Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  “What was the verdict?”

  “I was convicted of accidental manslaughter, extenuating circumstances, suspended sentence. But it was noted on my record because I’d just turned eighteen. It didn’t affect me getting into college. I’d already been accepted. But afterwards, I wanted to be a veterinarian, work with animals. That’s all I wanted. Most of the vet schools closed during the depression and the ones that were left had the luxury of scrutinizing a person’s character more carefully. Once they got a load of my felony record, there wasn’t one that would touch me.”

  “So Tony gave you a job here, working with the elephants? Or did you blackmail him into it?”

  He gives me a quick glance, then returns to his grass. “I guess I deserved that, but no. A year or two after we graduated, he found out I was drifting, working here and there in small zoos, so he offered me a job. They needed an elephant handler and I needed a purpose.” Whitey lets out a small, knowing laugh.

  “I’ve worked my way up and now I’m the head bull man. But I did it on my own, I swear to you. Tony’s not a bad guy, Jeri. I’d like to think I’m not, either. It’s just that we can’t look at each other and not remember. So we keep our distance when we can, if that makes sense.”

  “Tony told me he always took the easy way out,” I say. “But I don’t see that in you.”

  “Thanks. I guess we both took what we thought was the easier way. It wasn’t, though. You think a lot of things when you’re eighteen that don’t turn out to be true.”

  I rest my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Whitey.”

  “What happens now?” he asks. He stands up, facing me, ready for whatever blow I might deliver.

  I have none to deal him. “Nothing. I just needed to know. As far as I’m concerned, you never said anything; we never had this conversation. You have my word on that.”

  He shakes his head. “But we did have this conversation, Jeri. And this is going to stand between us. I’ve fallen in love with you, Jeri. I may as well confess that while I’m confessing everything else.” He lets out a hollow laugh. “Who did I think I was kidding, a girl like you could care for me? But I am sorry I’m not the man you thought I was. I’ll leave you alone from now on.”

  I reach out, but he backs up. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  He turns and starts to walk away. I watch his back for a split-second, a guilt burning inside, always the guilt. He deserves to know. And if I let him leave like this, anything we might have would go away with him. I don’t want that.

  “Maybe I’m not the girl you think I am, Whitey,” I say, louder than I mean to. I drop the volume of my voice and go on. “I wonder if you’d still care for me if you knew my truth. What I’ve done.”

  He turns back to me. I can’t see his face, really, but his stance is one of hesitation and puzzlement.“What could you have done, Jeri? You’re such a good, little Italian girl,” he jokes. I don’t smile.

  “You have no idea, Whitey,” I pause then start talking into the dark night, in a monotone voice I almost don’t recognize as my own. “A little over two years ago I was doing undercover work for the Brinks Detective Agency in a bank in Brooklyn, one of ten branches. They’d had a series of

  robberies, four in less than two months. A security guard had been killed, plus two customer injuries. The bank president began to suspect that in each case, it was an inside job, so he

  came to Brinks. Six of us posed as tellers in the banks that hadn’t been struck yet. I’d only been there for two weeks when one day I noticed the head teller, a pompous, self-important man, was acting nervous, almost apprehensive. I knew something was up, so I managed to stick close to him most of the day.

  “Right around closing time, three men came in, tough looking characters, and I saw my mark go to the cage that held the security alarm and stand in front of it, blocking any access.

  I had just positioned myself behind him when the three men overpowered the security guard, drew their guns and told everyone to drop to the floor. I should have done that. I should have dropped to the floor, just like everybody else in the bank did but no, I was cocky, full of myself, going to save the world.”

  I shut up and stare out into the endless dark night.

  Whitey reaches out and takes my hand, whisper soft. “What happened?” he says, prodding me on.

