Chris unlocked the shop and
pulled out the display stand – an old wooden handcart she’d found down in
Imperial Valley on one of her weekend jaunts. She fluffed the flowers in their
silver metal jars and picked up the mail on her way inside. Flipping through
the envelopes, she muttered, “Bill, bill, junk, bill…”
Her feet, hands and mouth all
stumbled to a stop when she saw the last envelope. A thick cream vellum, with
her name and address handwritten on the front. She didn’t need to turn it over
to know the return address. She threw it, unopened, with the junk mail into the
shredder.
Days later, she looked up when
the Peruvian bells merrily chimed as the front door opened. A tall man in a
formal suit, including a neat handkerchief in the pocket. He didn’t look like
the flowers type. A shiver of unease ran down her back.
“May I help you?” She asked
politely. She should know better than anyone not to judge too quickly.
“Ms. Welton?”
Chris stood taller behind the
counter, her fingers pressing against the cool glass for composure. “Yes. Who
are you?”
The man walked up to the counter
and laid a photograph on the glass in front of her fingertips. She didn’t look
down.
“Ms. Welton. Who I am is
unimportant. You are not.” He hesitated and looked around the shop. With a
neutral gaze, he returned to face her. “He’s dying, ma’am. He asks only for you
to come and say goodbye.”
Chris looked down at the photo.
The same face paint she would know anywhere. Every clown had a unique identity,
though most rubes didn’t recognize them. Normal people, she sternly corrected
herself. Seeing his face immediately brought back the habits of her childhood.
The same paint, but not the same
face. How could that ancient, lined face be the same? He had always been so
strong, so towering, so vital. The sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks she saw here
couldn’t be him. Could it?
“Ms. Welton, will you come?”
She slid the photo back across
the glass and turned away. Without a word, she walked through the curtain to
the storeroom.
“Ms. Welton?” he called after
her.
The jingle of bells was the only
reply.
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Dogs in house
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Houdini, Maize, Malachi
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Time writing
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~20 minutes
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January word
count
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2,163
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