Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  “I’m Jeri, yes.”

  He removes his hat and stares up at me with somber, mud-grey eyes. “Sheriff Draeger wants to see you. He’s in the circus manager’s office but I got to take you to the supply tent to wait for him.” He turns and twists the hat in his hands as he speaks. No wonder it’s broken. “You want to come with me?”

  “Sure. Just a minute.” The rain has started up again. I reach inside for the yellow mack with my name in it hanging with the others and put on some rubber boots. I don’t bother with my still wet hair.

  Doris leans into me. “I’ll go back to the First Aid tent,” she whispers. “Maybe I can find out something from Margie. If I do, I’ll come find you. You sure you don’t want to eat some oatmeal before you go? It should be ready.”

  I shake my head and jump down from the train. The deputy puts his hat back on and falls in step with me. I ask him about Coke and Catalena, but he just shrugs his shoulders and walks in silence by my side. He escorts me to the supply tent across the way from Vince’s office, a battered, twenty-foot long trailer. When we get to the tent, he reaches over in front

  of me, grabs the flap and yanks it open. He removes his hat again and looks me square in the face. I move to go inside but his voice stops me cold.

  “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’ Peter, chapter five, verse eight.” He goes on, “I don’t hold with circuses, young lady. Work of the devil. They should be banned. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”

  My jaw drops. I don’t know what to say. I take a step forward but turn back.

  “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” I smile. “I don’t know the chapter or verse but I do know it’s from the Bible.”

  He gives me a startled look and walks away. I wonder what I’m in store for with the sheriff, if this is any sample of Springfield’s attitude.

  Chapter Six

  10:45 a.m., Sunday

  It’s a tedious hour and a half. Along with Tin Foot, I’ve been sitting on one of the spare elephant footrests in the storage tent, waiting to be interviewed. The deputy with the mangled hat has been placed outside the tent door and won’t let us talk to each other. In silence, we listen to a scratchy recording of “The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B” coming from a nearby tent over and over again.

  I look at my carrot-topped, titan of a friend and make a face when the Andrew Sisters start their song for the umpteenth time. Dressed in clean but well-worn coveralls, Tin looks back at me, winks and smiles, then returns to a piece of wood he’s been whittling since our temporary incarceration.

  Despite his lame foot, Tin is an accomplished acrobat and web sitter. Without a sitter who can anticipate what the performer will do on the rope in the air and counter it using his own weight below, most aerialists wouldn’t be able to perform safely. It’s been my good fortune to be partnered with him since I joined the circus. There was a time when Tin wanted to be more than friends, but I nipped it in the bud. Romance can come and go but a good web-sitter is worth his weight in gold. I have no intention of lousing up a perfect working relationship. Besides, I don’t feel electrified by his touch, not like I do with Whitey.

  In the beginning, Tin probably liked me because I’d cared enough to ask him his real name. He didn’t realize that because I was new, I didn’t know one of the major unspoken rules of the circus: never ask someone a question about their past.

  I remember saying, “Tin Foot doesn’t sound like it would be a name of someone from the Midwest, that’s all.” I watched his face redden.

  “It’s not. My real name’s Leslie. They only call me Tin Foot ‘cause I accidentally shot off my big toe and the two next to it,” he’d said. “Doc made me a foot out of tin so I can walk good. I didn’t do it on purpose, ma'am, I swear!” he’d added.

  “I’m sure you didn’t. And don’t call me ma’am. It’s Jeri. We’re working together and we’re going to be friends. That doesn’t strike me as something you’d do on purpose, shoot off your big toe like that.”

  “Some people back home are sure I did, to get out of the war and all. Only I didn’t want to get out of the war, ‘cept now they won’t have me,” he’d said, looking down at his foot.

  I’ve never seen his naked foot, myself, but one of the girls who’d had a brief fling with him shared details about this false toe made by Doc Williams. Hammered out of tin and hollow inside, it was lined with moleskin and went over the front half of the maimed foot. Tin Foot can slip the contraption on, tying thin leather straps around the back of the heel and ankle to keep it secure. The hollow cavity of the big toe is weighted with sand to give him balance. Clever but simple.

