ONCE IN H, I look for the yarmulke rack, which I assume Jewish people would keep in their foyers. But there is none. Maybe he keeps the yarmulke on? Even in bed? I have a lot to learn about this religion. The woman from before appears, on her way from one room to another. She doesn’t even look at me.
“You were gone a long time,” she says, disappearing into what I assume is a bathroom.
“Something happened,” I call after her.
She pops her head out.
“What?” she says. Then she sees me, sees the donkey in my hand. Her eyes widen in horror and she rushes over.
“Gregory?! My G-d, what happened?!”
“That clown,” I say. “It was that clown.”
“The clown who was following us earlier?”
“No,” I say, “the clown from Captain Kangaroo.”
She looks confused.
“Clarabell? Really?” she asks.
“No! Of course it was the clown who had been following us!”
“Oh,” she says, looking hurt. “I didn’t—”
“Never mind,” I say. “I had to kill him.”
“You killed him?!”
“What is there, an echo in here?”
“Jesus, B.,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been a rough night.”
I want to call her by name, but I don’t know what it is. I ask if she has any cash in her wallet, because, I explain, I suppose I should tip the police when they come. It is in actuality a ruse to look at her driver’s license.
“Um, yeah,” she says. “But is it necessary to tip the police?”
“Jesus,” I say. “You know they feel our people are cheap. Do you really want to substantiate that prejudice? At a time like this?”
“No, of course not,” she says.
She goes off in search of her bag. I take the opportunity to look around the place in an attempt to familiarize myself with the environment, to be better able to deflect suspicion. She returns with her bag and sifts through it.
“Let me get the money,” I say. “Unless you don’t trust me.”
She looks at me quizzically, then hands me the bag. I find her wallet, open it, pull out some bills, while surreptitiously glancing at her driver’s license: Laura Elaine Cohen. I hand it back to her.
“Thank you, Laura.”
“B.!”
“What?!”
“Please don’t be mad at me,” she says.
“I’m not mad at you.”
“You only call me Laura when you’re mad at me! You don’t think I’ve noticed that?”
“Laurie,” I try.
“Really?” she says. “Oh, B.”
There is a knock at the door. Two uniformed cops stand there, as well as a middle-aged man in a suit.
“Officers,” I say.
“B.!” says the suited man and embraces me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Laurie,” he then says, releasing me and hugging her.
He gets to call her Laurie. Whoever he is. That doesn’t seem fair.
“Al,” she says. “Thank you so much for coming.”
His name is Al. Got it.
“Thank you, Al,” I say.
“How could I not be here for this?” Al says. “We’re going to make this as easy for you folks as possible.”
“Thank you, Al,” Laurie (?) says.
“Thank you, Al,” I say.
“So we’ll just need to take a statement,” Al says.
So Al is with the police. Got it.
“We found the clown’s body and obviously have no doubt that this was a case of self-defense.”
“You should see what he did to Gregory,” offers Laurie (?).
I scurry off to produce Gregory’s corpse, certain it’ll sell my version of things.
“Jesus,” says Al. “I loved him as much as a man could possibly love a talking donkey puppet.”
“As did I,” I say.
“As did all of New York,” says the second of the two uniformed policemen.
“As did I as well, too,” agrees Laurie (?).
“Tell us what happened, B.,” says Al. “In your own words.”
“Sure. Well, I was walking Gregory Corso, the talking donkey, as I do every night.”
“Not every night,” says Laurie (?).
“Of course,” I agree. “As I have been known to do on some nights.”
This satisfies her and she nods.
“And I noticed we were being followed by this damnable clown, who had been following us all day. Right?”
I look at Laurie (?) for confirmation.
“That’s right,” she says.
“He was even at my lecture tonight. Everyone saw that. Hundreds of witnesses. And I was kind to him, even though he was obviously disturbed. I invited him up onstage to debate. In retrospect, perhaps I was too kind.”
“Debate what?” asks Al.
“He claimed to have seen the Cutbirth film and that it was completely different than I had described it, almost entirely inverted.”
“That’s insane,” offers Al. “What an insane man.”
“Yes,” I agree, seething internally. “But we need to be kind to our insane friends. The Torah teaches us that.”
“This world was not made for one as beautiful as you, to quote Vincent van Gogh,” says Al.
“Thank you, Al,” I agree. “So he attacked Gregory and then came at me with a knife—”
“We didn’t find a knife.”
“Let me finish. He came at me with an…iPhone, is what I was going to say.”
“We didn’t find a— Wait, so I’m confused. Is an iPhone threatening?”
“They’re very hard. And keep in mind he’d just killed my donkey, so I wasn’t thinking entirely clearly.”
“I get that,” he says. Then after a pause: “But we didn’t find an iPhone, either.”
“Maybe somebody walked off with it. There’s a market for hot iPhones, I hear.”
“Very true,” says Al. “Very good point. Very true. Maybe you should be the cop and I’ll be the cinematic genius!”
We all laugh.
“Anyway. The two of us wrestled, and I, in order to defend myself, well, I beat him to death.”
“Thanks, B.,” Al says. “For reliving this nightmare. I know this can’t be easy.” Then to the cops: “You fellas have any other questions?”
“No, Commissioner Rappaport.”
Commissioner Al Rappaport! Of course!
“All right then,” says Commissioner Al Rappaport, “we’ll let you two lovely folks get back to your lives.”
“Thanks, Al.”
Al hugs Laurie (?).
“This is not about him being a clown, Laurie. We know that for certain.”
What does that even mean?
“Thanks for saying that, Al,” says Laurie (?).
