My screams have a hollow sound, drowned out by the music and the laughter from the audience. I can’t sustain her weight added to mine for much longer; I’m already tired. I get a lucky kick in at her jaw and she drops down a foot or two.
I know I can’t go down. I have to go up. I begin the climb to the top of the rope, heading for the canvas sky, sixty feet in the air. Rosie is close behind. I never look back, but I listen to her wild, hysterical laughter. About ten feet higher the rope is no longer covered with soft fabric. Stiff hemp tears at my fingers and the palms of my hands, even with my calluses. I keep climbing.
At the very top of the Big Top is a series of ropes supported by thick beams. These beams come into the center of the canvas like spokes in an oval-shaped wheel. They support all the rigging below.
Set up by the workmen when the tent is raised, a man on a crane checks the beams and ropes periodically. Other than that, no one ever goes up that high. If I can get to one of the ropes near the center, maybe I can cross over on a connecting one to another web and climb down. I have to try to reach it before Rosie gets to me; it’s my only chance.
I grip one of the network of hemp ropes, trying to put the pain of my hands out of my mind. I walk hand over hand, feet dangling into nothingness, and move forward, never looking down.
About five feet before I come to the rope leading to safety, I hit a massive wooden beam, too large for me to wrap my arms around. It didn’t look that big from far away but up close, it’s huge. I’m at a dead end. I’ll have to go back. Below,
the nearby center ring is alive with the juggling comedy act and the music swells dramatically to their antics.
I turn around on the rope only to see Rosie less than ten feet away. She sees my predicament and laughs. She stops her hand over hand motion and begins to swing back and forth. I
know what she’s doing. When she builds up enough momentum, Rosie will come at me with legs spread apart and hit me like a projectile. Then she’ll wrap her legs around me, adding her full weight to mine. There is no way I can possibly hold on if she does that. Rosie is willing to die just to insure that I do, too.
When I see her take her final swing backward and release herself forward, I pull my body up with shaking arms toward the ceiling, arching my back and flatten out against the rope, hoping it’s enough. I close my eyes and feel a rush of air pass by, then a screech from Rosie, a sound of frustration more than fear.
I’m not sure what’s happening. Someone directly below me starts yelling. There’s a high-pitched scream and a hush comes over a section of the crowd beneath me. I wrap my legs around the barbarous hemp, turn my head and try to look down, but I can’t see anything.
The juggling act and the music jolts to a stop, the lights go to black, and there is silence. A moment later the audience lights come up in the center and far left rings. People talk excitedly to each other. The ring that I’m hanging over is still dark.
Minutes go by. The hot, stifling air trapped right beneath the canvas ceiling is almost unbreathable. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. Just as a wave of panic overtakes my fatigue, I hear Tin Foot’s voice shouting to me from across the Big Top’s covering. He must be twenty feet away but his voice echoes near the fabric sky.
“Jeri! Jeri, are you all right?”
“Tin! Where have you been?” I feel a resurgence of energy brought on by hope.
“Rosie knocked me out when the lights went to black. Don’t let go.”
“I was afraid no one knew what was going on,” I say, letting more fear show in my voice than I intended.
“We knew. I just couldn’t get to you before now. Jeri, they’re trying to get a portable net under you, but maybe you can make it back over to here. We’ll go down your web together. Want to try that?”
I don’t answer, but lower my legs and hold on with both hands. My arms quiver from exhaustion but I ignore the fatigue and the pain in my hands and inch toward his voice, walking hand over hand.
When I get there, Tin’s waiting for me. He has a smile on his face, even though blood is dripping from his right temple. He lowers himself down the jaggy hemp and I follow. Soon I wrap my legs around the soft, outer covering of the web rope and know I’m home free, just another forty feet to go.
Chapter Twenty-seven
4:45 p.m., Tuesday
When we finally reach the ground, there is sporadic applause from some in the darkened ring. Most are still not too sure what’s happening. I hear mumbling, with people half-paying attention to us and half-looking at what’s going on within the other two rings.