  Doc worked out this type of artificial limb after the Great War when iron was at a premium and a lot of young men came in with disfigured feet. The tin doesn't last too long, so he makes Tin a new one every six months or so in his shop at the back of the First Aid Tent.

  There’s a ruckus at the tent door that makes Tin and I jump. Lillian’s voice comes through the fabric, strong and insistent.

  “Young man, I want you to stand aside and let me in, because this tray is heavy. I only found out that your sheriff is forcing one of my girls to sit in there with wet hair. She’s

  going to catch her death of cold and it’s my job to see that she don’t. I got me some hot, fresh brewed coffee in this pot and

  I brought enough for you, so if you want some, you’d better do what I’m asking.”

  “All right,” he stutters, “but no talking.”

  The tent flap flies open and the wide-eyed deputy steps aside to allow the slim, black woman to march inside. A recent widow, Lillian is one of a kind. From Washington D.C., Lillian comes from a Negro family of well educated and proud people. She carries her sense of self-worth with her wherever she goes, and from what I can tell from hearing Duane’s letters, so does her son. He was in his freshman year at Howard University when he enlisted in the first all Negro infantry in Italy, recently making corporal. They are not an 'Amos and Andy' family by a long shot.

  Lillian has several towels thrown over one arm, plus the tray laden with my hairbrush, hand mirror, hairpins, a thermos of hot coffee, and three mugs. She sets her burden down on a corner table and pours steaming coffee into the mugs.

  My hair has dried enough on its own but I am grateful for the brush and pins and snatch them off the tray. Just holding the brush in my hands makes me feel better. Sterling silver and engraved with my initials, it was my big splurge last year in Baltimore to the tune of eight bucks.

  While she serves the men hot java and they drink in silence, I brush my hair and pull it back into a chignon. I’m rolling the front of it into curls as Lillian puts a chocolate-colored hand on my forehead, apparently to see if I have a fever. Satisfied I don’t, she gathers up the used cups and empty thermos on the tray and leaves, followed out by the deputy. I stow the brush, mirror and leftover pins in one of the large pockets of my mack.

  Apparently, Tin Foot was watching me and says, “You gals do that every day?”

  The deputy leans inside to shush us again. This is getting tiresome. A few minutes later, he pulls the flap open and looks at me.

  “Sheriff wants to see you now.” He looks at Tin Foot. “You’re next.”

  Finally, we can get on with this. I hold my mack over my head, and run through the rain, across to the trailer belonging to the manager. Another deputy opens the door and follows me inside. The sheriff, a short, pasty-looking man in a too-tight uniform, is sitting behind Vince’s desk. His face wears a five o’clock shadow over his open collar, as if he left home before he had a chance to shave. Tony Phillips sits on the sofa nearby, legs crossed, looking dignified, but tense. Vince stands nervously behind him.

  “Hey, little lady! You look just like that gal in the movies, Hedy Lamarr,” the sheriff says, waving at me with his hand. “Come on in here, Hedy Lamarr.” His voice has a strident quality and he leers at my
breasts beneath the open mack.

  His face flashes across my mind and I remember him from last year. Always hanging around the back lot, throwing his weight around, making snide remarks, and trying to get fresh with the girls. He was a pest when things were going right. No telling how he’d be now.

  Rain thumps on the tin roof of the trailer in a bongo beat. Other than that, there’s no other sound. Every light in the room blazes and stale smoke hangs in the air, smelling like it’s owned the place for years. It’s stifling inside but I shiver, nonetheless. Dropping the mack to my shoulders, I cross my arms over my chest and walk to the desk, disliking Sheriff Draeger more with each step I take.

  “My name’s not Hedy Lamarr,” I reply, facing the smirking man.

  “You don’t say,” the sheriff responds with a grin, as if we’re both privy to a small joke. “Okay, so it’s not Hedy Lamarr. Maybe it’s that other one, Merle Oberon.”

