Smile No More

by James A. Moore

  Millicent Ariella Phelps. My little Millie. Where the hell do you look when you’ve only got a name? The first place I tried was the phonebook, because, maybe, she was still living under the same name. I found exactly what I expected to find, nothing.

  I’ve gotten older, but not much wiser. I spent a lot of years indisposed for lack of a better word and though I understand some of the tricks of modern technology, I haven’t yet figured out computers.

  So, lost without any idea what I was going to do to find my sister, I started walking and trying to remember a bit more of the past I’d worked so hard to set aside.

  I was fourteen when we left the farm. My father was calmer than I expected when it came to losing the place his family had owned for three generations. He wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t lose his temper and go around beating on anyone. That wasn’t his style. Instead, he did what he had always done and got busy with working himself half to death. Was it pride that made him so obsessive? I don’t know. All I know is that he never stopped when he became set on doing something.

  Maybe I got a little of that from my old man. Maybe that was why I decided to keep looking for Millie. I had nothing to go on but a name and a last known address from when she was ten. I didn’t have the money to hire an army of private investigators, and I surely wasn’t about to use a computer to find out anything.

  Still, I had to try. I walked along the old streets that should have been familiar and barely held a hint of the past any longer. They were cleaner now, there were kids running around and laughing, crying, being kids. Every last one of them made me remember Millie a little more. I still can’t decide if that was a good thing.

  Millie was sweet. Millie was bright and precocious and adorable. I can look back on my life before everything changed and I realize that most of my pleasant memories involved times when Millie was with me.

  I remember the first time I managed to escape from a rope trap it was Millie who helped tie me up. I had to ask her again and again to make the ropes tighter, because she was afraid of hurting me. When she finally got it right, I spent thirty minutes wriggling my way out of the bonds and she never left my side. She simply crouched next to me and watched, now and then giving me words of encouragement. Half an hour doing nothing but watching me sweat and writhe along the hay and dirt of the barn. That must have been like half a lifetime to her. No six-year-old should have that sort of attention span without the help of Howdy Doody or maybe the Mouseketeers.

  When I was finally free, she told me I would be the greatest escape artist ever some day. She said it with such conviction that I could almost make myself believe it. Maybe she was right. I managed to escape from death, after all. Oh, sure, I had help, but it’s still quite a feat when you think about it.

  Here’s the thing about being given a second chance: There’s a part of you that wants to hold onto it and be greedy. I mean, I was dead, all right. Not mostly dead, not in a coma, not accidentally buried alive. Dead. Oh, sure, I never had a burial plot or any of that stuff, but believe me, I was dead.

  I had a long time to think about it while I was in the state of non-living, and I have to tell you, I wasn’t very fond of it. I sure as hell am not in a hurry to get back there, either. So, yes, there’s a part of me that likes the idea of being very, very careful about living.

  Happily, it’s a small part.

  All of those thoughts went through my head as I walked along hauntingly unfamiliar streets. Was Millie still alive? More importantly, would she even remember me? Fifty-seven years is a long time not to see somebody, flesh and blood relative or not. There were so many questions I wanted answers to that it was hard to think about anything else.

  I felt the need for a distraction, something to let me relax a little before I started walking in circles. The good news is, it’s never that hard to find a distraction if you really want to.

  What I found to help me relax was the local library on Bleecher Street. That one structure was still standing from when I’d been in the area, though I’m happy to say they’d added a few small wings since then.

  The place was almost deserted. I stared around in wonder, because, really, when I was a kid the library always had a few dozen people of all ages sitting inside, reading books or the newspaper or just killing time on a cold day.

  The librarian was a middle-aged man with a spare tire and a bald spot growing on the back of his head. He looked up when he saw me come in and moved immediately to help me. I think, sad but true, that he was surprised to see someone of my apparent age in his building.

  My apparent age? Well, I guess I need to clarify that a bit, don’t I?

  If I saw myself walking down the street and I didn’t know me, I’d guess I was in my early twenties, tops. I stand six feet tall, and I weigh one hundred and sixty-five pounds. I am a skinny little thing. I have dark hair that I keep just over shoulder length. Most people see it as black, which makes sense, because that’s the color I dye it every few days. It’s actually very blue. A little dye helps keep everybody on the planet from staring at me, unless I want them to stare. I won’t lie and say I don’t like to be the center of attention, but like a lot of people, when I want to be discrete a disguise helps.

  See, my name is Rufo the Clown, and it’s a fitting name. Remember how I said I escaped death? Well, I’m here to tell you that death left a few unusual scars to make sure everyone knew who was boss. Back when I was just Cecil Phelps, I had short, dark hair and I was just as skinny. Now, I have long blue curly hair and skin that matches the make-up I used to put on every day for working the rubes. I used to put on make-up to be seen, and now I put it on to hide myself. A small price to pay for being born again, but a little inconvenient when it comes to walking down the street.

