by Mav Skye
As long as she continued to see Mr. Jingles, she’d always be on the outside of the family circle looking in, not just the family circle, but society. What if she and Donny were to go steady? What about when she started driving or got her first full-time job? She didn’t want Mr. Jingles popping up and ruining everything.
That evening after helping Mama Nola to bed, Chloe searched her room for her Fear Diary and found it under a pile of dirty clothes in the closet. After putting the dirty clothes in the wash, she settled down with a pen and read her last entry. It was from March.
Fear Diary
March 4th, 1990
It’s been awhile since I wrote in here. I haven’t seen Mr. Jingles for months. I’m starting to think that maybe the clown was just a kid thing—I’m older now. School will be out in two months. I can’t wait!!!
Oh, Mama Nola is calling for me. She’s been forgetting how to make recipes that she’s made since time began. Okay, she’s not that old, but still—Why the memory issues?
The whole point of this entry is….no clowns! Yay!
—
Chloe frowned after reading the last entry. Perhaps Mama Nola had been forgetting things more than Chloe realized. After tapping her pen against her mouth, she wrote about the encounter with Mr. Jingles.
—
Fear Diary
June 17th, 1990
I saw Mr. Jingles in the woods today while walking home from school. I tried to stay, and I said hello, but it hissed at me! And when it jumped out of the bushes with the hatchet, I ran home, of course. I’m so tired of being afraid of something that I don’t even know exists in the real world or my mind. Speaking of which, Mama Nola said she’d been to the circus after she woke up. I think it must have been a dream, but, maybe she’s losing her memory? I think it’s normal for old people? I don’t know. I feel like if I can make the clown go away, then I can help her. Maybe that’s childish thinking, or maybe it’s being a grown up? I don’t know. I’m glad I have Joey to help me. I mean, I can’t tell him, but he’s here for me, even when he doesn’t know it.
Oh, and school is ouuuuttttt for the summer. I am determined to have fun—Mr. Jingles or not!
2
Sleeping in Trees
JOEY SAT IN HIS FAVORITE MAPLE TREE, the warm breeze tousling his hair as he watched his old man through the living room window. His grandfather was bald with a few wisps of hair up top, a large beaked nose, and a gray beard that hadn’t been washed or trimmed for half a decade. His beer belly protruded through a stained wife-beater. Pops downed bottle after bottle in front of the television. Occasionally, he’d yell, “Run, ya lame duck goose!” which meant the Mariners were playing.
Joey could guess by the number of bottles on the TV tray that Pops would be passed out by midnight. It was nine now. He put his headphones on and listened to the Walkman he’d found a few weeks back beside a trashcan. The tape holder had broken off, but the radio worked just fine. He switched it to AM and flicked the dial around the fuzzy reception until settling on a radio program. A cheeky host was interviewing a Baptist preacher about his alien abduction experience.
He sat listening for hours as the preacher preached about aliens ending the world in the new millennium and taking only a chosen few to heaven. Joey even dropped off once or twice, with his legs propped up in the branches, leaning against the tree trunk.
When the light flicked off in the living room, he started awake. Joey rubbed his eyes and yawned, flicked off the radio and climbed down from the tree, making sure to be very quiet.
He tiptoed through the long grass. His bedroom window was open for an easy and silent entry. But then his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t had dinner. So, instead of climbing in through his bedroom window, he climbed the steps of the front porch and after listening intently for his grandfather’s footsteps, opened the door and crept inside. He could hear Pops snoozing in his bedroom, which meant he was out cold until noon the next day. He crept into the kitchen and found a half-eaten cheeseburger and a six pack of root beer in the fridge. He snapped off a can of soda, cracked it open and drank a third of it in a gulp. Carbonated sugar filled his blood stream, making him feel more awake…and hungry.
He snatched up the half-eaten burger, unwrapped it, and took a giant bite as he tiptoed to his bedroom door. He slid the root beer into the crook of his arm as he munched, and leaned against his bedroom door to open it. A hard hand clamped over his shoulder, then whirled him around.
“There you are, ya no good ninnyhammer!”