  “I threw myself in between the head teller and the cage, trying to get to the alarm for the police. I didn’t know the man had a pistol hidden there. I didn’t know that.” I let out a sob. “I saw him panic and reach for the gun. I tried to get there first. We struggled. The gun went off and a little boy, a little four-year old boy, lying on the floor on the other side of the counter next to his mother, got shot in the head. He was killed instantly. The teller was so shocked, he dropped the gun and froze. The three men got away but were captured the next day. I’ll never forget that mother’s screams. They haunt me every day.”

  “Oh, Jeri.” Whitey strokes my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  “If I hadn’t gone for the alarm or tried to get to the gun first…” I break off.

  “What did the police say? And Brinks, what did they say?”

  I pull free from his touch and wipe at my wet face. “Oh, the gun was in his hand when it fired, I was just doing my job, it was an unfortunate occurrence, stuff like that. All words. I was offered a month’s leave with pay, which I didn’t take. I never went back.” I finally look at Whitey, who steps closer.

  “Don’t you see? The gun wouldn’t have gone off if I hadn’t fought the man for it. If I had just lain down on the

  floor like everybody else then that little boy would still be alive.”

  “Maybe. Bank robbers are known to be pretty ruthless,” he replies. “You said they had already killed a security guard.”

  “Whitey, I made the wrong choice, and because of my choice, a child is dead. That’s a fact.”

  We are both silent.

  “I’m sorry you carry such a burden,” he finally utters. “I know how tough that can be.”

  “You’re never free.” My words are carried away on the wind.

  “No, you’re not.” His words stay put.

  We are silent after that. I can feel the night breeze on my damp cheeks.

  “I still love you, Jeri. No matter what you’ve done. Or think you’ve done. It doesn’t change a thing.”

  I half-sob, half-exhale and say, “I’m glad.”

  Whitey reaches out. I go into his arms and for one small moment, feel peace. I lift up my head and look into his face, partially lit by the moon, partially hidden by the night. His lips find mine and it's a kiss I've never experienced before, filled with passion, yet as comfortable and timeless as the stars themselves.

  I break free and cup his cheek with my hand. “Whitey, I have to go.”

  “Not yet, not yet,” he whispers, trying to pull me back into his arms.

  “Yes, now. Time’s running out and I’ve got to get back to those files. Just me. You’ll only be a distraction. Please understand, my darling. This is something I have to do.”

  “I understand more than you know.”

  “To be continued?”

  I sense his agreement as he takes my hand from his cheek, and gently kisses my upturned palm. Wordless, Whitey turns away, staring up into the immensity of space.

  I walk toward the Big Top, leaving him to the stars.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  11:00 p.m., Monday

  Everywhere I hear people searching for Rosie. I can’t stop my eyes from flitting into murky corners and gloomy areas, looking for any movement, as I pass on my way to Vince’s office. I’m nervous. Until Rosie is found, that’s how I’ll be.

  I return to Vince’s office to immerse myself in the files once more. Picking up Rosie’s again, I mull it over. The seeming normalcy of it, outside of her penchant for dangerous, small animals, is eye-catching: She’d been a Brownie in grade school and a
cheerleader in high school, living with her mother, father, sisters, brother, and grandparents together in one large house in Evanston, PA.

  Vince scribbled the words ‘close-knit family’ followed by a question mark on a newspaper clipping from an Evanston local rag. There was also an empty envelope addressed to her, with the Napa State Asylum for the Insane as the return address. On the back flap, Vince wrote the word ‘uncle.’

  This brings some questions to my mind, mostly about Vince. Where did he get the envelope? Why has he saved it? How did he find out about the uncle? I’m thinking blackmail, but there might be more to it. Whatever the answer is, Vince is in the next town with Advance. It’ll have to wait.

  I give in to my curiosity, go to the file drawer and pull out the files of Margie, Doris, Doc, and Tin Foot plus my own. I start with mine.

