But of all these stories Dawnita’s was the most painful to hear. In 1965, while still teenagers, she and Elvin were performing with a show in New England. Elvin was doing the single trapeze and Dawnita was working elephants. In the act there was a herd of elephants in the center ring and two solo elephants in rings one and three. Dawnita had been working one of the solo elephants. “She was tough,” Dawnita remembered, “but we got along fine.” The other solo elephant had been giving her handlers trouble all year. Finally she was separated from the herd and locked in an unlit stable. At the end of the season the owner asked Dawnita if she would work that elephant for several more months on the Steel Pier at Atlantic City.

“I told the guy the elephant was dangerous. She was half nuts, and she had already been separated from the herd. He asked me to work the elephant for one day and see how it went. I told him I would try, but I would do things differently from her previous trainers. I decided not to use a hook. I just used my whip. She had been with so many handlers, really anyone who was around. She was angry. One eye was swollen shut from being hit. During the first show we went into the ring and she tried to hit me with her trunk. It was just like what Pete did last night. When they’re upset they swing around and try to knock you over. I went back to the owner and said I really didn’t feel comfortable working that elephant. He asked me to do one more show.”

Dawnita took a drag from her pre-show cigarette. She was holding Douglas, one of the Arabian Thoroughbreds, whom she led in the opening parade. Douglas was chewing alfalfa into a slimy, pea-green mush. Dawnita was putting a silver feather into her black bouffant wig.

“That night we started doing out act. We had these elephant tubs that the bulls stood on to do their tricks. We had to hold the tubs while they stood on them. That was the most dangerous part of the act. When the time came I was ready for her. I was watching. But still I wasn’t prepared for the force of that elephant. With one swing of her trunk she knocked me to the ground. Then she jumped over that tub and thrust her whole body down on top of me, actually doing a headstand on my back. That’s how they kill you, you know—with their heads. I was screaming. Everyone came running to get her off me, but they couldn’t do it. There was no escape. She was pushing my knees into the ground. My legs were splaying outward. She ripped open the muscles of my arms with her tusks, and worst of all, she stripped all the flesh off my back. I was nothing but raw meat. I was delirious with pain.”

“So who finally saved you?”

“It was Elvin. He was hysterical. He was waiting to do his trapeze act just after the elephants. We were only nineteen at the time. He grabbed the bull hook out of the owner’s hands and hit the elephant so hard in the face that she pulled back long enough for them to drag me away. And then the elephant ran. She darted out of the tent and went running down the boardwalk in Atlantic City! She went on to kill several people in the next couple of years. So did the other one I was working that year. Eventually they both were destroyed.”

“And how long did you stay out of the show?”

“About a month. My knee was dislocated and my arms torn open. I had to take these painful saltwater baths for my back.” She winced in recollection and twisted her neck. “It’s easy to forget that circus animals are dangerous. Elephants especially. People look at them and say, ‘Look, Dumbo! How cute.’ But they’re not domesticated pets, they’re wild animals.”

“Is that what you think happened last night?”

“Listen, I look at it from the animal’s perspective. The elephant didn’t say, ‘Hey, I’m going to kill this guy.’ She was startled, that’s all. She might have been sleeping. They sleep standing up, you know. Or she might have been surprised. She was probably just trying to push him out of the way.”

“Do you think she knows what happened?”

“A little bit. She probably knew she had hurt someone. Elephants are very smart, you know. Smarter than many people.”

Jimmy blew the whistle for the overture to begin. The cast shuffled toward the back door. The elephants lumbered into place at the end of the parade. Pete was at the head of the line.

“And have you worked with elephants since then?”

Dawnita tossed her cigarette on the pavement and ground it out with her high-heeled shoe. “Never again,” she said with her painted smile, “and now you know why.” The curtain opened with its artful flourish and Dawnita Bale marched into the lights with Douglas at her side.

Nights with White Stallions

The ground seems to shake when the horses start to dance. The tent seems to smile when they finally arrive.

As soon as the hair hangers disappear from sight the spotlights pivot to the back door of the tent, the elegance succumbs to a royal “Fanfare,” and a line of ten Thoroughbreds parades into view, wrapped in bridles, breastplates, and surcingles, decked out in princely blue and white ostrich plumes, and led reins-in-hand by three upright grandes dames from a long line of circus royalty. The military echo is palpable. The regal allure is clear.

“In the rich, grand tradition of the circus…” Jimmy, as always, knows just what to say. “An equestrian display of equine excellence…, presented by the Baaaaale Sisters…”

Dawnita is the first to arrive in place, just in front of ring one. She is holding the reins of a rare black Frisian stallion, Surprisio—sixteen years old, weighing half a ton, and sporting a tantalizing black mane draped to one side of his head. Dawnita is matched in ring three by Bonnie, the youngest Bale, who is leading an equally striking white stallion, Afendi, great-grandson of Naborr, one of the richest blue bloods in history, who was once owned by Wayne Newton. Once in place the two sisters prepare to lead their black and white consorts in a precise display of footwork and dance steps that comprise a “high school” act, the deceivingly lowbrow American-sounding name that actually refers to the ultimate origin of highbrow, the haute école of France.

In between the two siblings is their older sister, Gloria, who instead of a single high school horse controls eight Arabian Thoroughbreds, ranging in color from liver chestnut to bay and looking in their excited primped-up appearance like a restless collegiate marching band. As if to emphasize this theme, Gloria, like her sisters, is dressed in majorette-like wear that actually descends from the Spanish Riding School: ballroom shoes with knee-high spats; white-breasted leotard with a matching dinner jacket; and a nifty little folding hat such as nurses and female naval officers wear. Dawnita’s and Bonnie’s outfits are vermilion; Gloria’s, like her eyes, is royal blue.

“A lot of people switch to animal acts when they grow older,” said Gloria, herself clinging to her last days of middle age, her voice still carrying a hint of English propriety. “Their bodies need the break. As for me, I grew up loving them. As a girl, I loved ballet. I loved dance. I even loved to work in the air. But horses were my dream. I first did a liberty act when I was fourteen; I’ve been doing one ever since.”