Lives of the Circus Animals by Christopher Bram Read Free Book Online

over to…”
    But he could make no sense of what she told him. “I’m sorry. You know what they say about actors. We remember our lines by forgetting everything else.”
    â€œIf you like,” she offered, “I can show you.”
    â€œDo you mind? If you’d show me just one more time, I’m sure I’d get it.”
    She looked pleased to be invited up: her eyes remained cool, but her mouth was fighting a smile. Henry feared this was a mistake. He might never be able to get rid of her.
    â€œYou spoil me, Jessica,” he told her in the elevator. “I don’t have much to offer guests. Well, you know my stock better than I do. But I could give you a cup of tea.”
    â€œI’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll just walk you through the process and then get out of your hair.”
    Henry had assumed a female assistant would be less complicating than a male one. There’d be no sexual undertones to muddy relations between management and labor. Jessie, however, was a closet Mrs. Danvers. Her worship was discreet, expressed in looks, not words. But it was definitely there, and completely unjustified. After all, she was intimate with the mess of his life, his unpaid bills, dirty underpants, and petty contradictions. Tonight, for example: he both wanted her company and wanted to be alone.
    While Henry searched his pockets for his key, she took out her own key and unlocked the door.
    â€œAh, my home away from home,” he sang as he entered and turned on lights. “A canny hole of me own to fart in.” The producers had found this place for him just as they had found his batman, or rather batwoman. The flat wasn’t too awful. Everything was in tasteful shades of gray—carpet, upholstery, walls—with a couple of chrome tables topped with glass. It was as restful as an empty brain. A Nautilus machine stood in the dining room. Henry now turned on the television with the sound off. He needed a silent flicker of life.
    â€œYou know where everything is, my dear. I’ll let you to it. Call me when you’re set up.”
    She promptly sat at his computer and turned it on. The machine was his, but only Jessie used it, for his correspondence, accounts, and money transfers. She was of that generation—their brains are wired differently—but he was still in awe of her ability.
    â€œAre you sure I can’t offer you some tea?” he called from the kitchen. “Or beer or wine?”
    â€œNo, I’m fine. Thank you.”
    Nothing in the refrigerator looked half as interesting as the bag of grass that he took from the Mouse sack. He poured himself a glass of wine, then rummaged in the drawer and found his rolling papers. Here was a manual task that he handled quite well. He crumpled a tangle of weed, sprinkled it into the fold of paper, licked the paper, and rolled it, slow and tight, producing a joint as neat as a toothpick.
    He brought joint and wine out to the living room. Jessie was still messing at his computer.
    â€œSomething not right, my dear?”
    â€œOh, Henry,” she said, sounding more like a mother than an employee. “You scrambled your files.”
    â€œOh dear. This afternoon after you left, I tried again to get into my mail. The thingies kept disappearing.”
    â€œFiles.”
    â€œI broke them?”
    â€œNo. You just put them into the wrong places. I have to shuffle them back to where they belong.”
    He stood behind her with his glass of wine and unlit joint and watched the various boxes expand and pop, contract and mate.
    â€œHenry,” she said. “Follow what I’m doing. Just take the mouse, slide it around until the cursor—”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThis arrow. See it on the screen.”
    â€œAll righty.”
    â€œSlide it to the mail icon, then click twice. No. Here. You do it.”
    She stood up. He handed her his wine and joint and sat at the keyboard.