by Lon Frank
THE CLOWN CHRONICLES
Lon Frank
Book One - The Circus
The screaming crowds of merrymakers are gone, the gears of the rides silently rusting in slumber. With unexpected chill, the wind rustles the gay litter that is the echo of laughter in grease paint. The gaudy billboards hauntingly mock an elderly gent wearing a faded rubber nose and orange hair as he passes among them in the waning light.
A small, run-down travel trailer sits like a discarded toy on the ragged fringe of the movable community. A torn and faded canvas awning hangs precariously from one end like the oversized cap of a Little Leaguer. Once inside, the man bends over a small make-up tray before a cracked and foggy mirror and begins to wearily wipe off the grease paint and perspiration, as though gingerly searching for the masterpiece beneath a student’s unfortunate imitation of a Dali clown.
Through the broken window, the late summer wind whistles up a gargantuan moon from the mists of the bayou. The old man stops and leans close to his mirror, as though gazing into the uncharted recesses of his soul. His candle gutters in the breeze. Finally, he sighs and falls back heavily upon the threadbare couch, scattering the remnants and aromas of cotton candy and shrimp-on-a-stick, pilfered along the living delicatessen of the circus midway.
He lifts a lime-green, size 47 clown shoe, sniffs briefly, and mutters to himself:
“Damn elephunts.”
* * *
A single blacktop lane meanders deep in the forgotten traces of abandoned plantations along a sullen backwater bayou. The edges of the road crumble with disuse, and slowly succumb to the ever-voracious green of early spring in this ancient alluvial soil the old boys called ‘gumbo’.
An overgrown field lies in the low country of the bayou. Late February is late winter here among the backwaters, and the new green of early weeds mix with the soggy brown gatherings of leftover leaves. Scattered about the field like the oversized blooms of some strangely mutant swamp crocus are gaudy, faded circus tents, flapping their ragged edges with disinterest in the sporadic breeze.
The old road follows an older-still wagon path, and winds in mimic cadence to the natural undulations of the bayou. It ends abruptly at a low and rotten wall of field stones stacked without mortar, now craggy and moss-green as the teeth of an old bayou crone. A gap in the haphazard stones serves as an impromptu entryway, and muddy tire ruts lead to the collection of tattered and faded circus tents that swayed softly above the meadow grass. A semicircle of tiny house trailers is, at early dusk, the exposed vertebrae of a fossilized dragon.
A track through the grasses, slightly wider than would be necessary for a single person, leads to a small, orange and white striped canvas pagoda, with remnants of gold braids marking its only door. Just large enough for a single ticket-taker, its function this day was somewhat more utilitarian. A formerly elegant old chair, the cane of its seat missing, is nailed rudely to a plank suspended across a shallow hole in the black gumbo soil.
Seated on the chair was an old gentleman, attired in the particularly absurd costume remnants of a clown. His baggy pants were ignominiously dropped around his pale, birdlike ankles. The tops of his orange socks fluttered softly, as if he were an animated appendage of the tent itself. His hands rested heavily upon the chair arms, and his shaggy head of wispy orange hair drooped slightly to his chest. He wore a faded red rubber nose, and looks for all like the occupant of some Technicolor nightmare of an electric chair, patiently awaiting the final throwing of the fateful switch.
Upon the unlikely occasion of a casual passerby, the meadow appeared to be deserted, wagons and canvas frozen in the grip of stealthy vegetation and an era past. But in the afternoon sun, it was apparent that men still came here. On this day, two such members of forgotten alumni trod the meadow grass, and somehow escaped their fateful reunion by darkly comedic mischance.
One, a man that other men would call a man of the world, a gatherer of fortune, a caller of men, the once-upon-a-time ringmaster, metamorphosed into a silk-suited televangelist. The other, an older being who still occupied the silent big top, but who truly existed only in the memories behind his fevered eyelids.
