Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  “But as for you, my sweet Jeri, I seem to have put you in a bit of a pickle. What are you going to do?” It’s as if he’s talking about something as mundane as not paying a parking ticket.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. I raise my arms in supplication, then drop them by my side. “I don’t know what to do. I need to think.”

  “I understand,” he says, nodding his head. “Meanwhile, let’s finish taking care of those hands, shall we?” Doc smiles, using his professional voice. “You can think while I wrap them.” He becomes very chatty, while I sit only half-listening.

  “We have to make sure none of these abrasions get infected. You know, they have this new medicine called penicillin used to fight infection. They’ve started manufacturing it in large quantities for our boys at war. I’d hoped to get my hands on some of it for use around here.” He laughs softly. “I’ll try to get some before I leave.”

  I watch him bend over the palms of my hands, move my fingers and thumbs before he wraps my right hand. His touch is gentle, with never an unnecessary movement.

  “You say you look on me as the daughter you’ve always wanted. Well, you’ve been the father I’ve always dreamed of having.” My voice sounds young and detached.

  “I know.” He doesn’t look up. “I didn’t intend to put you in the position of wondering whether you should turn me in or let the good Lord take care of me. It’s a tough choice for someone like you to make; you have such a strong, moral fiber. It was easier for me. My moral fiber disintegrated a long time ago.” His eyes meet mine. “I’d like it if you understood just a little. I hoped to keep you out of it. But sometimes you can be too smart for your own good.” He smiles and kisses me on the forehead. I pull back. He wears a look of surprise.

  “Tell me what happened last night,” I demand.

  “Let it go, Jeri.”

  “Tell me. I need to know.”

  He finishes wrapping my hand before he speaks. As he starts on the other one, he says, “You’re right about most of it. He’d come to Ioana’s room last night, a drunken animal, carrying the Bible and chanting about who begat whom, covered her mouth with his hand and then, quite simply, tried

  to rape her. She broke free, screamed and there was a pounding on the wall by the next compartment. She managed to get out the door while Constantin was distracted by them. She ran to the first place she thought of, their tent, and hid. He showed up and tore the place apart looking for her, while she cowered behind boxes. When he found her, she pushed some boxes over on him and fled, then came here looking for me. She knows I’m usually here, working on files. I’ve been getting them in order for my demise.” He allows himself a faint smile, then continues.

  “While she was telling me all of this, not fully comprehending what she was saying, I knew what I had to do. I gave her a sedative, waited for it to take effect, then took my service revolver from the bottom drawer.” He looks at me with shame. “I keep it nearby because sometimes I toy with putting the gun to my head and --”

  I wince.

  “Sorry. That’s neither here nor there. My plan was to shoot him outright and be done with it. There were no thoughts of making it look like suicide until later. The first place I looked for him was where Ioana left him, their tent. I went inside and there he was dead drunk, sound asleep on the floor. He woke up and lunged at me before I could get the revolver out of my pocket. We struggled. He was a strong bugger and I’m not in the best of shape. He threw me to the ground. Then he seized one of his knives lying on the counter and came at me, all the while ranting in broken English that I couldn’t have her, she was his, he had killed before and would do it again. He tripped, fell down by the trunk and dropped

  the knife. That’s when he screamed, out of anger or being thwarted; I don’t know. Anyway, I picked the knife up right as he threw himself at me again. Before I knew what happened, the knife plunged into his chest, I’m sure, piercing his heart. He was dead before he hit the floor.”

  “So it was self-defence,” I say quickly.

  Doc reaches over, sips his whiskey and sets down the bottle. “You’re clutching at straws, my dear. I went there to kill him, did so, and don’t give a tinker’s damn about it. He didn’t deserve to live.”

  I try to absorb Doc’s point of view. Do I share it or a part of it somewhere deep inside me? Spoken aloud, it seems callous, more judgmental than one person has a right to be.