I stumble and fall into Whitey’s waiting arms. He envelopes me.
“Jeri, thank God,” he says. “I knew she was somewhere close by. I tried to stop her.”
I cling to him for a moment and feel Tin embrace us both. I’m shaking so much I can hardly stand. I hear Tony’s voice from somewhere behind me.
“Jesus, I would have shot her but I couldn’t get a clean shot. I couldn’t get a clean shot.”
“Never mind all that, Tony,” says Whitey. “You take care of the aftermath. We’ll take care of Jeri.”
As he goes, I feel Tony touch me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Jeri. This is my fault. But you’re going to be all right.” I feel him brush by.
“Did she cut you, Whitey?” I lean in and whisper into his neck.
“She got me with an eyehook when I found her under the bales of hay. She ran off before I could stop her. I came to warn you, but when that didn’t work, I went to get help.”
The lights come up full in the center ring, lighting our way a little. I look around for Rosie but don’t see her anywhere. The Ring Master makes an announcement from the center ring regarding ‘an incident.’
A hush falls over the entire audience and then there is a sea of murmuring. He asks the audience for their indulgence and to remain seated and stay calm. Everyone obeys, sitting quietly and waiting. After a short time, the music starts up again in a half-hearted fashion, and the trained seal act picks up where it left off with perfect timing. In the far ring, comedic jugglers try to return to normalcy, but drop pins here and there. Sometimes the animals have the edge on professionalism.
The third ring, my ring, remains surrounded by subdued, but dark, bedlam. I can hear people running around, whispering in urgent voices. Tin Foot and Whitey guide me to the edge of a riser, place me down, and sit on either side of me protectively. The three of us huddle together, each hurt by a woman who is supposed to be one of us. I can’t help but glance over at the center ring from time to time to the spangles, laughter and high-jinx, while I sit engulfed in darkness.
Vince runs over to us. I can’t see his face too well but his voice is shaking. I wonder how he returned so fast from Advance but don’t ask.
“Thank God you’re all right,” he says. “We were trying to get a hand-held net under you but nobody’s ever dropped from that height. Thank God, you’re all right,” he repeats.
“Where’s Rosie?” I ask. “Is she…” My voice trails off.
“They’re about to carry her out. She’s still breathing. That’s all I know.” He turns to Whitey. “Whitey, the elephants are feeling all the chaos and a few have even broken their chains. All we need is a stampede. You’ve got to do something.” He sounds desperate.
“Of course, of course,” he answers in a calming voice to Vince, who seems more stressed than the three of us.
“Forgive me, Jeri, I should go,” Whitey says, leaning into me. “I wouldn’t go unless I had to, believe me, but you’re
in good hands.” He kisses me on the forehead, then rises. “Take care of her, Tin.”
“Will do,” Tin replies.
I grab Whitey’s hand and squeeze it. “You take care of that cut on your chest.”
He squeezes mine back, nods and smiles. I watch his retreating back and wish he could have stayed.
I notice a stretcher with someone under a white sheet being lifted by two men a few feet away.
It’s Rosie. Her hand dangles from under the cover, streaked with blood looking almost black in the dim light. I stare down at my own hands and legs, black blood streaking them, as well. A bout of shivering overtakes me and my teeth actually chatter.
Tin gets up and walks away just as the gurney with Rosie passes; maybe by coincidence or maybe he can’t look. I focus on her hand, all that I can see of her, while flashes of a German movie, surrealistic and very disturbing, come to my mind. A beautiful woman had been turned into a freak, half woman, half chicken, by the carnival people she’d worked with and wronged. Am I in a carnival of freaks? I turn around and vomit into the darkness behind me.
Two women dressed in ballerina outfits sit tensely astride white horses in the shadows. The horses are nervous and whinny, pacing in place. Even the animals are used to a certain routine and this is anything but. Tony strides over to them, confident and filled with authority. The old Tony is back.
“You’re going to be announced in a minute,” he says to the two ballerinas. “Be ready to go. Do two sets of the usual routine but scrap the somersaults. The horses are too skittish.” The women nod, grim mouthed.
