“No, I don’t want to go!”
“You say that every year, Davey, but you know it’s no use fighting about it, don’t you?” Irritation put an edge to his mother’s words. “The company picnic is important to your father and his job. How many times must we go over this?”
“But, but...” Davey Mansfield did know it was no use arguing, but felt he had to try anyway.
“No more ‘buts’, Son. Now, go to your room and get cleaned up for dinner. Dad will be here any moment.” With a relenting smile, Joan ruffled her nine-year-old son’s sandy brown hair and added, “I’ve fixed one of your favorites—spaghetti and meatballs. Ice cream for dessert Now scoot!” She gave him a fake kick to his small backside.
Davey sulked his way to his room, at the top of the stairs. His was the only occupied room up there. The others were a small guestroom and an even smaller sewing-computer room. At times the boy felt all alone in the world, upstairs in his room, listening to night sounds that could be anything he imagined them to be. A spook walking up the darkened stairs, a goblin banging on water pipes, a vampire seeking some fresh blood. Or a clown—his biggest fear.
He hated clowns, feared them, and wished to stay as far away from them as possible. “Wish they would all go to Hell!” (Oops!) Davey covered his mouth as he knows he’s never supposed to curse, even though he figures that’s where they come from in the first place.
That’s why he always fought so hard to stay home on the Fourth of July, the day of his father’s company picnic at Tisdale Park, near the center of town. He couldn’t tell anyone of his fears, the horror he felt in their presence, the deep-throated dread that washed over him at the very sight of them. He felt if he did tell, they’d all think he was loony, or something.
One year, panic so overcame him that he yelped and ran so fast, that his parents could hardly keep up with him. When they did, they dragged him back to the clowns—where he stood and squeezed his eyes shut so tightly, he’d almost blacked out. So that’s how little Davey Mansfield got through the ordeal of the clowns that year.
It seemed like it was the same thing, every year and each time, his dread became stronger and stronger, until it began filling his nightmares and daymares, as well.
When school started in early September, he could keep busy enough so the thought of the clowns was forced to the back of his mind. At least until the next May and June. Now it was the dreaded “time of the clowns”, as he called it. Tomorrow...the Fourth of July––The Day of the Clowns!
Davey walked slowly to the window in his room, which over-looked the front part of the house and studied the homes across the way, deliberately avoiding the pale blue one. It was third house from the center, owned by the Canby family, where his best friend, Scoot Canby, once lived; until the clowns got him!
The first picnic that Davey could remember was when he was three-years old. He and Scoot were all excited about going to the park to eat hot dogs and watch the fireworks. Their parents were good friends, so they’d end up hanging out together. Davey whined until they allowed him to bring their dog, Slingshot. The dog loved to run and play in the park, just like the kids. After the boys played on the slide and swings, it was time to eat lunch, which they greatly enjoyed. An adult manned the giant-sized barbecue, grilled hot dogs and hamburgers, while others spread cloths on the long picnic tables and laid out the paper plates and utensils.
Of course, then everyone had to sit still while the bigwigs gave speeches about the company and how far it had come in the last twenty-five years...
That’s usually about the time when the children stopped listening and started fidgeting in their seats. Next, they’d attempt in vain to climb down from the wooden benches, while parents held onto them tightly by their collars. They certainly did their darndest to keep them still, which was always a losing battle.
Many ended up holding the kids on their laps, while some gave up and let them run wild.
Davey and Scoot were the lucky ones that ran wild, usually playing on the teeter-totter, until the “Big Cheeses” (that’s what they heard parents say, referring to the bosses) got through speaking. Then they would head back to the tables and chow down on hot dogs, with mustard and ketchup running down their little chins, until their bellies were about to burst. “No fair!” they would complain, if they didn’t have room left in their tummies for watermelon or cake.
The first time three-year old Davey saw the clowns, he was overjoyed. They appeared in the front of the annual Fourth of July Parade, riding on miniature cars and kiddy’s tricycles, and it was funnier than a “barrel full of monkeys,” as his dad would say. The clowns were dressed in different colored outfits. Kids clapped uncontrollably as they jumped up and down, laughing as hard as they could.
There was only one really scary moment, that first year of the clowns for young Davey. One of the clowns, who dressed in white with red trimmings, pedaled his undersized bike very near the front row of children. He was so close that Davey could have reached out and touched his grinning face. As the front tire nearly ran over his little foot, he quickly pulled both feet back out of the way. His young mind figured it was part of the act anyway, so he grinned widely at this comical performer.
Suddenly, he felt as if an icy finger was travelling up his spine, as he gazed into the clown’s eyes. Those eyes––they were not smiling. They appeared black and flat, without depth. Beneath the painted-on grin, his mouth wasn’t smiling either.
Davey stepped back and buried his face in his mother’s skirt, refusing to look at the clowns anymore that day. His mother hugged his head close with her gentle, angel’s hands, as she continued her conversation with a friend who was standing next to them.
Davey waited until he was sure the clowns were out of sight, and then peeked out just in time to see a rusty, old, fire engine passing by. Then came a marching band, followed by a drill team. With his mouth agape, he began to enjoy himself again, watching the baton twirlers tossing their sparkly batons high in the air and then catching them. There were dogs pulling small carts with kittens in them, which completely erased any thoughts of the scary clowns from his young, impressionable mind.
Later at dusk, the crowed oohed and aahed at the fireworks display. When it was all over, Davey went home and right to bed, a very tired, but happy little boy.
The next morning, as a sleepy-eyed Davey dragged himself down to the kitchen, he became aware that there was some kind of sadness in the air.
June quickly said to her husband, Guy, “Shhhh, we’ll talk about it later. Poor Marion. I’ll go see her this afternoon...”
His father nodded, eyeing his son as he entered the kitchen.
AT FOUR-YEARS OF AGE and after attending preschool, Davey considered himself quite grown-up. He already knew his ABC’s and could count to twelve, even though he had only ten fingers.
“It’s almost the Fourth of July, my little man.” His mother always called him that. Why...he didn’t know, besides, who ever saw a man who was actually little?
He smiled up at her with a question in his eyes, all the while making a mess with his cereal.
“Fourth of July, Davey! Picnic at the park, fireworks, clowns, parade....”
For whatever reason, a slight shiver rippled through his body. Picnic, clowns...Davey shook it off and grinned broadly again at his mother.