Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  are life and death. If Ioana is jeopardizing her life, maybe he got carried away in his attempt to discipline her.

  His love for his two girls is apparent, especially for Catalena. Maybe he knew Eddie impregnated his sixteen-year old daughter and was taking a powder. Fathers have been known to protect their children, up to and including murder. I let out a sigh; this scenario is weak. Wouldn’t it have been better to force Eddie to marry the girl rather than strangling the potential groom?

  Then there is Catalena, herself. I guess she could have found out he was leaving her and her baby, come up behind him and strangled him with the wire. On one hand, I found the bus ticket. But on the other hand, maybe Eddie had changed his mind and told her he wasn’t taking her with him. Could he have been that much of a rat and I never saw it? Maybe I can learn more when I get the chance to read Catalena’s diary.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe. That’s all I have. What I don’t know could fill up Yankee Stadium. If only I could get into the personnel files, I might learn a few things. It’s not going to be easy, no longer being the official investigator. I’ll have to go about it another way, more on the sly.

  I finish running through my paltry little list as we come upon Five Points on the outskirts of town, named for the convergence of five small roads. Martini’s Drug Store, run by a pharmacist and his family, houses the only public telephone for miles around, the one Wally used to call the sheriff the previous morning. As usual, we’re in the middle of nowhere.

  A large circus is set up in an isolated spot on the outskirts of a town or city. The Big Top needs a minimum of fifteen acres for the set up of tents, the pasturing of animals and the parking of ticket holders’ cars. It’s often a vacant field

  or fairground. Sometimes it’s a farm taken over by the county for non-payment of taxes, the depression having gone but its aftermath still with us.

  We pass a schoolyard burbling with children’s voices. One voice that reaches out to me is from a small girl with a jump rope chanting the words ‘Strawberry shortcake, sweetening pie, V-I-C-T-O-R-Y’ in rhythm with her jumps. Sadness sweeps over me.

  We are a nation at war. Every day sacrifices are being made, from egg rationing to dying on a foreign field. There is no certainty we will win the war, as secure as we try to feel, as big as we try to talk. There is no certainty of anything, anymore.

  Other thoughts, such as the whittling knife, blade wrapped in a scarf and resting in my bag, surge forward. I’ll have to deal with it and Tin when we return to the Big Top. I force everything on the back burner of my mind, lean my head against the window, and try to think of nothing.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re inside the town limits, turning onto Main Street. Like everything else, Springfield’s hospital and library are both off Main Street, within walking distance of each other. The hospital sits at the opposite end from where the bus enters. The movie theatre is in the center of town surrounded by small mom and pop stores, a Woolworth’s, and a seedy looking bar on the corner, already open. A peeling sign advertising draft beer for a nickel swings overhead in the late morning’s breeze. There’s one in every town.

  Across the street, a butcher shop has gone out of business. Forlorn and empty, a faded sign hangs in the window reading, 'Meat for our boys overseas, none for us.' Next to it, a small general store contains red and yellow signs outlining food rationing and what day which coupons will be honored. People are lined up for fresh milk. Limit, one quart per family.

  The bus drops off the twenty of us, the movie house being its only stop. The driver tells us he will return in four

  hours, time enough to allow for the movie and a little shopping. I note a number for the cab company in case I don’t get finished before the bus returns.

  Townspeople stare at us as we disperse. It isn’t just that we're strangers. We act and dress differently. I’d like to think more exotic and colorful, but maybe we look just plain peculiar.

  I wave goodbye to Margie and Doris, promising to meet them in front of the theatre after the movie gets out. With a lengthy intermission for a drive on war bonds, it’ll probably go until two-thirty.

  During the short four blocks to the hospital, I pass a funeral home. The words 'Fitzsimmons Mortuary' is discreetly written in small gold letters over the heavy, dark oak door. A black hearse is parked in front. I wonder if it’s waiting for Catalena or Eddie, ready to take them to a graveyard I saw outside the city limits. No, not so soon, I realize.

