Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  “Although what?”

  “Although he might have had a brief fling with Rosie when he first got here.”

  “Rosie?” I say. “You’re kidding.”

  He shakes his head. “He hung around her only a week or two, at best. But men and women have been known to be friends. Like us,” he adds.

  “Or it might have been something she did to try to make Whitey jealous and it didn’t work. Eddie was a good looking kid.” I think for a moment. “You know, that’s an odd expression, what you said before. ‘In a Biblical way’” I drink more tea. “You ever read the Bible, Tin?”

  He gives me a quizzical look. “Sure. Every kid had to go to Bible School on Sunday mornings. Didn’t you?”

  I shake my head and down the rest of the tea. “My father stopped going to mass after my mother died. I guess I never got into the habit. But I’ve read a lot of the Bible on my own. It’s a well-written book. It has a lot of catchy phrases.”

  Tin Foot laughs with a toss of his head.

  “Vince has a Bible.” I ponder. “I noticed it yesterday on top of one of the filing cabinets. Constantin does, too.”

  “A lot of people do, Jeri. I do. Does that mean something?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “One last thing, Whitey’s got your hairbrush. The one I saw you using yesterday morning. He found it under Mabel’s cinch.” He pauses. “You look like you knew that.”

  “I suspected it was mine. How’d you find this out?”

  “I overheard Whitey and Tony talking at the training ring.”

  I grin at him. “Well, if you’re not aces in my book. You’ve been listening in on conversations everywhere. You make one swell investigator.”

  Tin Foot blushes. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  “Well, it’s a non-paying job now. So Whitey has my hairbrush? Or does Tony? I want it back.”

  “Whitey wouldn’t hand it over to him. Said he wanted to talk to you first, but they both knew it was yours by the initials.”

  I let out a sigh. “I guess Boss Man did fire me partly because he wanted to protect me. But it still means I can’t get into the personnel files. I’ll have to find another way to find out what I need to know.”

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t stop?”

  “Not on your life. Do you know that Tony said he might want to bring in ‘real detectives’ from Brinks in two months? I’ve never been so insulted. But it’s more than that. I don’t want this lain at Catalena’s feet. It’s not right.”

  “No,” Tin agrees reluctantly, “but…”

  “But nothing. I know what it’s like when life slams you in the face. It doesn’t care that you’re young and innocent. If you don’t fight back, take on whatever’s out there, you’re going down …” I stop talking and study the inside of my mug.

  “Then I’m with you all the way, Jeri.” He sticks out a ruddy, muscular hand. I take it in mine and we shake on it.

  “Thanks. Besides, I need something to occupy my mind. I feel like Doris, I’m so depressed I could eat dirt. I don’t want to just sit around and wait for the next bad thing to happen, because there’s a lot more to come. Call it woman’s intuition, if you will, but I can feel it. And then there’s the sister.”

  “Ioana,” Tin murmurs. “Poor kid.”

  “I think she’s spent most of her life being called ‘poor kid.’ She’s always on the outside looking in.”

  “I don’t think she has any friends. At least, I’ve never seen her with any.”

  “I know. I feel for her.”

  “Do you, Jeri? I’ve never seen you say two words to her. Seems to me like you sort of avoid Ioana.” Tin casts a swift glance to me then looks down at his mug. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

  I think about it. “I probably do, Tin. She reminds me of me at that age. Awkward… lost… lonely…maybe even unloved. I was a change of life baby, the last of eight, born so late nobody wanted or expected me. My mother died of complications four days after my birth, as my father so often reminded me. When I look back on it, I see a little girl who tried to sing and dance her way out of unhappiness.”

  “That’s too bad,” Tin comments.

  “When I was twelve years old, my father caught me dancing in the same room as his makeshift alter to St. Joseph. To him, that was sacrilege. Or maybe he was just looking for something. He beat me with a broom and threw me out of the house. I slept on my older sister’s living room couch until I got my first job at fourteen. I haven’t seen him since that day.” I pause. “I think you’re right, Tin. I do avoid Ioana. Seeing her with her father reminds me of how my father treated me. I didn’t think it was obvious to others.”