  “It came to me afterward.” Doc says, “If I made it look like suicide, it might be better. No one had to know the shameful things he’d done. It might be better for Ioana. I could watch out for her until she got settled in her new life. I looked around for something to write on but there wasn’t anything. Then I remembered I had my notebook in my pocket, as usual, for one of my many obsessive thoughts. Several of his posters were around, so I imitated his handwriting as best I could. I’m pretty good at it, as you say. It didn’t occur to me that he probably would have written it in Romanian. Not that it made any difference. I don’t know any Romanian. I didn’t think about the blood on the note or my pants, either. I guess I’m a better doctor than a killer.” He lets out a small, ironic laugh.

  “Where is the notebook now? Do you still have it?”

  “I threw it in one of the trash bins last night. The cover was spackled with his blood.”

  “They do a trash pick-up and burn every day,” I say, thinking out loud. “It was probably incinerated sometime this morning.”

  “I guess so.” He rises, looking at my hands and legs appraisingly. “We’re finished for now.”

  I stand up and face him. “I can’t condone what you’ve done, Doc. You killed a man and tried to cover it up.”

  “I know.” He pauses. “I excuse none of it. You must do what your heart dictates, my dear Jeri. I accept that. Whatever you decide, I’ll abide by.”

  Done with the conversation, he begins to clean up the examining table and throw away the soiled bandages. Doc seems oblivious to my presence. I make my way to the exit, listening to him straighten up the small room.

  Tony hired me to find the killer of Eddie the Clown. I did that. My part in this nightmare is over.

  Or is it? Doc became Constantin’s judge, jury and executioner. If I say nothing, he’ll go scot free, the killer of another human being. But if I turn Doc in, am I being his judge, jury and executioner?

  Even though Doc seems content, even blasé, about me determining his fate, I hesitate in the doorway, reluctant to leave, reluctant to leave it like this. But that’s just what I do; I leave it like this.

  Chapter Thirty

  8:00 a.m., Wednesday, July 8th

  I toss and turn much of the night, but fall into a heavy sleep around four. When I finally open my eyes, both Doris and Margie are staring at me. Both so tall, they don’t need to stand on the lower bunk to look into my upper.

  “Hey there, Toots,” Margie says, batting her green eyes and turning her head from side to side, tossing her golden hair every which way.

  “Are you, as the Northerners say, up and at them, Sugar?” asks Doris, waving at me with graceful hands tipped in red lacquered fingernails.

  “Hay is for horses, Margie. That’s what Lillian says,” I reply, forcing a smile and swinging my legs over the side of the bunk. “And I’m up, Doris, but I don’t know how at ‘em I am.”

  Doris laughs. “I’ll help you down.” She can’t decide what part of my body is undamaged enough for her to touch and makes a grab at my waist.

  “Wait, wait,” I say, getting thrown off balance. If I fall on her, it won’t do either of us any good.

  “I can do this myself. I’ve done it before.” I roll over, feel for the lower bunk with my foot and hop down. It’s a lot easier to do than yesterday. I glance around. Except for the three of us, the car is empty.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Rehearsals, hon, all except the showgirls. We’re due at nine-thirty call,” says Doris.

  Margie jumps in. “They have to show th
e new girl what Hot Stuff does around here. That’s you, Toots. They’ve cut a

  lot, too, until you get back in the swing of things. Jesus, you do a lot in this show. Who knew?”

  “Well, me for one,” I chirp.

  “We should have been suspicious,” adds Doris, looking at Margie. “With all those costumes she totes around.”

  Margie becomes serious. “Listen. Speaking of being suspicious, I want to apologize to both of you for defending Constantin the way I did. I never thought--”

  “Oh, hush up,” Doris says, fluttering her hand in Margie’s face. “None of us did. Besides, Sugar, if every man in the South strangled the boy who got his daughter pregnant, there would be no weddings at all, shotgun or otherwise.”

  She and Margie whoop with laughter. I join in, but feel guilty for keeping the truth from them. The baby wasn’t Eddie’s but Constantin’s. I’m not sure if anybody besides Doc and me will ever know that, so I laugh loud and long, in defense of it all.

