Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  “Constantin didn’t have any idea she was pregnant? You’re sure?”

  “None at all. In fact, he made the little girl ask me three times if that’s what it was. He still couldn’t believe it. Poor Ioana. She was terrified. Her sister lying there, bleeding, her father behaving like a madman. I hated using her for all the questions and answers, putting her in the middle like that.

  Sometimes I couldn’t understand her through the sobs.” A shaky hand pours another drink. He gulps it down. “Jesus, what a life.”

  I look around me. It’s so quiet, it’s hard to believe that such a scene took place a short while ago. “Where are they now?”

  “Getting ready for the show, I suppose.”

  “You’re kidding.” I know the show must go on, but there’s a limit. Baboescu doesn’t have to perform under these circumstances. Management would never force him.

  “He said something about the little girl having to fill in for her big sister. They needed to fit the costume, something like that. Frankly, I just wanted him gone so I could take care of my patients.”

  He unscrews the cap to the whiskey bottle again, hesitates and puts it back on. Returning the bottle to the drawer, he says. “I’ve had enough.” He stops dead. “I’ve had enough of everything.”

  I watch his eyes focus on something behind me or maybe something in the past. I can’t tell.

  “Shouldn’t Catalena be in a hospital instead of here?” I ask, trying to bring him back. “I mean, isn’t this serious?”

  “I’ve handled a lot of miscarriages,” Doc says in a matter-of-fact tone. “During the Great War. Small villages in France. Women caught in the shooting, bombing, bayoneted just for the hell of it. Losing their babies in the middle of fields or in the bombed out shells of their homes. So many. You stop counting after awhile.”

  He looks at me with empty eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m a good doctor. I know what I’m doing. I could do a D and C in my sleep.”

  He gets up and paces the small length of the room. I sit, trying to absorb what he’s told me.

  “Besides, I tried to send her to the hospital, like Coke, just in case. Her father flatly refused. What could I do?” he

  shrugs. “She’s a minor. If her father doesn’t want her to go, I can’t force it. Said he was too ashamed, something like that. Although, if I see signs of an infection, I’ll send her whether he likes it or not. That’s why I’ve got the nurse in there keeping an eye on her.”

  Doc gazes down at me. “I do what I can, Jeri, but it’s never enough. Never enough.” He throws himself down and seems to deflate into the chair. I watch him shrink to almost half his size. It’s as if his own personal demons are sucking the life from him.

  I reach over and touch his hand lightly. “I’m sorry, Doc. I didn’t mean I don’t think you know what you’re doing. You’ve always done your best and that’s more than a lot of us can say.”

  He gives me a small smile. “You’re a caring girl, Jeri, especially for one so young.”

  “I’m not so young. I’ve been on my own for ten years, since I’m fourteen.”

  “I know. You’ve had a hard life. And still you feel for others. You like to pretend people don’t get to you, but they do.” He studies my face for a moment. “And you’re smart. You could get into trouble being as smart as you are. Be careful.”

  I’m not sure if that’s an observation, a warning or a threat. I decide to let it go.

  “Have you told the sheriff yet?” I ask. He shakes his head. “This could change everything, Doc. It could be a motive.”

  He gets up and paces the small room again. I can tell he’s coming to a decision.

  “All right, I’ll tell the sheriff. I just wanted to give her a little peace. He’s already been after me to let him talk to her ever since he got here. I just wanted to give her a little peace,” he repeats.

  He turns back to me, more like his old self. Maybe the demons are back in check. “It’s only a matter of time before the whole circus knows about it, anyway.”

  “Not from me,” I interject.

  “No, of course not. That’s why I told you. You know how to keep your mouth shut. But there are the others, the nurse, the father, the kid sister, even the girl, herself. Secrets don’t last long around here.”

  I nod in agreement and we smile at one another in a sad, knowing way.

