Beth swept snow from the top of the last box and threw herself onto a chair. She was immediately sorry she’d done this: her soaking wet gloves and sodden stocking cap were right under her. It didn’t really matter. The last of the snow was disappearing into her coat, turned into ice water to mix with the sweat drenched clothes. Throwing off the coat, cursing as she did so, would have taken more energy than she had at the moment. She sat in her personal puddle and glared at the forty boxes piled up in her tiny living room.
But the job was done, at least this far. She waited for the sense of accomplishment to make her feel better. This did not happen.
“Oh, Daddy, why can’t you be here?” Her moan was more of irritation than of sorrow. He could have told her why he’d saved the popcorn buckets the high school football team sold him every fall. If he’d saved them. Were they a treasure to him, or just something he never got around to throwing away? If he had just taken the time to leave a note on every damn thing he owned, she’d have known what to keep, and been more sure of what she threw away.
The coming year, he’d decided, they would sell the house. No one had lived there for three years, and it had become no more than an expensive and risky storage locker. Beth glared again at her share of the boxes.
It wasn’t as though she hadn’t had help. Her sisters were always available for advice and assistance in packing, especially advice. Why did you save that? Why did you throw that away? Didn’t you realize….
There had been no fights. After all, there had been no right answers to most of the questions. Beth sat up with a squelch, and looked the boxes up and down. So why were there so many WRONG answers? Every discussion left Beth feeling she’d messed up again. Meg was in a hurry to get this over with; Josie thought they should take more time. The emails from her supervisor, reminding her that November and December were bad times to be short-handed, were no consolation. Now that she had this much work done, even Beth wasn’t happy with it. Now she had to find places for all the junk in these boxes. (Treasures! Boxes full of treasures! She had to keep reminding herself not to call it junk: not after what the boxes and movers had cost.)
She stood up and wrestled herself out of the clinging wet coat. So the disappointment was unanimous. Beth swung open the door of the front closet; if a burglar was waiting, no doubt HE was disappointed, too.
He didn’t look disappointed. The white makeup and big red nose probably concealed his expression, of course. Beth stood staring, too startled to scream.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was flat. His big red smile did not alter.
Beth backed away. She’d never had the clown aversion so many of her co-workers bragged about. There was nothing really threatening, no matter how unwelcome, about those ragged bagged pants or the big orange ears. He didn’t follow her. His hands held nothing more threatening than a curious curly brass horn which….
Orange ears. Brass horn. Beth frowned. “Do I know you?”
The big clown’s voice was bland to the point of being mechanical. “In the days when computers were big scary inventions and only experts could use them, somebody thought of programming a children’s book with spaces for personal formation to be filled in. Parents would mail in a child’s name and age and address and pets’ names and other material. This data was used to create a personalized book.”
Beth blinked. This all mattered to HIM, obviously, but why should it matter to her?
His shoulders sagged a little, and he honked the brass horn. “Ah-ooh-gah!” it said, in her father’s voice.
He was the wrong height and weight to be her father, so…. Beth leaned in, studying that gaudy red and white complexion. “What a thing! You’re the Christmas Clown!”
His face did not change; perhaps it couldn’t. But his shoulders rose again, and a hand rose to his face as if to conceal a gasp he couldn’t actually form.
“You remember me? I wasn’t a very exciting book.” He glanced down at his big red buttons: the bottom one kept disappearing and then coming back into view, as if not sure of its welcome. “And not well printed. I sold a lot, as a novelty. Waste of ink, really. I’ve been going to all the boys and girls who had a copy, to see if anybody…remembered.”
“But I remember you! Daddy read you to us every Christmas until….”
His face still did not change. “Yes.”
Beth took a step back. “Until I was twelve.”
“And you had known for several years that I was really much of a story and you wondered why you bothered.” The pain was more obvious, really, in this apathetic, automatic tone. The face stayed exactly the same.
“Well, I….” There wasn’t much to say. She’d been in junior high and, of course, on her full dignity as a mature woman.
“That stupid clown and his stupid jokes.” He was quoting her exactly. Well, he’d been there, of course.
She remembered Daddy had seemed saddened and relieved at that turn of events. Beth’s face contained more fear than regret as she looked to his hands again. “I….”
“It doesn’t matter.” The clown shrugged. “What animal falls from the sky?”
Beth glanced at the window, remembering that page. “Rain, dear.”
“Stupid joke.” The Christmas Clown shook his head.
She had laughed and laughed at it when she was five. “There are worse jokes!”
The clown’s shoulders, which had been sagging again, rose just a bit. “That’s nice of you, but it isn’t a nice thing to say about a joke.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The horn shifted toward the front door. “You’re the first person who’s remembered me.”
Beth couldn’t tell if this was a good thing or not. What was he leading up to? She held her sodden coat a little farther up, as it might serve as a shield.
“To get permission to walk out of my book, I had to promise to grant any child who remembered me a Christmas wish. Not really good ones, you understand, because I’m not….” The big shoulders sank. The bottom two buttons vanished. “Do you want a wish?”
Looking him up and down, Beth made up her mind. She tossed the soaked coat into the wet chair behind her. “Well, yes, I do! Do you know where my copy of The Christmas Clown is?”
He raised the horn. “What?” For the first time, life pulsed behind the words. “Why…yes, it’s in that box. Number 23.” The horn pointed to the sixth stack over.
Beth hesitated only a moment. The second box down in that stack was numbered “23”. She ripped the lid away and burrowed among the battered books within; these had been way back in the attic closet. Here it was: she remembered the stain. She’d spilled…hot chocolate, was it?
“THANK you!” She clutched the book to her chest, hoping the stain wouldn’t come off on a wet blouse after so many years. “I haven’t read it in forever, and this will bring some of the Christmas excitement back to me. Thank you so much!”
The big eyes were wider and whiter than before. The loose green thread on his collar turned out to be that bizarre daisy, which now stretched fresh and sharp on its stem. His shoulders were high, his shoes a glossy purple. Three buttons appeared, the horn gleamed in his hand, and something small and clear slid down one cheek.
“No!” he said. “Thank…thank YOU!”
He was gone, with a little ah-ooh-ga, as if her father had whispered it. Beth sat down, right on top of the cold wet coat, of course. She would read through the book, though in fact it was NOT one of her key Christmas memories. They WERE stupid jokes, and the story was dull.
But the badly-written Clown HAD granted her a Christmas wish. That something, anything, she did this month would make somebody happy.
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