  Depending on my mood as much as anything else, I can look healthy and hearty or like I just crawled from the grave. Believe me, that little talent can be handy, too. No one wants to mug a walking dead man.

  I was going for the casual look when I entered the library, so I was wearing my flesh tones and dressed in regular clothing. The librarian still seemed surprised to see me.

  “Did you need help finding anything, sir?” He smiled as he spoke, and he had a warm pleasant voice that was probably perfect for reading to kids.

  I thought about that for a moment and decided that maybe I didn’t need a computer to get a little help with my quest for Millie. “Yes, please. I was wondering if there’s anything I can do to look up an old relative of mine who used to live in the area.”

  The man looked at me for a second and I could almost see the gears go to work in his head. Here was something more challenging than finding a copy of Paradise Lost for another school report. What? You don’t think I had to do book reports in my time? I said I’m older than I look, I didn’t say I was ancient. I just felt that way sometimes.

  He nodded his head and motioned me to come with him. Five minutes later, the hunt was on properly.

  ***

  “Elizabeth Ariana Montenegro, Hispanic female, age according to her identification, twenty-six.” County coroner Lance Sweeney spoke softly, but as there was no audience except the recorder and his assistant Leslie, he had no problem being heard. “Weight: one hundred and seven pounds. Height: sixty-seven inches. External examination of the deceased shows substantial decay, congruent with the reported location of the body upon discovery. While not definitive, I’d guess the post dating on the package where she was found is close to the actual time of death, seven days ago.”

  Leslie shook her head and tried to look calm. She wasn’t quite making it, but Lance really couldn’t blame her. They’d gotten the corpse in one of the worst stages of decay, when the bodily fluids had rotten through the body.

  “The deceased was found carefully wrapped in plastic, sealed inside of a package delivered to the ‘Circus of the Fantastic.’”

  “Carnivale de Fantastique,” Leslie corrected him.

  “Whatever. Let the record show it was the �
��Carnivale de Fantastique.’ In any event, the deceased was found after having missed three scheduled appearances, adding to the belief that she was shipped in the packaging to the latest performance site.

  “Preliminary cause of death appears to be mutilation. There are multiple lacerations covering the torso, the legs, the arms and both hands.”

  Lance paused and looked down at the blade that the police had been good enough to leave in the wound through the performer’s chest. Moving very carefully, Lance pulled the blade out, making sure not to actually touch the handle, even with his gloved hands. It wouldn’t do to ruin potential evidence.

  “The weapon used was left in the victim’s chest, forced through the sternum and puncturing the heart. The weapon in question is…” He took out his ruler. “A knife, rather antiquated in appearance, but sharpened professionally by the looks of the blade. Said blade is ten inches in length with a four inch handle.”

  Leslie leaned down to look at the weapon, her eyes squinting.

  “No apparent manufacturer’s label, nor is there any indication of a serial number.”

  Leslie shook her head again. “Is that a throwing knife? Like the ones they used to use in circuses?”

  Lance looked at the weapon again and studied the hilt. It was definitely not a standard-issue hunting knife. The pommel at the end was smooth from apparent years of use and the tip was slightly blunted, though the entire weapon was obviously well cared for.

  “Good call. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’re right.”

  “So maybe it was someone at the circus?”

  “Didn’t you say it was a ‘Carnivale’?”

  Lance rubbed at his eyes while Leslie stuck her tongue out at him.

  It was going to be a long night.

  “Finishing the external examination, it appears the deceased was tortured. Most of the wounds, while deep, are superficial.”

  ***

  Tia Natchez looked at the letter and smiled. Then she set it down, thought about it for a few seconds and looked at it again. This time her smile was accompanied by a squeal of delight. She quickly covered her mouth and looked around her apartment to make sure that absolutely no one had heard the sound that escaped her lips. Her parents weren’t home yet, so all was well.

  After that, she read the letter one more time and did a furious tap dance across the floor of the living room, still stunned by the good news. She’d tried out for the Carnivale of the Fantastic months ago and received the letter that said they’d notify her of any openings. As she had been one of over 500 people trying out at the time, she assumed that meant they had no openings and probably wouldn’t have any openings.

  Sometimes it felt so wonderful to be completely wrong. The excitement grew instead of dwindling as she started grabbing the clothes she would take with her. There was so much she wanted to pack and so little she could actually fit in her two suitcases.

  She’d barely finished packing when her mother came home. Dora Natchez was a slender woman, with dark hair that was starting to silver and the same café au lait skin as her daughter. She did her best to hide the sadness she felt when she heard the good news, but Tia knew and understood. Tia was her little girl, but she was also the little girl who’d been going to dance and gymnastics classes for most of her life in preparation for this very occasion.

  “Mom, I’m going to be the stand in for the lead role!” She had to wipe at her eyes to get the start of tears to go away. God, it was so much to take in, barely out of high school and the best she’d been hoping for was to be a background dancer or maybe even an acrobat. Stand in wasn’t perfect, but it was a paying gig and she got to see the show for free, so what the hell.