  “Oh, God, you are such a hoot, Doris,” Margie says, wiping the corners of her perfectly made up eyes. “No wonder we keep you around.”

  We sober up and look at each other.

  “It’s all so sad, though, isn’t it?” Margie's voice is soft and honest. It packs all levels of truth in its simplicity. I can only nod. Doris looks away, eyes glistening.

  “Let’s not dwell on the past, ladies,” says Doris, after a moment. “As my mama says, nothing can be done about it and it can only drag you down.”

  “Besides, we need to fill Jeri in on what’s happening right now. I’ll start,” says Margie, clearing her throat in a pompous way. “Now that Rosie has proven herself a total nut job, I got my job back. You’re looking at your new/old Section Captain. No applause, girls. Your turn,” she says, turning to Doris with a bow.

  “All right,” Doris drawls, fluffing her shoulder length, platinum hair, which is being worn down today. “Tony is in

  town signing a contract with the town council. They’re going to keep the show here for another week. And he’s being backed by the sheriff.”

  “You’re kidding,” I manage to say.

  “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

  “That sounds gruesome,” I say. “What did I miss?”

  Margie takes over. “Seems this burg hasn’t been so razzle-dazzled since they put indoor plumbing in at City Hall.”

  “What Margie is trying to say and I will put it into plain Southern English,” Doris drawls, “is people are flocking from miles around to see the circus and spending a lot of money in their town, too. Tony told me the merchants have never had it so good.”

  “You and Tony seem to be having a lot of conversations for a man you’re not talking to,” I tease.

  She grins and winks at me. “Well, he’s not off the hook yet, not by a mile, but he’s trying to make amends. He wants to buy me a present. I’m thinking of a Blackglama mink coat or maybe sable.”

  “Just what you need in Florida,” I remark.

  “You and your skins, Doris. Give me rocks, anytime,” said Margie, flashing a diamond ring somebody or other gave her. She looks at her wristwatch. “Gals, I’m on the move. Got to hitch a ride before rehearsal to Five Points. I need an Ameche.”

  “What’s an Ameche?” I ask.

  Margie looks at me with a combination of amusement and annoyance. “You never head the telephone is called an Ameche? Sometimes I think you girls live under a rock.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Because Don Ameche played Alexander Graham Bell in that movie.”

  “Bingo! Give the girl a cigar.”

  “Make it a Tootsie Roll and it’s a deal. So why the phone call?”

  Margie loses her glowing smile. “I got a letter from my father yesterday. My seventeen-year old cuz wants to join the army. That’s all we need, another Jew boy in Germany. He’s an idiot but he looks up to me, so maybe he’ll listen.”

  “Everyone looks up to you,” I say. “You’re six foot two.”

  Margie gives me a mock glare. She snatches the cloche from the top of her bunk, plops it on her head, and grabs her purse.

  “Anyway, I need to go burn the wires. I’ll be back in time for rehearsal.” She throws a “ta, ta” back over her shoulders and heads for the door.

  “Good luck,” I shout as it slams behind her.

  “Come on,” Doris says, putting her arm around my shoulder and pushing me forward. “I promised Lillian I would make you some tea before I left. I’ve never made tea before, so you’ll have to be a mite forgiving.”

  I navigate the narrow hallway and try to avoid hitting anything harder than a mattress. I follow Doris to Lillian’s makeshift kitchen. Each step feels a little easier to take. Maybe it is only a matter of time.

  Surveying this former storage closet, it’s hard to believe Lillian can coax the succulent things she serves us from using merely a dilapidated hotplate and miniscule refrigerator. Doris reaches out to the small sink, pours water into the kettle, sets it on the well scrubbed but banged up hotplate and plugs in the slightly frayed cord. I make a mental note to get Lillian a new hotplate for Christmas.

  “Where is she?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe with my hip.

  “She’s getting Duane settled in Whitey’s compartment. When Whitey heard some of the boys here didn’t want to

  share their quarters with a Negro, he said he’d open one of the berths in his compartment for Duane to use until the boy has to go back to barracks. And he said if anybody doesn’t like it, they can take it up with Emma. Whitey usually bunks alone and there are three unused bunks in there. But maybe you already know that?”