  “Probably only to me, Jeri.”

  “I wonder what kind of person that makes me? Shallow, I guess.” I let out a small chortle that dies in my throat.

  “No, just hurting. If this is truth time, Jeri…”

  “Oh, it is, Tin.” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “This is True Confessions time.”

  Tin clears his throat. “About a month or two after this happened to my foot, I was at the movies with some friends. A newsreel came on about Jesse Owens running the Track and

  Field in Berlin, showing up Hitler’s Aryan race. I was proud of him like everybody else, but I had to leave the theatre. It reminded me too much of what I’d lost. But I’d like to think I could watch it now. You get over things.” Tin looks at me.

  I look back at him.

  “I don’t know, Tin. Some things you never get over.” I throw the soggy tea leaves into the bushes.

  Back at the sleeper I change clothes and think. I can’t get at Vince’s files but I can try to read Catalena’s diary again. Privacy being an issue around here, I’ll have to find a place to be by myself for a couple of hours.

  The curtains to my berth are wide open. The morning sun streams in through the window, wearing the note found at Old Kirby’s wagon, forgotten about in all the chaos. Dry and backlit, I see what remains of the blue inked writing, despite the punishing rain and mud.

  Blue is volatile dye in almost every form. A fading dress or shirt often takes on a reddish undertone to replace the vanishing blue. So too, this paper has an impression of words no longer blue but with a faint hint of red diluted to pale pink by the water. It’s enough for me to make out a word here and there but reveals little. The words “earlier” “meet” and “worry” leaps out at me, and of course, Eddie’s name at the end. I peel the note from the window, thin and crisp from the abuse it’s taken. Carefully, I fold it and put it into my bag.

  The car is empty save for me. Maybe I can stay put for awhile and concentrate on the diary. Best laid plans of mice and men; Margie and Doris show up as I finish dressing. Something’s up with both of them, but I can’t tell what it is.

  “Okay, Toots,” Margie says, “Let’s hit the Cookhouse for some chow.” She smacks me on the rear. “And ‘no’ is not an answer.”

  “They’ve got real eggs today,” Doris says. “None of those regurgitated ones.”

  “Reconstituted, Doris, not regurgitated,” says Margie.

  “You use your words, Sugar, and I’ll use mine.”

  “After that,” adds Margie with forced brightness, “if there’s no rehearsal, let’s put on our glad rags, go into the berg and catch Mrs. Miniver. I hear it’s a real tear jerker. It’ll get our mind off of things around here.”

  “What a lovely idea,” says Doris, in a rehearsed sort of way. I think they’ve planned this maneuver before they came into the car. “Somebody told me that Greer Garson has been nominated for an academy award. I just love how she does a British accent.”

  “It comes naturally to her, Doris. She’s English,” I say, relenting and joining them in their light banter. I grab my bag from my berth and tie it around my waist. “But I thought you were spending the day with Tony.”

  “Tony and I are through,” Doris says. I look at her in stunned silence. Her face is pinched and red. She swallo
ws several times, fighting back tears.

  Margie gives me a warning shake of her head. Whatever it is, she knows about it.

  “I don’t understand,” I stutter. “I thought you and Tony --”

  “I followed you to the First Aid tent,” Doris says, her voice flat and emotionless. “I overheard what Tony said to you, what he did. I….” She breaks off and moves to the exit. I trail behind.

  “Doris,” I rush in to say, “He’s under a lot of stress. He’s in a panic --”

  “No,” she answers, turning around and facing both of us. There is no more red face or a threat of tears.

  “That’s no excuse,” she goes on. “I don’t know who he is. I thought I did, but I don’t. And the man who said those horrible things this morning, I don’t want to know.”

  Doris throws her head back and struts forward. I stand frozen for a moment, as does Margie. Then I run to catch up with Doris.

  “There’s more,” Margie says, stopping us with something in her voice. “While we’re all going on like the third act of a melodrama, you may as well get the low-down from me than somebody else.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve been canned.”

  “What?” Both Doris and I say it in unison.

  “You’ve been fired?” I can’t believe it.

