The Clown Chronicles (Stories From The Bayou)

by Lon Frank

  The ponytailed preacher rose and slowly walked over to stand pensively in front of a magnificent Napoleon III mirror, which once hung in the bedchamber of a prominent Viennese businessman. He stared softly at his reflection as he continued.

  “Well, of course you heard that old LaFeet went missing from the bayou meadow last week.”

  Whereupon Bob inadvertently acknowledged his recent prolonged sequestration in Betty Ford’s Blues and Biker Bar.

  “What? LaFeet? No kiddin’?”

  Ignoring the question, and still morosely gazing into the mirror, Chuck continued.

  “As fate would have it, I decided to visit the place on the very afternoon that LaFeet evidently went to meet his Maker. I don’t know why I went. To smell the crowds. To hear the roar of grease paint. To recall the taste of that damn cotton candy. I just don’t know. But I went. My man drove up into the field and I walked around to the old trailers - even stepped in some elephant pie, wouldn’t you know.”

  The thought of the elephant pie brought a slight smile to his face and broke the spell of the mirror. Turning to face his friends, he saw the worried look on the tiny visible area of Blackbear’s hair-shrouded face.

  “But you got to believe me, I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t see anything. The place was deserted; no LaFeet, no animals, no nothing. Of course, my driver was there the whole time, but I went over to the trailers and left him in the car. He’s a good man, but when the FBI boys begin to dangle a complicity threat in front of his nose ...well, who knows?”

  Blackbear smoothed out the furrows of his almost invisible brow before he spoke.

  “Okay. It’s a given that the feds know about your visit. They must have tire casts by now and have probably grilled your driver ‘til he’s pink as a salmon croquet. But what about the blackmail?”

  Chuck finally dropped heavily into his chair. Upholstered in rich gold damask, ebonized and inlaid in the Egyptian Revival style, it was representative of the American Aesthetic Movement at its zenith. The preacher had gotten it expertly raised and fitted with casters after his corporation purchased it from the estate of a famous New Orleans madam.

  “Well, that’s the snake in this whole sorry wood pile. There’s this girl in town, fits her jeans quite nicely, if you know what I mean, but she’s got a reputation as one tough cream puff. She came to see me yesterday, and said that she saw my car at the meadow, and that if I didn’t come up with two hundred grand, she just might remember seeing me throttle the old clown and haul off his body. I’m afraid it would prove to be a part of the puzzle the feds just might want to believe.”

  Bob still had wisps of fog clinging to his brain like the surface of the bayou on spring mornings, as he gushed his loyalty.

  “Well, what do you want us to do? You want we should take her for a visit to the fish or somethin’?”

  “Oh, Lord no, Bob, nothing like that. For goodness sakes! I just thought you all could put something together, you know, to get me out of this. Heaven knows, I’m too old to go play drop-the-soap with the boys in the big house.”

  Blackbear rose without effort from the depths of the overstuffed armchair and took a slow step towards the door. He paused and turned to face his silk-suited old friend.

  “Okay, we can help. But there’s just one last thing. Are you sure, Chuck, are you very, very sure it happened just like that?

  Chuck literally jumped from his seat.

  “Oh, come ON, Blackbear! You know I couldn’t have killed LaFeet. I mean, could you? Could any of us? Sure we joked about it, but none of the circus folk would ever have raised a hand to the old guy.”

  He strode quickly to the antique altar along the far wall of the office, dropped to one knee and removed the panel concealing the safe and small liquor cabinet.

  “For cryin’ out loud, I still have this. I’ve been keeping it for LaFeet all these years since he went to the meadow. He never touched it, not even to buy booze or pay off those leg-breakers over at the casino.”

  He adroitly spun the dial of the chunky little safe and tugged the door open to the soft office light. Inside stood rows of 243 small, green-topped, plastic sleeves, each containing twenty one-ounce American Gold Eagles.

