Didn’t anybody grow old in this town? Everyone looked exactly as I remembered them when I was a kid. As if they had frozen, waiting for me to return. Like the town only existed when I was here, and when I left, everything stopped, so nothing grew older.
Dale wouldn’t get old, I thought. He was trapped in the town now, forever frozen in his youthful look.
The figure on the beach was getting closer, its gender indeterminable. It appeared to be wearing a baggy jumpsuit and a strange hat.
Again I thought of Jason Nightingale.
The morning after Woody and my grisly discovery, we all went to Oliver, asking him what to do. We gathered behind his house near the fire- scorched tree that was the sole remainder of our clubhouse. Martin was crying. Woody had a distant look in his eyes, as if he were somewhere else. That’s where I wanted to be and I implored him with my eyes, take me too, wherever it is you are. I don’t want to be here.
We all waited for Oliver to tell us what to do, but even he seemed unsure. He finally decided we would do nothing. We would pretend nothing happened. We couldn’t find Jason after the game and assumed he had gone home. Let someone else find him. Oliver even started to smile, as if this was the most ingenious plan he had ever devised. Or maybe he was smiling from relief, now that he had found a way out of our situation. Even I felt some sort of release of the tension gripping me that had brought on a tremendous headache and queasy stomach.
Oliver made us all take an oath and swear that none of us would ever tell a soul about what we did. Cross our heart, hope to die, stick a needle in our eye.
We all swore. It would be the hardest thing to do, but fear of what would happen to us sealed the oath.
When Jason was reported missing, Hooper questioned us. We all stuck to our story. A search party canvassed the neighborhood. I remembered looking out my bedroom window and seeing them going through the area. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, Look behind the Tin Man’s house. But they went about their mission, going door to door, combing the ravine and the woods and fields out beyond the ballpark and cemetery. I looked across at Woody’s house and saw him also at his bedroom window. Our eyes met. Our eyes that had seen what no one else on Earth had seen. Without a gesture of any kind, he pulled his window shade down.
A couple of days went by without a trace of Jason Nightingale. Fliers went up around town. Fliers with the smiling face of a young boy. But I knew what that face looked like right now in that dark tomb of the refrigerator. I knew the expression etched into skin that was as far from smiling as humanly possible. It was a face of terror, madness and horrible death.
The waiting and anticipation was driving me crazy. I would lie in bed at night and think about Jason being out there, think about his parents staring out their window and wondering when or if he was coming home.
Woody wouldn’t come outside his house. Whenever I looked up at his window, his shade was down.
I thought maybe they would never find Jason. They would give up and stop the search. The case would go unsolved. The years would go by and they would never realize how close he was, his body sitting in that refrigerator rotting away like a piece of leftover meat forgotten on a back shelf. I didn’t want that to happen. It seemed too lonely. I didn’t want his family to never know what happened to him. That would be too cruel.
But they did find him.
They finally searched through the Tin Man’s junk pile. Finally climbed that mound and opened that refrigerator door and saw what Woody and I had seen that night.
The funeral was the worst.
I remember standing in the cemetery looking at that little coffin. It was hot and my body sweated and itched beneath the suit I wore. The tie was noosed tight around my neck and my fingers tore at it, trying to get some air. There was sobbing. I looked across the coffin at Jason’s parents and his younger sister who clutched tightly to her mother’s hand, a vacant look on her face. I wanted to go up to his sister and take her other hand and tell her how sorry I was that I caused her brother’s death. But she probably wouldn’t understand. Probably never would.
Back in the present I heard a faint jingling sound, almost like sleigh bells, coming from the distance. Pain started to inch its way into my head, and I felt dizzy, my vision blurring. I didn’t want to have one of my spells. I squeezed my eyes shut. I wished I could put my hand through my skull and rip the tumor from my brain, throw it on the ground and stomp on it.
When the headaches came, I imagined them originating in the same spot in my brain where I had built that attic room. That was where the tumor was. I could feel it. It was as if all the horrifying and evil thoughts that I had developed within that space for my stories had created the tumor. I was really starting to believe it. The horrors in my thoughts had created a real sickness in my brain: a sickness that was killing me, my own imagination poisoning me.
Yes, I could believe that.
The jingling sound grew louder, and I wondered if it was coming from my head. Real or imagined? But it originated from my left and I turned and opened my eyes. The figure on the beach was getting closer to me. It looked like someone dressed in a clown costume. I stared in wonder as the figure approached.
When I realized what it was, numbness spread through my body, right down my legs to my feet and the sand seemed to shift beneath my soles as I thought my balance was finally giving way.
“Expecting me?” the stranger said.
The figure was dressed in a black-and-white striped court jester’s costume. The jingling had come from the bells attached to his head piece. His face was painted white with the exception of his black lips and black eyebrows. His long, narrow face ended in a pointed, jutting chin. His nose was also long and pointed with flaring nostrils. His ears stuck out, with thick dangling lobes.
I knew this person.
