Smile No More

by James A. Moore

  Bert spoke in one big breath, covering everything he thought I should know. “Three things to remember, kid. First, every clown is different. You come out looking like another clown and there’s gonna’ be hell to pay. I’m not kidding. Second, being a clown is more than the make up. You have to keep the audience busy while the next act is being set up. Carter says you know a few magic tricks? Great, that’ll help a lot. Third, you have to come up with a name. My clown name is Dexie the Dunce. I do a lot of pratfalls.”

  I nodded and looked at the make up. My fingers went into the white and I started covering my face. It was a weird sensation, burying myself under the thick paste. It was weirder watching how much it could change the face I knew into something else entirely.

  The blue came next. I drew in large triangles under my eyes, and from my eyebrows up almost to the hairline. I put dimples high up on my cheeks, and then I grabbed the red paint and painted a smile that stretched almost all the way to the dimples. As an after thought, I put a single red dot on the tip of my nose. Sometimes I added the last part and sometimes I didn’t. Either way, when I was done and looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

  Dexie gave me his approval when he was done putting on his own face. “I seen a lot of clowns, kid. The face works. Keep it.”

  Not far away, Carter was finishing with his own face, which was mostly red and white. He had circles around his eyes and wore a bulbous fake nose. He put on a wig, too, a massive red poof of curls, and a pointy hat. His clown name was Tumbles. Watching him hit the center ring and start his series of crazy rolls and handstands let me know why.

  I looked in the mirror for a few more moments and finally had my name.

  Rufo the Clown. I just liked the way it sounded.

  Chapter Four: Looking for Millie (Part Four)

  The address I had for Millie was still in Illinois, in a little town called Lakewood Shores. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was exactly the sort of place I could see having a certain appeal to Millie. It was small, intimate, and had enough open spaces to make her feel comfortable. I know she was never happier than when she was on the farm. I think living in Chicago made her feel a little claustrophobic.

  Getting there wasn’t much of a problem. I took the bus as far as I could and then I started walking. I’m good at walking. I’ve had a lot of practice over the years.

  By the time I finally got there, the sun had set and I was bone weary. I didn’t know if I could find her place in the dark and I wanted to be in better shape before I tried my luck, so I found a hotel to stay in. A lovely place, really. I was almost certain the sheets had been changed within the last week.

  I didn’t want anything to go wrong with my visit to Millie, so I was a good boy and actually paid for the room. After a shower and a good night’s sleep, I headed down the road to find 381 Crab Apple Avenue. According to the information I had, that was where I would find her.

  It was a nice house; two stories, with a well-tended lawn and beautiful flowers in the garden. It was, frankly, exactly the sort of place I would have loved when I was growing up.

  My heart was racing, because I was finally going to see my little sister. I stepped closer to the front door and hesitated for a moment. Not out of fear, though there was some, but because there were no curtains inside and I could see the empty hallway and its well-polished hardwood floors.

  And in the living room I could see the same thing, emptiness.

  I stared through the window for a while, trying my best to imagine what the furniture should have looked like, what my sister would have looked like after almost sixty years. Was she old and stooped, or still thin and spry? Did she dye her hair an atrocious color of red? Or was she going gently silver? Did she smile? Or were the lines on her face the marks left by bitterness and disappointment? It was hard to know, because I had no point of reference. My mother was still a fairly young woman the last time I’d seen her, under forty and in good health.

  All I could see was the light gently reflected by the hardwood floors and my reflection in the glass of the window. I didn’t look much like myself. I hadn’t in a very long time. Oh, I’d done my best when I escaped from the great beyond, but there were a few problems to consider. When I was growing up my hair was short and straight. Not so anymore. I seem to remember my face being longer, but that had changed as well. Everything about me was just to the left of what it should have been, but that was the price you paid when you escaped death, I suppose.

  I turned around when I heard the sound of feet on the sidewalk. There was a man standing behind me, a tentative expression on his round, withered face. If he was a day younger than eighty, then mimes are some of my best friends.

  “Are you looking for Millie?” his voice was as skittish as his expression.

  “Yes, I am. I’m an old friend of the family, but I’ve been away for a while.”

  His expression changed several times. First there was doubt. Mostly, I suspect, because I didn’t look old enough to be an old friend. What followed was sorrow as he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, son, but Millie passed away a few months ago.”

  I know I stared hard enough to worry the old timer. I couldn’t help it. I’d been back for a while, close to two years, but I hadn’t even thought to look for my sister until two weeks earlier. I’d had no special plans, no particular challenges to face in that time. I’d just chosen not to think about my little sister.

  There are very few times when I’ve felt like a monster. Hearing that I’d missed my last chance to see my baby sister when she was alive was one of them.

  My legs grew weak and I sat back against the front door and slid until my rear-end kissed the concrete.

  The old man moved closer, his eyes showing concern for me. “Are you all right?”

  If he knew the things I’d done in the past, he’d have run from me. Instead, he offered me a hand up and I took it.