  * * *

  It seemed to Blackbear and Bob that they had suddenly stepped into the past. The big grassy meadow and the circus tents glowing in the midmorning light were all aswarm with activity. Four men were working to patch the canvas of the big top and wash it clean of a year’s accumulation of Gulf Coast mildew. A bank of large, trailer-mounted generators were noisily supplying power to the high pressure sprayers, power tools, and of course, the sound system which blared with the accordion lead of Cajun music. Another crew of workers were struggling to tighten the various ropes and lines securing the tent sides. Their two-inch-thick hawsers were attached to a small four-wheel-drive Kubota tractor, instead of the elephant teamsters which served the circus so faithfully in the past.

  A large moving van was parked on a temporary wooden platform to keep it from becoming irretrievably mired in the living soil just beyond the old fieldstone fence. Two large black men wearing sky-blue coveralls were unloading stacks of folding chairs, stenciled in flowing script “Center for Peace and Light”. Two rows of porta-potties, one sky-blue and one rose-pink, were already stationed under the canopy of ancient oaks.

  Inside the old tent, whose once-again taut sides enclosed the space of a football field, the old grandstands were cleaned of rust and re-erected around the three-ring center area. A fresh layer of sawdust was spread on the ground and two young ladies in rose-pink coveralls were setting up the folding chairs where the outer two rings would have been, for seating of the featured gospel choirs. The center ring was occupied by a crew of carpenters who pounded nails into a raised circular stage, which would hold a futuristic circular podium of glass and gold metal.

  The various outer tents were getting the same treatment and the old midway boardwalk and game booths were resurrected to serve as an impromptu religious bookstore and gift emporium. Even the tiny orange-and-white barker’s pagoda was restored to its former place at the midway gate, and a young man wearing a painter’s mask was spreading lime over the spot where it had been previously pressed into service by the old clown.

  Blackbear eased the suburban in behind a large Chevy step van, of the style still used for bread deliveries. Several antennae and a small TV dish sprouted from its roof and its flat sides were painted as mobile advertising, “KRAP Television, Channel 13. If you want the best TV has to offer, you want KRAP”.

  Actually, it was Bob’s idea for them to meet at the old circus, as the buzz of activity would provide some cover and safety for all parties concerned. As he made urgent phone calls to secure the necessary materials for their plan, Blackbear made a single phone request of an old friend of his. An old friend who spent his youth as a pesky fatherless kid around the winter camp of the great circus, befriended by a hulking concessionaire, and taught the secrets of life under a canvas sky. An old friend who now carried a gun.

  As the two men walked to the abandoned animal training area, Gezelle Guilbeau was once again securing the loan of the ragged pickup truck of Antoine Hebert, dawlin’. By the time she reached the bayou meadow, all was ready.

  * * *

  Gezelle Guilbeau walked slowly up to the closed door of the large cage. The size and shape of the center ring had been used for performances of ‘taming’ the ferocious circus lions and tigers. Blackbear was sitting on the lone chair in the center of the cage, an expensive aluminum briefcase at his feet.

  “Well, the preacher said you’d be a big ‘un, so I guess this is the place?”

  “Do come in, Miss Guilbeau.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Gezelle swung the barred door open, eased through it, and sidestepped along the perimeter of the bars. The door silently swung closed again with a click so soft that it was only heard by a small green tree frog clinging to the bottom of the center bar.

  “Wh
at’s up with the lion tamer routine? I don’t hafta stick my head in your mouth, do I?”

  Partly to reinforce her casually professional demeanor and partly to hide her sweating palms, she jammed her open hands slightly into the rear pockets of her painted-on blue jeans. Blackbear thought to himself that at least Chuck had been truthful about one thing, so far. Gezelle pointed her chin towards the shiny briefcase.

  “That my money?”

  Blackbear rose without the use of any muscles and lifted the briefcase onto the seat of the little chair.

  “Well, actually Miss Guilbeau, we need to talk a little. It is my understanding that you witnessed my employer strangle old LaFeet and place the body in the trunk of his limo. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Jumbo. I was right over there under them trees, sleepin’ off a night on the town, you know. An’ I heard this yellin’ and I looked up just in time to see that diamond-studded preacher croak the old guy and just throw him in the trunk like a big ol’ bag of crawfish heads.”

  “Well, Miss Guilbeau, I’m afraid that is indeed distressing news for us both.”

  “Whadda you mean both? I sure didn’t choke nobody!”