It was the Joker. The spitting image of the joker from the deck of cards we used, from the drawing that used to hang on the clubhouse wall.
“Aren’t you happy to see me, Geoffrey?”
“This isn’t funny.” I managed to keep my balance. “Who the hell are you and how do you know my name?”
He was grinning madly. “Come on, Geoffrey. It took me so long to get here. Don’t act like this. You know who I am.”
I looked at him long and hard. I thought about Dr. Cutler and what he said about the spells: headaches, dizziness, blackouts and hallucinations. But this was ridiculous.
“You’re not real,” I said.
His grin reversed itself. “But I’m here. I’m talking to you.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because I want to be.”
“I don’t want you here.” I turned around, hoping the image would go away.
“You need me.”
I was wrong. I turned back and saw him grinning again.
“What do you want?”
“Want? Do I have to want anything? I sense how you’re feeling. I thought I could help.”
I started walking at a slow pace along the shoreline. The Joker followed alongside.
“How do I feel?” I asked him.
“You’re pretty torn up inside. Heck, you just lost your best friend.”
“I still can’t believe it happened. I can’t believe he’s dead. Not just dead, but murdered. Killed like that. I never knew anyone who was murdered.”
“Oh, no?” He looked at me with a puzzling stare. I knew what he was thinking.
“That wasn’t murder. That was an accident.”
“Is that what you believe?”
I stopped and looked at him. Of course I believed it. “We didn’t want to kill him. We just wanted to punish him, make him suffer. We had no idea there wouldn’t be any air in there. At least, I didn’t. What we did was wrong. We made a mistake, but we were just kids.”
“Do you think that was how Jason felt?”
I lowered my eyes. “I try not to think about that.”
“But you have to now. Seems like the past is catching up to
you.”
“I can’t escape the past. It’s all around me.” I looked from the lake to the woods to the boardwalk and the town beyond it. “It’s everywhere here.”
I continued walking, the Joker still beside me.
“I keep thinking about the possibility we were brought here on purpose,” I said. “But I’m not sure I can accept the fact that one of us might be the killer.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “It just seems too contrived.”
“Like one of your stories?”
I looked at him with surprise. “My stories weren’t contrived.”
“Then how come you never sold any?”
I laughed. “I used to think I was going to be a great writer. When I was young, thoughts seemed to flow out of my head. When I left here, I think I left them behind.”
“That was your mistake.”
“But now that I’m back, I feel like I’m immersed in a story.”
We stopped at the end of the beach at the marina. The sound of the water slapping the wooden pylons competed with our voices.
“So, what happens next?” the Joker asked.
“Figure out a suspect. If Oliver was telling the truth, and Woody was the one who suggested the reunion, that would make him the obvious choice.” I shook my head. “Even with all he’s been through, I can’t see him doing something like this.”
“Jeepers, why not? He’s a frickin’ lunatic! He was in the funny farm.”
“Oliver, but he’s a successful businessman.”
“And a vicious bastard who cares for nobody but himself.”
“Lonny –”
“An insomniac drunk, who’s desperate and on the edge.”
“Martin. It couldn’t be Martin.”
“How can you be so sure about Martin? He resents that you all returned.”
“He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“The quiet, meek ones are always the crazy ones.”
I stared down at the sand around my feet.
“Are you forgetting someone?” The Joker asked.
I looked up at him. “Huh?”
“What about you?”
I stared in disbelief at his mad grinning face. I stepped backwards away from him.
“No,” I said, backpedaling some more, slowly. “NO!” I turned and ran, my feet digging into the soft sand, trying to propel myself as fast as possible, but hampered by the supple surface of the terrain. I did not look back as I ran. I did not want to.
When I climbed the steps to the boardwalk, I felt I was going to pass out. I got down on my knees and clutched at my stomach as I gasped deeply for breaths. I looked over my shoulder at the beach.
It was empty. Only my footprints marked the sand.
Footsteps approached, echoing off the wood and I looked up. Carrothead stood over me.
“I was watching you,” he said.
A strand of drool descended from the corner of his mouth, and I got out of its way and stood up. I wanted to ask him if he saw me talking to someone, but I was a bit afraid of what the answer would be. “That’s nice.” I started to walk away.
“I remember you.” He laughed.
I stopped and turned around. “You do?”
“And he remembers you.” He indicated his walkie-talkie.
“Who?”
“The one on the other side. In the shadows. He’s watching you. He’s coming soon.”
“Then I’d better be going.” I turned to leave.
“You shouldn’t be laughing at me!” he screamed, startling me.
“I wouldn’t laugh at you.”
“He tells me it’s not nice to tease,” he said, his head cocked sideways.
I remembered one late summer night when we followed Oliver up Autumn Avenue on our bikes. Lonny was carrying two cartons of eggs in a grocery bag, trying to be careful not to crush them. We didn’t know where Oliver was leading us; he was being very secretive. But his face could hardly contain his grin.
We took a left when the road forked. I thought I had been to just about every part of town in my young life, but hadn’t remembered ever coming this way. We came to a narrow dirt road that was barely noticeable and turned left onto it.