  “I’m sorry. I was hoping for better news.” It was all I could think to say.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, son. Millie was a good woman. A dear friend.”

  “Can you tell me how?”

  “She died in her sleep. I think they decided it was a heart attack.” He had a kind face, old and weathered, but a smile that made him younger. He smiled not because of my sorrow, but because of his fine memories. As quickly as the expression surfaced he pushed it back under again. “I wish I could tell you more, but that’s really all I know.”

  “Do you know what happened to her possessions?”

  “I think her granddaughter collected all of them. Or she had them put into storage.”

  “Her granddaughter?” I know I must have sounded stupefied. I was. Despite all the evidence, Millie was still ten years old in my heart.

  “I think I have her address, if you think that would help.”

  I smiled again, a real smile for the simple kindness of a stranger. It wasn’t something I’d ever gotten used to.

  “I think that would help a lot, sir. And thank you.”

  He waved the thanks away as he headed back to his house in the very next lot. I stayed where I was and looked back at where my sister had ended her time on earth.

  One more chance to see my little sister, to apologize for lying to her. It hadn’t seemed that much to ask after all I’d been through.

  The old man came back, waving not one piece of paper, but two. “I found her address! I also have a different address for where Millie’s possessions are. I was wrong about that. Her granddaughter had them put into storage, because she’s been on the road.”

  The man handed the two scraps to me and I took them as if they were the finest treasures I had ever found. Here, at least, was a connection to Millie.

  “I can’t thank you enough, sir. You have no idea how much I wanted to see Millie again.”

  “Well, I like to keep this sort of thing around, just in case somebody does come along who needs to know.” He smiled and made himself younger a
gain. I wish I could tell you how much I envied him that smile.

  Before I could make another comment, the sound of screaming tires came around the corner. I could hear a booming bass coming from the car that cut into the road at high speed, even over the thunderous roar of the engine.

  I’m not good with cars, forgive me. Most of the ones I know are as old as I am. Whatever the vehicle was, it was heavy and it was loud and it was large enough to seat the six youths inside of it with room to spare. The music coming from the speakers was filled with obscenities, and both my new acquaintance and I looked at the car as it came toward us.

  I was raised in a different time. Try to remember that. I was brought up to believe that you didn’t “share your musical tastes” with the people around you unless they wanted to hear them. I was also brought up to believe that you were supposed to respect your elders, at least until they proved themselves unworthy of respect.

  A teenaged boy, who probably wouldn’t be shaving for another two years, stuck his face out of the passenger’s side window and screamed, “Hey, Old Man Walker! Eat my dick!” The other kids inside the vehicle laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard and from the back passenger’s seat a soda can came rolling through the air, spilling its contents into the air and across the lawn as it soared for the old man’s head.

  Did I mention I’ve been known to juggle? Hand-eye coordination is a big plus for that. I snapped the can out of the air and sent it back the way it had come without much effort. I missed the window, but the can scraped along the side of the car and left a smear of soda and a few scratches for my efforts.

  The car’s tires locked and the entire contraption stuttered to a halt in the road. Both of the younger heads I saw on the passenger’s side were looking at me as if I had committed a cardinal sin. The boy in the driver’s seat opened his door and moved around the car, his face already reddening. He wasn’t ashamed of how he’d let the passengers act, or how loudly he was playing his music—and I can barely qualify the noise as music, believe me—instead he was angry.

  “What did you do to my car?” His narrowed eyes shot accusations my way as he moved closer to the scratches.

  I pointed toward the boy in the back seat. “Don’t blame me, he’s the one who threw it.”

  “My dad’s gonna’ fucking kill me!” And right then I understood his dilemma. He didn’t look old enough to drive down the street. He also didn’t look like he’d ever worked a day in his life with his soft gut and baggy pants. Listen, I speak as a clown here. I know that fashions change, but half the boy’s ass was hanging out of his jeans and the other half was only kept in place by the belt he used to hold the pants up. I have no idea who decided the look was fashionable, but they were very, very wrong.

  “Did you hear what I said?” The kid was looking at me, the anger clear on his pudgy features.

  I shrugged. “Heard. Don’t care.”

  I don’t think I’d ever seen a kid gape so blatantly before. I guess I was supposed to feel sorry for his dilemma, or maybe offer to pay for the damages, but I thought about the old man next to me who’d likely have gotten himself a black eye at the very least, and I couldn’t make myself sympathize.

  “You need to pay for this!” He pointed to the scratches in the paint with a trembling hand.

  “No, I don’t see that happening.”

  He gasped, as if I’d surely condemned him to death, and I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I’ve always liked to smile, and I’ve always loved to watch the occasional rube make an ass of himself.

  Before he could find something to say, I gave a suggestion. “Maybe you should talk to your friend in the back seat. He threw the can in the first place.”

  “Maybe you should go fuck yourself!” He took two steps in my direction and came no further. But he would. I knew that as surely as I knew my own name, because you have to read people when you work for a carnival. You have to know how they work.

