Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  I reach into my bag and pull the scarf covered knife out. I unwrap it and hold it out to him, handle first. “Voilá,” I say.

  His eyes open in astonishment. “Where’d you get it? I could have sworn I left it right here this morning.”

  “How are you at throwing this thing?”

  “Throwing this? A whittling knife? You can’t throw one of these things.” Tin takes it from my hand. “They don’t have any balance. The handle’s too heavy.”

  “Try,” I suggest. “Aim for something on that poster over there.” I point to one of the undamaged posters featuring Doris hanging from a light pole about ten feet away.

  Tin shrugs and rises. “Okay but don’t judge me by this. These knives aren’t meant for throwing,” he emphasizes again.

  “I never judge you, Tin.”

  He throws the knife and hits the caricature drawing of the ring master in the middle of the gut.

  “That’s pretty good,” I comment.

  “I was aiming for the ball on top of the seal’s nose at the bottom.” He laughs. “That’s how good these things are for throwing.”

  He walks over, pulls the knife out of the poster, and turns back to me. “So what now? Want me to do it again?” he asks in an amiable tone.

  “Nope. I just wanted to see how accurate they were.”

  “God awful,” he interjects.

  I smile at Tin and stand up. “Enough of that. Let’s get back to work. We’ll start with Vince, Rosie, Constantin, Eddie, and the list of men Eddie owed money. There’s about twelve of them. By the time we’re done, I hope to know something about them, in particular, their religious leanings and background. From what Tony tells me, Vince is obsessed about his files on all of us.”

  “I’d better look through mine and see what he says about me, then.” Tin laughs. “You never know.”

  “It’s probably something about your love for cows.” We both laugh, then sober.

  “While we’re at it, we’ll pull Whitey,” I say. “Things may not be what they seem. I sure wish I could see Tony’s file but I doubt Vince would have it. If there is one, it’s probably with the Brothers.”

  The day is turning out to be oppressively hot, over ninety degrees and muggy as hell. With the animals being the number one concern, roustabouts, handlers and staff are scurrying about, carrying buckets of water every which way.

  We sit in Vince’s sweltering trailer, cooled slightly by a rinky-dink fan that rattles every time it rotates, surrounded by well-read, thick files, holding clippings and an assortment of papers. We decide to divide the stack up, make notes about each person and only talk when we’re finished.

  “Find anything?” I ask, after about an hour and a half of this.

  “You know Bard, the clown I mentioned Eddie owed?” asks Tin Foot, looking up at me.

  “Short guy,” I answer. “Twenty-five bucks.”

  “Turns out he had a liking for Eddie,” he says and turns away in embarrassment.

  “You mean as in a homosexual liking?”

  He nods.

  “Does it really say that in there?” It’s unusual to have something like this put down in writing in the Circus, especially in any type of formal documentation. The rule of thumb is, keep it to yourself; it’s nobody’s business.

  “There’s a written complaint from Eddie, plus some notes from Vince in Henry’s file, dated four months ago,” says Tin Foot. He picks up the Bard’s file and begins to read aloud.

  “Spear carrier in the Royal Shakespeare Repertory Company before coming to the States back in twenty-seven, blah, blah, blah. Ah! Here it is, ‘I’ve had to speak to Henry on his unnatural attention toward Eddie Connors. I told Henry to keep a professional distance.’ But apparently, Henry didn’t take it well, according to this follow-up note, dated two weeks later. Vince writes about a screaming match in the dressing room between Henry and Eddie. Didn’t come to blows, but it says here that Vince and some other guys had to intervene. Whatever it was about, the clowns seemed to blame Eddie for it, but nobody would talk about it to Vince.” Tin thinks for a moment. “I’ll bet the guys didn’t like Eddie squealing on one of their own, even if he is queer. The Bard’s one of our old timers.”

  “I’m sure that’s why Vince tried to make it blow over.” I reflect. “I guess Eddie was green in a lot of ways.”