Just before a sharp bend, Oliver told us to stash our bikes behind some bushes. He signaled to be quiet and led us on foot down the dirt road. It didn’t seem possible there’d be a living soul out here; the place seemed desolate, but as soon as we rounded the corner, I could see a house.
Calling it a house was being kind. I had seen sheds in better shape. It was tiny, barely the size of a two-car garage. Weeds grew up around the base of the walls, as if nature were trying to hide the blue paint that was chipped and peeling in spots, like the house had been dipped in corrosive acid. What few windows it had were tiny and could not have let in much sunlight. A rusted furnace pipe stuck up out of the middle of a sagging black-shingled roof.
It was depressing to look at, to think someone actually lived like this. Whatever excitement I had was dampened. I didn’t know about the others, but I wanted to turn back and go home.
“Do you know who lives here?” Oliver asked, looking from one of us to the other. No one knew the answer.
“Carrothead.”
The others were excited and started laughing. I had enjoyed teasing him as much as the rest, but now that I saw what he called his home, my heart wasn’t in it. I wanted to say something but didn’t dare.
We climbed a big pine tree nearby, one whose needles provided ample camouflage. Oliver let the first egg fly. It seemed to sail forever in the air, and then dropped like a rock with an audible splat as it hit the roof. Soon, another followed, then another. We each took aim, but several, including my own, fell short of the intended destination. I didn’t really give it much effort.
When we were just about out of eggs, the front door opened and Carrothead stepped out.
“Hey!” he yelled, looking around but not knowing where we were. He turned back toward the house and noticed a glob of egg running down the clapboards. He stuck his finger in it and brought it close to his face to examine it, then stuck his finger in his mouth to taste it. When he turned back around, an egg slapped him in the side of his head. From our vantage point in the tree, we could see his face flush as his shoulders hunched and his right fist raised in the air.
He spotted us.
As we scrambled down, the last of the eggs were tossed, harmlessly landing at Carrothead’s feet as he shuffled toward us.
I had been higher up in the trees that the others, and as I neared the lower branches, I could see them hit the ground and scatter. When I dropped, I landed hard on my left side. I immediately jumped to my feet, but before I could take a step, two arms wrapped around my body. I could feel warm stinky breath on the back of my neck and cold drops of saliva. The arms tightened, squeezing my chest. My mouth opened, not to scream, but to try and gather air. Nothing could get through the tight clamp on my chest. My eyes searched for the others, for some hope of help, but they were nowhere in sight. I was getting dizzy and thought I was about to pass out.
A voice suddenly yelled out behind us. It was Carrothead’s mother.
The grip on me immediately loosened and air rushed into my lungs. I gathered strength in my legs and sprinted away to join the others waiting by our stashed bikes.
Once I was safe with my friends, my fear was gone, and I joined them in their laughter.
* * *
I stood on the boardwalk now and stared at Carrothead’s bewildered face.
“I’m sorry,” I said, remembering all those times. “We never meant any harm.”
He lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth and whispered something inaudible into it. Who was he talking to? The other side? Was Jason on the other side, telling him things? (Don’t let him out.) I heard only static return a reply. I slowly walked away, keeping my eyes on him, but he just stood there, still talking into the walkie-talkie.
As I crossed the boulevard, I looked up at the tow
n hall steeple to check the time. There was a large clock on all four sides of the steeple, but the two that were visible from my angle appeared to be broken. They both had different times, and neither of them could be remotely correct.
I crossed Main Street when I spied the phone booth outside the barber shop. There was a call I wanted – no, needed to make and my cell phone wasn’t getting a signal. I did not want to make it but felt I should.
Nick the barber stood outside his shop, wearing his white smock and holding a pair of scissors. He smiled at me.
“I have a seat available,” he said, gesturing inside.
I looked down and saw two small red dots on his smock.
“No thanks,” I said and stepped into the booth. Across the street, I heard the pinging sound of a chisel on stone coming from Mr. Under’s headstone shop. Could he be carving out Dale’s name already? No, it was too soon. I closed the door, shutting out the noise.
I took out my address book and looked up Dale’s number, thinking about how many times in New York I did the same, but never made the calls. I always put it off, hoping he’d call me first. Now it was too late. Now I dialed the number for the last time, dropping the correct change in as instructed. I counted the rings, really hoping no one would answer. I was about to hang up, even though it only rung a few times.
The ringing stopped.
“Hello?” The familiar voice of his wife came from across the miles. It gave me chills. I couldn’t find my voice. I just stood there holding the receiver in one sweaty hand.
“Hello?” she said again, irritation in her voice. “Is someone there?”
“Hi,” I finally uttered. “It’s Geoff, Thorn.”
“Oh, hi.” She was definitely thrown off guard by this. “Where are you calling from?”
“I’m in Malton. I needed to tell you something.”
“Well, listen. If Dale put you up to this, forget it.”
Jokers Club Page 11
