Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  “I got a lot of whittling done while I waited.”

  “What’s been happening while I was in slumber land? What’s going on?”

  “Balendron called a brush-up rehearsal for the Elephants’ Ballet at ten.”

  “But I’m in --” I say, stopping short.

  “Naw. You’re off the hook,” Tin Foot interjects. “Tony said it was okay if you weren’t there. Balendron said it was okay, too; said you know your stuff. Topsy’s going through her paces without you, with a little help from Whitey. Tony told me to keep an eye out for you and if you weren’t up by noon, to wake you. We’ve got that special matinee, remember?”

  “I remember, all right. It couldn’t be coming at a worse time.”

  We’re doing an extra show in support of our troops. The performers donate their time and the Big Top gives all the proceeds to the USO. Anyone in a service uniform is invited in, free of charge.

  “How are you feeling?” asks Tin. “I’ve seen you look better.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “To be honest, Tin, I need to work out some stiffness and take a long, hot shower, something to get my mind going again. I feel like I’m in a fog.”

  “Maybe I can help. Got lots of things to report,” Tin Foot says, with a grin.

  “Like what?”

  “Tony is with the Springfield City Council right now, trying to talk them into letting the show stay open. They probably think it’s more dangerous around here than being in one of Eisenhower’s bunkers. Anyway, Tony said he’d see you after the afternoon show to let you know what’s going on.”

  “I see. Any news on Rosie? Have they found her?” I ask.

  “No, they’re still looking and Tony’s got a guard on her compartment. She hasn’t been back there to get her clothes or nothing. Maybe she’s long gone, half way to Canada by now.”

  “I don’t think so. I think she’s still here, Tin.”

  “You mean, hiding somewhere in her costume?” he says. “Well, that gives me the willies. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I still can’t believe Constantin killed Eddie and then took his own life.” Tin loses his smile. He takes my arm.

  “Hurry up,” he says, pulling me forward. “Lillian’s waiting for us.”

  “I thought the sheriff was going to talk to me,” I say, shaking my head, but picking up my pace. “Where is he?”

  “He left first thing this morning along with the coroner. He agreed to interview you tomorrow or the next day down at the station. Tony said it was just a formality.”

  We continue walking and Tin muses for a moment. “I wonder why Tony didn’t wait until the sheriff was here to arrest Rosie. Wasn’t very smart.”

  “Because ‘Y’ is a crooked letter that can’t be straightened out,” I answer.

  Tin looks at me, puzzled.

  “Never mind,” I say, linking arms with him again. “That’s just one of my smart aleck answers. It’s too late now to do any speculating one way or the other. We’ll just have to see how it turns out.”

  “’Speculating.’ That one of your daily words? What does it mean?”

  “To speculate. It means to reach a conclusion without sufficient facts or reason.”

  “Sounds a little like faith,” he answers amiably.

  “That’s more of a strong belief in a supernatural power or powers that control destiny.”

  Tin laughs.”You’re a walking dictionary, Jeri.”

  I return his laughter. “And a show off.”

  He glances my way. “Never that, Jeri, never that. I know you learn things for yourself alone. Sometimes you share them with others.”

  I give Tin a grateful look, aware and not for the first time, of how well my friend knows me.

  “Tin, have you heard how’s Ioana doing? Is she okay?”

  “Well enough. She stayed in the First Aid Tent last night with Doc and the nurse. Sheriff wanted to take her with him, hand her over to Welfare, but Doc talked him out of it for now. Mentioned an aunt in Chicago the kid really loves, so they’re contacting the woman, asking her to come here. I guess Ioana will be going back with her. It’s all pretty sad.”

  We walk the rest of the way in silence.

  Lillian brings out a tray laden with hot tea and sandwiches and carries it to one of the picnic tables nearby. Chatting and scolding us while she serves, she wears a smile on her face, but her eyes are red-rimmed.