  “Anything on Rosie?” Tin Foot asks.

  “She seems to like the odd assortment of pets.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Vince had to tell her to get rid of a tarantula a couple of years ago her roommates complained about.”

  Tin’s mouth drops open. “Jeri Deane, are you making this up?”

  I chuckle at his response. “I wish I was. There’s more, too, but I’ll save it for later. Tell me what else you got.”

  “I found out something interesting on Whitey,” Tin Foot offers, with hesitation.

  “Oh?” My eyebrows shoot up.

  “Did you know he graduated college? Went to some fancy university.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  It was unusual for someone in the circus to have a higher education, unless you were in a position like Tony’s. Most employees are high school dropouts, if they even get that far. Almost no one I know has been to college. Certainly no one in my family ever has. I’m intrigued.

  “What college?”

  “Northwestern University. Has a Bachelors in Business Administration.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I get up, wipe the perspiration from my forehead, and go out to the larger trailer next door. Knocking, I barge right in. Tony is writing in his ledger but puts it aside when he sees me.

  “Didn’t you graduate from Northwestern, Tony, same as Whitey?”

  “Yes, Whitey and I were there at the same time.” He closes his ledger book and folds his hands on top of it, but says no more.

  “So, you know him from before? And a long time.”

  “Yes, I know him.” There is silence.

  I sit down across from him. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what? My knowing Whitey outside the circus doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “But why so quiet about it, Tony?” I ask. “This is something you should have mentioned to me.”

  He pushes back in his chair and sighs. “Okay, I’ve known Whitey since high school. We ran around with some of the same kids back in Grand Rapids. Even though he doesn’t come from a moneyed family like mine, he managed to get a track scholarship and scrape enough money together to go to Northwestern, where we both were accepted. That’s about it.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “Friends enough.” He reopens the ledger, feigning immersion in it.

  I don’t let go. “I never see you together. So what are you not telling me?”

  His voice takes on a casual air, a little too casual for my liking. “Nothing, Jeri. He’s a nice guy. He’s busy with his elephants. I’m busy running a circus. We’ve had beers together from time to time. He’s a nice guy,” he repeats. “I hear he’s got a thing for you. You could do a lot worse.”

  “Don’t change the subject. What’s he doing here? I’m assuming he’s 4-F or he’d be in the army. But being that he isn’t, a man with a business degree from a prestigious university could get a job just about anywhere. Right?”

  Tony puts down the ledger and looks at me with annoyance.

  “As to why he’s here, you’ll have to ask him that. As to why he’s not serving, he’s got flat feet.”

  “You need two good ones, I know that,” I say, thinking of Tin Foot. I study Tony’s face for a second. “So what’s your story, Tony? Why aren’t you in the army?”

  “Heart murmur.” He smiles at me. “Sometimes it’s the small things that get you.”

  “And that’s why I’m always looking at the small things.” I stare at him and he returns the gaze, unblinking.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  6:45 p.m., Monday
/>
  Odds are Henry, aka the Bard, is probably inside the large Clown Tent right about now. With all the makeup, costumes, shoes and hats the clowns have to deal with, prep time usually takes them longer than other performers. After a matinee a lot of the men don’t remove their makeup, not only to save time for the evening performance but also to stretch their greasepaint dollar. It’s good on the pocketbook but hard on the face. A lot of these clowns have skin that looks like the surface of the moon after years of this practice.

  When I approach the entrance, I hear angry words inside between two or three men, one of them sounding like it could be Henry, British accent and all. Instead of doing my usual announcement of “knock, knock,” I pause and wait. You never know what useful tidbit you might overhear.

  Just then the flap is pushed open and a thin, tall clown comes out and bumps into me. His wig and makeup aren’t on yet, but his green and black checkered pants hang by red suspenders over a bright yellow shirt. After a look of surprise, he recognizes me and I, him. Jimmy, the String, is his name and he’s a nice guy whose only vice seems to be playing the ponies and eating cotton candy.

