Never had she seen such vivid colors. Tall grasses of emerald and crimson danced and swayed against an azure sky. Butterflies flitted among flowers of every hue and shade. Birds soared overhead, singing songs of freedom. Low on the horizon a colossal moon hung over the highest mountain peak. As always, the sight filled her with peace, but she no longer felt the need to take refuge there.
A figure appeared in the distance. Luna’s smile widened. They moved toward one another, slowly at first, then running with arms outstretched. Consumed by laughter, they embraced. Clasping her sister’s hands in her own, Luna held her at arm’s length. Cira’s skin glowed. Glossy, dark curls cascaded like silk across the shoulders of her white dress and down her back.
Luna’s eyes shone with tears. “You’re not sick anymore,” she whispered.
Cira pulled her hands free and spun in a circle, laughing. “No.”
“What is this place?” Luna asked.
Cira stopped spinning. “It’s Heaven, silly.”
“It doesn’t look like Heaven. Where’s God, and the pearly gates, and the angels?”
Cira reached for Luna’s hand. “This is our Heaven, Lulu. We only need each other.”
A wide smile lifted Luna’s cheeks. “You’re right. It’s perfect.”
“Remember how you said you would build me a house out in space?”
Luna nodded.
Cira tugged on Luna’s hand, pulling her toward the mountains. “You don’t have to. It’s here; we’re home.”
Thump. Thump. A stiff jab punched Diane’s back as she lay in bed. A fiery sting, like a thousand knives thrusting into her right kidney, jolted her from a dream. Thump, thump. The mattress slid off the box spring six inches.
Damnit. Not again, she thought as she threw back the blanket and peered under the bed.
The clown had returned. This time he clumsily rode a unicycle. With his arms outstretched, he pedaled wildly, his feet spinning in a circular blur. His size sixteen shoes hung over the miniature pedals, preventing him from maintaining balance. He swayed forward and backward until his shoelace tangled in the spokes, propelling him through the air. The unintended somersault ended with the clown sprawled on his back. His big feet, one without a shoe, crashed against the bed.
“Get out of here, now!” she shouted as she flipped the light switch. His annoying antics had disturbed her sleep nightly ever since she moved into this apartment.
Pepe grinned with his squared white teeth framed by his exaggerated red-painted lips. From a large plastic daisy on his lapel, he squirted red liquid into Diane’s face. As it dripped down her nightgown, she noticed it was blood.
Diane vigorously rubbed her face. “Oh my God, my God.”
Was it his blood or did he murder somebody? She grabbed the blanket to wipe away the remainder of the dreadful liquid. She swallowed the sour bile creeping up the back of her throat, fighting the image of contaminated germs entering her system. As she pulled the blanket from her face, she smelled … the pleasant scent of strawberries?
Pepe tapped his cheek with his index finger while holding his chin. He tilted his head in feigned confusion as he handed her an empty envelope of powdered drink mix.
“Goddamn you, clown.”
Pepe cupped his mouth with his white gloves and howled in laughter. The blue grease paint under his eyes smeared as he wiped a steady stream of tears. Her gullible reactions to his pranks made his taunting so easy.
Pepe shrank the unicycle by pressing it between his hands like an accordion. He returned it to the purple box, monogrammed PP. Next, he withdrew a rusty trombone.
“Oh no you’re not. You’re not playing that at two in the morning.”
Pepe hesitated as he brought the instrument to his mouth. A hint of yellow cloth poking out from his left sleeve caught his eye. He raised his brows in surprise. He laid down the horn to tug at the fabric.
A trail of multi-colored scarves emerged. Green, polka dot, pink––the scarves kept coming. Diane crossed her arms while exhaling her annoyance as he revealed the remaining three feet of the silk chain with the flair of an orchestra conductor. Disappointed his other sleeve was empty, Pepe threw the scarves and trombone into the purple box and disappeared.
The clock read 2:37 a.m. Although his escapades exhausted Diane for hours, the clock had ticked forward only one minute.
