie doll glued on a stick. It had feathers sprouting from its head and painted-on clothes—a stupid prize for two boys, but it was our only substantiation of the circus. Secretly, I wanted it, but I was thrilled when Cameron reached over the seat and presented it to Lorna.
She was disrupted; affection always threw her off balance, and he had nothing to gain. It was just a simple act of kindness and I knew instantly that we were saved. Our sins were redeemed. The power the circus had over us was banished, leaving behind only a heavy blanket of sweet lethargy.
But one question still torments me. How was it possible for one to pay for the many? I had been truly penitent and desired with all my childish heart to pay for my own sins, but like the rest of my family of disobedient dogs I did not know how. So how did Cameron know how? And how did he know redemption could only work if he gave the doll to Lorna? He could have given it to Doreen, but she would have gushed all over him and ruined the giving. Justine would have broken it. Nora would have wrapped it in swaddling clothes and added it to her baby Jesus collection.
"Here Lorna," he said, "I want you to have it." She took it silently, blinking at him with tired, circus-reddened eyes, and it was weeks before she collected her resentments and resumed hating us all. Still she suffered a perceptible softening after the gift of the Cupie doll. A subtle softening. Being the receiver of that atonement changed her. It's possible that no one else noticed, but I did because I was a dog who couldn't help sniffing out the differences.
"Dare Devil Dogs and Cupie Dolls" first appeared in saley publications.
Copyright 2006 by Jullian Ambrosegreen
Jullian writes:
