Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  The last number has finally arrived and we’re getting ready for the Grand Finale, chatting away, as usual. I let my hair down for the Spanish costume and reach for my hairbrush.

  Missing from where it’s usually stashed, I yell out, “Hey! Which one of you girls took my brush?”

  The women either ignore me or shake their heads, with a round of “not me, not me.” God, I think to myself, another incident like my watch. Where the hell did I leave it? I’m forgetting everything these days.

  Doris turns to me. “So Jeri, take my mind off things. With the heat and everything, I’m so depressed I could eat dirt. I need a distraction. What’s your word of the day, Sugar?”

  The rest of the girls groan loudly before laughing. The first thing I do every morning is to thumb through my Webster’s and pick a new word to learn at random. Throughout the day, I rope people into having a conversation

  with me using that word, particularly if we’re trapped together, like in a dressing room. These conversations help to keep the word lodged in my brain but it makes the other girls nuts.

  “Let me think back that far, Doris. Oh, yes. Today’s word is kleptomania,” I say. “An ‘irresistible urge to steal in the absence of any economic motive.’ A person overcome with that urge is a kleptomaniac.”

  “Tag, I’m it,” Margie says. “When it comes to anything in pants, I’m a klepto.”

  “Don’t you mean nympho?” Doris replies, putting on more fake eyelashes.

  “Naw. I have an irresistible urge to steal...” She pauses dramatically, “… men. I’m a sucker for someone else’s man.”

  And we’re off. Margie, Doris and I often put on a verbal show for our tent mates and have a lot of fun doing it. I can see the rest of the girls in the room listening and laughing, eager for some frivolity to the day.

  Margie applies lipstick while saying, “My horn blower’s mouse came in on the sly last night and had the screaming meemees when she got a load of me lip-locked with her Galahad. Belted him right in the smackaroo. They were still mixing it up when I blew.”

  “I don’t see why these ladies get so overwrought,” Doris says with a straight face. “When you get through with the gentleman in question, you give him back. I’ve seen you do it.”

  “Dozens of times,” I added.

  “And it’s not like they don’t get their yum-yums back in better shape than before,” Margie says, looking from Doris to me, as if she doesn’t understand it.

  “Some girls can be touchy, Margie,” I answer, lacing up my satin ballet slippers. “They don’t like their men manhandled, especially by another woman.”

  Margie’s penchant for men, especially musicians, is a running joke between the three of us. We have a ‘hands off’ rule about stealing each other’s men, although I’ve always felt that if a man can be stolen like a wallet, there isn’t much there to begin with.

  “Back home in Charleston,” Doris goes on, livening up the conversation, “we’d call you a debutante. Up North, you’re a slut.” With her southern accent she managed to make two syllables out of the word ‘slut.’

  “Hey, hey, watch them four-letter words,” Margie says. “Don’t make me slap a fine on you. And I’m not a slut. I’m just misunderstood.” Everyone laughs, Margie being the loudest.

  “Maybe Margie needs to head down south, where she’ll be appreciated,” I say to Doris.

  “I expect so, Sugar,” drawls Doris, adding a large beauty mark to her cheek. “They need something else to talk about besides the War Between the States.”

  Margie throws a makeup sponge at Doris, hitting her on the back of the head. It bounces off and lands on the floor. Without saying a word, Doris picks it up and flips it to me.

  “Look what’s falling from the sky,” she says in mock surprise.

  “Chicken Little uses makeup sponges?” I say. “I had no idea.”

  “You should throw that nasty old thing out, Jeri. Trash can’s right behind you.”

  “Sez you!” Margie retorts. “They’re up to a nickel apiece, when you can get them. Give.”

  I laugh and toss it back to Margie, who catches it with one hand, while she applies rouge with the other. The ringmaster’s introduction of the finale comes over the loudspeaker, quieting us down.

  Doris checks her makeup in the mirror and adds more Vaseline to her lips. Reaching down, she grabs her four-foot

  high, hot pink feather headdress with both hands and puts it on her head. She straightens it and tightens the elastic band under her chin, dangling silver beads glittering next to her painted, blue eyes. She adjusts her breasts in the hot pink-and-silver spangled bare-midriff top before standing to add the matching full-length, beaded cape to her costume. She sparkles like a marquee in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

  Margie stands up in her magenta and green job and looks at me, expectantly.

  I rise in my Spanish number and put more bobby pins in my mantilla to keep it in place.

  “Let’s go get ‘em, girls,” I say.

  Followed by the other women, we leave the dressing area and spread out to our assigned places. I go to the side entrance to find Mabel, the largest of the elephants. Mabel is as large as a male and often just as wily. She has a reputation for being untrustworthy and I am one of the few girls willing to ride her.

  Whitey is by her side, holding on to her head harness. It’s unusual to see him at this time. Normally, one of the lesser handlers deals with the Grand Finale. It might be because of our earlier conversation, I realize. I’ve been too busy to get back to him. Coming around the back end of Mabel, I hurry toward the platform and ladder on the left side to climb up to the howdah.

  “Hi, Jeri,” Whitey says, flashing his winning, gorgeous smile. He’s a tough man to resist.

  “Hi.” I return his smile.

  His face becomes somber. “Listen, Jeri, Mabel’s been acting up tonight. She was fine for the first show. I don’t know what could have happened.” He gives me a worried look, then looks to the elephant.

  I glance at the pachyderm and see Mabel is shaking her head from side to side, even trembling the way a dog does

  when you give it a bath. These are clear signs she's nervous.

  “Maybe we should cancel her tonight,” Whitey goes on. “You can just walk around the ring, instead of riding. I don’t trust her without me close by.”

  I get onto the platform and hike up my skirt. Stepping on the first rung of the ladder, I turn and say, “Then you come with us, Whitey. She listens to you. All the ladies do. This is the only chance I get during the show to sit down and I’m going to take it.” I climb up the ladder and into the canopied seat without looking back.

  “Okay,” he says reluctantly. “Let me grab my show hat.”

  He lets go of the harness for a moment, as the music for the grand finale starts up. Prancing animals, brightly painted wagons, juggling and dancing performers, all dressed in a kaleidoscope of colorful costumes, start pouring in from the four entrances. The crowd is on its feet, clapping and shouting.

  Mabel lunges forward. She passes the bareback riders on their horses waiting in line, then the trick ponies that whinny in surprise to have her beside them. I look back and see a startled Whitey running after us. He fights to get through, past the elephant drawn calliope coming into place behind the horses. Mabel picks up speed and the howdah bounces precariously, more so than I’ve ever felt. I try not to panic, telling myself that I’m safe enough on her back no matter what she does.

  Mabel overtakes the float pulled by the six white Lipizzaner horses with the showgirls on it. As she passes, an astonished Doris and Margie stare at me.

  I consider jumping out of the howdah onto the float but Mabel is moving too damned fast. Most people think elephants are slow. This is not so. They can outrun a man and many smaller animals. They can outdistance a Cheetah.

  The audience thinks it’s part of the show and cheer wildly, not realizing a rampaging elephant can destroy

  anyth
ing in its path, including bleachers holding hundreds of people.

  I hear a snap and the howdah begins to slide to one side. Now I panic. Mabel hears it, too, or feels it. She looks back at me balancing on one side of the top of her ribcage. With a high-pitched trumpet, she bolts out through one of the entrances into the black night, incoming performers and animals scurrying to get out of her way.

  The howdah smashes against anything and everything, with me cowering inside. I flatten my body into its base, trying not to be hit, while she heads for the visitors’ parking lot. In her frenzy, Mabel runs in between a narrow row of vehicles barely wide enough for her, let alone the howdah dropping lower and lower on her side. We sideswipe light poles, thick as tree trunks, and bang into cars and trucks.

  Ripped off chunks of howdah fly everywhere. My dress becomes wrapped around my head and arms, protecting me from the debris but often catching on things, almost pulling me out. I have to fight to stay inside. The howdah continues to slip, until soon I’ll fall out to be trampled under the elephant’s feet.