  There’s the care of the dead, legal processes, papers to sign. Rituals come much later after the business of death is taken care of. My mind rakes back to that day in the bank and the little boy. I had gone to his funeral, five days after he died, and watched them slip his small coffin into the ground. I may not have shot him, but I caused the shot to be fired. Any right to happiness I may have had in my life was buried that day with the child.

  I come to the hospital, a small two-story job, and I hope I’ve hit visiting hours. I would have said I was Coke’s sister to make sure I get in to see him but I don’t know his real name. After describing him to the nurses, they point me to the second floor, men’s ward. Leroy Patterson is his name. Coke and Aspirin fits him better.

  Coke’s bandaged head is lying with the rest of him at the end of a row of beds. A man coughs as I pass by and I hold

  my breath. TB is rampant these days and everyone is aware of it. Maybe someday there will be a cure but right now, there isn’t. We all have to be careful.

  At first I think Coke is sleeping but the closer I get, I see his eyes are open, staring at nothing. When he notices me, he waves then sits up slowly, grinning from ear to ear. What

  teeth Coke has left are ragged and blackened. I don’t know if it’s the constant intake of sugar from the cokes or if he just has lousy teeth. In any event, I can smell his breath almost from the foot of the bed.

  “How you doing, Coke?”

  His smile becomes shaky. He’s shaky all over, maybe from the lack of caffeine in his body. I’ve read in a medical book that caffeine is as addictive as booze or gambling.

  “I’m okay, okay, Miss Jeri. Fancy you coming here to see me.” A trembling hand goes to his head and then settles in his lap. “I got this headache, though.”

  I reach into my bag and bring out a bottle of Coca-cola, still cold from the icebox. His eyes light up and he reaches out for the bottle, practically snatching it from my hand.

  He scrutinizes the bottle and turns to me in disappointment. “This ain’t one of my bottles. I can tell by the neck. It ain’t one of my bottles,” he repeats.

  “I know, Coke. I got this at the Cookhouse before I left. It’s just an ordinary Coca-cola. You want it or not?” He sighs but nods. I hand him a bottle opener and he tries to pry the cap off with shaking, useless hands.

  “Here,” I say. “Let me do it.” I take both from him and flip the lid off, handing him back the bottle. He downs it in fast, long gulps. I take another bottle out and hold it up.

  “Want another one?” He nods again, this time more content. I pry the lid off this one and hand it over. I watch him gulp it down like the first one, then look at me as if I would keep pulling out bottles like a magician.

  “That’s it, Coke. I only brought two.”

  He’s let down, but more relaxed. The shaking has subsided somewhat, too.

  I sit in a chair by his bed and get right to it. “Coke, I’d like to ask you a few questions, all right?”

  “Sure but I don’t know nothing,” he says. “Nobody ever asks me anything ‘cause I don’t know much. I just do what I’m told.”

  “What do you remember about night before last?”

  “Oh, that.” He shrugs. “I got hit on the head.”

  “Do you remember what time that was?”

  “Lessee,” he answers. “Sometime after five in the morning. Maybe six but I don’t think so. It were still pretty dark and I don’t have no watch or nothing.”

  “Good.” I’m encouraged. “That’s
very good. Before you got hit, did you hear anything? See anything? Anything happen that was strange? Did the animals seem nervous, like a stranger might be hanging around?”

  With each question, he looks more bewildered and shakes his head slightly.

  “Try to think, Coke.” I’m pressuring him but I don’t care. “Put yourself back there. Was there anything unusual or different?”

  He obliges me and thinks for a moment.

  “There was them boots I saw.”

  “What boots?” I nearly jump out of the chair.

  “I was leaning down under the tiger cubs’ wagon getting me a Coke, one of mine. Don’t’ tell anybody, Miss Jeri, but that’s where I keep one of my stashes. Anyway, I was looking down at the ground when I seen two boots come stand in front of me. Appeared out of nowhere, too. I was starting to look up, you know, to see who it was and whammo! Ow,” he says. “My head.” He became animated toward the end and sinks down into the bed, closing his eyes.