  Doc hesitates for a moment, gets up and comes to the other side of the desk. He sits on the edge, looking at me. “I’m one of your biggest admirers, Jeri. I think you know that. I see not just the pretty packaging, but what’s inside. You’re a good person. You’re intelligent. You’ve got integrity. In some ways, I feel like you’re the daughter I never had. That’s why I say again, be careful.” He leans into me, stressing the last two words. I smell the whiskey on his breath.

  Before I can reply, we hear a voice on the other side of the canvas. I’m glad of it. I don’t know if it’s him talking, or the booze. Either way, it’s unsettling. There was mention of a wife once-upon-a-time but what that story is, I don’t know. I never ask; he never says. Circus policy.

  The nurse calls to him again. “Doctor Williams?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “The patient is stirring. You told me to tell you.”

  “Yes, I’m coming,” he says to the nurse. He turns back to me. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for listening, Jeri.”

  “Sure,” I say, getting up, feeling achy, feeling tired, feeling otherworldly. “I’ll come back after the first show, just to see how Catalena’s doing, okay?”

  He nods and hurries toward the hospital room in the center of the tent. I wait, then follow him out. As I pass by, Doc is sitting by Catalena’s bedside holding her hand and

  stroking her forehead. He talks to her in a voice that’s warm and caring.

  Something catches in my throat. Funny what Doc said about me being the daughter he never had. In some ways, I feel like he’s the father I’ve always wanted. I turn away, filled with an overwhelming sadness, coupled with a sense of disloyalty to my own father, no matter what he’s done to me.

  Chapter Eight

  11:30 a.m., Sunday

  I step outside to a sun now in full power. Shading my eyes with my hands, I look up to see the flag flying on the Cookhouse, the signal it’s open. I’m starving and the Cookhouse reopens at eleven for lunch, so it has to be around that time.

  To check, I reach for the lapel watch I always wear. It isn’t there. Then it hits me. I left it on my rehearsal clothes, the ones I told Doris to have the kids get rid of. The watch was a gift from two of my older sisters, one of the few I’ve ever received, and is the only piece of jewelry I wear. To me, it’s priceless. I feel panic surging within me, when someone calls out my name.

  “Miss Jeri! Miss!” The same gap-toothed, smiling kid from this morning runs up, reddish brown hair glistening with sweat. “I been looking for you everywhere, Miss. I found this on the stuff you was throwing out. Here!” He thrusts a grubby hand at me, turning it over to reveal my lavaliere watch, polished silver glittering in the sun.

  I gasp and reach out for it with shaking fingers. “I can’t believe it. I just noticed --”

  “I gotta get back, miss,” he interrupts. “I been looking for ya a long time.”

  “Oh, here and thank you,” I falter, searching my pockets for loose change. “It’s Wally, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, miss,” He says, his hands gesturing me away. “But Miss Doris already paid me. ‘sides, I knew it meant a lot to you. I never seen you without it.” With a flash of another smile, he turns on his heels and dashes off, the boy whose name I only learned this morning.

  I gape after my young hero. Talk about timing. To think I didn’t realize one of my most precious treasures was missing until moments before his appearance. And he'd been searching for me all the while.

  I look down at the lavaliere in my hand, with the small watch hanging from a retractable chain. Above it, ribbons, frozen in silver, come al
ive in the sun’s rays. I put it to my ear, hear the soft ticking, wind it carefully, and pin it in its usual place on my sweater. I check and recheck the catch to make sure it can’t fall off. I’m not as on top of things as I’d like to think. Doc is right. I need to be careful.

  I join other performers in line at the Cookhouse for a bite before the two o’clock matinee. I ignore snatches of conversation about the recent events, curious eyes riveted on me. I stare straight ahead, not inviting any chit-chat.

  There is only one entrance to the Cookhouse but two separate lines. The circus, while liberal in many ways, runs itself on a class system. The artistes never mix with workers, not even for meals. Using one entrance, performers line up on the right and the roustabouts, tent setters, clean-up crews, animal handlers, wardrobe, ticket takers, and other staffers on the left. A canvas wall divides the seating area down the middle. Everyone can hear who is on the far side but no one speaks to the other during meals.