Diane was puzzled at his ability to enter her bedroom. She had moved the bed during the day and a few times after his nightly visits, searching for a trapdoor or secret entrance. She ran her hand over the floor several times hunting for an edge of an abyss but found nothing.
His ability to perform his tricks under her bed, diminishing his body and props to fit, mystified her. When she peered under the bed, she saw the underside of a striped tent, not her box spring. The beige carpet had transformed into a sand pit. During each episode of the clown’s visit, ear-splitting carnival music blared from an unseen carousel.
Why had he chosen to perform under her bed? Was he a lost soul from a circus long ago? The one thing she knew for a fact was he aggravated her to no end. His nightly intrusions not only caused her to lose sleep but affected her work performance as well.
She set her alarm and flipped off the light, begging to get some rest before her workday began.
Diane had graduated from Belmont University with a law degree she was proud to have earned. Moving from Tennessee to San Francisco to work as an intern for the prestigious firm, Nicholson, Hudson & Trent, was a dream come true. She looked forward to making her mark in the legal field, and this opportunity was one she could not afford to refuse. Being an intern meant essentially no income, which is why she was grateful the law firm paid for the apartment and allowed her a small stipend for expenses.
The shrill of the alarm awoke Diane, and she rushed to the shower. Her tardiness twice last week, reported to Mr. Nicholson by an office snitch, caused him to schedule a meeting with her at 8:00 a.m. this morning. Eight o’clock sharp! His voice resounded in her head as she rushed to get dressed and catch the bus to the office.
Diane knocked repeatedly on the heavy oak door to Mr. Nicholson’s office. Finally, he opened the door and motioned for her to sit. He was about to offer her coffee until he saw the Starbucks cup in her hand. The large-sized coffee, combined with the dark circles under Diane Koestler’s eyes, convinced William Nicholson he had made a wise choice hiring this intern. She’s been up all night working, he thought.
“Let’s review the proposal you are working on. Since it’s your first project, I want to make sure you understand its purpose.” Mr. Nicholson sipped his coffee in a rushed effort to continue speaking.
Diane relaxed, noting the topic of the meeting was not about her tardiness. “Yes, sir.” She winced at how submissive her voice sounded, like a lap dog eager to obey for a treat.
He opened a file and studied it for a minute before clearing his throat. “This company––Sirkuss, EURL––holds many entertainment divisions in its portfolio. You are to focus solely on the Grande Tente Foire account. Any attorney worth their salt would’ve researched the background of the company before opening the file. I trust you have done so.”
The interrupted gulp of coffee burned Diane’s lips.
“From your expression, Miss Koestler, I deduce you have not approached your assignment in a logical way. Rookie error. Forgivable, once.” He accented once through gritted teeth.
“Yes, sir.” He had kicked the dog in the head.
“Allow me to enlighten you. Madame Astrid Pitre, recent widow of Monsieur Pierre Pitre, is the sole owner of Sirkuss, EURL. She was satisfied living in her chateau in France, drinking wine while her husband ran the family business. Pierre Pitre, always an astute businessman, made millions entertaining people around the world. The Grande Tente Foire––the big top show––was his pride since it was the startup of his business. Monsieur Pitre made the fateful decision four months ago to perform the tightrope act at an anniversary show. Needless to say, the crowd got
more than their money’s worth.”
“That’s terrible.”
“That’s show business. At any rate, this is where you fit into the equation. As I said, Madame Pitre has no business sense, nor does she want to deal with contracts and fine print. I met them years ago vacationing in Paris. Pierre never cared for the French attorneys; they were too paresseux––lazy––for his taste. Since he trusted me, she trusts me. She has hired our firm to handle all financial contracts for the business. For a pricey sum, of course.”
“Of course.” Diane welcomed a bonus. The dog panted for a bone.