On this afternoon, their particular drama was acted out without benefit of rehearsal; without the niceties of choreography. The elegantly suited and coifed man briefly emerged from his limousine to seek out and touch his past, like a dutiful lover visiting the distant grave of a childhood sweetheart. He found that memories often come with an unbidden price. As a tear traced its own meandering path down the creases of his carefully tanned face, he hurriedly sought the metallic shelter and the comforting, living smells of the limousine. He opened the discreetly concealed wet bar, and failed to notice the older gent, also emerging from another makeshift cocoon of mankind.
The little canvas pagoda had been appropriated and sanctified by the old clown as the place where he performed his daily ritual. It was a celebration of life, through the daily act which marked the passing of his time more surely than the gold Rolex on which the other man relied. It was a portrayal of frail flesh, turning slowly to the indomitable strength of meadow flowers.
As he emerged from the little tent into the light, the old gentleman immediately became part of the moth-eaten circus; his rubber nose carefully in place, his grease painted mouth, his size 47, lime-green shoes. The tattered and frayed costume served to complete the illusion that he was just another gaudy banner advertising adolescent entertainment, flapping indifferently in the early evening breeze.
Noticing the strange automobile, the old clown became highly animated. His arms flailed in the air as his rubber nose rhythmically collapsed with inhaled breath. His joints made curious noises, reminiscent of the creaking of the wooden wheels of some of the older wagons which hauled the cages of circus cats. Although his upper body was moving furiously, his enormous clown shoes adhered to the pace of an unalterable waddle, perfected through a lifetime of trips and practiced pratfalls.
“Dadgum souvenir hunters! I done tole them this junk ain’t fer sale! They want souvenirs, well, I’ll give ‘em souvenirs! One a’ these ol’ elephunt pies right in the snoot, that’s what!”
Suddenly the old clown stopped and bent forward at the waist, like a half-opened jackknife. Squinting, he stared as the richly dressed figure stepped into a patch of late afternoon light. Maybe it was this makeshift spotlight that stirred the memory, but in the brain of the old clown, recognition snapped into place with the certainty of a winter moonrise. His voice unaccustomed to audible sounds, the old gent struggled with words meant to carry the distance between himself and the elegantly attired figure reentering the limousine:
“CHUCK!...Chuck boy!...REVERN’ Chuck! You’re back!”
But the limousine began to slowly move away, the tires making soft slurpy noises reminiscent of the baby kisses which occupied the greater part of the old clown’s memories. Although his mind issued the command to run, his spindly frame could only recall the practiced flap-and-waddle of giant shoes. For the first time in uncounted years, the hips and feet, the knees and elbows and neck momentarily lost their riotously coordinated synchronization, and the old clown began to fall. This was not the carefully practiced fall-and-roll of performance art. This was the desperate, air-grabbing, slow-motion fall of old joints and frail bones; the terrifying dirt-dive and skid, the one the entire world stops to watch.
As fate would have its comedy, that day the limousine did not stop. Its occupant did not watch. The speed of the scene returned to normal as the old clown’s rubber nose caught in the waddle-trodden grass, and he rolled violently end over end, like a stunt car at a southern county fair.
The l
imousine quickly reached the firmer road beyond the old stone fence. Only the grass bugs and a small green frog, disturbed from its slumber by the passing jumble of clown parts, heard the final oration of the day’s little drama. In a voice as small and soft as those of the children who used to giggle and reach for his red-gloved hand, the old clown’s words could have been mistaken for the rattle of final breath:
“Chuck. Come back, Chuck... Bring them all... bring them all... back.”
Late February can be late winter in the low country of the bayou. The winds that stumble down from the Rockies like careless drunks can strip the trees of fruit blossoms and paralyze the meadow toads where they hide in their gumbo holes. But the balled cypress and pecans are never fooled. Their limbs were still bare and rattled in slumber as a full moon rose, resplendent in its bloated gluttony, into a crystal blue bowl, swept clean of southern mists by dry northern winds. The old farmers called it a harvest moon and gathered their fields by its light in the fall.