  “Can you describe the boots? What did they look like?”

  “Naw. It was under a light pole but I just seen them fast

  like. They was thick and newish. Maybe black or dark brown. I don’t know.” His eyes are still closed. He opens them suddenly. “They didn’t have much mud on them, though. Not like the rest of us who work outside in our boots, rain or shine.”

  I reflect on the boots I saw kicking at the dead clown. And the ones propped up on Vince’s desk attached to Tony.

  Even the ones owned by Tin. None had much mud on them, other than around the soles. A lack of mud probably does rule out the workmen and roustabouts. I should have thought of that myself. Coke is sharper than I’m giving him credit for. But then I have to remember this is a man who can find bootleg Coke anywhere in the forty-eight states, when he needs to.

  “Thanks, Coke. That’s a big help.”

  “You should see mine,” he says, warming to the subject. “Them boots look like I roll around in mud for the fun of it. I don’t even bother to scrape it off no more.” He grins at me again and yawns; giving me a full view of the most rotten teeth I’ve ever seen.

  “I should go, Coke, and let you get your rest.”

  “Do you know when they’re going to let me out of here, Miss Jeri?”

  “Tell you what, I’ll ask the nurse and if I find out anything, I’ll let come back and tell you. Meanwhile, take care of yourself.”

  “You sure you don’t have another Coke on you? Even them straight ones is better than nothing.” I give my head a quick shake. “God, I got all the aspirin in here a body could want and no Coke to go with them.”

  I smile and turn away, passing a nurse on her way to Coke’s bedside. I overhear her tell him he’ll be there another day or two. Coke asks for a Coca-cola but the nurse laughs and says no. Poor Coke. Maybe I’ll try to sneak in some more tomorrow.

  Chapter Eighteen

  12:10 p.m., Monday

  I head straight for the library, one of my old haunts. I’ve been in just about every public library across the nation since I joined the circus. There isn’t a book I don’t pick up and read, always looking to learn, and these places hold all I could want.

  I recall this library from last year and its most contemporary and racy writer is Mark Twain. They have a decent collection of classical writers going back to the Greeks, philosophers such as Aristotle and Des Carte, and a healthy catalogue of important plays pre-Moliere, all donated from an estate that went bust in the late twenties. If I remember right, they also have several dictionaries in different languages. Maybe it’s too much to hope they’ll have a Romanian one, but I’ll see what I can dig up.

  The librarian remembers me from last year and points me in the direction of the dictionaries. The only ones they have that might prove useful are Italian and Latin. Armed with those two and the magnifying glass I brought with me, I open Catalena’s diary to the last few pages of the book.

  It’s tedious work trying to decipher her writing, so small and tight, guessing at the spelling of words, and then looking them up in two dictionaries that aren’t even in the same language. I’m making little headway. Her last entry on the day before she died is disturbing, although I can’t put my finger on exactly what’s going on.

  It seems to be filled with sadness, fear and something else. Maybe it’s a guilty conscious about running away and

  leaving her family. There is the mention of Ioana and Eddie, plus one word at the bottom written in large, block letters. Nothing in either dictionary helps me out with its meaning. At twenty minutes after two, it’s time to fold up my tent and go to the front desk. I’m disappointed and the librarian sees it on my face.

  “Not finding what you want?” She smiles at me. Her middle-aged, scrubbed face looks kind and concerned.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I actually need a Romanian dictionary. These others aren’t much use.”

  A startled look crosses her face. “You’re looking for a Romanian dictionary?”

  “Yes. I have to--”

  “If it’s about a Romanian word,” she interrupts, “Mr. Patrescu is here today. He’s from Romania. He’s over there,” she whispers, “sitting in Reference.”

  She comes out from behind the desk and walks me over to a sectioned-off part of the library, complete with wingback chairs and a rickety coffee table holding neat stacks of magazines. A well rounded, elderly man rests in one chair, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded in his lap, white thatched head lolled back, almost asleep.