  “You’re going to sit out here,” she says to Tin. “‘Cause you know there’s no men allowed inside. But I made you some extra sandwiches.” She winks at my friend. “Won’t do for you to waste away. And they’re your favorite. I got hold of some Virginia ham. Hot coffee for you and tea for my girl, who’s going to learn to mind her own business and take care of herself for awhile. No more running around like Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  “But I’m her Watson, Lillian. What about me?” Tin says, grinning in my direction.

  “I want you both to stop this meddling. Right now, you hear?”

  I want to reach out and hug her, thinking about her son once again. I missed mail call yesterday and today, so when

  Lillian goes into the railway car for mustard, I ask Tin about her and any letters.

  Tin Foot shakes his head. “It’s been almost two weeks. Doris said she caught Lillian crying last night, when she didn’t think anyone was looking.”

  I find myself saying a silent prayer for Duane. Then I add my three brothers. I pray for all our boys over there. This damned war.

  I eat half a sandwich and Tin has three, while I tell him everything that happened last night. Except what I found in the diary. If I let go of that one, her secret will be out in the open. I can’t do that to her.

  Afterward, Tin returns to his compartment. I hope he’s satisfied with my answers. I do a strenuous ballet barre for forty-five minutes and finish with some work on the monkey bars set up in the practice area, completely mine due to the rehearsal.

  I avoid the trapeze. I’m not sure why but I can’t even look at it. It reminds me of Rosie. A wave of anxiety shoots through me. Where is she? I drop down to the ground, ready for a shower.

  On my way back from the practice area, I spot two young Negro soldiers standing together. The short and compact one is looking around, his face full of befuddlement and confusion. He’s holding the arm of a taller boy, graceful and well groomed, despite the bandages covering his eyes and forehead. I recognize him from his photos right away, even with half his face swathed in bandages.

  “Duane!” I yelp and break into a run to him. “Oh, my God! It’s you, isn’t it?”

  To the two soldiers’ astonishment, I throw my arms around Duane in my excitement.

  “Miss? Miss, are you all right? What are you doing?” the shorter soldier stutters, looking around him. A white girl hugging a black boy. Not done, even up North.

  “Do I know you, miss?” Duane asks, cocking his head, as if his ears will give him more information.

  “You are Duane Washington, right?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m looking for my mother --”

  “I know! Lillian! Come with me,” I interrupt. “I’m on my way back there now.”

  I grab his arm and start tugging him toward the Virgin Car. The other soldier follows. We’re stared at by some of the performers, but most just go about their business.

  My happiness bubbles over and my mouth never shuts. I babble about how much Lillian has missed him, how proud we all are of him, on and on, pulling him to the car. He smiles all the time, sometimes breaking out into easy laughter; a nice kid. When we get close to the Virgin Car, I shout out Lillian’s name repeatedly.

  She steps out on the upper step, looking around.“Who is that yelling? What’s on fire around here?” Her focus hones in on the three of us. Then she lets out a scream they could probably hear in New Jersey and runs down the stairs toward us.

  “Duane! Duane, my boy! My son!” She throws
herself in his outstretched arms, nearly knocking him over. He lets out a laugh to the heavens.

  “Mama! Your voice never sounded so good to me.”

  They hug so tightly, I don’t know how they manage to breathe. The other soldier and I look on, sharing in the mother-son happiness.

  Lillian breaks away and notices his bandaged eyes for the first time. “What happened? Oh, God. My boy is blind?” She puts her hands over her mouth, as if the words have escaped before she can recapture them.

  The smile leaves Duane’s face. “Just for awhile, mama. The doctors say I’ll get my vision back again in a couple of months.” He forces his smile again. “Maybe not all of it, but most of it.”

  Her lower lip quivers, but her voice is strong. “Well. They should know, boy, and we’ll leave the rest up to the Lord. Come sit down, Duane,” she says, pulling him toward the table and chairs. She notices the other soldier. He removes his hat and gives her a nervous nod.

  “And who are you, young man?” she demands.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he says. “I’m his friend, Lamar.”