But that night, we would have called it an old clown moon, as it smiled down into the gentle and somehow curiously staring eyes suspended in grease-painted laughter. Eyes, calmly adrift in a green meadow-ocean frothing with early spring flowers.
* * *
Bayou Press Services
The Bayou Daily Bugle
Dateline: Jeanerette, Louisiana
The bayou country is inundated today by a massive tidal wave of rumor. LaFeet the Clown is reported missing and it is feared that the persistently sad and underappreciated entertainer of the once-great Bayou Brothers’ Circus may have come to his untimely end by foul play. A statement issued this morning by Ms. Gertrude Gaspard, president of the Circus Society of America, reads in part:
“Of course, we here at the CSA are monitoring the early reports carefully. Indeed, we are reluctant to accept the fact that dear LaFeet may have actually been cruelly taken from us all. It is our understanding that although the bayou meadow where he was on sabbatical has been disturbed, and evidently shows signs of violence, his body has not been found at this time. Upon this fragment of information hangs the hopes and fears of all our membership. However, we are at this time organizing a candlelight vigil of hope, and implore all true fans to join us on this heart-rending occasion. Special good-fortune candles may be purchased at our office, or at the new refreshment and souvenir stand being erected today at the bayou meadow. Credit cards will be accepted for your convenience.”
Bayou Parish Sheriff, Big Bubba Babineaux, is leading an interagency task force in the ever-widening investigation. He offered a terse statement to the press corps rapidly gathering at this scene of history in the making:
“Yeah, well, it’s true that we haven’t found the old geezer’s mangy carcass... that is to say, that while no actual body has yet been found, it is our careful conclusion that the beloved clown is definitely missing.”
Latest reports from circus insiders hint that a special team of investigators from the Circus Society of America are being flown in to assist local authorities. Meanwhile, prominent television celebrity and evangelist, the Reverend Dr. Chuck Driver, who once publicly and tearfully acknowledged his former temporary association with the Bayou Brothers’ Circus in his ‘misbegotten and misspent youth’, has now graciously stepped forward to lead a spiritual crusade in tribute to the clown.
Ms. Mary Kay Goodbody, a spokesperson at his Center for Light and Peace, said today that plans are being negotiated for use of the former big top and that several Hollywood personalities have shown interest in making appearances. Early tickets will be available for purchase at all Pedreaux’s Package stores, and special prayer shawls, personally blessed by the Reverend Dr. Driver himself, are now available for a modest, tax-deductible donation.
* * *
In Sugarland, Texas, a palatial home reared above the endless rows of newly constructed tract houses that slowly ate away at the once productive farmlands of the coastal plain like a cancer caused by the abnormal radiation of urban proximity. The smog of Houston was a perennial cloud bank in the skies to the east.
Inside, a woman of indeterminable age sat on the edge of an unmade bed. A mound of damp and anxiety-worn tissue surrounded her feet, as if meant to create the illusion of a Kleenex snowdrift. Her eyes and nose glowed dully red in the morning light, and her normally luxuriant mane hung disheveled about shoulders enclosed in an old and tattered cotton bathrobe, the always-treasured security blanket, imbued with memories and smells of youth and grease paint.
A small television rested on a low table and gathered her sniffling attention:
“We return now to our coverage of the tragedy unfolding at a Louisiana meadow, where it has been reported that LaFeet, the beloved clown of the now defunct Bayou Brothers’ Circus, is missing, and feared the victim of some unimagined and fatal act of violence.”
The television dissolved to a scene which appeared to be the unlikely setting of a primeval cave dwelling, lit solely by blue and pink neon signs proclaiming ‘Win Here!’ and ‘Big Jackpot’. An earnest young reporter stared into the camera and awaited his earphone cue:
“Yes, yes, I am here live at the Bayou Grande Casino and have secured an interview with two of the personnel who are reported to have recent business ties to LaFeet the Clown; Mr. Knuckles McGurk and Miss Mabel ‘Bugsy’ Malaneaux of the gaming resort’s accounting staff.
“Mr. McGurk, er, Knuckles, can you tell our viewers when you last saw LaFeet?”