  As suddenly as she started her rampage, Mabel stops. She gives another trumpet but stands shivering. I hear Whitey’s voice calling to her, calming her down. He sounds like he’s standing in front of her. Later on I learn he saw she was heading for a small clearing on the other side of the parking lot and took a short cut, racing to get there first. He stops her with his very body, counting on the fact that she’ll listen to him.

  “Easy, girl,” he says. “Easy now, girl. It’s all right. Shhhhhh.”

  I let go of what’s left of the howdah and fall to the ground, trying to roll away from Mabel’s feet. Entangled in

  ripped fabric, I’m unable to move more than a couple of feet away. I sit in the dirt, pulling at the gown that encumbers me.

  “Jeri! Jeri,” Whitey says, coming over and kneeling down. He envelopes me in his arms. “Are you all right? Let me see.”

  He turns back to one of his men who takes over dealing with the trembling elephant. “Keep Mabel quiet but don’t hit her.” He’s referring to the eyehook that the men keep in their back pockets for emergencies. Some try to cow the elephants with them when Whitey isn’t looking. He finds the practice to be unnecessary and barbaric.

  “That will only upset her more,” he says with emphasis. “So don’t hit her. Just keep talking to her in a soothing voice. Stroke her trunk.” The man obeys.

  He turns back to me. “Honey, say something. Are you hurt?”

  I don’t think I am, but can’t talk. I try to rise but fall back down, sobbing and laughing at the same time. I hear Tin Foot shout my name. He’s running faster than I’ve ever seen him, followed by several of the roustabouts. Margie and Doris trail behind holding onto their headdresses, costumes flapping as they run.

  “Jeri!” Tin Foot pushes Whitey out of the way and holds onto me.

  “He saved me,” I whisper into Tin Foot’s neck. “Whitey saved me.”

  Whitey stands up and looks down at Tin Foot. “Tin, someone cut the cinch to the howdah. I saw it. Only the gauze covering was keeping the damned thing on.”

  The two men exchange looks. Mabel makes several grunting noises, sounds of fear mixed with impatience.

  “I’ve got to get Mabel out of here and take care of her. Jeri, I’ll see you later, okay?” Whitey says. All I can do is nod. He bends down, lips brushing my forehead.

  “Tin, can you stop by the Bull Ring later on and let me know how Jeri is doing?”

  “Sure, Whitey. We’ll take care of her. Don’t worry.”

  Whitey crosses over to the elephant and speaks in gentle tones, leading her away. While I watch them leave, it hits me this is no accident.

  Margie and Doris are by my side. Tin Foot and my two friends try to pick me up, hindered by yards of shredded fabric surrounding me.

  “Stop,” Doris says. “We keep standing on this damned dress. Here.” She unclips her cape and wraps it around me while Margie goes underneath it and undoes the hooks at the front of my bodice. Together, they pull me out of the tattered ex-Spanish costume, with an anxious Tin Foot and roustabouts standing by, unable to help.

  “Oh, God,” I murmur, shivering inside the cape. “Wardrobe is going to kill me for what I did to that dress.”

  “Tell them to take it up with Mabel,” Margie says.

  “They need to put that horror out to pasture,” Doris says. “She’s not to be trusted.”

  I hear one of the roustabouts say, “The audience is coming out now. You’d better get her out of here. They think this is all part of the show. We’ll clean up what’s left of the howdah.”

  Tin Foot mutters a “thank you” to the guys and tries to lift me in his arms.

  I fight him off, saying, “I can walk, Tin. I’m okay.”

  “No you’re not,” Margie replies and turns to Tin Foot. “But she likes to stand on her own two pins. You walk with her and we’ll take this rag to wardrobe and clue them in.”

  Doris adds, “We’ll see you back at the car as soon as we change, honey lamb. Tin is going to take you there and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

  I don’t have the energy to fight. I stumble to the train, supported by my friend, and am glad of the help. When we get to the Virgin Car, Tin Foot calls out to Lillian, as we stagger up the stairs. She appears at the door, surprised to see us. We all have a routine and it’s usually another ten or fifteen

  minutes before anyone shows up after the last performance.

  “Have mercy,” she says when she sees me. “Child, are you all right?”

