goodbye, I head for the sleeping cars, wondering what or who will be next.
Chapter Four
8:30 a.m., Sunday
The fourteenth sleeper car, the one with the words ‘Ballet Broads’ written on the side in large, red letters, has been my home for two years. Pronounced Bally Broads, it’s the official nickname for the railway car that holds the seventy ensemble female performers. Another nickname is the ‘Virgin Car.’ Take your pick; they’re only words.
The typical ensemble car sleeps seventy male or female performers in two rows of upper and lower berths, on either side of a center aisle. Then there’s the attendant, who takes care of his or her charges. The workers and roustabouts’ cars sleep one-hundred and four in rows of three berths, crowded but doable. Bathrooms and showers are at each end.
Single men and women are always separated but married couples, families and specialty acts are given individual compartments for privacy. I haven’t had a private moment in two years except late at night, when I pull the heavy, ringed curtains closed around my berth and tuck the ends under the mattress, shutting out the rest of the world. That’s when I read my books and think about my future.
With one foot on the lower stair, I’m about to climb the steps to the car, when I hear a woman’s voice calling to me, a voice dripping with fake camaraderie and a not so hidden agenda. I take a deep breath and turn to see Rosie O’Reilly walking toward me. A contemptuous smirk crosses her face, only to be replaced by an insincere smile when she catches me looking at her.
Without makeup, Rosie is a plain girl, about my height, five-foot four, with light brown hair and washed-out hazel eyes but a trim, well-proportioned figure. She’s wearing a
stylish trench coat and matching hat, the khaki color adding to the drabness of her skin tones.
As a featured performer, Rosie is a rung or two higher than me and jealously guards her status. She still likes to think of me as a First of May, the circus version of a chorus girl, but I’ve risen up through the ranks and have become one of George Balendron’s personal favorites. Balendron and his wife, Zolina, are touring with the circus as guest artists this year, he as the choreographer of Dance of the Elephants, a production number starring fifty elephants and chorus girls, and Zolina as its lead performer. Besides Zolina, I’m the only one with formal ballet training and I’m also pretty athletic. Balendron often singles me out for the execution of difficult or important tricks, riding the head of Topsy, my assigned elephant for the year. Zolina is all for it, as she isn’t that comfortable around the big, grey darlings. They take some getting used to.
The Dance of the Elephants is a major coup for the Big Top, touted about in all the newspapers and newsreels. After months of Florida rehearsals, the “classical” ballet premiered at Madison Square Garden on the first of May to rave reviews in New York. In Boston and Chicago, the reviews were equally as impressive. We’re booked solid and beginning the tour of smaller towns in the mid-west for the rest of the summer and fall, before returning to winter in Sarasota.
This is only my second year with the circus but I’m a major part of this extravaganza, often singled out in each town’s newspaper. I’m on my way. Everyone knows it, including Rosie.
There’s more to her dislike of me than professional rivalry, though. Whitey Parks, the man I thought might only be my summer-time fling, has become much more. For him, too. A while back, he and Rosie were an item, but it ended quickly, although he won’t go into why. I don’t think it’s so
over for her. Lately, I can see Rosie’s hostility toward me bubbling right beneath the surface. I keep my distance from
her as much as possible, but it’s getting harder and harder to do. It’s as if she seeks me out, trying to goad me into some kind of altercation.
“What have you been up to, Jeri? You look like something the cat dragged in.”
We stand with phony smiles plastered on our faces, Rosie with her hands in her coat pockets, body stiff and unyielding, and me with one foot on the step, staring at one another in the rain. It’s silly. I’m the first to break the strained silence.
“Rosie, you might not have heard yet but there’s been an accident,” I say, “and --”
“You mean that clown’s death?” she interrupts. “Oh, sure, I know about it. I know just about everything that goes on around here,” she says pointedly. The focus of her pale eyes shifts from me to the mud-spattered bomber jacket in my hand. “So, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing with Whitey’s jacket?” Her face is still graced with the bogus smile but the words are thrown down like a gauntlet at my feet.
