The Crying Clown

I am stranded in the grass. Seize a dandelion stem, sweetly rip it from the earth. Roots spring forth, bleeding dirt. 

“Anderson, I thought you’d died in that house!” 

I clench my teeth in a baggy grin, push up against my cane. “Mrs. Sanchez,” I bellow. I notice with pleasure the pattern of blue ducks on her scrubs. 

“Catch Addie!” 

Startled, I see a small girl, swinging pig tails and flip flops flap wildly as she pedals furiously past me. A man pursues, bare feet trailing wet kisses on the sidewalk as water gushes from the sprinklers. “Hey neighbor,” he calls.

I retreat, exhausted from weeding.  

Part the heavy curtains. Gather a tattered cloth beneath the running faucet and scour the greasy stove. Plunge my callused hands into the soapy basin. Flick stray droplets from the gleaming marble countertop and cleanse the fridge of leftover curry and a half gallon of soy milk. I stow rusted pots like an affair in the mildewey cabinet beneath the leaking sink. Sweep shriveled petals from the window sill into a crumpled fist while peering between the blinds to see small hands grip the edge of our splintering fence. She gracefully vaults over it, stumbling only a few steps on the rocks below. 

“Addison,” I say as she slides open the back door and shuffles to the kitchen wiping chocolatey fingers on her denim overalls. A chess set is tucked under an arm. “I’m sorry, I can’t today.” 

She wilts. “Ten minutes.” 

“Go home.” My bones viciously teeter as I shuffle to the mantle, readjust your vintage figurines, even the crying clown from Paris. As creepy as it is. For love, or something. I flip over the cushion stained lavender from your grape juice, drape a throw blanket over our couch, and reattach, with strips of transparent tape, worn covers from three of your favorite books before cramming them back onto the shelf. “Addie, tomorrow.” I hesitate. Then, “I promise.” 

“Why don’t you clean tomorrow and play with me today?” 

I chuckle. She imitates me, a raspy wheeze that seeps between a gap in her teeth and settles on my musty breath. I twist my lips into a condescending smile, impatience surging in my veins as her vivacity poisons the sanctity of my solitude. This is a happy, solemn day for reminiscing, for savoring our memories peacefully. But you’ll have to forgive me, darling, for not sending her away on a day when I should be thinking only of you. Her bony arms were strangling her torso, face melted into an ugly pout, legs unwavering as she anchored herself to our linoleum floor. So I left her to examine Home for the final time.

I ignore the two rooms closest to the parlor, with rusty hinges and possessions within forgotten, but I do check ours. On your nightstand: a flowery mug with astringent dregs of green tea, your rose gold drop earrings, dark umber glasses tucked into your sister’s folded postcard from Italy. I leave them there. But I spill my eye drops, a coffee stained notepad, and broken pens from my insurance company into a drawer. Throw the navy bedspread over our pillows, let my hand glide along the satin wrinkles. My mangled feet are weary, but the sheets will furrow if I sit and I’ll have to make it again; you taught me that. 

I find your cleaning supplies and tough soaps in an Activia cardboard box under the bathroom sink. Spray down the mirror with windex and reshuffle the fruity shampoos on the shower stand so the bigger bottles are at the back. Use my walking stick to shift shattered porcelain and plastic roses off the cracked tiles onto a dust pan. I did warn you not to keep that vase on the vanity- it’s a small ledge. 

She is sprawled on the carpet when I’m finished, king and pawns moving everywhere but where they can. “You need to go, Addison.” I tug at my dark brown hair and feel ancient. “I’m tired now.” 

“But you’ll teach me tomorrow.” She jams fistfuls of wooden pieces in her pockets. I limp to the bedroom. 

When I return with the loaded gun, Addison is gone. My chest is heaving, heavy breathing, but I dig the barrel into the meat of my temple, vibrating with my chattering teeth. I remember my love raging yesterday as you shredded the wall paper and told me to do it now because you needed me now. 

You’ve married a coward. 

And what about the blood splatter? I spent hours steaming the carpet, so I scamper to the kitchen, scrabbling at the wax paper. A square of it- maybe enough.  A contortionist pinches my cheeks in an ironic grimace: even now, I must die perfectly to compensate for the imperfect husband I was. 

“Daddy?” 

The pitched voice wrenches my stiff neck back. “Addison?” 

“What are you doing Dad?”

“You’re making this too hard, Addie! Go, she only needs me.” 

“Who?” Addie moistens her lips, her cheeks flushed. “Mommy?” She inches closer, extends her small hand to me. “Don’t you remember, Daddy? She died in the crash.” 

“I’m so lonely,” I choke. “Your mom was my only friend. But I can be with her again.” I fall to my knees, tucking Addie’s trembling body in my own. My breathing is shallow, faint heart whimpering. Pining for her. “This is the only way. She’s not really dead.” 

“No!” Addie shrieks. “You have to take me back. You have to take care of me!” Because for twelve years her parents were God. They pulled in her tides, controlled her storms, gave her the thrill of a piggy back ride and toys that produced loud noises.

“The Sanchez’s are good people. They’ll take care of you.” 

She thrashes, small fists pummeling my arms until I let go. “Jerry’s missing, Mom’s dead. You have to stay with me.” Fat tears run like muddy rivers down her dirtied cheeks. 

“I’m sorry you’re not enough.” 

But darling, our daughter wants to join us. Wants to join her brother. And I contemplate this innocent creature helpless to the world’s remorseless and uncaring nature, where drunk drivers kill children’s moms, not every person is a parent when they have kids, and our deaths will barely matter. And I bestow upon her the most humane gift I can afford.

I pull the trigger. The bullet shatters her forehead, silky scarlet strangling her transparent skin as she folds inward, crumbles like paper. 

I wait until it’s dark, then scoop her up in my arms and deposit her on my flower bed. I dig a hole, right beside her brother, in our front yard, and place her lovingly inside. Darling, our daughter has perhaps found you and Jerry by now. Remind her to take her vitamins and brush her teeth after she eats candy. And tell her, her father’s coming home soon.

Right after he mops her blood off the carpet.