  It contains several newspaper reviews mentioning me, with my name underlined. There are six or seven recent photos, plus notes. “Smart cookie,” “talented newcomer” and “something in her past” are neatly written on the back of certain clippings. He’s also noted I rarely get mail and seem to be estranged from my family. One small scribble, reading like an afterthought, is that I seem to keep men at a distance, as if I don’t trust them, with the exception of Doc, Tin Foot and until recently, Whitey. I fight to keep his observations purely on a professional level, trying to look at how they can best be used for the job. It’s hard. Say what I will about Vince, he has an uncanny knack for painting a realistic picture of a person with a few well-chosen words.

  Tin Foot is “honest and trustworthy like a Boy Scout” and “likes to whittle.” One small time newspaper article mentions how his family almost lost their dairy farm to back taxes a few years back. Not that it’s any of my business, but I didn’t know Tin sends part of his paycheck home every week. Apparently, Vince does.

  He writes that Doc is “tender hearted” and “skilled with his hands, even does calligraphy.” Vince’s notes confirm something for me. Several years back, Doc was asked to leave Mount Sinai Hospital due to a drinking problem. I’m surprised to learn Doc won a Distinguished Medal of Honor in nineteen-eighteen for rescuing twenty-three kids from a burning orphanage in the south of France. But when I reflect on it, it seems perfectly in character.

  He doesn’t have much to say about Doris, other than she’s romantically linked with Tony. He remarks she reminds him of one and a half Betty Grables, and has compiled nearly every photo taken of her since she was a teenager.

  The words “hussy” and “snooty” are in Margie’s file and a big ‘x’ is scrawled across the only 8 x 10 headshot photo of her. I remember he made a play for her once and she turned him down flat. She turns down a lot more men than she takes on, despite her reputation. She likes her reputation; it’s colorful and for her, freeing.

  I put my friends’ files aside and tackle the others in the drawer, not completely sure what I’m looking for, but there’s a lot here. All in all, Vince would have made a perfect desk jockey for Brinks. His files are neat and orderly, almost to the point of obsessive. He’s overlooked nothing. Newspaper clippings, brochures, and other types of documents cram each folder, probably taking months to assemble. Every member of the circus, whether performer or staff, are here, complete with small details and his observations. Putting aside his personal insights, I learn tidbits here and there.

  It’s like Vince is my own private investigator, if I can trust his reliability. There is that. If nothing else, his point of view is eye opening. I can only imagine how Vince feels, knowing someone else is pouring over his private assessments of us circus folk. It’s almost as if these files are Vince’s private diary.

  That thought brings me back to Catalena’s diary, resting in the small bag at my waist. I push the book out of my mind for later, thinking this time to start at the beginning of it. I continue reading files trying to overlook nothing. Hours go by.

  Somewhere between one-thirty and two in the morning I finish and remove Catalena’s diary from my bag. I’m so tired I can hardly see straight. I’m not looking forward to trying to decipher the journal again. I get up and stretch cramped muscles. Deciding to make myself a cup of tea, I carry the small red diary with me into the microscopic kitchen.

  While waiting for the water in the kettle to heat, I sit down at Vince’s dilapidated kitchen table and open to the first

  page of the calendar-style, yearly diary. The date January 1, nineteen forty-two is stamped in the upper right hand corner.

  The writer is given two blank entry pages per day and Catalena’s writing fills them all. Initially, I believe I've gotten used to her handwriting or absorbed more Romanian than I

  think. I seem to be able to make out words and phrases easier. But I realize my fatigue is making me slow on the uptake.

  The beginning shows a normal, young girl on the brink of womanhood. Catalena was more open and free in her life at that time and it’s reflected in her penmanship. From what I am able to tell, the next fifty or so pages contain random thoughts and impressions of her new life in the states. Little snippets come through to me about missing her mother, feelings about the Big Top and its people. It’s all part of a teenager who’s made a big change in her life. Then for two weeks at the beginning of March the pages are blank. When the writing continues, it’s cramped and almost unintelligible throughout the remainder of the book.

