LITMIR.BIZ

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thunder broke against the hospital hard enough to shake dust off the acoustic ceiling tiles, the nurse retreated, almost as if she thought Josef himself had summoned that detonation.

      “WRITE IT DOWN!” he demanded.

      “I wrote, I wrote,” Rudy assured him. “December 23, 2002, another Monday.”

      “Two thousand three,” Josef said urgently. “The twenty-sixth of November. A Wednesday. The day before Thanksgiving.”

      After recording this fourth date on the back of the circus pass, just as his father stopped shaking the bedrails, Rudy looked up and saw a fresh emotion in Josef’s face, in his eyes. The fury was gone, and the terror.

      As tears welled, Josef said, “Poor Jimmy, poor Rudy.”

      “Dad?”

      “Poor, poor Rudy. Poor Jimmy. Where is Rudy?”

      “I’m Rudy, Dad. I’m right here.”

      Josef blinked, blinked, and flicked away the tears as yet another emotion gripped him, this one not easy to define. Some would have called it astonishment. Others would have said it was wonder of the pure variety that a baby might express at the first sight of any bright marvel.

      After a moment, Rudy recognized it as a state more profound than wonder. This was awe, the complete yielding of the mind to something grand and formidable.

      His father’s eyes shone with amazement. Across his face, expressions of delight and apprehension contested with each other.

      Josef’s increasingly raspy voice fell to a whisper: “Two thousand five.”

      His gaze remained fixed on another reality that apparently he found more convincing than he did this world in which he had lived for fifty-seven years.

      Hand trembling now, but still printing legibly, Rudy recorded this fifth date—and waited.

      “Ah,” said Joseph, as if a startling secret had been revealed.

      “Dad?”

      “Not this, not this,” Josef lamented.

      “Dad, what’s wrong?”

      As curiosity outweighed her anxiety, the rattled nurse ventured closer to the bed.

      A doctor entered the cubicle. “What’s going on here?”

      Josef said, “Don’t trust the clown.”

      The physician looked mildly offended, assuming that the patient had just questioned his medical credentials.

      Leaning over the bed, trying to redirect his father’s attention from his otherworldly vision, Rudy said, “Dad, how do you know about the clown?”

      “The sixteenth of April,” said Josef.

      “How do you know about the clown?”

      “WRITE IT DOWN,” Josef thundered even as the heavens crashed against the earth once more.

      As the doctor went around to the other side of the bed, Rudy added APRIL 16 after 2005 to the fifth line on the back of the circus pass. He also printed SATURDAY when his father spoke it.

      The doctor put a hand under Josef’s chin and turned his head to have a better look at his eyes.

      “He isn’t who you think he is,” said Josef, not to the doctor but to his son.

      “Who isn’t?” Rudy asked.

      “He isn’t.”

      “Who’s he?”

      “Now, Josef,” the physician chided, “you know me very well. I’m Dr. Pickett.”

      “Oh, the tragedy,” Josef said, voice ripe with pity, as if he were not a pastry chef but a thespian upon the Shakespearean stage.

      “What tragedy?” Rudy worried.

      Producing an ophthalmoscope from a pocket of his white smock, Dr. Pickett disagreed: “No tragedy here. What I see is a remarkable recovery.”

      Breaking loose of the physician’s chin grip, increasingly agitated, Josef said, “Kidneys!”

      Bewildered, Rudy said, “Kidneys?”

      “Why should kidneys be so damned important?” Josef demanded. “It’s absurd, it’s all absurd!”

      Rudy felt his heart sink at this, for it seemed that his dad’s brief clarity of mind had begun to give way to babble.

      Asserting control of his patient again by once more gripping his chin, Dr. Pickett switched on the ophthalmoscope and directed the light in Josef’s right eye.

      As though that narrow beam were a piercing needle and his life were a balloon, Josef Tock let out an explosive breath and slumped back upon his pillow, dead.

      With all the techniques and instruments available to a well-equipped hospital, attempts at resuscitation were made, but to no avail. Josef had moved on and wasn’t coming back.

      And I, James Henry Tock, arrived. The time on my grandfather’s death certificate matches that on my birth certificate—10:46 P.M.

      Bereaved, Rudy understandably lingered at Josef’s bedside. He had not forgotten his wife, but grief immobilized him.

      Five minutes later, he received word from a nurse that Maddy had experienced a crisis in her labor and that he must go at once to her side.

      Alarmed by the prospect of losing his father and his wife in the same hour, Dad fled the intensive care unit.

      As he tells it, the halls of our modest county hospital had become a white labyrinth, and at least twice he made wrong turns. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, he raced down the stairs from the third floor to the ground level before realizing that he’d passed the second floor, on which the maternity ward was located.

      Dad arrived in the expectant-fathers’ waiting lounge to the crack of a pistol as Konrad Beezo shot his wife’s doctor.

      For an instant, Dad thought Beezo had used a clown gun, some trick firearm that squirted red ink. The doctor dropped to the floor, however, not with comic flair but with hideous finality, and the smell of blood plumed thick, too real.

      Beezo turned to Dad and raised the pistol.

      In spite of the rumpled porkpie hat and the short-sleeved coat and the bright patch on the seat of his pants, in spite of the white greasepaint and the rouged cheeks, nothing about Konrad Beezo was clownish at that moment. His eyes were those of a jungle cat, and it was easy to imagine that the teeth bared in his snarl were tiger fangs. He loomed, the embodiment of murderous dementia, demonic.

      Dad thought that he, too, would be shot, but Beezo said, “Stay out of my way, Rudy Tock. I have no quarrel with you. You’re not an aerialist.”

      Beezo shouldered through the door between the lounge and the maternity ward, slammed it shut behind him.

      Dad knelt beside the doctor—and discovered that a breath of life remained in him. The wounded man tried to speak, could not. Blood had pooled in his throat, and he gagged.

      Gently elevating the physician’s head, shoving old magazines under it to brace the man at an angle that allowed him to breathe, Dad shouted for help as the swelling storm rocked the night with doomsday peals of thunder.

      Dr. Ferris MacDonald had been Maddy’s physician. He had also been called upon to treat Natalie Beezo when, unexpectedly, she had been brought to the hospital in labor.

      Mortally wounded, he seemed more bewildered than frightened. Able to clear his throat and breathe now, he told my father, “She died during delivery, but it wasn’t my fault.”

      For a terrifying moment, my dad thought Maddy had died.

      Dr. MacDonald realized this, for his last words were “Not Maddy. The clown’s wife.

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