The root beer flew out of Joey’s hands, but he held onto the burger. “Pops! I—”
“How many times have I told you to keep your grubby hands off my food!” He yanked the burger out of Joey’s hand and threw it down the hall.
Joey took advantage of the moment to grab for the bedroom doorknob and push, but it didn’t open. If he hadn’t been so distracted by his growling stomach, he would have remembered that he’d barricaded his door before he had slipped out the window earlier.
He heard the slap against his cheek before he felt it. A hot sting seared across his cheek. His teeth clacked together and lights flashed behind his eyes. Joey hit the floor hard.
“I’ve a mind to finish what I’ve started.” Pops lifted his boot clad foot to stomp. He was quick, but not as quick as Joey, who was already scrambling down the hall on all fours.
“Where do you think you’re going? Huh? Where in tarnation do you think you’re—”
But Joey was already down the hall, snatching up the burger, and running out the front door into the woods.
3
The Dream
CHLOE DREAMED OF THE CIRCUS. IT wasn’t the kind of circus with elephants and lion tamers and acrobats. It was the kind where cowboys shot their guns in the air and rode ponies in circles around Indians wearing animal masks. She saw one man with the face of a buck with antlers; another resembled a bald eagle, another a fish—and then one that wore the mask of the great Horned Serpent.
“Uktena!” The word filled the night sky, and she knew it was to whom the Indian spoke. Suddenly, Chloe felt afraid.
Were the men behind the masks human or were they beasts wearing human suits?
The thought chilled her, and she summoned the story of the Horned Serpent in her mind—the one that Mama Nola had told her for as long as she could remember. The men in the masks were oblivious to the old west cowboys taunting them. They chanted and leaped about the blazing fire.
Slowly, the men-beasts faded into the night like a mist. Replacing them was a cartoony Indian Chief with a bright tribal headdress. His jaw was taunt, his cheeks painted red and black in preparation for war.
The Indian Chief cried out one word, “Nvwadohiyadv!”
Chloe recognized the word even though it came from the old language. Peace.
He stood back from a campfire, quiet as the Cowboys paused in their shooting and jeering—as if they knew deep down the language that all humans speak, a language that requires no words, just understanding.
But then, the Cowboys fired their guns once more, and the crowd roared with laughter. Shadowed faces in the forest surrounding the Cowboys and the Chief. Their faces were pasty white; mouths opened wide as they laughed and pointed. A woman screamed, “What’cha waiting for? Get’em!”
And then a child’s voice cried, “Get’em!” And then there were more and more voices, “Get’em! Get’em! Get’em!”
The Cowboys holstered their guns and yee-hawed, kicking their ponies into a gallop. They whipped ropes over their heads in long, easy loops, then one roped the Indian Chief, catching him about the neck. The Chief choked, and the crowd roared with laughter. Another cowboy hooked the Chief’s arms; another caught his legs and ankles. They tugged him to the ground, and as he fell to his knees, they whooped and hollered at their victory.
A tall, mean looking son of a gun walked into the clearing. A silver badge hooked onto his leather shirt, a worn and true hat sat on his head, holding as
much authority as the man. The firelight lit up the Sheriff’s bony face, and the Cowboys quieted and unmounted their ponies. The Sheriff looked out to the crowd and lifted his arms. The men, women, and children cheered, and while he made a show of his might and power, the cowboys faded out into the forest with their ponies, leaving only the Sheriff and the Indian Chief.
Three women appeared with cactus masks. They crept into the clearing. They held out their arms like cactus paddles. The Chief, looking for cover, saw the cactus. And while the Sheriff basked in the crowd’s triumphant hollers, he sneaked away and hid in the cactus’ shadows.
The Sheriff turned around and discovered the Chief was missing.
As this happened, a clown entered the clearing. A lightning bolt separated its black and white face. Worn bunny ears hung about his head. It was Mr. Jingles! He wore drums about his waist, and he beat them in a dirge as the Sheriff began to hunt the Chief.