Tin returns with my spangled cape and wraps it around me. I notice specks of blood on the fabric where he has held it. I search his face and hands, straining my eyes in the dimness. He wipes a handkerchief at the cut on his head with
a hand torn and raw from climbing the hemp rope. But not as torn or raw as mine. His legs, covered by the costume, were protected, except for a scratch here or there. I don’t want to look at my naked legs and hands. The adrenaline rush is fading; I wince and suck in air between clenched teeth, suddenly overcome with the pain and burning.
Tin says, “Doc’s waiting for us, Jeri. Let’s go. Can you walk?”
I nod and stand up, leaning against my friend. We trail Rosie’s gurney to the First Aid Tent.
Doc is busy trying to deal with Rosie and get an ambulance for her, so I don’t see much of him. The nurse cleans Tin Foot and me up, applying ointment and bandages to our legs and hands. She pumps me full of a pain-killer, which comes at me so fast I don’t have a chance to refuse it. I hear her say it will only last a few hours, but I don’t like drugs; I’d rather have the pain. In the on-coming haze, I’m told I won’t be able to perform for two to three weeks, maybe four. Fortunately, she says, I can still use the tips of my fingers, so I have some mobility.
Back at the Virgin Car, I’m clucked over by Doris and Margie, who tell me Doc will visit later. Tony comes by, saying again and again he’ll take care of my salary and for me not to worry. My salary is the last thing on my mind, if I’ve still got a mind. I’m just a drug-induced rag-doll.
The next few hours are long and dream-filled. Every half hour or so I wake up and open my eyes to see the worried blue ones of Doris or the anxious green ones of Margie staring back at me. Then they fuss with my covers, or offer me water. Go away, I think.
While I’m out, small pieces of the past come into my mind, disjointed mental images of everyone I know, detailed and lifelike. But mostly I dream about Rosie and Doc and how life twists and turns on us and we wind up doing things we never imagine we’ll do.
The last dream is about the day in the bank and the little boy who is dead because of me. I cry in my sleep, as usual.
Chapter Twenty-eight
8:30 p.m., Tuesday
I wake up hearing the sharp sound of a dog barking under my window. I pull at my watch pinned to the curtains and see I’d been down for nearly four hours. I throw the covers back, remember my hands and legs, stiff and painful, and struggle to sit up. The effort is too much. I lie back down.
“Hey! Hey! Anybody here?” I call out to a supposedly empty sleeping car.
I hear Lillian running from her room in the front. I roll over on my side and look down at a face filled with worry and relief. She grins at me.
“Hay is for horses, not for young ladies,” she says. “Now you lie back down. I’m here to take care of you and that’s just what I’m going to do. I’ve made you a nice pot of tea. You stay still and I’ll go get it.” She turns on her heels and starts back for the kitchen in her rooms.
“I don’t want to lie down, Lillian. I’ve got to go see somebody,” I shout to her receding form, forcing myself up into a sitting position.
She wheels around and points her finger at me. “Jerull Dean, don’t you make me come up there. Now you stay put until I come back with that tea.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, and stay perfectly still until I see the last of her. Then I move one side of my butt forward and then the other, inching to the edge of the bed. When I get to the end, I swing my legs over the side. That small amount of effort causes the insides of my legs to burn underneath the bandages. My skin pulls like it’s stretched too thin over my
thighs. My hands don’t feel much better. I rest for a moment, legs spread apart so they won’t touch each other and take a
couple of deep breaths, saying ‘ow, ow, ow’ every few seconds.
Lillian returns with a small tray laden with a pot of tea, a tea cup filled with the brew, milk and sugar on the side, and a plate full of cookies, all on the china she saves for Best Occasions.
She slides it next to me on the bed. “Now you just sit there, young lady, and drink that tea and eat those cookies.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I made them special for you. Blackstrap molasses. And the tea’s Darjeeling. I know those are your favorites, so don’t try to pretend they’re not.”
