Lives of the Circus Animals by Christopher Bram Page B

her children rarely saw, friendly, flippant, smart-ass. And she liked the fact that Ben was a teacher—he taught math in a private high school—a more grown-up career in her eyes than playwriting.
    She was sorry when she heard Ben was sick. She was stunned when she heard he died. She almost came to town for the memorial service. She called at the last minute to say she’d decided against it. It wasn’t her world, she said. She’d feel like an intruder.
    Caleb was annoyed to find himself using Ben again. It was astrange memory to direct against his mother, although it didn’t feel entirely like an accusation. He shifted his wineglass over to the left of his plate so that he’d drink more slowly.
    He noticed Jessie scowling while she chewed, still fuming over the mild jab about her divorce. It was up to Caleb to get a conversation going or they’d pass the meal in silence.
    â€œHow about you, Mom? What are you up to these days? The yard looks good. The tulips are coming up nicely.”
    â€œThey are now. No thanks to Mrs. Gagliano’s dumb pony of a dog. Her Great Dane, Percy. He thought my flower bed made a very pretty bathroom. I kept having to chase him off as the bulbs began to sprout. I had words with Mrs. Gag.” She chuckled. “I told her, in no uncertain terms, that if she didn’t keep him on a leash, her Great Dane was going to be great danish.”
    No, their mother was not without spirit. She had humor and wit, a sharp Irish tongue directed at others, usually the neighbors but sometimes at her own. One of the reasons that Caleb and Jessie visited home together was to avoid jokes at the expense of the absent party.
    â€œMeanwhile, Mrs. Gag keeps going back for face-lifts. I think she’s on her third, but who’s counting?” Mom smiled and cut off another piece of chicken. “Her eyes get any bigger, they’re going to pop right out of her face.”

14
    M om cleared the table, then brought out the cake, a chocolate cake from ShopRite with no words written on top, just six candles. The tiny flames were invisible in daylight.
    There is nothing sadder, thought Caleb, than sitting in front of a store-bought cake while two people in delicate moods sing “Happy Birthday” at you. He blew out the candles without making a wish.
    â€œOh. Almost forgot,” said Mom. She left the room again. She returned with a gift-wrapped item shaped like a book. “Just a token.”
    Caleb undid the paper. It was a book, one he’d seen in stores, an anthology titled Stupid Reviews, a collection of bad notices given to great novels and famous plays.
    â€œI thought you’d get a kick out of it,” said Mom. “See? You’re in good company.”
    â€œThank you. Thank you very much.” He was stunned—not over the book but by the thinking behind the book, the awareness. He was surprised she had noticed. She could seem so oblivious, so lost in her own world. Then, in a gesture or question or gift, she’d reveal that she really did understand. In her fashion.
    â€œI saw that awful man in the Times yesterday,” she said.
    â€œWhat man?”
    â€œThe critic. The one who attacked your play.”
    His mother never saw Chaos Theory, but she read the review.
    â€œHe’s there almost every day, Mom. He’s a regular.”
    She clicked her tongue and bared her teeth. “Makes me angry just to see his name. What gives him the right to say such things? So high and mighty.”
    â€œHe’s a critic, Mom. It’s his job.”
    â€œHow do you know he wasn’t right?” said Jessie. “You never saw the play.”
    She stared at her daughter. “I know your brother. He doesn’t write bad plays.” She studied Jessie, suspecting a trap. She shook her head. “Pffft. You two. You take everything I say so seriously. I should never have brought up that man. Why’re you defending