The Sheriff crept about the fire with his hand poised over the pistol—a six shooter!—hanging from his hips. He searched under rocks. The crowd laughed, and every time they did, Mr. Jingles’ drum rolled a rim-shot like they did in cartoons at the end of a joke. Ba-Dum-Dum-Da-Dum-Dum-CHING!
One of the cactus women giggled, and when the Sheriff turned toward her, she pressed a delicate paddle over her mouth. “Oh!”
The Sheriff spotted the Chief hiding in her shadow, and the Chief crawled away and hid behind another of the women cactus, who like the first one, giggled, then covered her mouth.
The Sheriff dashed for him, and the Chief squirreled away.
It became a comedy scene as the Chief ran circles around the fire. The Sheriff chased him with his arms outstretched, his hat almost tipping off his head. The Chief slowed to glance behind him, and the Sheriff lunged forward. His fingers briefly touched the tips of the eagle feathers in the Chief’s headdress before his boot caught on a rock, tripping him.
The Chief scurried away once more.
The crowd laughed when the Sheriff shook the dirt off his hat and replaced it firmly on his head. He dashed after the Chief again.
Mr. Jingles danced and clapped cymbals together every time the Sheriff almost caught the Chief and failed. The Clown smiled, his teeth as white as bleach, as white as innocent lambs and doves.
The Sheriff and Chief ran round and round in circles about the fire until they became a dizzying cartoon blur.
The Clown dropped his drum belt and cymbals and pulled a hatchet from his pocket. He showed it to the crowd in the forest, spinning in a slow circle. They ooohhhed and ahhhhed. One man yelled, “That dumb ol’ Injun sure has it coming!”
The crowd whooped and hollered, then quieted as the Clown tiptoed up to the dizzying haze of Sheriff and Chief.
The Clown stuck out his foot, and the Sheriff went sprawling into the dirt.
The Sheriff looked out at the crowd, his pride hurt, then wondered why they had quieted. He followed their gaze to the Clown, who had caught the Indian Chief, though the Chief did not yet know it. The Sheriff threw his arms up in the air, and this time, the crowd booed at the Sheriff! Meanwhile, the clown raised his shiny red hatchet above the Indian Chief’s head. He held it there as the Chief intently watched the Sheriff, unaware that the clown was behind him.
The crowd belly-laughed.
And that was when the Sheriff cried out.
But, it was too late. The Clown buried the hatchet into the Chief’s skull. A loud clank of metal and bone exploded into the air.
The Sheriff kicked the dirt with his boot, then threw himself to the ground. He pounded his fist into the dirt, crying. The crowd laughed and booed.
Mr. Jingles scalped the Chief. Blood splattered the white side of his face. Bits of brain flecked the bunny ears, and the crowd wailed in laughter.
The Clown held up the scalp in victory, and a deafening cheer rose from the crowd. The Sheriff jumped back up to his feet. He roped the Indian Chief’s bare ankle, hopped up on his pony and dragged the Chief into the forest, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
Only the Clown was left in the clearing.
People stepped out of the woods and into the firelight, applauding the victor. The Clown bowed, then waved his bloody hatchet in the air. More people filled the clearing, clapping and cheering. They lifted the Clown onto their shoulders and marched back into the darkness of the forest.
All that was left was a child screaming, screaming, screaming into the night. And when Chloe woke, she realized that the one screaming was herself. She sat up in bed and opened her eyes. Her long hair was matted, wet and tangled at her scalp. Her pulse thundered away in her veins the way the ponies had raced about the fire. Chloe breathed heavily through her nose trying to calm down, but it was no use. She fell back on her pillow and let the tears fall.
Mourning doves cooed outside her window. The warmth of the morning sun reached through the crack in her curtains and caressed Chloe’s skin, comforting her. It soothed her nerves just enough to give her the courage to slide out of bed, into the hall and to her mother’s bedroom door. As she touched the knob, her stomach sank, suddenly worried about Mama Nola.
She flung open her mother’s door to find her in bed, facing the wall. A warm breeze blew through the open window, stirring a small dreamcatcher above the bed.
Chloe tiptoed into the room and bent over the bed. The sheets were pulled up to the old woman’s chin. Her wrinkles faded into an unusually pale face. Her lips hung slightly open.