  Blackbear carefully opened the twin latches on the briefcase, opened it and took out a small, coiled lion-tamer’s whip. He then set the briefcase on the ground and with his free hand, lifted the small chair by its back. Gezelle pulled her hands out of her pockets and held them claw-like in front of her.

  “Now wait a minute there, Tarzan. I don’t mind bein’ tied up a little, you know, but I ain’t really into whips.”

  “You see, Miss Guilbeau, my employer is a very rich man, but he simply can’t afford to leave loose ends. And you were alone the afternoon you witnessed the crime. Just like we’re alone now. That is, except for my hungry little pet.”

  He glanced to his right, where a tarp suddenly fell to the ground, revealing that another cage, the size of a compact car, was connected to the arena by a short, barred passageway. Inside the cage anxiously paced a large, orange, female circus lion, slightly foaming at the mouth in anticipation. Bobbie Blue Socks stood with his hand on the lever which would release the cat into the larger area occupied by the two humans.

  Gezelle, never particularly fond of cats anyway, gave a very uncharacteristic squeal and bolted for the cage door, which had locked itself according to its fail-safe design. She spun around, pressing her back to the bars of the door, and glared, wide-eyed at the huge man. Blackbear had a fleeting vision of her, growling and spitting, as a few well-placed lashes of his whip on her magnificent hindquarters coerced her to jump through a flaming ring before a cheering circus crowd.

  Gezelle frantically pushed her posterior against the unyielding door, as her eyes scanned the surrounding debris of broken-down wagons and faded midway billboards: “See the Amazing Rubber Man”. “See the Fat Lady Swallow a Horseshoe”. “See the Cajun Girl Get Eaten by the Lion”.

  “No no, this ain’t happenin’, big boy. You can’t DO this!”

  Blackbear’s voice was soft and fatherly, and carried a sad finality which was terrifying beyond breath.

  “Have you ever seen anyone attacked by a big cat, Gezelle? The ancient Romans thought it quite the sport. The cats somehow know they are in complete control. They take their time and eat your living guts before they kill you with a slow bite into your skull.’

  He looked pointedly at where Bobbie stood still gripping the lever.

  “WAIT! Now just wait. I, I didn’t really see nothin’. I mean you couldn’t DRAG me down here to this mud hole. I just heard the FBI guys talkin’ about the preacher’s car, that’s all. An’ I thought I could make a quick buck, you know?”

  Flecks of white spittle clung to her lips and she unconsciously mimicked the orange cat with a panting lick of her pink tongue. Blackbear nodded and Bobbie threw the lever. Gezelle froze in breathless terror as the huge feline bounded down the connecting chute and rushed for the legs of the now-grinning man. Blackbear staggered slightly as the cat began to rub against him and purr with the volume of a diesel taxicab.

  “Okay, Ginger. Okay girl. We’ll have a nice cheeseburger for you and have you home to momma before dark, I promise.”

  Gezelle’s knees could no longer support even her slight weight and she slumped to the ground as another large man stepped out from behind an overturned wagon. He was carrying a small, dish-shaped antenna, designed for long-range eavesdropping, and wore a battery operated tape recorder on a lanyard around his neck. Blackbear raised his voice to be heard above the purring.

  “You get it all, Big Bubba?”

  “Yeah, ol’ buddy. The FBI boys said they didn’t think Chuck was a serious contender after the chauffeur’s tale was told, but this should nicely take care of this particular wild card.”

  As the sheriff led the wobbly girl towards his black-and-white Chevy Carryall, Blackbear and Rob just caught the first words of their parting conversation.

  “Now, Bubba Babineaux, you know I didn’t REALLY hurt nobody, now did I? ...Big Bubba, dawlin’...?”

  * * *

  On the rear of the shelf were four dusty fruit jars, their Ball Sure-Seal lids rusting in the liquid air of the bayou. Inside each was preserved the essence of Saturday night dances, of adolescent abandon, of coming of age on the banks of the bayou. They held the history of a laughing people, the heritage of uncounted generations, the sparkling blood of the low country. They contained the oldest known vintage of Lester LeDues’ homemade crabapple wine.

  Sheryl gently lifted them from their cobweb shroud and carried them carefully over to a large yellow-topped table, around which were arranged five smiling faces, belonging to a ponytailed old cherub, a grinning, ever-youthful man in blue socks, a huge mountain of mirth covered with hair, and two newly-forever sweethearts.