“No, ma’am.”
“And don’t you be ma’am-ing me like that or I’ll take a switch to you. I know what you’re planning to do. The minute my back is turned, you’re going to sidle down from there and go off somewhere to do that meddling you do so well, that landed you here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I smile at her. “I am.”
She fights a returning smile and goes on, “Well, leastways, eat something before you go, child.”
I pick up a cookie with my fingertips and take a big bite. Delicious. She’s right. I do love her blackstrap molasses cookies.
“And use your napkin.”
“Yes ma’am.” I pick up the cloth napkin with the fingers of my other hand and brush my lips with it. It has been carefully washed, starched and ironed.
“Because God didn’t raise you to be a savage,” Lillian adds.
“No ma’am,” I say, putting down what’s left of the cookie and picking up the tea cup by the rim, not being able to pick it up by the handle. I swallow a big gulp and feel worlds
better. Lillian’s tea always seems to work magic on me. I look down at her staring up at me, with a twinkle in her soft brown eyes.
“Where’s Duane?” I ask.
“He’s sitting outside, waiting for me. Mr. Tony said he’d have someone drive us to that colored rooming house down the road. I know that place, heard all about it when we pulled into town last year. No son of mine is staying in that kind of squalor without his own bed linens, towels, a pillow, everything.”
“A real dump, huh? Why can’t he just stay here? The circus is a big place; there’s always room for one more.” I finish the tea and look down at her.
She’s silent for a moment then reaches up to straighten the sugar, milk and cookie platter on the tray. “Mr. Tony says he’s trying to make arrangements for him to stay here and bunk with someone, maybe take Coke’s bunk until he comes back. Mr. Tony says Coke won’t be back for three or four days.”
“Well then, that solves the problem.”
Lillian looks doubtful. “I know Mr. Tony is doing his best, but I don’t think the other men in the car will let him stay with them, Duane being colored and all.”
“Lillian! You can’t believe…I can’t believe…you mean some of our men actually…” My voice peters out, as the realization hits me.
“Maybe the war will change things. Duane, he fights side by side with the white boys now. That’s got to count for something. Someday it will
be different.” She gives me a wistful look and changes the subject. I let her.
“Mr. Whitey was here a little while ago, looking for you. You were still sleeping, so I told him to come back later. He spent a few minutes getting to know Duane, while he was here. Such a nice man. He had Duane laughing in no time.”
“Did he? That’s good.” Maybe it’s the drugs, but I’m burning with anger over the insult to Lillian and her family, one of our own. The anger gives way to an almost overwhelming sadness. I stare down at the woman who is as close to a mother as I will ever know, wishing I could lighten her burden. Lillian fills the small cup with tea again and hands it to me. I drink it down, looking at her over the rim.
“Lillian, I have to get down and do something no one else can do for me, if you get my meaning. You’d better stand clear.”
Lillian removes the tray from the bed and steps to the side. Still sitting on the edge of the bunk I roll over on my belly, legs suspended, and feel for the lower bunk with my naked feet. Once secure, I bend my knees and hop down into a plié. I try keeping my balance when I land, so I don’t have to grab at anything with my hands. I just manage it, but I walk to the bathroom like a tinhorn that’s been on a horse too long. Lillian is close behind. While I’m in the stall relieving myself, she stands in the doorway. I shout out to her.
“What have you heard about Rosie? Any news?”
“None and you put that wicked girl out of your mind. After you get done, I want you to crawl right back up in bed and --”
“I can’t. I have to go see Doc, Lillian,” I interrupt.
I hear her set the tray on the edge of the sink and walk to the stall door. When I come out, she hands me a soapy, warm cloth to wash my fingers, a cool wet one to rinse them off and a third dry towel, all the while talking a mile a minute.
“Why you have to go see Doc Williams? You feeling worse? What’s wrong? You got a fever? You need some pills? I can go get them for you, child.”
I finish drying my fingers, put my arms around her while guarding my hands, and give her a quick hug, loving every ounce of her.
Death of A Clown Page 22
