Honey Moon (49 page)

There she found two empty beds. Their occupants were sitting on the clown's lap, and they were wide-eyed as they listened to him read
Where the Wild
Things Are.

He must have read the book many times because she noticed that he seldom looked down at the words. Instead, he maintained eye contact with his small audience as he alternated between playing the parts of Max and the fearsome Wild Things.

He turned the last page. "... and it was still 'ot."

The girls giggled.

"I was pretty scary when I read that story, wasn't I?" he boasted. "I scared all of you, didn't I?"

They nodded their heads so agreeably that he laughed.

She stepped hesitantly into the room. The girls had been so absorbed in the story that they hadn't noticed her until then. Their eyes widened and their mouths formed small round ovals at the sight of her costume.

The clown's eyes swept over her, and he made no effort to hide his appreciation of her appearance.

"Well now, look who's 'ere. It's Princess Popcorn 'erself."

One of the children on his lap, an earnest brown-skinned moppet with a bandage covering the left side

of her face, leaned toward him and whispered, "Is she really a princess?"

"I absolutely am," Princess Popcorn said, stepping forward.

They continued to regard her in wide-eyed amazement. "She's beautiful," the other offered.

Awe-struck, they took in the tiara that nestled atop her tumble of honey curls, the white tulle princess gown with its glimmering moons and stars, the purple canvas basketball sneakers. Their small mouths gaped. She was glad she'd taken extra care with her hair and makeup.

"I couldn't agree more," Patches said softly. "Definitely the most beautiful princess in America."

Just like that, she could feel herself slipping under his spell, but this time she fought against it by primly pursing her soft rose lips. "Pretty is as pretty does.

What's inside a person is a lot more important than what's outside."

Patches rolled his single turquoise eye. '"Ew writes yer material, Princess?

Mary Poppins?"

She threw him a haughty look.

"What's that under your eye?" one of the girls asked, sliding down off his lap.

She had momentarily forgotten about the small purple star she had drawn high on her left cheekbone. Avoiding the clown's gaze, she reached inside her tote bag for her sable makeup brush and a pot of

orchid eye shadow.

"It's a star, just like Patches's. Would you like one, too?"

"Could we?" they inquired breathlessly.

"You certainly could."

The visit flew by. Patches told jokes and performed his magic tricks while she painted stars on the children's faces. Some of the children had been there on Christmas Day, but a number of them were

new patients. While the boys were more interested in Patches's magic tricks, the girls stared at her as if she had just stepped out of the pages of their favorite fairy tale. She combed their hair, let them try on

her tiara, and reminded herself to buy another pot of orchid eye shadow.

Patches, in the meantime, flirted with all the little girls, the nurses, and most of all with her. She couldn't resist him any more than the children could, and even though she had promised herself she wouldn't again fall under his spell, there was something so irresistible about him that she let all of her sensible resolutions dissolve.

When it was finally time to leave and they were riding the elevator downstairs, she warned herself to be wary. But he would disappear in a few more minutes, and what real harm was there in holding on to the illusion just a little longer?

"Next time you're not lassoing me," she said.

"You don't know 'ow to 'ave a good time, Princess."

"We'll do knives instead."

His face brightened as the doors slid open. "Really?"

"Yes. I'll throw."

He laughed. They walked through the lobby and out into the parking lot. The days were short and dusk had settled.

He led her toward her car, but when they got there he hesitated, as if he, too, weren't ready for them to part.

"Will you come back with me on New Year's Day?" he asked. "It'll be me last visit before I take off to sail the seven seas."

New Year's was just four days off. If only Eric would go away and leave Patches behind. "Sure." She pulled her keys from inside her tote, knowing she had to separate herself from him but not willing to climb into her car.

He took her keys. She looked up at him and saw that he seemed troubled.

"I've been thinking about that coaster of yers," he said. "I'm worried about you."

"Don't be."

He unlocked the door and handed over her keys. "It won't bring back yer

'usband, Princess."