  He points to an empty folding chair. “Why don’t you have a sit down, Merle?” He emphasizes the name by making two syllables out it.

  “Actually, it’s Miss Jerull Deane,” interrupts Tony quietly, before I can say anything. He gets up and comes to my side. “You may call her Miss Deane.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Phillips,” he replies in a bootlicking, obedient tone. “Please sit down, Miss Deane. By the way, I meant to tell you, Mr. Phillips,” he says, smiling up at Boss Man, “I might just have to shoot that lion. You know, him being a killer and all.”

  “What?” I explode. “Why, Old Kirby didn’t hurt anybody. The man was strangled. There isn’t a tooth or claw mark anywhere on him! How could you possibly think --” I stop speaking when I feel the subtle pressure of Tony’s hand on my arm.

  The Boss returns the sheriff’s smile tooth for tooth and says, “Sheriff, I’d like to speak with you privately for just a moment in the other room. If you don’t mind.”

  He gestures to Vince’s small bedroom off the office. The sheriff shrugs, gets up and grins at me before he follows Tony. Walking away, they’re talking too quietly for me to hear.

  I turn to Vince to protest further, but he shakes his head, pulls me out of the chair the arm, and guides me out of earshot of the deputy.

  “Don’t worry, Jeri,” Vince whispers. “Nothing’s going to happen to Old Kirby. It’s a shakedown, that’s all. We get them now and then. This sheriff’s that kind of guy. Last year he had a thing about the fire exits.”

  “A shakedown? By a sheriff?”

  “Next you’ll be telling me you still believe in the tooth fairy,” he mutters then turns away, throwing a smile in the direction of the scowling deputy.

  The door to the bedroom opens several minutes later. Tony has a look of resignation on his face and the sheriff is grinning broadly. Draeger returns to his side of the desk, and picks up a stack of papers, taps them on the desk importantly then sits down.

  “If you will be seated, Miss Deane, I only have a few questions for you.” I sit. His tone is completely different now, respectful, But I can tell he’s pleased with himself. “I know you have to get ready for a performance soon, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, I -- ”

  “So I’ll be brief,” he interrupts. “Did you know this Edward Connors?”

  “Just enough to know he was one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met. I don’t have much to do with the clowns but I liked him a lot. I can’t imagine why anyone would --”

  “Did you know he was a Conscientious Objector?”

  “No, I didn’t, but it really wasn’t any of my business.”

  “The war is everybody’s business, little lady,” the sheriff says in a tone that dares me to refute him. I remain silent. “Heck, I’d be out there fighting myself if they didn’t need me here taking care of this town.”

  I refrain from mentioning that he’s probably over the maximum age requirement and considerably out of shape. He smiles at me.

  “Now do you know of any reason, other than that, why anybody would want to see him dead?”

  “No, no reason. As I said, he was one of the sweetest --”

  “Well, thank you, Miss Deane,” he says. “That will be all.”

  “That will be all?” I echo in disbelief. “But what about the drag marks in the mud?” I sputter. “Maybe they’ve been

  washed away by now but I saw them. I don’t think he was killed in or near the wagon. He was --”

  “Why don’t you let me concentrate on solving this crime and you concentrate on looking pretty.”

  “What kind of crack is that? Listen sheriff, Eddie was one of ours. I don’t think anyone here is going to be concentrating on much else until we find out who did this. We

  all want to help as much as possible, right Tony?” I turn to Boss Man, who stands nearby with a grim expression on his face.

  “I think we need to let this man do his job,” Tony finally says, with a nod toward Sheriff Draeger. He stands tall and distant, avoiding eye contact with anyone, his voice soft, but packed with authority.

  “That will be all, Miss Deane.” The sheriff rises and looks down at me with narrowing eyes. The interview is over.

  I stand and hesitantly move toward the door. When I glance back, all four men are staring at me with closed looks on their faces. Something is going on, something big, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

  Chapter Seven

  11:00 a.m., Sunday

  A weak sun tries to force itself out between drizzling, gray-streaked clouds. Rain-saturated earth and sawdust mix together with the scent of two thousand assorted animals into a heady but not unpleasant smell. This type of odor can’t be masked even though the area is cleaned continually. I wouldn’t say you could eat off the ground but since a lot of our animals do, it’s kept as sanitary as possible.