  “Well, hello there, Jeri.” He has a nice smile, the String, and I like him. String is one of the few clowns I know who socializes with other performers outside his group. “I’m off to collect money for Eddie’s funeral. Something to help out the family. Interested?”

  “Sure, String.” I reach into my slacks pocket and pull out two singles. “Here you go.”

  “Cripes,” he says, taking the cash from my outstretched hand. “I wish everybody’d give that much. The most I can get

  from these guys is fifty cents apiece.” He turns and shouts back to the tent. “And some cheap bastard’s won’t give one thin dime.”

  “Oh, shut up, you skinny, Nancy boy,” comes a bass profundo reply. I smile up at the lanky clown who winks down at me in amusement.

  “I came to see the Bard, String. Was that him?”

  “The very tightwad.” He opens the flap and sticks his head inside. “Henry, you’ve got company. Zip up your flies, gentlemen, lady coming through.” String winks again and takes off.

  I go inside, closing the flap behind me. There are about fifteen men in various stages of dress. Outlandish hats, shoes and costumes, in garish patterns of stripes, flowers, plaid and so forth, are strewn about over chairs, tables and the tops of wardrobe racks. If the Wardrobe supervisor sees this display, she’ll have a fit. She likes things hung nice and neat.

  I spot the small clown named Henry in a corner, meticulously applying makeup at his vanity mirror. Beside him sits a large tin of lard-based makeup remover. I can’t get any for love nor money, and haven’t even seen any in over a year. I make a mental note to ask him where he got it, if we wind up being on the friendly side.

  “Hi, Henry.” He looks me up and down, with black eyebrows painted on in a half circle over his eyes. “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

  “You are the famous Jerull Deane, are you not? The wench whose Balendron bag of tricks is bandied about by the press?” For a little man, his voice is low, almost unnaturally so, and his British accent resonates off the canvas walls.

  “I think Zolina has been getting most of the press, but I’ve gotten a line here or there. Nice of you to notice.”

  He lets out a snort. “What choice do I have? Your picture is everywhere and in every town. The face that

  launched a thousand snaps.” Another man’s reference to Helen of Troy, but not quite so nice.

  “There’s a clever play on words,” I say, smiling. “Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

  “Christopher Marlowe,” he replies in an acid tone. “Now what do you want? I am otherwise engaged. So if it’s idle chit-chat, be gone. There’s a good lass,” he says, turning back to his mirror and dabbing paint from various jars on his chin and forehead. Bright yellow, red and black colors begin to appear from practiced hands in a pattern, de-emphasizing a round and chinless face, short on appeal but long on peevishness.

  “Gee, most people who meet me for the first time aren’t quite so hostile. They have to know me for a while.”

  He doesn’t laugh. “I repeat, what do you want?”

  I look around the room. Five men have gathered around a card table at the other end of the tent, playing Seven Card Stud. Others are concentrating on their makeup or have left. One nearby clown, in full makeup and costume, looks engrossed in a magazine. I walk over and sit down on a trunk by Henry’s side, leaning in to him. Surprised by my forwardness, Henry turns and faces me, spreading more goop on his cheeks in a circular fashion.

  “I thought we could talk a little about Eddie Connors,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  His hand freezes mid-circle. He looks away and back into the mirror. “‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, they kill us for their sport.’ That was Shakespeare. King Lear. I have nothing to say about that deceitful boy, Edward Connors. Go away.”

  I stay right where I am. “I’ll bet you’ve got plenty to say. I understand you were one of his first friends in the circus, Henry. I’ll bet his death hit you hard.”

  Henry slams his hand down on his vanity table and members of the card game pause from across the tent and glance our way. Henry and I glare at one another without

  moving. Shrugging, the players go back to their game. The clown reading the magazine turns a page, but I can sense him straining to hear our words.