  Before and after the blank pages she’s a faithful writer. What happened in those two weeks?

  I concentrate on the first section of stilted writing in the last of March and the beginning of April. That part seems to be hardly more than a spasm of words, cross outs and scratches. I read and reread, write down different spellings of certain words, say them out loud, change the order of words, hoping to make sense of them.

  When it comes to me, the book falls from my hand. I stand up with a jerk, knocking over the small, Formica table. I don’t hear the whistle of the kettle, dry from blasting its head off for over ten minutes or pay attention to the acrid smell of melting metal assaulting my nostrils. Crossing to the stove, I turn off the burner, and set the kettle in the sink, all the while trying to absorb what I’ve learned, as unfathomable and ugly as it is. I snatch the book from the floor and run out into the night, heading for Tony’s car.

  One of those sudden summer storms is upon us. Dark clouds obliterate most of the moon’s light and only a few stars are able to break through the murk. Lightning flashes in the

  distance and wind howls. Gusts burst around tent posts and wagons, creating violent, eerie sounds in the dark night. I hear

  a short, muted cry and muffled voices from somewhere nearby. But they blend in with the groans and creaks of the canvas and rigging and the plaintive cries of anxious animals.

  I stop short, trying to figure out which direction the disturbance came from. Whipped up brochures, programs and scraps of paper not yet taken away by the clean-up crew wrap around my legs like the tentacles of an octopus. I begin to wonder if all I heard was the storm and animals, no human cry or voices.

  I hesitate. Should I follow the train or head back to the mystifying noises? Close by I hear the sound of two roustabouts yelling to one another, lowering the awnings on the animals’ wagons. Only their moving flashlights indicate where they are. Was that what I heard?

  I turn and race toward the end of the railroad cars, tripping over stones and uneven patches of earth, almost feeling my way down the train. When I get to Tony’s private car, I pound on the door, trying to be heard above the blustery weather.

  After a few seconds, the door flies open and Tony stands there, dishevelled and half-asleep in his pajamas, holding a robe in his hands. The door rips from his hand, like it has a life of its own, and pounds against the side of the train keeping rhythm with the wind.

  “Oh, God, what’s happened now?” Tony falters, his face ashen and hair blowing wildly.

  “Get inside,” I say, pushing him back into his suite. “I can’t talk to you out here.” We
struggle to pull the door closed against the wind.

  “Jesus,” he says, windblown and frightened. “What is it?”

  “Get me your gun,” I say. “We need to find Constantin. We need to stop him. He killed Eddie and he’s a dangerous man.”

  “What?”

  “Now! Get it now!” I scream in his face. Tony stumbles toward the bedroom and comes back a second later with the small pistol he offered me a couple of days ago.

  “Is it still loaded?” I ask.

  “Yes, but what…”

  “Come with me.” I seize the gun from his hand and turn to the door. Before I go, I point to a large, red flashlight lying on a table by the door. “And bring that light.”

  He grabs it and we go out into the crying wind. I jog up the length of the cars, followed by Tony. I stop suddenly and Tony bangs into me.

  “I’m not sure…” I mutter, breaking off mid-sentence. Even with the wailing wind, Tony knows I said something.

  “What?” he shouts at me.

  “Where to go,” I shout back. “Where to go first? We’ll try the compartment; that’s my best guess.” I begin to run.

  “What are we looking for?” Tony hollers, trying to keep up.

  I stop short at compartment C and start counting the windows. “It should be here.” I shine the light on the glass pane, but all I see is black; the curtains are closed.

  I take the steps two at a time, with Tony close behind, run to compartment fifteen, and bang on the door. No answer. With trembling hands, I put in the pass key. Empty. I try the adjacent door to Ioana’s room. The door opens easily but that compartment is empty, too.

  I turn to Tony. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “His tent.”

  “At this hour?”

  “I’ve got a feeling,” I say. “That might be what I heard. That might be…” I rush out of the car and toward the