  I pause for a moment, taking it in, then direct my steps to the First Aid Tent to see how Coke and Catalena are. The light rain stops midway and the sun bears down on me, bringing a muggy and oppressive heat. I take off my mack and sling it over my arm.

  When I arrive at the First Aid Tent, a second ambulance is leaving, lights flashing but no sirens. Doc stands in the doorway of the tent writing in a notebook, something I’ve seen him do countless times. He glances up at me.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “That was Coke but don’t be alarmed; he’s all right. Let me jot down a few thoughts, as they occur to me.” He writes for a few more seconds, then closes the notebook and tucks it in his pants pocket. “He isn’t any worse. In fact, he’s better, much better. But he was unconscious for a long time and I don’t have x-ray equipment here. He should stay in a regular hospital a few days for observation, just in case. Concussions are nothing to take lightly. How are you feeling?” he asks. “You recover yet?”

  “A hot shower was all I needed, Doc. How is Catalena? Is Margie still with her?”

  He glances around him. “Come on inside,” he says and moves toward his office, a back section of the small tent.

  We pass three hospital beds on the right; one holds a sleeping Catalena, watched over by the nurse, a plain, chunky woman in her mid-sixties with short salt and pepper hair. The other two beds are empty, although one looks recently vacated. White fabric room dividers stand by each bed, for the patient’s privacy.

  Behind a row of medical supplies in cabinets, a small portion of the tent is cordoned off with lighter-weight canvas curtains serving as Doc’s private office. He brushes back the flap and I follow him inside.

  Doc sits down behind a hard used, dark wood desk, one he brought with him from his private practice days. I sit in a straight back chair in front of the desk that is as uncomfortable as it looks. He opens a drawer and takes out a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and waves it at me.

  “I know it’s early in the day but I need this. How about you?”

  I shake my head, saying nothing. I've heard rumors about Doc being let go at a county hospital for drinking, but I’ve never known him to be drunk. Some peop
le would say I’ve never known him to be sober, either, that he always had a buzz on, the same as Coke. Coke, with his tins of aspirin and black-market Coca-cola he tracks down, bottled before the government banned the use of cocaine in the formula.

  Doc retrieves a small, cloudy-looking glass from behind him, pours a fair amount of the amber liquid into it, and downs it in one swallow.

  “That’s better,” he says.

  He doesn’t look like it’s better. He begins to peel the label off the whiskey bottle, in a long tearing motion. He is so intent on it, I don’t think he knows the seconds are ticking by.

  “Jeri, I’ve got something to tell you,” he finally says. “Something in the strictest of confidence.”

  I sit up straight, feeling every hair on the back of my neck tingle.

  “Of course,” he goes on, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. Probably betraying a patient’s confidentiality and all that but I’m going to, anyway.” He stops talking and pours himself another shot.

  I wait, once again saying nothing. I’m tempted but I learned a lot by working for Brinks in the time that I did. One of the biggest lessons is when someone has something to tell you, keep your mouth shut until they do. Silence is a void most people need to fill.

  Doc downs a swig, leans in and barely speaks above a whisper. “A little over an hour ago Catalena suffered a miscarriage.”

  Whatever I may be expecting, this isn’t it.

  “Oh, no,” I gasp, instantly sorry I’ve spoken, wondering if the sound of my voice will break the spell. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s concentrating on peeling the label off the bottle again.

  “Thank God I sent Margie away when I sensed something was going wrong. Nobody was here when it happened but her family.” Doc’s voice is so low I have to strain to hear him. “Constantin went wild when he found out, absolutely wild. I’ve never seen him like that before. I had to get two roustabouts in here to calm him down. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, but I couldn’t understand anything he was saying. Fortunately, Catalena was too drugged by that time to hear him and Coke was still out.”