  “His granddaughter has a job at the bakery down the street and he comes in with her two or three times a week,” she whispers. “That’s when her mother works at the munitions factory in Piedmont.” She stares at him tenderly. “I don’t think they want to leave him home alone. He’s such a sweet man and he reads everything he can get his hands on.”

  She goes over and touches him on the arm. “Mr. Patrescu. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  His head snaps into an upright position and he looks around for a moment taking stock of where he is. “Ah! Lucille,” he says, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. “You’re not bothering me. I was just resting.” His accent is not as heavy as Constantin’s and easier to understand.

  Lucille points to me. I smile. “Mr. Patrescu, this is Miss…” She turns to me questioningly.

  “Deane,” I say, “but please call me Jeri.”

  “Jeri? That is a boy’s name, yes?” he asks, blue eyes twinkling.

  “Not always. It can be male or female,” I say, smiling.

  “That is good. We would not want you to have the wrong name.” He grins.

  I laugh.

  Lucille says, “She needs to know a Romanian word and we don’t have a dictionary. Do you think you could…” She leaves off speaking and smiles at him.

  “Of course, of course,” he says, rising awkwardly. “I will be happy to assist such a lovely young lady.” He looks at the librarian. “Two such lovely ladies.” He bows slightly.

  I say, “This is very kind of you, Mr. Patrescu.”

  “Nonsense. What are we if we cannot help each other? Now what is this word you need me to look at?”

  “I should really get back to my desk,” Lucille says in a hushed voice. “I’ll leave you to this.”

  “Yes, thank you, Lucille,” I say.

  I sit down in the wingback chair next to the one he occupies. He half sits, half falls back down into his. I can tell that he’s not in the best shape.

  “It’s in this book.” I open the diary to the last entry and offer it to him.

  He takes it and looks at both the front and back covers. “I know this kind of book,” he says. “It is called a dowry. No, that’s not it…” he breaks off thinking.

  “It’s a diary, sir.”

  “Diary.” He rolls the word around in his mouth. “It is yours?” he asks with a smile.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Of course not. Otherwise, you would not need me to tell you what one of the wor
ds mean,” he says impishly.

  “That’s right. It belongs to…” I hesitate. “Belonged to someone no longer with us.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.” His smile fades and he studies the pages. “The writing is not easy and today I forget my glasses.”

  “No, the writing is not easy,” I agree. “Would you like to use this magnifying glass?”

  He takes the offered implement and scrutinizes the page. “Which is the word?”

  I get up and go around to his side. “The one in big letters.”

  “Yes, that one is clear but it is difficult to know. Let me think.” He closes his eyes for a time. I wonder if he’s gone back to sleep. I sit down again and watch him. His eyes flash open and he looks at me. “It is a word that is used only by small group of Romanians, gypsies, in the mountains. Not everywhere is this word but now I remember.”

  “A dialect, you mean?” I ask.

  “Yes. It means to notify… to tell…no stronger than that…to warn. Yes, that is it. To warn.” He studies the book again. I can tell he’s trying to read the last page in its entirety. I let him. “Such a sad writer. My eyes are not what they used to be and I do not have my glasses but she…” He breaks off. “This is a young girl, no?”

  “It was, yes.”

  “She is troubled. Oh, so troubled. I hope my Magdalena is never so troubled. She is my granddaughter who bakes the bread,” he explains.

  “I hope not, too, sir.”

  He hands the book back to me and says, “You wish to help free this girl from some of those troubles, even though she is gone?”

  I nod. Not only does he understand what I want to do, but he’s put it into the words I hadn’t quite found yet.

  “Exactly. I want to help free her, even thought she is gone. That’s why I am trying to read her diary, yes.” I reach in

  my bag and unfold the note containing the underlined words I

  scribbled down from Constantine’s Bible.

  “One more thing, if you don’t mind, sir. Some of this I can translate but not all of it. Could you tell me word for word what this says?”