The cordless microphone was thrust before a face of smoothly tanned leather. Distinguished salt-and-pepper grey hair was closely cropped and revealed the pale line of a ragged scar along the right temple. Coldly professional, colorless eyes did not blink as he answered:
“Well, yes. Of course, LaFeet was a regular and treasured friend here at the Bayou Grande. I believe he was looked upon as a grandfather figure by several of the blackjack dealers, and I know of at least one cocktail girl who named her child after him. We are most anxious by this event, and only hope for a miracle at this time.”
The youthful reporter withdrew the mic, momentarily smiled sadly at the camera, then continued:
“And Miss Malaneaux, What have y... “
The mic was seized in the beefy grip of sausage-sized fingers, adorned by short, metallic-green fingernails:
“ Yeah, youse guys keep huntin’ fer dat old bum. An’ when youse find ‘im, gib me a call; there’s fifty clams in it fer ya’.”
Mr. McGurk hurriedly stepped in front of the camera, effectively obscuring the wildly gesticulating and scowling Miss Malaneaux:
“What my associate means, of course, is that we here at the beautiful Bayou Grande Casino and Resort, the gaming mecca for good times known throughout the bayou country, are graciously offering a substantial reward for any information regarding the whereabouts of LaFeet, or of course, of his remains, as the case may be.”
The young reporter stepped beside the tan, smiling McGurk, and in the exuberance of shared concern reached out an arm to encircle the ramrod-straight, square shoulders. A glance from the colorless eyes and the reporter’s hand waved momentarily in the air before moving to self-consciously and needlessly smooth his own hair.
The woman on the bed glanced at a small gilt-framed photograph of a young bareback rider and an already ancient clown with wisps of orange hair and a faded red rubber nose, signed in a barely legible scrawl across the top: “To Miss Gayla, from old LaFeet”. She reached for yet another tissue.
“If only I hadn’t left him alone. If only we all had stayed.”
* * *
The portable sheet metal building bearing the hand-lettered sign ‘Bayou County International Airport’ was occupied by a small group of somber people. A venerable de Havilland Otter cooled its engines in the muddy deplaning area and exhibited elaborate signage proclaiming it as the property of the Circus Society of America.
A black-and-white, 1982 Chevrolet Carryall with dual red spotlights at the front doors and a whip antenna carefully secured
to the rear bumper rolled to a stop in front of the building. The considerable bulk of Sheriff Big Bubba Babineaux climbed out to survey the little group of strangers.
“Well, so y’all are the scientist folks from the CSA, huh? I just can’t tell you how excited me and the boys are to see ya’. Yessir, to think that you would come alla way down here just to solve our little homicide for us. Yessir, we’re just plain tickled pink about it. Yessir, just plum tickled.”
Too late, he spit a four-inch stream of tobacco juice which was beginning to escape the left corner of his mouth. The brown spit-liquor splashed onto the green Converse high tops of a tall young man dressed in a tweed sport coat and checkered Bermuda shorts.
“Sorry about that, mister...?”
“Andy. No ‘mister’; just call me Andy.”
The warm air carried a faint scent to the sheriff, and his highly trained mind searched its catalog of aromas until satisfied that the tall young man carried an unmistakable aura of expensive, imported English beer.
“Yeah, Andy. Right. And you must be Dr. Leska?”
A smallish woman smiled and extended a delicate hand, unadorned by nail polish or jewelry, in the custom of one who considered her hands to be instruments of healing. And although her eyes belied an extraordinary compassion, the plainness and muted colors of her dress would have left no remarkable items of casual observations. Except, that is, for the bright green fuzz which covered her otherwise-smooth pate like a three-day-old Chia pet, dyed in acknowledgment of an Irish friend undergoing chemotherapy.
The sheriff was not known to be a man constrained by tactful conversation:
“You, uh, you wouldn’t be associated with the AstroTurf company, now, would ya’?”
“It’s a long story.”
The big man nodded sagely, and wisely decided it best to only give the others a cursory wave.