  “Your father is going to be so proud of you, honey.” True words, but he’d be just as miserable as her mom. They didn’t want her to grow up and move away. They wanted to keep her at home. She knew that, but didn’t want to live her life for them. Besides, the show would be coming back to New York in a month or so, so she wouldn’t even be gone all that long.

  Still, despite all the excitement, there was an undercurrent of fear. On her own for the first time was bad enough, but on her own in different cities all over the country? Scary.

  She was looking forward to it and the opportunity to be a part of a show as spectacular as The Carnivale. The reviews for this year had been astounding, and even if she only performed a few times, it would look damned good on her resume. She was also not happy about the idea of living out of hotels for the next six months, at least.

  Any doubts evaporated when she looked at the letter again, and the contracts that came with it.

  In so many ways, her life was just starting.

  Life on the Road: Part Two

  I made it out of town before I got distracted. I was tired and I was hungry, but I knew my father well enough to understand that he’d come after me. He’d be worried sick and, bills or no bills, he’d come looking.

  I was two days away from home when I heard the elephant call out. Not exactly the sort of noise you expect to hear when you’re walking down the dirt roads of Illinois. I went to investigate.

  There were seventeen trailers set up at the end of a long farm field, lined up near the edge of the land, right next to a small creek. All of them had outlandish signs on the sides, proclaiming about the wonders to be found within them. I still think my favorite at the time was the illustration of a dog the size of a bear, with the words: Beware The Hound of Hades painted above it.

  I may not have been the brightest kid on the planet, but I knew a circus when I saw one. The other big hint was the army of people working to put up the tent where everything was supposed to take place.

  I think every single performer that could had to help with raising the poles and tightening down the canvas and ropes. I saw one of the elephants actually pick up and move the center post of the whole affair, assisted by people to help keep the thing balanced. I guess that post must have weighed at least four hundred pounds.

  I was tired, and I had almost no food left, but I decided it was the perfect place to settle in and have my breakfast. I opened the roll of clothes I’d brought with me and fished out the three apples I’d pilfered from one of the farms on the road, and sat Indian style to watch the show.

  The day wasn’t too hot yet, but I thought it probably would be after the sun was straight above me. My shadow reached out toward the group of people working their asses off, and I could see them all clearly as they worked. They didn’t look much like I had imagined circus folk would look. None of them wore sequined outfits or had on make-up. They just looked like regular folk, and I guess right around then was when I started wondering if I’d made a mistake. If circus people just looked like farmers and laborers, where was all the magic?

  I munched on one apple and juggled the other two in my left hand, as they raised that gigantic pole. There were actually three poles all told, that were bound together with clamps. The bottom one had been sharpened to a proper point and men took turns pounding it into the soft soil of the field. Even with half a dozen guys working, it took a while. By the time they were done, I’d killed off the second apple.

  I was down to the third piece of fruit when the dwarf came my way. He was maybe four feet tall, and walked with a weird gait, caused by one leg being shorter than the other. He was also the most muscular human being I’d ever seen. His head was bald, but his lower face was buried under a few days worth of beard growth. He had a rucksack in one hand that swayed and slapped against his leg with every step he took. He wore a hat that made me think of my father when he was working the fields, and that smile that crept across my face was pure nostalgia.

  Without saying a word, he sat down in front of me and reached into his sack. A moment later he was offering me a canteen filled with water.

  I nodded my thanks and took a sip. The apples were a bit tart and I swear even with the juices that came out with every bite it felt like my mouth hadn’t had anything liquid in it for a week
or so.

  He eyed the apple in my hand and I tossed it his way. The man nodded his thanks and pulled out a knife that was almost as long as his forearm from the depths of his old sack. Next he pulled out a wedge of cheese wrapped in wax paper. I swear to you, my stomach made a noise as loud as the elephant had earlier when I saw that cheese.

  We shared the water and the cheese. He ate the apple alone.

  That was how I met the man who taught me everything I needed to know in order to be a circus performer.

  Chapter Three: Looking for Millie (Part Three)

  The librarian’s name was John. He was polite and efficient and he answered my questions to the best of his ability. That counts for a lot with me.

  Try to remember, I was fifty years gone from the world. A lot of the modern technologies escape me. The idea of computers like the ones they had in that library amazed and intimidated me. Hell, I remember the first time I heard about cell phones I was nearly stunned speechless and at that particular moment I was busy trying to kill everyone in a town.

  I have a cell phone these days, but I don’t use it often. I’m not known for giving out my phone number.

  I’m letting myself get distracted, sorry about that. It happens a lot. John the Librarian was amazing. He sat down at the computer and started hitting keys. Using the information I had—my old address and my sister’s name, he started searching the Internet for information about her. While he didn’t get much, he did manage to find an address for her, as well as three separate news articles that brought up her name. The first news article was archived in the local newspaper. Apparently someone decided the best way to save up old papers was to take pictures of them and put the pictures up on the Internet for people to look at whenever they wanted. Once again, technology amazes me.