The Clown
When she opened the front door Jake stood there with his clown behind him. The clown wore a big full-cheeked smile, with the slightest bit of stubble pushing out through his makeup. She wasn’t sure why she was surprised, the clown always followed him everywhere, like a rainbow-coloured shadow, but for some reason she had expected him to show up alone this time.
‘Hey,’ she said, letting them both inside, guiding them down the wooden hallway.
‘Thanks for letting us come over,’ Jake said. ‘I know you must be having a hard time of it. Here, these are for you.’
A Tupperware full of cookies. Choc chip. Half of them were normal circular shapes. The other half were phallic.
‘Gravy helped me make them,’ Jake said, as an explanation.
That was the clown. Gravy Gigglesworth. He stood behind Jake’s shoulder, smiling a painted-on smile, eyes bloodshot and wide. But at least he was a silent clown.
She put the cookies down on the kitchen bench, turning the jug on. ‘Coffee?’
‘Sure,’ he said.
Gravy pretended to drink from an imaginary mug and feigned burning his tongue, fanning his open mouth with a gloved hand. His tongue was white and cracked and disgustingly human.
‘Sorry about Muffin,’ Jake said while she got the coffee ready in front of the open window. ‘He was a good cat.’
She dumped scoops of ashen grounds into the French press, then drowned them with boiling water. ‘He was the best cat.’ She turned back around, and caught Gravy with his hands balled up and held to his eyes in a crying motion.
Her grip tightened on the handle of the French press.
‘Why are you even here?’ she asked.
‘What? Because Muffin—’
‘Not you. Him,’ she said, pointing past Jake.
Gravy clutched at his chest as though he’d been shot.
‘What do you mean? Gravy comes with me everywhere.’
‘Why? Why can’t you just leave him at home for once. Why do you always have to bring the fucking clown with you everywhere?’
Jake shrugged, avoiding her eye. ‘I don’t know. He helped me through some tough times as a kid. He was always there when I needed him. Helped me fit in.’
Gravy puffed out his chest and rested his fists on his hips in a heroic pose.
‘And do you need him right now? Do you think I need him right now? I just had to put my cat down, I don’t want to fucking deal with Gravy’s goofy shit right now.’
Jake looked from her to Gravy. ‘Maybe it is best if you wait outside for a minute?’ he asked the clown.
Gravy backed out of the room slowly, all the way down the hall and out the front door, shoes squeaking on the floorboards.
‘There, he’s gone. Happy now?’
She turned back to the bench, silently making the coffee. Her palm pressed down on the knob of the French press slowly, enjoying the satisfying pressure as the filter pushed through the water.
‘Seriously though. You doing okay?’ Jake asked.
She nodded. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s just still so recent, you know?’
‘Yeah, I know.’
She pulled out two pastel-coloured mugs from the cupboard—one green, the other pink—and poured the steaming coffee into them. ‘Thanks for the cookies.’
‘No problem. Sorry half of them are dicks.’
She lifted the mugs, eyes rising from the bench top and looking out the open window. Gravy stood there, hands on the windowsill, staring in.
‘Fucking fuck!’ She tossed the contents of her mug at the clown on instinct. She hit him full in his paint-covered face with the boiling hot coffee. He didn’t react, just stood there dripping. Instead, it was Jake that howled and clutched at his face, stumbling out of the kitchen and running down the hallway to the bathroom.
Alone in the kitchen with Gravy in the window, she watched as the paint dripped off his face.
It was Jake’s face, beneath the thick layers of makeup.
Stephen Woods is a Wellington-based writer holding a Master of Arts in Creative Writing from the International Institute of Modern Letters at Victoria University of Wellington. He usually goes by Steve to reduce the risk of accidentally being called Stefan. He also likes dogs now.