She stiffened. The headlights of a car pulling out of the parking lot turned the moons and stars on her dress into shimmering sparks. Her brain warned her that if she tried to explain, he would mock her later, but her heart couldn't believe this pirate clown could ever harm her. And maybe he would understand what Eric couldn't.

"I have to." She bit her lip. "The world isn't much good without hope."

"What kind of 'ope are you talkin' about?"

"Hope that there's something eternal about us. That it wasn't just some random cosmic accident that

put us here."

"If yer tryin' to find God on that coaster of yers, Princess, I think you'd better look somewhere else."

"You don't believe in God, do you?"

"I can't believe in somebody that lets so much evil 'appen in this world. Little children suffering, murder, starvation. Who could love a God who 'as the power to stop all that, but doesn't use it?"

"What if God doesn't have the power?"

"Then 'e's not God."

"I'm not sure about that. I can't love the kind of God you're talking about, either

—a God who would decide it was time for my husband to die and then send a dope addict to murder him." She took a quick breath, swallowed. "But maybe God isn't as powerful as people think. Maybe I could love a God who didn't have any more control over the random forces of nature than we have. Not a Santa Claus God of reward and punishment. . ." Her voice became a whisper. ".

. . but a God of love who suffers with us."

"I don't think a roller coaster can teach you that."

"It did once. When I was a child. I'd lost everything, and Black Thunder gave me back hope."

"I don't think it's 'ope you want. And I don't even think it's God. It's yer

'usband." He pulled her into his arms. "Dash isn't comin' back, Princess. And it would tear 'im apart to see you sufferin' like this. Why don't you let 'im go?"

She felt the gentle pressure of his jaw on the top of her head and the warmth of his arms seemed like the safest place she had been in longer than she could remember. But because this silly clown had begun to mean too much to a woman who was still grieving over her husband's death, she pulled away from him and spoke fiercely.

"I can't let him go! He's the only thing I've ever had that was all mine."

She threw herself inside her car, but not until she had cleared the parking lot did she look back in her rearview mirror. The clown had disappeared.

28

Honey stood in the fading afternoon light on the porch of the Bullpen and asked herself what she was doing there. It was New Year's Day, and she had spent her entire hospital visit avoiding the clown. She had even slipped out early so she wouldn't have any more private parking-lot conversations with him. Tomorrow he was leaving, and it would all be over.

As she turned the knob and walked inside, the tulle skirt of her princess gown rustled in the stillness. She knew she had to hurry. Although he had been occupied with the children when she had left, she didn't know how much longer he planned to stay, and she would be mortified if he caught her going through his things.

She bit her lip as she stepped inside the musty room, ashamed of herself and yet unable to leave. His identities swirled in her head, separating, melding, and separating again: the menacing Dev, the warm, loving clown, and Eric himself, a dark enigma. Surely there would be something in his belongings that would tell her who he was. She had to put an end to this sick fascination. Otherwise, she would be left with another ghost.

His windbreaker was thrown over the orange vinyl couch, and through the doorway she could see a pair of jeans tossed on top of the old iron-framed double bed. Eric's clothes. An old flannel work shirt that belonged to Dev hung over the back of a chair. As she looked at these bits and pieces of his identity, she felt a despondency that was different from the ever-present pain of Dash's death.

Once he left tomorrow, she probably wouldn't ever see him again, not even when she went back to L.A. Eric lived in the insulated world of the superstars, so their paths weren't likely to cross by accident, and the decisions he made about her career would be handled through her agent. She had only now to solve the mystery, and to convince her heart that Eric and the clown were really one.

She smelled the particular odor of greasepaint even before she walked into the bathroom. Like many actors, he stored his makeup in a fishing-tackle box, which lay open on the lid of the toilet. A tube of clown white and small round tins of red and black rested on the back of the sink, along with a dark pencil and several sable brushes. She slumped against the door frame and stared blindly at the makeup. It was true then.