I hesitate. I’m really getting sick of pussy-footing around her all the time.
“No, I don’t think I will.” I turn around and climb onto the platform of the Virgin Car. “But don’t worry. I’ll give it back to him the next time I see him.” That last remark comes off as more of a taunt than I mean it to, but there’s no backing down now.
I drape Whitey’s jacket over the railing then peel off Harold’s mack and shake the loose mud from it. I throw it in a corner outside the entrance way of the car. I can feel Rosie eyes burning into my back. She says nothing more and neither do I, but something had been ratcheted up another notch. Maybe two.
Inside the car, most of the curtained berths are shut tight, meaning the girls inside are asleep. One or two girls are up, staring out of the window of the small hallway, whispering to one another. Saucer eyes and inquisitive expressions greet me; I'm not surprised, considering how much mud is attached to my body.
I put a finger to my lips to shush the girls as I pass by. It’s too early to start a conversation with so many still sleeping, so they allow me to wave them off and head for my bunk.
The two upper berths on either side of mine are empty; they belong to my two friends. Margie is with Catalena and Doris often spends the night with Tony in his own private suite. That means I have some breathing time. Unlike the rest of the girls, Margie and Doris would never take a refusal to talk about something like this, no matter what time of day or night.
I open my assigned drawer, one of two side-by-side under the lower bunk, and grab fresh underwear, soap and a towel. With one foot on the small iron bar on the outside of the lower berth, I reach up into my berth for some duds hanging inside on a hook.
Now that this is our second year, we three get upper berths. First of Mays have to make do with lowers. The lower berths are smaller and apt to be jostled by girls passing each other in the narrow aisle day and night. Their outside windows are at eye level, forcing the girls to keep the curtains drawn to avoid prying eyes. Their bunks are dark and depressing. The uppers are larger and the windows can be left open for sun and air, unless one of the clowns is striding by on stilts. Not all that common an occurrence, but it has happened. In truth, nobody likes the lower berths, but tough. That’s the pecking order.
Heading to the showers, I pass an assortment of posters taped to the thin wall. Suspicion has replaced Joan Fontaine’s
previous hit, Rebecca, and hangs side by side with Errol Flynn’s Footsteps in the Dark. I straighten the colorful Loose Lips Might Sink Ships poster that we are seeing everywhere these days. I think of my three brothers somewhere overseas, then of Lillian’s son, Duane, stationed in Italy.
I don’t know my brothers all that well, each one being at least a decade older than me and out of the house before I was six. I do feel like I know Duane, though we’ve never met. Passages of his daily letters, read aloud by his mother, the black woman who takes care of the housekeeping needs of the sleeper, make Duane come alive for me. It’s one of life’s ironies.
I drop ruined clothes to the bathroom floor, and get into one of the two tiny stalls in the small, metal room. Hot water pours down my face and body for fifteen or twenty minutes before I warm up and my mind starts to work again, helping to shut the emotions off. Once some of the shock goes down the drain along with the straw and mud, I begin to think about Eddie and Catalena.
> Putting aside the question of what the hell they were doing at the lion’s cage, dead or otherwise, I wonder if they've secretly been an item? She seems such a shy, withdrawn sixteen-year old. I’ve never thought of her as having a boyfriend or being involved with anyone. Besides, her father guards his two daughters closer than the Yanks guard the coastlines. But it’s been my observation that love finds a way.
And Coke? How does he fit in? Is he an innocent bystander or a part of all this? Or is he part of a murder that went wrong on his end?
Chapter Five
9:00a.m., Sunday
I emerge from the shower, start to dress, and notice my muddied clothes are missing and most of the mess has been cleaned up. Doris glides into the small room. A six-foot, Betty Grable look-a-like, Doris moves through space like the prow of a ship moves through water. Just as graceful and just as powerful. We mere mortals tend to step aside. Whereas, when equally tall Margie sails into a room, we put on our tapping shoes for a rollicking good time. They’re both wonderful, fun, and loving. I’m lucky these two elegant beauties are in my life, me a short hoofer from Brooklyn.