“I will write all the contract terms. The first agreement is standard. Sirkuss, EURL pays to review and negotiate financial contract terms between the company and their vendors. The second agreement––which you’ll have her blindly sign––guarantees our law firm will receive the majority of all revenue generated by the Grand Tente Foire. From my analysis, it’s the only division within the company producing decent returns. Two contracts, two signatures, you explain one. Got it?”
“Well … yes, but––”
“But what?”
“Why would she listen to me and not to a more experienced attorney?”
Nicholson threw back his head and laughed. “Are you serious? This project requires a novice intern with soft edges. Do you think your mediocre college transcript landed you this assignment? You are the fresh-faced girl from next door. Old Astrid would most likely take you under her wing back to France and fatten you up with croissants rather than waste time hearing you explain boring contracts. She will trust such an innocent young woman, with a pen in her hand.”
Nicholson watched his protégé mull the prospect of cheating a widow. He would not allow the intern to withdraw now after he disclosed the details of his despicable plan. The risk of the information leaving the walls of his office was too great.
“Of course, Miss Koestler, you will be rewarded handsomely with a bonus. May even open up a salaried position for you, depending on how quickly you execute the plan.”
The dog leapt into the air to grab the bone.
“I’ll do my best.” Diane tossed the disposable cup in the trash. “You can count on me.”
Splat. Splat. Diane awoke the following night as pie filling rained onto her hair. The clown stood across the room pitching coconut cream pies at a target painted on the wall above her bed. Each time he missed the bullseye, he held his chin in both hands and cocked his head from shoulder to shoulder. Next to him on a small table, fifty-six pies stacked in the shape of a pyramid nearly touched the ceiling.
“Why are you here?”
Pepe ignored her question as he threw pie after pie. Globs of meringue plastered the wall and slid onto Diane’s comforter.
She jumped from her bed to stand in front of him. “I said, why are you here?”
Pepe grabbed a pie in both hands. He forcefully flung the first one at her. Disappointed he missed when Diane stepped sideways, Pepe smashed the second pie into her face. As Diane sputtered in an attempt to breathe, he rubbed the tin back and forth, driving the cream up her nostrils. His maniacal laughter filled the room as she brought her hands to fight against the pressure of the tin. Just as she was wiping the cream from her forehead, the clown vanished, along with his table of pies.
Diane patted her face in disbelief. She was clean and so was the wall. Was this a dream? Did the splat awaken her or was it the hideous carnival music? She climbed into bed and begged for sleep.
The bus commute to work was more of a freak show than the damn clown was. A couple of drug addicts discarded their used needles on the floor near her feet. More than one panhandler demanded money she didn’t have and cussed her with threats as she apologized for having nothing to offer.
Diane’s only assurances for her safety during the bus rides were the daylight and the fact she always carried a pistol in her purse. She promised herself she would buy a car and rent her own place with the bonus from the Pitre account.
She entered the office suite and said good morning to Sue, the receptionist, as she did every morning. Without fail, Sue automatically studied the clock before returning the empty platitude of a greeting.
Diane walked past Sour Sue to her office. She dialed the phone to contact Madame Pitre and was disappointed to receive the same answering machine greeting as she had the previous day. She left a voicemail as the French-accented voice requested and followed up with an additional email. Time was of the essence. She needed to contact Astrid before she returned to France.
Diane spent the remainder of the day reviewing endless columns of figures on financial spreadsheets given to her by Mr. Nicholson. She was confident the widow would never miss the money she was about to funnel into the law firm’s account receivable ledger. Even using the skills gained from her college education, the complex financial structure of the Sirkuss group was difficult to grasp.
After another grueling workday, the bus commute home seemed longer than usual. A little girl with gum stuck in her hair cried to a woman sitting next to her. Diane assumed the woman was the four-year-old’s mother and would put down her phone to help the distressed child. Instead, Diane’s gasp was audible as the woman backhanded the girl and shoved her to the floor.
