Then his car was packed and he was headed for a high-rise apartment in the city.
•
It was a week later when Mr. McMahon—a light sleeper, as ten-year-old Jamie and friends had discovered when they snuck out to throw rocks at the neighbor's roof—stretched out of bed at 3:00 am, his body popping and groaning like a cantankerous machine. He emptied his bladder, yawned, and for no reason he knew went to the bedroom window, holding open the curtain and spilling in a beam of street light. The cul-de-sac beneath, bathed in white moon- and street-light, held its breath in stillness. Not a shrub or tree leaf fluttered in any ghost of a breeze. The parked cars, front gardens, mailboxes: all seemed to silently stare just like Mr. McMahon did at something unfamiliar and foreign. Something that hadn't woken the dogs and got them barking, the way any other lurking
stranger would have done.
A clown stood at the top of the curving driveway. Mr. McMahon knew at once it was not his son, though his eyes checked to be sure. The horribly bright and mismatched colors of its wide suspender-held pants and its puffy shirt screamed with discordant cheer. Its white-gloved hand clutched what may have been an old pocket watch with a thin dangling chain. Under a pointed hat with bells, whose tinkling faintly tickled Mr. McMahon's ears and got his flesh goosebumped and shivering, the white face with its black painted smile (over the top of the actual lips downturned and scowling) tilted up, passed over the house's façade, then gazed again at the pocket watch, if that's what it was. The head shook, maybe in annoyance, sending more sweet ugly bell chimes up to the window as the clown muttered some curse or other.
Behind Mr. McMahon, the bed groaned as his wife turned over and murmured thickly, "What is it?"
He looked at her, pondering: it would be a mean trick to tell her a clown had come to visit, meaner still to let her come and see it, and then to privately chuckle to himself as she lay awake in uneasy fear for the next two weeks. Mean, but fun. He opened his mouth to tell her, then he thought of the resulting short temper he'd have to deal with. "It's nothing, love," he said instead, dropping the curtain back and lowering himself to bed. He pecked his wife's cheek and within seconds was convinced he'd done a noble thing from sheer benevolence for her peace of mind.
About the clown he didn't much trouble himself; some idiot kid who'd heard Jamie's story in the news and wanted to see the house as if it were a piece of folklore. His goose bumps settled.
Ah, the embarrassment of it all was finally easing off: ever since Jamie was arrested in the Queen Street Mall for setting off fireworks, Mr. McMahon's co-workers had been giving him hell. Then when the dumb kid disappeared, they gave him sympathy, which was worse. It was all in the past, now. His mind soon filled again with football, the job, the lawn, garden, and neighbors.
•
It was kind of funny—Jamie had no memory of actually packing into his car the rectangular cardboard box which held the clown outfit they'd found him wearing "that night." Yet here it was, the last thing in his Nissan's trunk to be carried up the lift to his new life in the city. The outfit had been forensically pored over for DNA evidence before they returned it to him. He'd been tempted to throw the box into the big industrial bin in the car park. But in his hands now was a link, a clue. It found its home on the floor of his walk-in closet, along with the little velvet bag the police had not seen cause to examine once they'd decided it wasn't full of drugs.
Every day, dressing for work before the mirror, the corner of the box caught his eye. Each time he quelled a curious, mild urge to open it and just take a look at the bright gaudy clothing. No harm in looking, surely? Just to look at it, run his hand over the printed flowers, stripes, dots, puppy dogs chasing bright blue balls?
His new job basically involved moving boxes of files around in the bowels of the Department of Finance, and being yelled at by the woman who ruled that dusty forgotten tomb of manila folders and file cabinets. Some days a pile or box of files did a complete tour of the room and wound up back where it started; why Jamie or his boss was being paid a decent wage to do this was never clearly explained. He managed to keep her voice to a background abstraction and theorized it was all some kind of temperament test for duties higher up the ladder—if he'd tolerate this treatment without a nervous breakdown, he'd be useful to the government as a fall guy when shit hit fans for top ranked bureaucrats or even ministers, one fine day.
Some days he longed for nothing more than to throw an egg at the dumpy schoolmarm, seeing clearly how it would sound and look, the frenzy of her reaction. The urge grew with surprising power. If not egging her, he'd leave a cream pie on her seat, or tape sharp pins to the light switch, put a cane toad in her top desk drawer. While it did occur to him that these might be the responses a clown would come up with in a similar circumstance, that hardly seemed relevant.
His roommate Dean rescued him from this particular torment and threw him into another. Dean's job was to give talks to various government employees about their superannuation, but one Tuesday when holed up with one of his female admirers, Dean said over breakfast, "Good news! You're filling in for me today. I already told your supervisor. Here's my notes, just read them into the mic then get out of there before they can ask questions. And enjoy the free sandwiches. It's easy."
"No way," said Jamie, but apparently it sounded exactly like "Sure, I'll do it gladly," because Dean clapped his shoulder and said, "Sweet, owe you one. Beers on me Friday." Dean pointed down at the not unimpressive erection tent-poling his blue boxers then nodded to his bedroom, making a none too subtle gesture with finger and thumb to indicate coitus would soon transpire. Given the way sound went through this apartment, Jamie didn't really need it spelled out—the words "Oh Jesus," "Cop it," "Give it to me," and "Oh no you don't, it's my pussy now," had periodically roused him from sleep.
So with just one terrified flashback of his last public speaking episode (Year twelve English. Discussion of Lord of the Flies. Some bastard—never found out who—wrote "i love tamara" on his third palm card. He read the words out loud then tried to suck them back in an instant too late, for he had indeed loved Tamara, and her shell-shocked, horrified expression had ripped his heart out while the rest of the class laughed mercilessly), he thought about the prospect of being in front of people, the center of attention, and . . .
And, well, actually he didn't mind the idea. In fact, suddenly it seemed pretty good, got his blood tingling in a way that seemed both new and familiar. Why, maybe he could think of a few jokes and one-liners to toss in. And as it went, he spent more time thinking about jokes to tell his audience than he spent studying Dean's notes, a veritable spring in his step and an intoxicating fizz in his blood, which built and built until that damned slow clock let him have his moment in the spotlight.
The sixty or so janitors and school groundskeepers brayed with appreciative laughter. "My name is Jamie, and I'm here to discuss your super. Of course, you're all super to me." More laughs, laughs at the lameness of the puns, his cheesy grin, hammed up delivery and patronizing smile. He couldn't stop. They loved him and he loved them, their laughter especially, could drink it down all day, must have more, more! "I'll be with you for the next forty minutes or so, which means if you like the sound of my voice, you're in for a real treat." Laughter, precious laughter. How it filled him up and made him feel feather light. Why, he could bound across the floor, do a back flip off the podium . . .
The clearing throat of Dean's supervisor made him—with great effort—think more serious thoughts. Somehow he managed to read through the notes, restricting himself to one wisecrack every five minutes. It was tough. Slowly he worked his way to another fine intoxicating sound, the applause of an audience.