  “Oh, mama, I’m sorry,” Duane says, groping around for his friend’s hand and pulling him near. “This is Lamar Baker. He brought me here. There wasn’t any other way I could get here.”

  “I’m on furlough and I live just fifty miles south of here, ma’am,” Lamar has a shy smile.

  Lillian takes his hand in hers. “Thank you, Lamar, for bringing my son back to me.”

  “It was nothing, ma’am. He’s my friend.”

  “Sit down, both of you,” Lillian orders. Lamar helps Lillian maneuver Duane into a wooden chair. Lillian gives him a grateful look. “Are you boys hungry?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Lamar says.

  “We could eat a horse,” Duane adds.

  “We ain’t had nothing since yesterday.” Lamar looks guiltily at me. “Couldn’t find no colored restaurants ‘round here.”

  “I’ve got some sandwiches. Let me go --” Lillian begins.

  “I’ll get them, Lillian,” I interrupt, leaping onto the platform. “You sit right there and visit.” Inside, I grab six of the sandwiches Lillian made for the girls after rehearsal. I hand them down and watch Lillian offer the plate to Lamar and put a ham sandwich in Duane’s hand. The two boys, not much older than eighteen, take huge bites of the food, while Lillian hugs and kisses her son.

  “Mama!” Duane laughs. “I can’t eat with you grabbing on me like this.”

  “Too bad, too bad,” she says. “That’s what you get, child, for being gone so long.”

  I leave the small scene feeling happier and more light-hearted than I can remember.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  4:15 p.m., Tuesday

  I wait in the darkened aisle and watch hundreds of American flags and USO banners transform the Big Top into a sea of undulating red, white and blue. No soldier is turned away, so the house is beyond full capacity, spectators spilling out into the entrances and exits, getting in the way. They’re rowdier than usual, too: clapping continually, stamping their feet, voices ringing out with need and anticipation. I feel tension sparking the air, almost a bloodlust.

  Roustabouts and security do more crowd control than usual. I don’t think any of us are happy performing for this group, patriotic as we feel. We could lose control of them at any moment. Even the animals appear to be on mob alert.

  Along with the rest of the girls, I’m dressed in my red and hot pink costume, awaiting my cue for the web, glad the end of the show is near. There’s so much noise and revelry going on, it’s difficult to understand the words of the ringmaster, just an overriding blast of a mangled, micro-phoned voice.

  The lights are focused on the high wire act in the center ring, about to begin their last, chilling trick. No matter how many times I see it, my heart beats faster within me. They are truly defying death at every performance.

  Dressed in a sequin-covered green and white leotard, the lead man begins to cross the thin wire riding a bicycle, balancing himself with a long, slim pole. Standing behind him on the back of the bike is another man, similarly dressed. Posing prettily on the handlebars sits a woman in a green and white tutu, legs cross, toes pointed, a glittering tiara upon her head. Welded to the bottom of the bike’s frame is a metal pole,

  which hangs down five feet. Attached to the bottom of the pole is a swing.

  Everyone, audience and fellow performer, waits in anticipation, enthralled. For the first time during the show, there is a short span of silence as the bicyclist nears the center of the wire. The acrobat mounts the bicyclist’s shoulders, pushes up into a handstand and balances himself, body pointing to the ceiling. The woman slides down the pole to the swing, sits down, and gently swings to and fro, waving to the crowd. The bicyclist balances all three and the bike on the wire. Then he cycles to the other side. Forty feet below, there is no safety net, not now, not ever. One slip and all three could be dead.

  The crowd cheers wildly. I think I hear a voice call out my name, but it’s lost in someone’s whoop. The assemblage is on its feet, yelling and cheering, stamping on the wooden platforms. The finale music swells to a deafening crescendo. The high wire act is over and it’s time for me to go to my spot. My name is shouted out again and this time I pause and look around me. They have already lowered the twenty-five ropes into the perimeter aisle surrounding the three rings when Tin Foot comes up behind and spins me around.

  “Jeri, you’re late! The girls are ready to start the climb. What’s the matter with you? Get in the air!”

