Clown Girl by Monica Drake; Chuck Palahniuk Read Free Book Online Page A

mudroom door. The phone cord fell easily underneath. The room was hot and humid, musky with dog hair and breath; Chance panted in the summer sun. Along with the wet-dog smell, the room was ripe with the dizzying whiff of turpentine and the heavy linseed oil scent of paint that drifted from brushes kept in plastic bags.
    Two of the walls in the mudroom were made of small squares of glass, floor to ceiling windows, and magnified the heat. The sun came in from behind a tree and made a shadow-puppet show of leaves and branches against the wall. I put the Green Drink and orange plastic jug on a shelf, where I had my own little altar to St. Julian the Hospitaller, patron saint of clowns, fiddlers, murderers, and pilgrims. As a part of the altar I stacked change from my pockets. I piled business cards of the men who asked me out, my audience and fan club.
    In clown clothes you walk a thin tightrope, teetering between lust and fear, coulrophiles and coulrophobes. In that narrow band what I aimed for was the laughter of children. OK, more recently what I aimed for was a quick paycheck, a ticket out of Baloneytown. But I wasn’t in it for the groupies.
    On the next shelf down there was a stack of library books. Your Baby, Your Body: Watch It Grow! These were books I didn’t need anymore: my body, my baby. Both had stopped growing. The books were overdue, and the library books were the only thing with a due date now.
    I’d write my own book of miscarriage: What to Expect When You Expected to be Expecting, Until It All Went South . I unclipped the squirting daisy from my shirt and put the daisy on the shelf, next to the plastic jug.
    Below the shelves, on the floor, was a collection of bowling shoes, loafers, painted Keds, and curled wing tips, everything in a size eleven or larger, specially chosen for clowning. And then there was one pair of Rex’s old tennis shoes, absolute boats, his real size. Rex’s shoes bent and crinkled where his toe knuckles had worn against the seam, as though Rex still stood there, invisible, feet in the shoes.
    The room overflowed with drawings of Rex in charcoal on paper, in pen and ink, and in pencil. A red clay bust stared down at me from the top shelf of my doorless closet. “Honey, I’m home,” I said to the clay bust. Rex. The bust didn’t blink. Every image I made of him—drawings, paintings, and sculptures—they all had the same faint smile, like the Mona Lisa , Rex’s sly secret. I said, “Don’t be mad, I still love you,” then lifted the head, turned it upside down, pulled a sock from under the neck and tucked a day’s wages inside.
    I turned on a radio to block the murmur of Herman and Italia, and sat on the edge of the bed. Chance crowded against my ribs.
    I dialed the number for the clown hostel in San Francisco, where nobody ever answered.
    “Yello, yello, yello, kiddos!” the answering machine sang. “We’re off to the races, but if you leave your name and number, we’ll make sure your birthday party’s a smash to remember. Ha, ha! Don’t tell the folks!” A horn honked three times, followed by the beep.
    “Rex, it’s Nita,” I said into the answering machine. “Are you there? I need to hear your voice. Call me, OK?” I started to hang up, then put the phone back to my ear and added, “I’ve been in the hospital, Rex.” He’d want to know.
    I picked up one of Rex’s velvet shirts, ran the fabric across my neck, and smelled the smoke of old fire tricks. Clown College was one way to move ahead, but there were others. We could join Clowns Sans Frontières —Clowns Without Borders—sworn to cheer the children in war-torn countries, practice tricks around land mines, juggle in food and medical supplies. I didn’t plan to do corporate gigs forever. No, I wanted to make a difference in the world: another clown for peace. I unbuttoned my shirt. The satin slipped from my shoulders, a silky caress. I unfastened the polka-dot bra. The flurry of photos and cards fell