  Tin Foot helps me inside and brings me into Lillian’s small room and kitchen area.

  “You just set her down there.” She gestures to her neatly made bed. “I’ll take care of her.”

  Shooing Tin out, Lillian makes me a cup of her wonder tea. It’s delicious, all spicy with cinnamon, nutmeg and a tablespoon of whiskey. I gulp it down and feel like I’m coming back to myself.

  Meanwhile, she’s been carrying buckets of hot water from the bathroom, filling up the portable tub she keeps in her room for the times when the girls want to take a bath. Lillian undresses me and helps me into the warm water.

  “Oh my,” she says, when she examines my arms and legs. “We’ve got some splinters in us. It’s nothing for you to worry about, just a few here and there. Let me get my tweezers.”

  She grooms my body much as I’ve seen the gorillas and chimps do, removing one or two splinters from my scalp. She has a gentle, motherly touch, humming as she works. While she shampoos my hair, I lean into her, feeling safe for the moment.

  “Someone tried to kill me, Lillian.”

  She stops humming and laughs softly. “Now you hush, Jeri. Why would anybody want to do something like that?”

  “Why, indeed?” I whisper and slide under the water into its warmth and silence.

  I don’t fall asleep that night as much as pass out. There are no dreams, no light slumber, just a black, death-like sleep that comes when the mind and body have had more than enough.

  Chapter Fourteen

  7:30 am, Monday, July 6th

  The curtains to my bunk are whipped open. The metal sound of the hooks scratching against the rod pierces my ear drums. I open my eyes to see both Margie and Doris staring at me, troubled and tearful.

  “What?” I lay there, afraid to move, afraid to find out how wounded the day before has left me, but more afraid of the look on their faces. “What is it?”

  Doris opens her mouth to speak but all that escapes is a sob. I sit upright and look from one friend to the other.

  “It’s Catalena,” Margie says. I watch a tear glide down her face. “Oh, Jeri,” she says, clasping my hands in hers. “I can’t believe it. We can’t believe it,” she adds, looking at Doris. Both are silent, looking at each other.

  “Tell me,” I demand. “One of you, tell me.”

  “She hanged herself. Last night. In the First Aid Tent,” Doris murmurs. “She’s dead.”

  �
��Hanged herself,” I try to say, the words caught in my throat. “Are you sure?” I manage to get out. They don’t answer but look down, heads bowed.

  “When? When did this happen?” I jump down from the berth too fast and wobble a bit on my landing. Margie grabs my arm to steady me.

  “Sometime during the night,” Margie says, her jive talk noticeably absent. “We saw a commotion at the First Aid Tent on our way to get coffee and went to see what was going on. He said the nurse left her side for just a few minutes to go to the bathroom. She thought Catalena was sleeping. He said

  when she came back, it was too late.” Margie stops talking and bites her lower, quivering lip.

  “Who’s ‘he?’” I say. “Who said?”

  “Doc Williams found her,” my golden-haired friend answers. “But he was in with the sheriff. We didn’t talk to him.”

  During this time, other curtains open one after another and some of the girls watch and listen in silence.

  “Tony came out and told us what happened when he found out we were there,” Doris adds, wiping tears from her face with a lace-trimmed hanky.

  “Why didn’t someone wake me?” I ask. “Why didn’t I hear any sirens?”

  “I don’t know,” Doris says, backing up from my intensity. “Oh, God, that poor, sweet girl.” She buries her face in the hanky, sobbing loudly.

  “We did wake you, Jeri,” Margie answers me, with a touch of belligerence. “Just now. You knew as soon as we could get back to tell you. As for why there were no sirens, you’ll have to ask the sheriff.”

  “I’ve got to go,” I say, reaching up for my robe hanging on a hook.

  “Jeri…” I hear Margie call out, as I fling myself out of the car and run full-out to the First Aid Tent. I arrive out of breath and lightheaded.

  Two roustabouts are standing on either side of the tent entrance and stop me from going inside. When I see I can’t force my way past them, I begin to yell.

  “Doc! Tony! It’s Jeri. Let me come inside. Doc! Tony!”