  “You’re fishing, Doris,” I say. “I’ve never seen the inside of his compartment.”

  “Maybe when you’re feeling better?” She smiles at me, revealing perfectly formed, white teeth. “It’s a shame to let all those bunks go to waste.”

  I start to laugh and can’t stop.

  “What did I say, honey lamb? It wasn’t that funny.”

  “Never mind, Doris. I’ve just got the giggles.”

  “Now you sit down over there, Sugar, and let me make you some tea. There isn’t enough room for more than one person to move around in here, even when they know what they’re doing.”

  I sit down at Lillian’s table and watch the mile-high blonde go about the domesticity of making tea just like any other woman. Never thought she had it in her.

  “You know, he is a wonderful man,” she says suddenly. Holding two white cups in her hand, she turns to me.

  “Duane?” I ask, deliberately misunderstanding her. I love putting Doris on.

  “Whitey. He’s a wonderful man, not that I’m interested. I’ve got Tony, if he behaves himself. But if I didn’t, ‘my, oh, my, what sparks would fly,’ as my mama would say.” Doris puts the cups down on the table with a bang and looks at me. “You think about that.”

  “I have thought about that. And you’re right. Whitey is a wonderful man. I think he just might be the one for me.”

  Doris’ eyes open wide and she bats mascara covered eyelashes at me. “Well! It’s high time someone paid some

  attention to what I say. Tea’s almost ready. Now where’s that teapot got to?” For fifteen minutes Doris dithers in the small kitchen getting the tea made.

  She sits down across from me and exhales enough air to have run up a flight of stairs. “How are you doing, Jeri? Really now, among best friends?”

  I feel tears rush to my eyes. Doris leans across the table and strokes my shoulder but doesn’t say anything. We sit like that for a full minute, me fighting for control, Doris stroking my shoulder.

  Finally, I say, “I’ve got a lot on my mind, Doris. And I don’t know what to do about… something.”

  She doesn’t ask me any more questions but stands and looks down at me. “You take your time thinking, then. It will come to you. It always does. And you’ll do the right thing. You always do. But let’s go brush your
teeth right now. You’ve got the breath of swamp water.”

  Afterwards, Doris helps me into a full-skirted dress I usually save for “good,” a soft, green gabardine with buttons up the front. My bandages peeked out below on my legs and arms. Ten minutes later, she’s off to rehearsal. Restless, I wander the lot for several minutes, listening to the music and noise coming from inside the Big Top, feeling odd not to be a part of it.

  I find myself in the Big Cat section. Most of the cages are empty at this time of day. The cats are either outside being exercised in the main cage, sleeping on its many overhanging platforms, or performing. I don’t think Old Kirby will be here but I’ll look, anyway. I miss the old guy.

  I approach the green and gold wagon and see Harold down on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor of the cage. Kirby sits in a corner, ears perked, watching him intently. Old Kirby seems to be back to his normal self.

  I bend down and wave in Harold’s face to attract his attention.

  “Jeri! As I live and breathe,” he says, obviously glad to see me. He pushes back on his haunches and throws the scrub brush into the sudsy pail with a kerplop. “I hear you had an exciting night.” He looks me up and down. “But you look good. Can’t say as I like your gloves and stockings,” he says, with a wide grin, “But you’re looking good.”

  I laugh at his joke about my bandages. That’s how most circus people make it through the day, I’ve discovered. When things are so bad you could scream or cry or give up, you go for the joke. A sense of humor can lift the spirits and get you through almost anything.

  “I came to see how Kirby is. He’s looking good, too.”

  “Yeah,” Harold answers, in a nonchalant manner, He picks up a bucket of clean water and throws it on the newly-washed spot. The water comes over the sides and down onto the base and wheels. “My boy’s doing okay. The vet stopped by with a report. I never liked that man. Too glum.” He turns to the lion. “Right, boy?”