Chapter 8 - Bartleby the Clown

At last, it’s showtime!

Bartleby taps his oafish red clown shoes on the damp stone floor. He gazes out the barred windows of his room to the flickering thunderclouds beyond. The endless maelstrom of lightning buffets the desert plains, oddly free of sound and fury.

His feet dance impatiently across the floor, keeping a clumsy rhythm with the lightning. Oh, the kids will be thrilled! Their first clown show! What a magnanimous gift, free of charge, from the renowned Jester of Joy—the one and only Bartleby the Clown.

Tonight, Bartleby has a few extra tricks up his sleeves. The doctors have given him his old makeup kit and a few of his old toys. Bartleby grins and fumbles for his pouch, pulling out a long yellow balloon. He presses it to his lips, but his jagged yellow teeth rip the skin. A sob bursts from his lungs. With trembling fingers, he pulls another yellow balloon from his bag and holds it more carefully to his lips. He blows gently, savoring the sound of the skin stretching. His fingers bend and twist the balloon until—ta da!—he has a yellow duck. Quack, quack!

It’s just one of many surprises in store for the kids. Bartleby can make all kinds of funny animals out of balloons. A cow. A donkey. A hyena. A Babadook. Just about anything, really.

But now he has more pressing concerns. For a clown, makeup is not just a necessity; it’s an identity. With eager hands, he unscrews the lid of a chalky white clay from his kit. He lathers the foundation onto his face. His fingers return again and again to the gooey mess, splattering the thickened cream generously on his chin. The white color is almost phosphorescent, like some enchanting spell, he thinks. His face is glowing like Snow White’s.

Next the red makeup goes on. He smears it on his lips and then on his cheeks. Now he looks like Santa Claus, ho-ho-ho!

Finally, the blue mascara. This part is always tricky. His clumsy fingers struggle with the eye-brush, and the oily paint runs into his eyes, burning like hot coals. Warm tears and serous fluid stream down his face. He continues caking on the makeup, though, until he can barely hold his eyes open. He imagines he must look like a princess from Aladdin. A little silly, a little mysterious. Just what the kids love.

He wipes his fingers on his shirt and double checks his suspenders’ elasticity and his water nozzle spray. He pats the handkerchiefs hidden up his sleeves. He checks his hat for the bunny (…alas, the little one is hiding). Then he stands in front of his cell door, clasps his arms behind him and announces, “I’m ready for my show!”

Seconds later, the wooden door groans open. A trio of physicians are swaying outside in their soiled robes. They smell like feces. Their faces are hidden behind moth-eaten masks, and their eyes are dull black orbs without the smallest spark of mirth. Bartleby shudders, thinking these are serious folks.

They form a procession through the damp, dripping basement of the hospital. It’s a long journey to the pediatric floor, and on the creaking staircase, Bartleby turns to the nearest doctor. “Want to hear a joke?” he asks. “A duck walks into the doctor’s office. The doctor says, how're you paying…” he pauses, frowning. “Wait— A duck walks into the doctor’s office, and the doctor asks, how are you paying for today. And the duck says, just put it on my bill.” He grins so wide that his lips split at the seams. A small trickle of blood runs into his mouth.

But the doctors ignore him. They shuffle on with their long, gangly limbs, their knuckles almost scraping the floor. Bartleby’s smile fades. “Sheesh. A little humor wouldn’t kill ya,” he mutters.

One of the doctors stops and turns around, snapping its long neck snapping. “What would kill us, Bartleby?”

“Huh?”

“If you had to do it right now, how would you?” the doctor persists. “Would you stuff handkerchiefs down our throats? Throw knives at us on a spinning board?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The silliness is suddenly gone from Bartleby’s voice.

“You like the pink bunnies, don’t you?” another doctor asks, as they round the corner on a long hallway. Lightning flickers through the broken windows. At the distant end of the hall, two swinging doors await beneath a stenciled sign: PED_ATRICS.

“The pink bunnies,” the third doctor continues. All their eyes are upon him now; those unblinking black orbs, insectoid and ghoulish.

Bartleby shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about that. That’s my trick,” he barks. “You can’t have it.”

“Will you show us how you do it?” the first doctor inquires. “How you pull out the pink bunnies?”

Bartleby doesn’t reply. He fixes his eyes on the children’s ward and waddles ahead, trying to create some distance between himself and these strange, uncomfortable men. They don’t hurry after him. In fact, their footsteps slowly recede behind, until he is standing alone at the doors of the Pediatric ward.

Bartleby pushes open those creaking hinges and steps inside. His heart is hammering; his tongue is dry with anticipation. How long has it been since he’s heard squeals of laughter, or the sound of children dancing? Oh, what a splendid show this will be! What a terrific, magical, magnificent—

Bartleby pauses. His eyes track across the large room to the empty cots, to the ruined cabinets and black bugs scurrying along the floor. A cold dread sweeps through him. He moans and crumbles to his knees, his fingers digging greasy, bloody furrows in his caked face. Behind him, the doctors are whispering in the doorway, scribbling on their boards. They’re watching him closely. Studying him.

Bartleby’s eyes roll in epileptic terror. His body convulses with sobs.

The ward is empty. There are no children in the House of God.