  “Not from the circus,” Margie says with an impatient toss of her head. “From being the SA. I’m to ‘step down until certain allegations can be cleared up’. One of our roommates went to management and told them what happened last night. Not everybody thinks we’re the living dolls we do.” She lets out a mirthless laugh. “There go my ambitions to rise in the ranks, to be the first woman in management. Cut off at the knees.”

  “Maybe not,” I say, hurrying back to Margie. I hug her briefly. “There’ll be a review. You can contest it; tell them what happened….” My words drift off.

  “You’re talking through your hat, Jeri,” She replies. “We know what happened.”

  I don’t say anything. Neither does anyone else. Wordless, the three of us move to the exit and hop off the car.

  “This is my fault, ladies,” I finally say. “If I hadn’t --”

  They both start talking at the same time. I can't tell who’s saying what.

  “Absolutely not. You were doing the right thing.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s Tony’s fault.”

  I persist. “I should stop all this. I should --”

  “You do and I’ll slap you silly.” Doris grabs me by the arm and twirls me around to face her, going on with a force I rarely see in her. “I for one am glad to find out I was sleeping

  with a man no better than a carpet bagger. We don’t hold with that kind in the south.”

  “As for me,” Margie adds in a more reasonable tone, “I like to be footloose and fancy free. There’s a lot of paperwork doing that job and the pay stinks. An extra three bucks a week. Who needs it?”

  “Is this one of those ‘everything happens for the best’ moments?” I look from one to the other. “Okay, I guess it’s settled then. We continue on and see what happens.”

  “Hon, as long as we got each other,” says Doris, “we’ll be fine. To hell with them all.”

  “You betcha,” Margie adds. “If you’re ever up a tree, call on me,” she sings. Margie never had a bad voice and Doris and I join in. It doesn’t make things go away but it makes them better.

  “Let’s go get some breakfast,” Doris says. “I’m so hungry I could eat a whale-bone corset.”

  We link arms and start for the chow tent.

  “I’ll go into town with you,” I say, “but instead of going to the movie, I’ll spend the time in the library reading.” I don’t mention the reading would be of Catalena’s diary, hopefully, aided by a Romanian dictionary. “I’ll try to get in a visit in with Coke, too. See how he’s doing. Oh, my God.”

  I stop and stand transfixed, staring up at one of the 3- by 5-foot circus posters plastered eye-level everywhere. A montage of images on a red background, it includes true to life depictions of Topsy in her pink tutu, the master of ceremony, Emmett Kelly, a seal balancing a ball on its nose, and a dancing bear wearing a bellboy cap. It also features the face of our most gorgeous showgirl, Doris, wearing her

  sparkling, finale headdress. Only Doris’ eyes, her beautiful blue eyes, have been methodically gouged out, two empty

  holes in their place. It’s so sick and unexpected, I’m speechless.

  “What? What?” Margie looks around her for the cause of my halted, statue-like form.

  I gesture toward the poster where it dangles from one of the many posts that run the length of the train. Both friends follow my pointing finger. Doris lets out a small scream and clutches at her throat. She, too, freezes in place, staring at the ghoulish mutilation.

  “Well, if it ain’t one thing, it’s another,” Margie mutters. “Who would do that?”

  She dashes to another hanging poster, about twenty-yards away. “This one’s the same thing. I never noticed it when we left this morning. How long have these been like this?”

  “Are they all that way?” I race in the opposite direction to another poster. “This one, too,” I shout. I move to the next one further down the line. It hasn’t been touched. Apparently, only the ones closest to the Virgin Car have been disfigured.

  I jog back, my breath coming in short spurts, but keeping Margie’s face in my sights. She mouths to me, “Rosie?” I agree but shrug.

  Both of us focus on Doris, still staring up, hand at throat. She suddenly drops her hand and turns to us. “I wish I had my daddy’s horsewhip.”

  “I didn’t know your father was into horses,” Margie jokes, but something catches in her throat.

  “He was a turkey farmer and you know it,” Doris says with spirit. “But he taught me how to use a mean horsewhip and I wish I had it now.” She spins around and heads for the chow line, taking long, purposeful strides. We trail behind, staring at her back, and give each other troubled glances.