I throw on my favorite red pullover sweater and black slacks, and listen to Doris’ lilting, South Carolina accent scale up and down the octaves, softening whatever she has to say.
“Jeri darling, I came straight from the First Aid Tent to see how you are. Catalena’s son-of-a-bitch father was there talking in that foreign language that sounds like a chicken with its butt on fire. How are you doing, hun? Tell me that.”
I smile at her. “Doris, did you clean up after me?”
She throws a towel at me. “I did but don’t change the subject. Honey lamb, I rushed right over here when I heard, like the good friend that I am, so don’t try my patience.”
She inhales a high-pitched, noisy breath, while bringing one manicured hand dramatically to her breasts, covered beautifully by a dark green and white polka-dot dress in the latest look: a low, square neckline, set off by white piping. My fashion plate friend quivers, as blue eyes narrow on mine.
“Tony says you’re the one that found the clown’s body, you and Tin.”
“Yes, we did. It was something I’ll never forget.” An involuntary shudder runs through me.
“Are you all right, Sugar?” Platinum blonde curls bob up and down on her forehead.
“I’m anything but, Doris. I can’t stop seeing Eddie’s face.”
Doris embraces me, clasping me to her ample bosoms. “You need some breakfast. It won’t do for you to starve to death. The rationed ham’s all gone but Lillian’s fixing you some hot oatmeal --”
“Oh, I wish you hadn’t asked her to do that,” I interrupt, squeezing her back. “Lillian has enough work around here without you asking her to make me breakfast.”
“I didn’t ask her,” Doris says breaking free. “She said she was going to and you try telling her not to do something she sets her mind at.”
“That’s true,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Oh, pish-tosh. Forget it. Isn’t it something, though, about Eddie? And, Sugar, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Why would anybody do something like that to him? He was hardly more than a boy, you know?” She sniffs loudly, pulls a matching silk hanky out from inside the depths of her bodice, and blows into it.
“I know.” I brush her slender arm with my hand.
For a sliver of a moment, she stares at me over the hanky held against her nose then jerks it away. “Are you thinking of finding out who did it, Jeri? Tell me now, so I can start my worrying about you right away. No point in putting it off.”
“No,” I say, turning away. “Those days are over; I told you that before. Besides, I’m sure the local authorities are more than able to take care of this. I’m on the sidelines.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Doris takes a deep breath and fans her face with the hanky. “Now you’re sure you’re okay? Really?”
I look back into her gorgeous blue eyes and am warmed by the concern in them. “I’m fine, but tell me, did you see Catalena or Coke when you were in the First Aid Tent? Do you know how they are?”
“I didn’t see anybody but her rapscallion father, the world famous Constantin Baboescu,” she says, striking a theatrical pose. “Then the nurse shooed me out.”
“I don’t know why you dislike him so much.”
“I got my reasons. Besides, he never says anything to anybody. Just stares.”
“Maybe he’s shy. Not everybody is as open and friendly as you,” I say.
“Open and friendly, my Aunt Fanny. You save your sweet talk for the elephants.” Doris waggles a red-tipped fingernail at me.
I laugh. “All right, all right. Sorry.” It feels good to laugh, but there are more somber things on my mind. “What happened when you were there?”
“The nurse wouldn’t say a word to me and Doc was too busy to talk. Margie was inside the room because that child wouldn’t let go of her hand, bless her heart.”
I’m not sure whose heart Doris is blessing, Catalena or Margie’s, but I don’t ask. While she fusses with my sweater, straightening the sleeves and collar, Doris rambles on.
“I guess Catalena finds comfort with Margie being there. She has a soothing way of speaking, our Margie, when she doesn’t do that thing she calls jive. What the hell does ‘shove in your clutch’ mean? She says that to me all the time and I don’t drive a car. I can’t tell what she’s saying half the time.”