This is not about him being a clown, Laurie? This is not about him being a clown, Laurie. Something about this statement sets off alarm bells in my brain. Oh, shit. Clown Laurie! Is Laurie Clown Laurie? I study her and try to imagine her in clown makeup.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing.”
Al hugs me. And they’re gone. Maybe Clown Laurie and I both stare at the front door for a bit, as if we’re suddenly afraid to be alone with each other, as if this horrible event has opened some chasm between us.
“I think we should try to get some sleep, Snoodledy Doo,” she says.
“OK. Sounds good,” I say.
“I’m so sorry, Baby Bonnikins,” she continues. “This must be soooo difficult for you.”
“It’s OK,” I say.
“Ohhh, Cheesecake Sneezecake,” she says and embraces me.
“Ohhh,” I say back.
In the bedroom, I watch her undress. She is quite lovely, and I feel a strain in my pajama bottoms. It occurs to me that I am glad I was born at a time in the United States when I would be circumcised as an adult at the Burns and Schreiber Burn Center. This way she won’t notice that I am not Jewish. This brings me back to the question of the yarmulke. Am I allowed to take it off to sleep?
“Do you know where I left my computer?” I ask. “I want to look something up.”
“It’s where it always is,” she says.
“Oh, good,” I say. “Thanks.”
I leave the room.
“Where are you going?” she says.
I return.
“To get my computer?” I say.
She rolls her eyes.
“What is wrong with you?” she says and pulls it out from one of the nightstand drawers. My side of the bed! I think.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m a little dizzy and out of sorts and expect to be so for several days and possibly the rest of the year.”
“My poor Chick-fil-A Sandwich,” she says and hugs me.
“Aw,” I say. “And, to think, I can’t even remember my password!”
“Ha,” she says, giggling. “Silly B.! It’s your pet name for me!”
“Ha!” I agree. “That is funny…Baby.”
I look at her as I say this.
“You’re funny,” she says.
I decide I’ll keep on the kippah. It’s likely what he’d do. It’s good he was already in pajamas so I know this is what he sleeps in. If she questions my going to bed in my yarmulke, I’ll say I simply forgot. Because of the stress of the brutal murder I committed in self-defense, of the death of our beloved donkey puppet. That’s believable. She’ll believe that. I climb into bed.
“You’re wearing that yarmulke to bed?” she says.
“I forgot,” I say, unclipping it and placing it on the wig head on the nightstand, which I assume is for that purpose. “I just forgot,” I continue, “what with the killing that I committed in self-defense as well as the murder of the donkey. Good night.”
I lie down.
“What about your pajarmulke?”
“My what?”
“Your pajarmulke.”
I stare up at the ceiling and sigh. This whole thing is almost not worth it.
“What’s that again?” I say. “The shock to my system seems to have affected my memory.”
“Your sleeping yarmulke.”
“Oh, right. I’m so stupid!” I say. “And also distracted, I guess, by the events of this evening. Where do I keep it again?”
“Night table. Top drawer.”
“Right.”
I open the drawer and there it sits, plaid and flannel, with what I assume must be an elastic chin strap. I place it on my head. It is surprisingly comfortable, and the crown of my head does have a tendency to chill at night. I switch off the light and rest my head on the pillow.
“Good night, Turtledove,” she says.
“Good night, Clown Laurie,” I try.
She kisses me. She is Clown Laurie! And that is my nickname for her!
Her mouth is lovely, warm, and soft, tasting of toothpaste and—I perform a good deal of that lip-smacking, tongue-tapping-the-roof-of-my-mouth action to try to determine the flavor—blintzes? I don’t know for certain, but I find myself aroused. I do not usually find myself attracted to Jewish women. This is simply a matter of taste; it is not an anti-Semitic position. But a Jewish clown woman does something to me. I can’t say I understand why. I decide that to dwell on the reasons would inhibit my sexual performance, and so I let go of everything that is not the body of this clown woman. As I immerse myself in the experience of her, I begin to feel that I am him, that this is my rightful place in the world after all. As the poet admonishes us, how can something that feels so right be wrong? She is surprised by my lovemaking choices. It appears that she and Double Boy had perhaps fallen into something of a routine. I seem to be just what the doctor ordered, as the wags might say. And it occurs to me that maybe all was not sunshine and lollipops in this household, that maybe the solution to these circumstances is to introduce my true persona into the relationship. Maybe this woman is ready for a change. Maybe I am the adulterous affair she wants to have but never would. Maybe I don’t need to purchase a copy of Rosten after all. I’ll make up a new nickname for her. And she’ll love it. Maybe it’ll be “Bitch.” Maybe that will excite her. I’ll play it by ear. I sense she is malleable, and that puts me, as her husband, in the catbird seat. This is the very seat I have never before occupied with a woman. And I come. Boy, do I come. It is an earth-shattering orgasm. Stronger even than with Oleara. Stronger than in Tsai’s stairwell. In truth, she seems a little startled. Is it because my orgasm is stronger, more masculine than her husband’s have been? Is it because it happened too fast, she was not ready, she was not finishing? I don’t know, but the catbird seat necessitates my believing the former. I orgasmed at exactly the correct moment and it achieved the perfect result within her body.
“That was…great,” she says.
“Glad you liked it…bitch.” I say “bitch” very quietly.
“What?” she says.
“What what?” I say.
“Did you call me ‘bitch’?”
“Did I?”
She pecks me on the cheek and says, “Bitch Laurie.”
We both lie there for a long while in silence, each lost in our own thoughts.
Finally, I speak: “Is the C in Clown Laurie upper or lowercase?”
“You,” she says, kissing me once again, then turning over and almost immediately snoring lightly.
Well, there are only two possible options.