Diane, with her hand covering her mouth in shock, glanced at the other commuters’ reactions. A young woman read a book while wearing earbuds, two teens shared a joint, and an old man hid behind a newspaper. Diane concluded she had no sanity in either her waking or her sleeping hours in this city—so unlike the small town she had left behind.
Arriving home, she decided to order pizza before continuing to work. Financials were never her strong suit, and she needed to comprehend the complexities of the spreadsheets to impress Mr. Nicholson. She called Party Pizza since it was the closest franchise to her apartment.
Diane repeated her address, 1616 Memorial Way, Building H, Apartment E11, to the young girl who promised confirmed delivery within thirty minutes. Diane was thrilled for the promise of quick service; she was starving.
The doorbell rang thirty-five minutes later, prompting Diane to rush for her purse. She opened the door a few inches as she searched for the twenty-dollar bill inside her wallet. She hated to make the delivery person wait. Where was the twenty? I didn’t spend …
“Party Pizza. A party in your mouth!” The earsplitting hoooink hoooink of a toy horn blasted from outside the door as Diane jerked her eyes from the wallet.
Diane jumped backward. “What the hell––”
A clown stopped honking the horn and extended a pizza box to her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. We’re required to ––”
“Keep the change.” She exchanged the twenty for the cardboard box and slammed the door.
Diane leaned against the wall as her sweaty palms absorbed the grease from the bottom of the box. Her pulse returned to a normal rate, and she began to wonder if she would ever experience an ordinary day or night in San Francisco.
Diane worked on the proposal until almost midnight, crunching numbers until her head ached. She ate the last slice of cold pizza, brushed her teeth, and went to bed. She drifted deep into a sound sleep lasting a few hours before the eerie carousel music wafted from beneath her bed.
Pepe dragged the purple box from behind him. The lid sprang open, and he removed a black top hat, unlike the tiny green one he wore cocked to one side of his head. In his other hand, he held a wand.
Diane glanced at the clock. 4:31 a.m. What maddening trick did he have in store for her this time?
With an exaggerated motion, Pepe bowed and turned the top hat upside down. Diane presumed this was to show it was empty. When he straightened himself to an erect pose, he tapped the rim with the wand. His right brow, painted with heavy brown grease paint, arched in surprise as nothing happened. He shrugged and tapped the wand again.
Diane had seen magicians pull rabbits out of hats or release a small flock of doves in shows she had attended as a child. This clown must be runni
ng out of tricks, she thought. She relished the opportunity to heckle him.
“Boo. Boooooo. Boring,” she yelled at him.
Pepe ignored her, tapping the wand for the third time. He sprang backward as the hat toppled from his hand. Diane jumped also, her eyes frozen with fear as a full-grown African lion emerged from the hat. Diane was sure the beast would shred the clown to pieces.
As the big cat roared, Pepe opened its jaws wider and inserted his head, tapping the wand against the lion’s mane. The hellish music whined to a slow pitch as they evaporated from sight. It was 4:32 a.m.
“Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous!” Diane shouted to the emptiness of the room.
This clown, Chuckles, Bimbo, or whatever he was called, had better stop his shenanigans or she would end them for him––once and for all. Diane had noticed the purple box contained endless gags but never a weapon. Maybe if she inflicted pain on him, he would leave.
It was worth a try.
“We’re having drinks after work. Wanna join us?” Connie, a paralegal, asked Diane the next morning.
“Sure. I could use some relaxation. Thanks for asking me.”
Diane entered her office and flung down her briefcase. She checked her email and voicemail and still had received no response from Astrid Pitre. Damn! Nicholson had warned her that Madame Pitre was no businesswoman. Perhaps she had returned to France, stomping grapes or making goat cheese or whatever the hell they did there.
Diane started the routine again, sending an email and a voicemail to Madame Pitre, while poring over contract verbiage. She was so absorbed in her paperwork she didn’t notice Connie standing in the doorway.
“Pack that stuff up for the night. Time for a break.”
Diane was ready for a cocktail after a day of analyzing financial records that blurred her eyes as much as her mind. “I’m with you.”
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