Still Time
He caught a glimpse of his face reflected in the bottle. God, he looked pale; partly because of the residue of the makeup, partly because he was old. At 50, he should be considered “middle-aged,” but after 35 years working in the circus full-time, he considered himself old. The fire crackled. He took a swig and sighed.
Spence mostly kept to himself, sleeping or reading in his train cabin or tent, often only emerging for the show or parade. He stared into the flames, vaguely wondering what town they had stopped in tonight. It was late, 1 or 2, and the camp was quiet, save for a distant chuckle or argument. Spence had no home. No relatives (his mother and father had passed 10 years prior). And, as the effects of the liquor took over, Spence began to wonder if he had a purpose anymore. Maybe he never had one.
For 35 years, he played the part of a clown during the shows. Unlike the familiar clown archetypes—the hobo, the fool, the keystone cop—Spence’s clown persona was…unusual. He was a vampire. Many children (and even some adults) had visceral reactions to clowns: avoidance, wide eyes, crying. But, for some reason, people seemed fascinated by the vampire clown, as if the fear of clowns and fear of vampires cancelled out each other. His strange frizzy widow’s peak wig, exaggerated eyebrows, and oversized rubber fangs usually brought smirks and curiosity to show-goers.
When he began as the vampire clown, he was energized after every performance: making children laugh, running into the stands, throwing licorice bats to the audience. He would be wired for hours after the big tent emptied out and the lights had been shut off. These days, it took all the energy he could muster during the day to keep a semblance of enthusiasm and zaniness during the three skits in which he was featured.
As he sipped more whiskey from the chipped coffee cup, he saw a person approach the campfire. She got closer and Spence recognized her: Sonya. She had been with the circus for the last five years. She and Spence would occasionally sit with each other during a meal or have brief conversations after shows concluded. Though Spence knew she was fairly young, she seemed to have the eyes of a woman who had lived twice as long. Even when she performed with a heavy layer of stage makeup and a smile plastered on her face, her sad eyes betrayed her.
“Hey, Spence,” she whispered.
“Hi there. Would you like to sit?” He motioned to a tattered folding chair across from him.
“Thanks.”
He held up the whiskey bottle towards her.
“No thanks.” She placed her hand on her stomach and took a deep breath, then exhaled quietly.
They sat and stared at the fire for a few silent minutes. Spence glanced at Sonya’s face in the firelight. It was devoid of makeup tonight and Sonya looked like a little girl. He noticed a fading bruise on her cheekbone and wondered if it had been from a fall. He always marveled at the trapeze artists and their strength, especially in someone as diminutive and seemingly frail as Sonya. He hadn’t ever seen one of the trapezists fall, but he also had never watched them practice, where a missed connection and fall was certainly a possibility.
“Are you O.K.?” Spence asked.
“Yes,” she said, half-smiling. “No.” She paused, and with a nearly-inaudible whisper, she said “I’m in trouble. I don’t know what to do.”
“Trouble?” Spence placed the bottle and cup on the dusty ground and pulled his folding chair closer to hers.
Sonya looked around and then looked Spence in the eyes. “I’m…”
“You’re…?”
“Pregnant.” Spence didn’t know how to react, but seeing the firelight reflect off the tears welling in her eyes made it clear that this was not joyous news. She clamped her hands together and leaned forward. Spence stayed quiet and looked back at the fire. “I don’t know what to do. I want this baby, but I don’t want to tell Ra--the father. He…doesn’t deserve to know.”
“Deserve? Well, he is the father…”
Sonya grit her teeth, “He doesn’t deserve to know. He…raped me.”
“Oh my God. No, no he doesn’t.”
“There’s going to be a surprise party for him tomorrow. I want to leave while he’s distracted.”
“Where will you go?”
Sonya looked at the ground. “I-I don’t know. But I need to get the hell away from here…him.”
“How are you going to…what about money?”
“I’ve saved a few hundred dollars. The baby and me, we’ll make do. We’ll figure it out,” Sonya rubbed her hands together. “We’ll figure it out,” she repeated, as if trying to convince herself. “There’s still time to make this right. We’ll have a nice little house with a dog and sunflowers and a porch swing…” Her voice trailed off and she slowly stood up. “I’m sorry I’ve burdened you with this. Just forget it. Please…don’t tell anyone.” She walked away.
“But…” Spence called out to her, but she had already disappeared into the dark.
Spence sat in silence and felt his pulse begin to race. This was it. This was what he was going to do. He was going to get Sonya and her unborn baby to a safe place. Take care of them. Protect them. He hurried into his tent and flung open his suitcase. Amid the wrinkled clothes and a plethora of unmatched socks was a Bible. He looked back, making sure the tent’s flap was closed. He opened the book. About 20 pages in was a hollowed-out compartment with three neatly-folded wads of cash. Spence took the wads, stuffed them into his pocket, and put the Bible back in his suitcase. Then he placed the framed photo of his parents, a few books, and his lucky rabbit’s foot into the case and clasped it shut. Tomorrow was the day, he thought. He lowered himself onto the cot. Tomorrow was the day.
* * * * *
Show days always had a frantic buzz to them. People were busy getting in costume; grooming animals; double-checking the stability of the big tent’s spikes and poles; taking up tasks big and small, important and unimportant. Spence left his tent and stood by the circle of ashes from last night’s campfire, looking around for Sonya. He then began wandering around the makeshift tent city.
“Surprise!” a crowd yelled and Spence turned on his heels, hurrying in the direction of the festivities and saw people streaming into the mess hall tent. Peering in, he saw the strong man, Raphael, laughing as people threw confetti and sang him Happy Birthday. Next to him was Sonya. His hand clutched hers tightly. She smiled. It was the same smile she wore during shows. Her eyes suddenly met Spence’s. Then, just as quickly, she looked down.
“It’s a happy day indeed. My girl is going to have our baby!” Raphael bellowed, and pulled on Sonya’s hand. She looked up and smiled weakly at the crowd. “Now, let’s have some cake!” The crowd cheered and Raphael chuckled, pulling Sonya over to the table with the cake.
Spence let the tent flap drop. The spirited conversation and laughter faded as Spence walked away. He returned to his tent, found a slip of paper and wrote: You both can still get away. There’s still time. He folded the note and tucked it under the rubber band surrounding one of the money wads.
Spence stopped by Sonya’s tent, slipped two wads into her pillowcase, and left.
As he walked on the dusty road towards town, suitcase in hand, he wished hard. So hard, tears streamed from his eyes. He wished for real—not painted—smiles. For a safe place for her to lay her head and to lay her baby down for naps. He wished for that dog. And for that porch swing.
As the tears landed in the creases around his mouth, he could taste salt. It was the first time, in a long time, his senses felt alive. Something unknown lay down the tracks, far away from here. And after 35 years of the known, unknown sounded like the best word he’d ever heard. There was still time to find purpose. There was still time to discover. There was still time to love. There was still time.
Author’s note: This story was created using prompts from Storymatic cards: aging clown, vampire, surprise party, pregnancy