“Mama?” Chloe whispered, her hand hovering over her frail shoulder, afraid to touch her, but also afraid not to.
Mama Nola didn’t stir.
Was she even breathing? Chloe waved her palm in front of her mother’s face. A faint breath sighed from her lips.
She was alive.
Chloe let her breath out with relief, not realizing she’d been holding it. She kissed the old woman’s cheek and pulled the comforter over her Etsi’s shoulders and tiptoed out.
An hour later, Mama Nola joined her in the kitchen as Chloe bustled about making her mother’s favorite meal, blackberry tea, and pancakes. “Otahitsu, Etsi,” Chloe kissed her on the cheek, but Mama Nola didn’t respond as she usually did.
Mama Nola simply stated. “I need to sit down.”
“Of course.” Chloe helped her to the table and served her tea. Mama Nola sat there frowning, sipping out of her mug.
“I made you pancakes, Etsi. Would you like maple syrup?”
Mama Nola didn’t answer at first, only stared out the dining room window.
“Is something wrong?” Chloe sat across the table, and after a moment, pushed her pancakes aside and reached across, taking her mother’s hands in hers. “Etsi?”
Finally, Mama Nola looked at her. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
“I’m worried about you, Etsi. Do you feel okay?”
“Oh, I feel—” She patted Chloe on the hand. “I feel all right.”
“Ready to eat?”
“Oh, oh yes, I think I will. How could I resist pancakes?” Mama Nola smiled at Chloe, a spark of life in her cheeks.
Satisfied, Chloe nodded and slid back into her chair. They ate in silence, and after as they washed the dishes together, Mama Nola said, “I think I’ll tend the garden today.”
Chloe dried both plates and put them in the cupboard. “Are you sure you should be doing that, Mama?”
“Of course, of course,” she waved her hand at Chloe as if it were nothing. “I may need a cane for the limp, and it takes me awhile to get things done, but my hands and knees work just fine. Going to harvest more blackberry root—helps with arthritis.” Mama Nola rubbed her wrists for emphasis.
Chloe nodded, her mother had told her that about a dozen times during the spring, which meant she was in pain. “I know you enjoy it. And it’s a beautiful day, but I meant what I said earlier.”
“What’s that?”
Chloe said, “I’m worried about you.”
“Me? Why?” Mama Nola pulled the plug
out of the sink, and the dishwater began to drain. She folded the dishtowel over the sink faucet for it to air.
Chloe stared at her Etsi for a moment, trying to think of a way to explain her weird behavior. “Mama, you said you had gone to the circus yesterday, something about a wild west show.”
Mama Nola drew back. “I said no such thing.”
Chloe looked at her. “Don’t you remember? After school, when we had cookies with Joey.”
Mama Nola smiled. “My sweet Ohanzee.”
Chloe said, “Do you remember Joey coming over?”
She nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“Do you remember putting on red lipstick?”
Mama Nola gave her a stern look, then lifted her hand and touched her mouth. “Why, no, I don’t think so.”
Chloe leaned against the counter, scratching at a bit of dried pancake mix that she’d missed when wiping everything down. “It’s just that if you get sick, I don’t know if I can take care of you. I think we should call Aunt Tayanita.”
“No. No. No.” Mama Nola shook her head as she said this, then her face turned gentle and she patted Chloe’s hand. “I take care of you, and I take care of me. You’re a child. It’s not your job to worry.” Mama Nola pierced Chloe with her dark, stormy eyes. “There is something else troubling you.” It wasn’t a question.
Chloe dropped the subject of contacting her aunt and folded her arms across her chest. Her mother was always able to tell when something was amiss. “I had a nightmare.”
Mama Nola turned on the stove and put the kettle on to boil. “About?”
Chloe wasn’t sure how much detail she should give her mother. “About a circus and a—a clown.”
Mama Nola glanced up at her. “The same circus that you were asking if I went to yesterday?”
“No. Yes. I mean—Etsi, you told Joey and me both that you had gone to a circus while I was at school.”