  “Well boys, ..and lady ...here it is. Don’t set nothin’ on fire.”

  Bobbie was speaking in a voice which still shivered with the afternoon’s excitement.

  “Yeah, well I remember the little kid who hung around the circus way back then; we called him Bubba or Bubby, but I never made the connection.”

  Blackbear absently cracked the knuckles of his huge left hand as he joined in.

  “Yeah, I took a shine to the squirt and sorta kept up all these years. Even helped you get your Peace Officer’s Certificate, way back when I was at the Academy, didn’t I?”

  Big Bubba smiled and nodded as Chuck opened one of the jars and comically sniffed the lid.

  “Ah, yassss, a fine vintaaaggge. I belieeeve it’s Thursday’sss.”

  They took turns sipping, laughing and choking as the fruit jar made its rounds. Finally, Junie Lejeaune, soon to be Mrs. Junie Babineaux, found an opening in which to continue the conversation.

  “Bubba, I knew that you never had no daddy, but I never knew you had such a wonderful circus family.”

  Big Bubba gripped the open fruit jar with both hands and somberly looked at each of his friends around the table, pausing to peer longest into the knowing blue eyes above the great black beard. Finally, he swiveled slightly to look directly at his soon-to-be bride.

  “Junie, there’s even more circus blood in me than you know. You see, even though my momma and I didn’t share his name, I did know and love my daddy. And he was circus folk.”

  Holding the half-empty jar of vintage beverage aloft above the gathered remnants of his family, his voice croaked slightly with emotion.

  “Here’s to the great and eternal, the magical and magnificent Bayou Brothers’ Circus. And here’s to my father, who the papers like to call the mystical and perhaps mythical... LaFeet the Clown.”

  * * *

  The gray stubble covering his chin gave the old man’s face a gaunt and haggard look even more pronounced than was usual. He sat, sprattle-legged in the corner of a tiny white room, which was coolly devoid of both decoration and furnishings. His head bowed heavily toward his chest and his mouth hung slackly open as a thin dribble
of saliva escaped onto the lapel of his garishly plaid coat. His knees were slightly bent as his feet each pointed outward in opposing directions due to the dead weight of lime-green, size 47 clown shoes. The smudged grease paint of his face was accented by swollen bluish eyelids and a pale white and slightly pockmarked nose. The complete relaxation of his repose could only be achieved by sedation, deep sleep, or death.

  The only clue that his condition was not indicative of his demise was a soft snoring, interspersed occasionally with muted whimpering, as his slumbering brain replayed already half-forgotten scenes of the last four days.

  Days which were filled with waking nightmares of awkwardly submissive positions and gleaming metal objects, interwoven into a slow-motion ballet of corporeal violation. Of black and gleaming eyes staring unblinkingly behind spindly fingers silently probing the various orifices of his body.

  Lingering in the recesses of his mind was the memory of a soft bed of meadow grass, where he had lain among his twisted legs and broken bones to await the final quietude of an imagined eternity. Where he had seen through fevered eyes the rising of his last bayou moon. A glowing golden orb between the still-bare branches of bank-side willows which grew into a great and softly pulsating disk, filling the bayou meadow with a strangely electrical hum and smiling down at him with the brightness of a thousand cold suns.

  The old man murmured again, exhaled, and suddenly opened the puffy lid of his left eye. As he wearily lifted sleep-deadened hands to massage his bushy brows, he slowly became aware of his surroundings. Dragging his feet closer to his hips, he supported himself with the angle of the walls and rose to a wobbly stance. Shaking his head slightly to rid it of the remaining cobwebs of his slumber, he reached down and gingerly took inventory of his knees, then hips and elbows.

  “Well I’ll be damn. Good as new.”

  A couple of tentative waddle-strides took him to the open front of the sterile cubicle, where a red line on the floor ran from wall to wall. Leaning out to peer beyond the side walls, his head impacted an unseen solid surface, as if a pane of invisible glass was standing above the red line. The old man placed his hands on the transparent surface and stretched them as high as he could reach, then down around the sides to waist level before stepping back slightly.