“Neither can I, but it’s colorful,” I say, freeing myself from her grasp enough to towel dry my hair.
“That poor, unfortunate child, seeing something like that first thing in the morning,” Doris clucks, shaking her head.
“I don’t think it would be any easier seeing something like that later in the day, Doris. Was the kid sister there? This is all she needs.”
“Not that I could tell, but they hustled me out right fast.”
I think of thin, little Ioana, barely twelve years old, and not yet over the death of her mother. Everyone likes the two girls, Catalena and Ioana, They’re open and sweet. But Constantin Baboescu tends to be a loner, seeking no companionship other than his children. He is known throughout the circus world for his amazing knife throwing act, even though he and his family had only been a part of a small, traveling Romanian Circus previously.
When his Gypsy wife was shot dead by the Gestapo last year in the middle of a performance, he fled with his small family, taking nothing but his precious set of show knives, with their hand-carved ivory handles bearing the initials “C.B.” He arrived at Ellis Island to a job offer from the Big Top, where he thrills audiences at every performance.
I’ve often thought Constantin’s withdrawn manner comes from the recent tragedy, plus his inability to speak English well. Doris says no, for reasons never fully explained. Margie is in his corner. Being half-Jewish, she has a soft spot in her heart for any underdog, and he is certainly that.
I come back to the present, folding the towel, and look around the small, metal bathroom. “Doris, thanks for picking up--”
“Don’t worry about it, hon,” she interrupts. “I threw everything into a big basket outside. I’ll get one of the kids to take care of them, if you’ve got a spare fifty cents.”
Doris means the teenage boys that travel with the circus, like the kid Tony sent to phone the sheriff. Their main job is to muck up after the animals. They make extra dough by doing odd jobs, such as bringing buckets of water to the tents
in between shows for make-shift showers, when the performers can’t get back to the trains.
“Make it a buck, Doris,” I say, running a comb through my hair. “Could you tell them to rinse off Harold’s mack and
give it back to him? It’s on the platform at the front of the car.
And so is Whitey’s jacket. Ask them to return that, too. The things in the basket can be tossed; they’re beyond saving. Thanks.”
“Sure, hun. I swear to goodness, Tony is devastated, just devastated b
y what’s happened,” Doris says. “He said there’s never been a murder under the Big Top before. Course, he’s never seen Miss Brassy’s Performing Poodles,” she drawls. “That act could kill a group of Shriners.”
I laugh again, glad for her presence.
Doris studies my face. “You sure you’re all right? You look pale. Maybe a little lipstick.” She pulls a gold metallic tube from her cleavage, opening it with a click to reveal a deep red color that matches her nails. She aims it at my mouth.
“Not for me,” I say, moving my head to avoid her hand. “But you’re a sweetie for offering.”
She nods, her full lips drawn thin. After using the small, square mirror in the room to apply some of the lipstick to herself, she returns the tube to its hiding place.
“Doris, I need to get to the First Aid tent. See if I can learn anything.”
“I saw them load Eddie’s body into the ambulance. This is something awful, Jeri.”
I nod, handing back her towel. Out into the narrow passageway, I take the few steps back to the sleeping area. Doris follows. Most of the girls are up now, chattering among themselves, staring out the windows on one side of the car. Two police cars and a second ambulance are parked next to the main tent, near the wagons. When the girls see me, the chatter stops.
Before any one of them can ask a question, a male voice hollers up into the car, asking for me by name. I go to the door and see a man wearing a plaid jacket, metal badge glinting
just beneath the left side of the collar, and a tattered fedora atop his head. He stands at the bottom of the steps, hopping from one foot to the other.
“You Jerull Deane?” he says when I present myself. He runs my first and last name together as if it were one word. Everybody does. It’s my own fault for being such a clever boots. I came up with the name when I signed my first contract with Radio City Music Hall at fifteen years of age. Nobody could talk me out of it, not even Doris or Margie. I’ve been stuck with Jerull Deane professionally ever since, even at Brinks.
Death of A Clown Page 3