Lives of the Circus Animals by Christopher Bram Page A

hated the city. She grew up in Queens but left when she got married. She knew New York chiefly through the eyes of her cop husband: a city of criminals. She had learned to tolerate her kids’ living there but refused to visit, not even for a performance of her son’s work. Caleb had come to accept this, treating it as eccentric, even amusing. His therapist insisted he must resent his mother. But he didn’t. Part of him, in fact, was relieved that she never saw his plays. He feared she wouldn’t understand. Or worse, that she would.
    Jessie was telling a story about working with Henry, in a boastful manner, with none of the resentful notes that Caleb had heard on the train.
    â€œNice, I’m sure,” said Mom. The name Henry Lewse meant nothing to her. “I forget. I know you told me, but is he married?”
    â€œNo. But I’m safe around him. He’s a famous homo.”
    â€œHmp.” The noise was meant to sound calm and worldly but came out as a judgmental squeak. “Are you seeing anyone?”
    Jessie shrugged. “Not at the moment.”
    â€œNow don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. Men are hopeless,” Mom admitted. “But good company now and then. And you don’t have to marry them. Not anymore. Just because you-know-who turned out to be a stinker…”
    The microwave began to beep.
    â€œHere we go. Get your plates. Let’s move to the dining room.”
    Jessie angrily cut her eyes at Caleb as they got up. He could almost hear her thinking: do you fucking believe this? But he was most struck by her refusal to mention Frank. As if she were protecting him. Once Mom started asking about Frank, it would poison the poor guy for good. Caleb liked Frank. He did. He suspected Frank didn’t like him, but that was fine with Caleb. In fact, he admired Frank for not liking him.
    Mom never asked Caleb if he were seeing anyone, but that was fine with him too.
    They all sat at the table. Molly poured wine for herself and Jessie, then asked Caleb if he’d like some. “It is your birthday.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    They did not say grace. Their mother still went to mass, but talking to God at the table, even in the privacy of her family, must strike her as too public and melodramatic to be completely sincere.
    â€œSo cheers,” she said, raising her glass. “Again, dear. Happy birthday.” She took a deep swig. She enjoyed the glass or two that she allowed herself each day.
    There was the click-click-click of utensils as they ate.
    â€œIt’s nice to have both my kiddos home today,” Mom declared. “Especially when one is turning—how old?”
    Caleb frowned. “Do we have to keep track? Forty-one,” he confessed. “Doesn’t that make you feel old?”
    â€œBut I like getting old,” she claimed. “I have a good life now. A nice life. I enjoy the peace and quiet.”
    Caleb wanted to scoff. Except she did seem content. She appeared perfectly happy with her gardening, her mysteries, and her solitude. A weirdly self-sufficient mother, she was satisfied with a visit from them every month or so. She refused to take money from Caleb. Social Security and her two pensions gave her everything she required, thank you very much.
    Yet anyone who was truly content would be more open to life. Wouldn’t she? She would acknowledge the past now and then. Molly Doyle never talked about her childhood in Queens, which Caleb knew had been hard. She never discussed her years as a cop’s wife. She didn’t talk about their father at all. She avoided all mention of the dead. She never alluded to Ben either. And she had liked Ben, she liked him a lot, much to Caleb’s surprise. He used to bring Ben up here and they would flirt, his mother and his boyfriend. Big and husky and masculine—more masculine than Caleb, anyway—Ben enjoyed talking to women. He brought out a side in Molly that