  “Someone should tell Tony, if he already doesn’t know,” Margie shouts up to Doris.

  “I don’t care if he knows or not. And if I see that bitch first, I just might have to scratch her eyes out.”

  I catch up with Doris and try to match her gait, which is not easy with her long legs. Margie attaches herself to the other side of our friend. Her stride comes easier than mine. I start to jog again.

  “We don’t know for sure it’s Rosie, Doris. Not yet,” I say, trying to contain this.

  “Yes, we do,” pipes up Margie. I give her a ‘stop stirring up the pot’ look. She sticks her tongue out at me but adds, “She’d need a ladder to do it, though. She’s shorter than you, Jeri. So maybe it was one of the roustabouts. You piss anybody off lately?”

  Doris comes to such an abrupt halt; we’re about two feet ahead of her before either Margie or I can slow down. We swivel back to her almost as one. Doris assumes a proper flady-like pose. “I am not the sort of person who ‘pisses’ people off, I’ll have you know, my dear Marjory. I am always a lady.”

  “Except when you threw that pail at Ernie last week,” Marjory answers.

  “He was teasing Methuselah. I told him to stop and he wouldn’t, so I threw the pail at him to get his attention.”

  “You got his attention, all right,” I say. “Doc said Ernie had a knot on the back of his head the size of a walnut the next day.”

  “He deserved it.” Doris sniffs and struts off. We tag along, Margie and I, and start to giggle. Doris begins giggling, too, and the three of us are out-and-out laughing by the time we near the chow tent.

  “So we need to face it. It could be someone else, Doris,” I say, as we round the corner.

  “Fat chance.” Margie rolls her eyes. “I think what Rosie needs is a good lay.”

  Doris turns a shocked face to her friend.

  “What’s the big deal?” Margie gives us both an innocent look. “We all do it.”

  “Yes, but we don’t say it,” Dori
s reprimands. “We may do it behind closed doors, but we don’t talk about it.”

  “I keep forgetting,” Margie grumbles. “You’re a lady.”

  “Damn straight,” Doris snaps, and all three of us burst out laughing again.

  We swing by the bulletin board first to see if a rehearsal is posted or if there are any announcements. Other than the bandmaster, Merle Evans, calling for a rehearsal of the orchestra, there’s nothing. That means the day is ours until the seven p.m. call.

  I finish eating and promise to meet the girls in an hour. I get another plate of scrambled eggs, toast and hash browns for Doc, cover it with a napkin and head for the First Aid Tent. I steel myself in case the wailing Constantin is still there, but it’s eerily empty and quiet inside.

  Heading back to Doc’s office, I hear the soft murmur of voices. I peek in and see Ioana in Doc’s chair, with him sitting on the edge of the desk. She’s hunched over, sobbing into a soggy handkerchief. Doc bends over her, saying words I can’t make out, but the sound of his voice soothes even me, someone they aren’t intended for.

  I step inside, extending the plate of hot food. Doc sees me out of the corner of his eye. I pull a Tootsie Roll from my pocket, show it to him, and drop it on the side of the plate. Doc rewards me with a half-smile. He signals for me to be quiet, reaches out and takes the food, gesturing for me to leave.

  On my way out, I hear him tell the girl that he has something for her to eat, encouraging her to do so. He’s changed, rallied even, since I last saw him.

  Doc’s one of these men who needs to be needed, more so than most of us. That’s what gives him his strength but I suspect it’s also his downfall.

  Chapter Sixteen

  10:30 a.m., Monday

  Outside, I pull out my watch, so I can see the time. Whitey should be with the elephants right about now, supervising the grooming of them, making sure they are well and happy. Sometimes I think that if we ever become more serious, I’ll have to take a backseat to a bunch of pachyderms.

  Sure enough, I find Whitey in the Bull Tent with a long handled brush and several buckets of water, scrubbing down Mabel. This isn’t his job to do, it hasn’t been for years, but he’s the type of guy who pitches in and does the dirty work right alongside his men. If one of the elephants misbehaves or becomes unruly, Whitey takes over, even to the cleaning up after them.