  “Surely you jest.” Henry almost snarls, leaning into me and searching my face. I continue to stare at him. “No, I can see you jesteth not. Get thee to a nunnery, Jerull Deane, and good riddance to you.” He picks up a brush and begins to do the finer work on his makeup.

  I lean over and whisper in his ear, “Henry, don’t think because you’re being obnoxious to me that I’m going to go away. It doesn’t work like that. Basically, you can talk to me or I’ll point some big guns in your direction who might come after you, especially if I tell them to. They might not be as understanding or sweet natured as me.”

  “What ‘big guns?’” he asks, giving me his full attention. “What are you talking about?”

  “Everybody wants to know who killed Eddie: the local sheriff, the owners of the circus, maybe even the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. And you, my friend, have got motive in spades. There’s that charming little letter from Eddie in your file, for starters. So if I were you, I’d talk to me. And if you give me the right answers, your part in this might be over with sooner rather than later.”

  Henry throws down his brush in disgust and studies me. “Very well. ‘I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at.’ What do you want to know? I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “What was the big fight about? The one noted in your file?”

  “Edward Connors was an ungrateful, spoiled brat,” he says between clenched teeth but enunciating carefully. He turns to me, his whole body radiating self-righteousness fury.

  “I was the first friend he had here. Not one of the first but the first! I taught him everything. How to walk, talk, act, even gave him his face. You know, these faces don’t come free! You have to create one or buy one. Everyone’s is

  different, unique. It’s your trademark. None of the clowns have the same face. You must have noticed that.”

  I haven’t, but decide not to mention it. Henry, just warming up, prattles on.

  “See this star over here?” He points to a spot above his left cheek, where a large, red star lives. “That cost me one hundred dollars. One hundred! A gentleman in the Sparks Circus was using it and I had to pay him to stop, so it could be exclusively mine.”

  “Very nice but let’s get back to Eddie. The argument.”

  “Very well,” he says, applying glue to the perimeter of the hairline around his face. “I had advanced him money to buy supplies for his clown outfit, in the amount of twenty dollars. He’d already owed me twenty-five from a time when I was foolish enough to play cards with him and take his IOU. Anyway, I demanded the m
oney’s return in toto and, bold as brass, he said he couldn’t pay me back; he needed all his money for his future. Well, one word led to another and if some of the boys hadn’t been here, it might have led to fisticuffs.”

  “As I understand it, it did lead to fisticuffs. Vince and some of the boys had to pull you off of him. At least that’s what it says in the file.”

  “Grievous exaggeration, madam, grievous.”

  The Bard’s hand is shaking so much, he spreads glue too far down on his forehead. He snatches another cloth and wipes at the sticky stuff. A hot pink wig dangling from the side of his mirror is next. He slaps it on top of his head, lines it up with the streak of glue, and seals the hold by pressing down with one of the many clean rags lying in a bucket by his side. I watch him in silence.

  “I showed the lad every single trick of the trade,” Henry mutters. “Things it took me years to learn, I handed to him on a silver platter. And what was my reward? ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is it to have a thankless child.’”

  He flings the cloth down on the table, knocking over several tubes of greasepaint. Behind them rests a small brass ring of keys. Henry fights for control and picks up the tubes, carefully lining them back up against the mirror with trembling fingers.

  “I’ll bet that made you plenty mad, Henry. I know it would me,” I say, egging him on. I like him better with less control. He’s libel to say more.

  The Bard drops his grander speech pattern and lapses into a cockney accent.

  “The little bastard spread lies about me to management, vicious, ‘orrible lies. He wrote them a letter saying awful things about me.”

  “Like what? What lies?”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me,” he growls, turning his attention back to me. “You know. You read the letter, ducky, or you wouldn’t be ‘ere.”

  The nearby reader drops the magazine on the floor, gets up and leaves without a backward glance. While Henry watches him exit the tent. I lean in and palm the keys.