  At first, I was uneasy about it but that’s the way things run around here. Truthfully, it has its advantages. As an artiste, I’m first in line for everything, treated as if I’m important. The disadvantage might be one of these days a woman will knit my name into an afghan, just like Madame Defarge did. Every time I wear my Marie Antoinette costume in one of the numbers, I think about that and feel a smidgen of fear.

  The cafeteria-style food is abundant and filling, with lots of good old American dishes served three times a day. In the circus, room and board is included, so even though you

  only get a paycheck for the nine-months you work, you can still save money. During our winter hiatus, I teach ballet to little kids who can’t afford to pay, solely for the joy of doing it. The Big Top allows me to do that.

  I load up with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, string beans and apple pie -- Sunday’s fare - and a small carton of milk, and look around for a place to sit. I’d like to sit by myself, but it’s family style seating at every meal. We’re a friendly lot.

  I hear Tin Foot’s voice calling to me and stroll over to him. Even seated, he towers above the other performers at the long table; my gentle giant. I slide in on the bench across from him. Tin Foot and I exchange a look, which says ‘no talking about any of this now’ and chow down. Other than a few furtive glances, no one asks any questions. It’s a relief to do something normal, if only for twenty minutes.

  On the way over to the wardrobe tent for our costumes, Tin Foot and I drop behind the rest, so we can talk.

  “What did the sheriff ask you?” I say.

  “Not much. Only if I knew any reason why anyone would want to kill Eddie. I told him no and he said I could leave. I waited for two hours and I saw him for about ten seconds.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

  I grunt a reply, thinking about the exchange between the sheriff and Tony Phillips when I was there.

  “You heard Coke was taken to the local hospital?” Tin asks.

  “Yes,” I say, still thinking about the sheriff. “Coke’s going to be okay, at least, that’s what Doc says, but he’ll be under observation for a couple of days. I sure would like to talk to him.”

  “No reason to,” the web sitter replies. “I understand he didn’t see or hear anything, just felt a whack on the back of the head. Doesn’t know a thing.”

  “Where did you hear that?’ I ask sharply, stopping mid-step.

  Tin Foot stops walking and turns back to me. “The nurse. She told me when I dropped by to see how the two of them were doing. Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be. I just didn’t think…” I break off, not wanting to say my opinion of the nurse’s ethics. Doc is right. It’s only a matter of time before all the secrets come out. Poor Catalena.

  Almost as if he can read my thoughts, Tin says, “So what’s the latest on Catalena?”

  “Nothing much.” I lie easily and walk toward the wardrobe/dressing rooms again. “She’s on tranquilizers but Doc said she’s going to be fine.”

  “That’s a relief,” he says, falling in step with me. “By the way, Whitey was looking for you earlier. Didn’t say why but he looked anxious.”

  His voice doesn’t betray anything, but I know how Tin still feels about me – or suspect I know -- so I’m trying to keep a lid on my feelings for Whitey, at least for a while. Having a relationship with Whitey is doable, as far as circus hierarchy goes, which is all in all.

  As the head bull man, Whitey lives in a gray area between being a performer and a worker. He’s classified as an elephant trainer, but often has to be in the ring during a performance with one of the elephants, especially on a difficult number. Being tall and good-looking, management likes to use him during the shows. He even has a safari costume. His main job, however, is the daily supervision and training of fifty-one elephants and the fifty men that work with them.

  Whitey and I got acquainted my first year because of one of the tricks I did with an elephant named Emma. Dressed in a skimpy, spangled jungle outfit, I’d stand in the curve of her uplifted trunk and hold onto a jeweled harness on top of her head with one hand. She’d rear up on her back legs, trunk rounded and high in the air, while I balanced almost upside

  down in what was considered a glamorous pose. It never ceased to thrill the crowds but it could be dicey. It required a lot of balance and concentration on the elephant’s part and sometimes she wasn’t in the mood. Whitey stood nearby just in case he was needed.