She gave a small, shaky laugh at her own silliness. Of course it was true. She knew they were the same person. Her mind did, anyway. But somehow her heart kept refusing to make the final connection. Again, she wished Eric would go and leave the clown behind. Everyone loved clowns. Caring about a clown wasn't a betrayal.

"Well, now, look who came callin'. Princess Popcorn 'erself."

She spun around.

He stood a few feet away, the painted smile on his face curling around a genuine one beneath. She began to stammer an explanation for her presence, but then realized he didn't seem to care. It was almost as if he had been expecting to find her waiting for him.

"Yer crown's crooked," he said with a grin.

"It's not a crown. It's a tiara." She was nervous, and when she reached up to take it off, her hair became tangled in the combs that secured it.

"'Old on there, Princess. Let me 'elp you."

He stepped forward and extracted the tiara from her hair. The touch of his hands was so gentle she had

to fight against the soft sensations spreading through her. "You do that like you've had lots of practice."

"I'm good friends with a couple of little girls who've got long 'air, too."

His easy manner disappeared. He turned his back on her and walked out into the living area. She followed him.

"Tell me about them," she said.

He stood by the window with its shabby, water-spotted curtain and toyed with her tiara. His strong, thin fingers, tan from the sun, looked out of place against the delicate filigree of metal and rhinestones. They were indisputably Eric's hands—hands that knew her intimately—and she looked away from them.

"Their names are Rachel and Rebecca. Rachel's a lot like you, Princess. She's tough and stubborn, and she likes gettin' 'er own way. Becca is—Becca is sweet and soft. 'Er smile could stretch yer 'eart wide open."

He fell silent, but even from the other side of the room, she could feel the strength of his love for his daughters.

"How old are they?"

"They're five. Six in April."

"Are they ugly like you?"

He chuckled. "They're the prettiest little girls you ever saw. Rachel's 'air is dark like mine. Becca's is lighter. They're both tall for their age. Becca was born with Down syndrome, but that 'asn't stopped 'er one bit." He turned the tiara in his hands and ran his thumbnail over the small combs, making a soft, pinging sound. "Becca's got lots of determination—always 'ad, right from the beginning

—and her sister Rachel makes 'er keep up." Again, his thumbnail scraped over the prongs. "At least she used to. ..."

He gazed at her, cleared his throat. "They would 'ave loved you in that outfit, Princess. Both of'em are suckers for royalty."

He looked as if he wished he hadn't said so much, but there was even more he hadn't told her. Why

was he separated from these daughters he obviously loved so much?

He walked over to her and handed back the tiara. "I'm leavin' tomorrow, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"I'm gonna miss you. Princesses like you don't grow on trees, now do they?"

She prepared herself for the joke that would come, but the mouth beneath his clown's painted grin was unsmiling. "You don't know 'ow beautiful you are, do you, Princess? You don't know 'ow just lookin' at you makes me old 'eart thump,"

She didn't want to hear this. Not from the clown. She was too vulnerable with him. But if not from the clown, then who? She tried to smile. "I'll bet you say that to all the princesses."

He reached out and touched her hair. "I never said it to a one. Only you."

A traitorous weakness spread through her. She looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Don't. . ."

"Yer the sweetest princess I ever met," he said huskily.

She no longer knew who she was talking to, and tiny wings of panic began to beat at her insides.

"I have to go now."

She turned her back on him and walked to the door. But when she got there, she stopped. Keeping her eyes straight ahead so that she didn't have to look at him, she whispered, "I think you're wonderful."

She groped for the door knob. Twisted it in her hand.

"Honey!"

It was Eric's voice, not the clown's. She spun around.

"I'm tired," he said, "of being a prisoner."

And then, as if it were happening in slow motion, he pulled off his wig and eye patch with a single movement of his arm.

His silky hair looked as black as the midnight sky next to his stark white face.

His turquoise eyes were

full of agony.
Run away!
her mind screamed. But she stood paralyzed as he withdrew the oversized