  The old man made a nervous noise and I looked his way. “You should go now. Thanks again, Mr. Walker.”

  “Should I call the police?” His face was pasty and I shook my head.

  “No, that’s all right. I think I can handle the situation.” He looked at me with a doubtful frown on his face. “No reason to get the lad in trouble. His father will see to that, don’t you think?” After another moment, he nodded his head and moved for his house.

  I looked at the boy standing near me, still contemplating whether or not he could do me harm without getting himself in trouble. He might not have tried his luck but the other boys with him were climbing out of the car.

  Now he had an audience, and there aren’t that many young men who can resist an audience when it comes right down to it. I know. I speak from experience. I was around the same age when I joined up with the carnival.

  He just had one problem he hadn’t counted on.

  I like an audience, too.

  ***

  Gary Peck was a stand up guy, at least according to most of the people who knew him. Oh, true enough, he was a gossipmonger, but that’s hardly a crime and most of the time he was just passing on what he’d heard from others. Perhaps the sin he was most guilty of was liking to hear himself talk. Not surprising, really, as he’d spent several years doing voice over work before deciding he wanted to work on the stage instead of with the microphone. He still did the recordings from time to time when money was tight, but he much preferred the lights of Broadway as it were.

  He bragged regularly that he could have recited every line from the show by heart, and it was true. That didn’t stop him from studying the text every day just the same. He didn’t want to screw up any of the storyline, especially since he still wanted in on the recorded soundtrack that was due for production around the same time the show got back to New York.

  The deal was already in place for the recording, but the producers were contemplating getting Patrick Stewart or possibly Sean Connery to do the voice over in his place. They were known for their voices, and they were damned good. But if Gary could just keep everything going the right way, there was a chance he could still get the gig. As the only voice in the entire show, he felt he deserved it, but there were always a few big wigs that wanted to improve on what was already a sure thing.

  He just had to convince them to leave well enough alone and that meant not screwing up a single line. Ever. Or at least until the contracts were signed and the checks were cut.

  The royalties off the soundtrack would be huge, and he could always use the money.

  The prop guys had done their job and set everything up the way it was supposed to be set. The lighting in the area came from several high wattage overheads that left pools of twilight between them. It had taken him a while to find the right spot where he could sit in peace and do his readings, but he’d managed well enough. There were two separate sections for the finale sequence—massive fifteen foot long walls of plastic and glass that looked like an enchanted forest of frozen trees—and the way the back area was arranged, there was only one location to put the massive displays where they wouldn’t get hurt. Between those two sections were three support posts and it was in between the posts that he had pulled up a chair, an ashtray, and a decent reading lamp.

  He liked to pause from time to time and look at the frozen trees, and the illusion of glacial mountains in the distance. His little oasis was comforting and private enough to let him have the time he needed to study.

  Right up until the time one of the new prop runners came into his area and leaned against a plastic tree. Youngish, mid twenties at most, long, curly hair and a Braves Baseball team hat that covered most of his face with shadows. The guy walked into Gary’s study hall, stopped in the dusky area between the lights and crossed his arms, smirking as he listened to Gary reading his lines softly.

  When the man’s presence made him stumble across one of the lines he finally set down the pages of dialogue and glared. “Is there something I can help you with?” He tried to k
eep the irritation from his voice, but didn’t quite succeed.

  “You’re Gary Peck, right?”

  Perfect. Just what he needed…a fan. “Yes I am. What can I do for you?”

  The man held up one open hand with wide spread fingers. There was nothing to see. But a moment later, with a flick of his wrist, the stranger tossed a small piece of paper in Gary’s direction.

  He watched the stiff, index card sized paper arc through the air and gently roll until it landed on top of his script.

  Gary picked up the photograph and stared long and hard at the image printed on the front of it. He knew the girl, of course.

  “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

  The man stepped closer, a tight, thin smile playing at his lips. “We’re going to have a talk, the two of us, about that young lady. I want to know everything that you know about her, Mr. Peck.”

  “She was with the tour last year, I think. I remember seeing her a few times.” He shrugged as casually as he could.

  “Now, I doubt that. I bet you know a lot more than you’re telling me.” The voice was cold and condescending. The stranger reached up and plucked the baseball cap from his head, shoving it into the back pocket of his carpenter’s pants.

  “That’s a bet you’d lose.” His voice didn’t quite tremble, because he was very good at what he did. Without even thinking, he carefully marked his page on the script and pushed back from the small makeshift desk he’d set up. He knew things were about to get bad. He could feel it in his bones.

  The man stepped closer and Gary saw his face clearly for the first time. Was that make up he was wearing? Yes, either that or he was an albino. No one had skin that white.

  And there was something wrong with his lips.

  The man came closer, and his smile broadened. Perfect white teeth, straight enough to make any orthodontist jealous of the workmanship. And his lips? They were red, crimson. Christ, he was done up as a clown. What the hell?