  Thought of as a catch by a lot of the girls, especially with the war on, Whitey is ten years older than me and divorced. I’ve heard his wife snuck out one night, leaving him for a flyer, but rumors run amok around here and it might not be true. So far, Whitey keeps avoiding the conversation and I don’t press it. But if we keep going the way we are, I’ll have to soon enough.

  “He’s worried about you, Jeri, ever since this morning,” Tin says, breaking into my thoughts. “I think we’re all a little nervous about a killer on the loose.” He pauses. “Maybe it was a Townie.”

  “And if it was, does that make you feel better?”

  “I don’t know, Jeri. You sure don’t want it be one of your own.”

  “I guess not.” We walk on in a moody silence until we come to the large tent entrance and have to go our separate ways.

  Before he leaves, Tin reminds me, “Don’t forget about Whitey, Jeri.”

  “I won’t. I’ll be seeing him once the show starts and I’ll let him know I’m all right.”

  “And are you?” My friend studies my face.

  “I thought I was,” I say, touching the watch on my shoulder.

  Chapter Nine

  12:55 p.m., Sunday

  Makeup and wardrobe are housed together in one long tent. The men’s dressing area is on one side, the women’s on the other, and the center is devoted to wardrobe. Each costume has a sewn-in label, denoting the performer’s name. All the costumes are crammed on hundreds of portable, steel racks with alphabetical name cards.

  How many costumes hang by your name depends on the number of acts you are performing in. I have eleven. I change into three of these costumes during the Spec, which opens the show. The Spec is the teaser or promise of things to come, showing a little bit of all the upcoming acts.

  It begins with the ringmaster welcoming the audience to the “The Greatest Show on Earth.” He stands on a platform in the center ring, dressed in his “pinks,” a costume which is really red and black. He removes his top hat and, with fanfare, waves the circus members in from one large entrance at the back end of the Big Top, divided into two by a red velvet drape.

  To thunderous applause and earsplitting calliope music, Topsy opens the show by bounding out from one side of the drape, trumpeting a greeting to the masses. She wears a dazzling pink tutu around her middle. I ride her bejeweled head and am wearing a similar pink spangled getup. We’re followed by nine other elephants and girls dressed in the same costumes.

  The clowns enter from the other side of the drape. While they do their shti
ck in the two smaller rings, the ten elephants race around the circumference of the Big Top once,

  the girls waving to the cheering crowd, then dash out the way we came in. The girls dismount. The elephants are led away and I have less than twenty seconds to change into a lavender costume, reminiscent of Guinevere in Camelot. I leap onto the sidesaddle of a waiting plumed, white horse, grab a lance with an American flag on it, and race back in, circling inside one of the smaller rings. Acrobats, high-wire acts and aerialists have entered by now and are prancing around in the center ring showing promises of things to come. The jugglers are in the other small ring throwing things to one another, bowing and waving to the audience.

  The Big Top suddenly goes dark amidst deafening cheers. A pin spot comes up on the ringmaster. With a great deal of pomp and circumstance, he invites the audience to stand and sing the Star Spangled Banner. The lights come up in the bleachers but it remains dark at the back entrance. The crowd rises to its feet, good Americans all. With the Merle Evans Orchestra playing majestically, they begin to sing our national anthem, their forte voices filling the Big Top and surrounding countryside. I get a lump in my throat every time, no matter how often we do this part of the show. America the Beautiful. It’s what we’re fighting for.

  During this time, the performers exit in the gloom, me to a changing station behind the bleachers. The horse is taken away and I change into a much hated forty-five pound, full-length, silver metal, sequined gown, complete with a high, Elizabethan collar and ten-foot train. With the help of two wardrobe people, a body width, red stripe of the American flag is attached to my back shoulders, rolled and tied up like a sleeping bag. Unleashed, it’s thirty feet in length and weighted at the bottom.