  I follow Tin Foot, run into place, and throw off my cape. I’m the girl at the far outside of the ring, off the exit aisle. The lights dim on the ground, as usual, with the spotlight hitting the ringmaster in his red coat with gold buttons and black pants, top hat and whip. He introduces us again as the death defying beauties, his voice magnified to an ear-splitting level. Spotlights pop up on us as we climb the ropes in unison.

  Preparing for our first trick, I look down and spot Whitey on the ground below. He’s fighting to get nearer, waving and shouting to me from the middle of the crowd and all its chaos. Soldiers and civilians press in on him, jockeying

  for a better view, but he continues to force himself closer, looking up at me the entire time. I can only see him from the neck up.

  The music for our routine commences. I put my left foot in the loop in time with the music, push out with my right leg on the taut rope into an arabesque and smile down at the raucous crowd.

  Whitey shoves a sailor aside, exposing his upper body to me for the first time. He gestures to his chest. There, outlined in blood, a long, ragged slash runs from one side of his shirt to the other. I falter and almost lose my balance. Then he turns and fights his way from the tent, like a man possessed.

  As horrified as I am, I have to put it out of my mind. One wrong move and it’s possible to tumble to the ground. Because a web artiste holds onto a rope or loop and is supposed to never let go, there is no net underneath. When you’re forty-feet in the air, there’s no room for error; you need to be in top form. A girl fell six or seven years ago to her death. She was high on some narcotic, but still. It’s a gruesome way to die.

  The audience is appreciative, and after several catcalls, they settle down. There’s even a cool breeze blowing in from the entrances, circulating the air. After a few languid tricks to violin music, a drum roll sounds and the lights go to complete black below, lighting only us. This is the time for the audience to give us their undivided attention for our final trick. I’ve been trying not to think about Whitey, but he flits back into my thoughts no matter what.

  Tin Foot spins the rope, faster and faster. I hang onto the loop with one hand, feeling myself become horizontal and sense the audience focusing on the twenty-five twirling tops. This is the most dangerous time of the routine and after doing it for two years, I know the ways of it down to a micro-second. I whirl and whirl and then it’s time for it to slow.

  I feel a
hesitation in the twirl, a moment when the momentum is not continued. For an instant, I drop down but the slack picks up again only to intensify. The spin becomes faster and faster. I can hear the final fanfare signaling the end of the routine and applause from the audience but my spinning does not slow down. I hang on but begin to get dizzy. This is motion the human body can only take for so long before it begins to respond adversely.

  I seize at the loop with my other hand, almost unable to breathe. The force of the spin is so severe I’m losing my grip using both hands. The music for the jugglers begins in the center ring and around me the lights go to black. Still I spin.

  Almost when I think I’ll be hurtled out to space, there’s yelling below and the rope jerks. The spinning stops abruptly and my body crashes against the web rope. I cling to it, dizzy and disoriented, unable to comprehend what’s going on. It takes me a second or two to focus and look down.

  Below is a ruckus taking place between two of the brown-suited roustabouts. Tin Foot is nowhere to be seen. It’s hard to tell with the lights so low but one of the roustabouts seems to be hitting the other. Then one leaps onto the web and pulls himself up, kicking at the man below. His foot makes one connection with the other roustabout’s face and that one falls to the sawdust, clutching his nose.

  Fear grips me. Even in the dark I sense it’s no roustabout climbing the rope, but Rosie. Then I hear her call my name interspersed with obscenities. Though I can’t see the expression on her face, I know it’s murderous.

  I hesitate, unsure of what to do. In one brief flicker I see Whitey run to the bottom of the rope, Tony right behind him. Tony is pointing something up at the climbing figure but I don’t have time to think about it.

  Rosie is upon me, yanking and scratching at my legs and feet. She seems determined to pull me down, even if it means she has to go with me. Woozy as I am, I have to do

  something. I kick at her but she’s strong, stronger than I am at

  that moment. She seizes both my ankles, tugging at them with all her might.