Nixon’s fall has no more to do with me than the fact that John Denver’s “Annie’s Song” was the number-one record in the country at the time. I mention it only to provide historical perspective.
Nixon or no Nixon, what I find most important about August 9, 1974, is my birth—and my grandfather’s predictions. My sense of perspective has an egocentric taint.
Perhaps more clearly than if I had been there, because of vivid pictures painted by numerous family stories of that night, I can see my father, Rudy Tock, walking back and forth from one end of County Hospital to the other, between the maternity ward and the ICU, between joy at the prospect of his son’s pending arrival and grief over his beloved father’s quickening slide into death.
With blue vinyl-tile floor, pale-green wainscoting, pink walls, a yellow ceiling, and orange-and-white stork-patterned drapes, the expectant-fathers’ lounge churned with the negative energy of color overload. It would have served well as the nervous-making set for a nightmare about a children’s-show host who led a secret life as an ax murderer.
The chain-smoking clown didn’t improve the ambience.
Rudy stood birth watch with only one other man, not a local but a performer with the circus that was playing a one-week engagement in a meadow at the Halloway Farm. He called himself Beezo. Curiously, this proved not to be his clown name but one that he’d been born with: Konrad Beezo.
Some say there is no such thing as destiny, that what happens just happens, without purpose or meaning. Konrad’s surname would argue otherwise.
Beezo was married to Natalie, a trapeze artist and a member of a renowned aerialist family that qualified as circus royalty.
Neither of Natalie’s parents, none of her brothers and sisters, and none of her high-flying cousins had accompanied Beezo to the hospital. This was a performance night, and as always the show must go on.
Evidently the aerialists kept their distance also because they had not approved of one of their kind taking a clown for a husband. Every subculture and ethnicity has its objects of bigotry.
As Beezo waited nervously for his wife to deliver, he muttered unkind judgments of his in-laws. “Self-satisfied,” he called them, and “devious.”
The clown’s perpetual glower, rough voice, and bitterness made Rudy uncomfortable.
Angry words plumed from him in exhalations of sour smoke: “duplicitous” and “scheming” and, poetically for a clown, “blithe spirits of the air, but treacherous when the ground is under them.”
Beezo was not in full costume. Furthermore, his stage clothes were in the Emmett Kelly sad-faced tradition rather than the bright polka-dot plumage of the average Ringling Brothers clown. He cut a strange figure nonetheless.
A bright plaid patch blazed across the seat of his baggy brown suit. The sleeves of his jacket were comically short. In one lapel bloomed a fake flower the diameter of a bread plate.
Before racing to the hospital with his wife, he had traded clown shoes for sneakers and had taken off his big round red rubber nose. White greasepaint still encircled his eyes, however, and his cheeks remained heavily rouged, and he wore a rumpled porkpie hat.
Beezo’s bloodshot eyes shone as scarlet as his painted cheeks, perhaps because of the acrid smoke wreathing his head, although Rudy suspected that strong drink might be involved as well.
In those days, smoking was permitted everywhere, even in many hospital waiting rooms. Expectant fathers traditionally gave out cigars by way of celebration.
When not at his dying father’s bedside, poor Rudy should have been able to take refuge in that lounge. His grief should have been mitigated by the joy of his pending parenthood.
Instead, both Maddy and Natalie were long in labor. Each time that Rudy returned from the ICU, waiting for him was the glowering, muttering, bloody-eyed clown, burning through pack after pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes.
As drumrolls of thunder shook the heavens, as reflections of lightning shuddered through the windows, Beezo made a stage of the maternity ward lounge. Restlessly circling the blue vinyl floor, from pink wall to pink wall, he smoked and fumed.
“Do you believe that snakes can fly, Rudy Tock? Of course you don’t. But snakes can fly. I’ve seen them high above the center ring. They’re well paid and applauded, these cobras, these diamondbacks, these copperheads, these hateful vipers.”
Poor Rudy responded to this vituperative rant with murmured consolation, clucks of the tongue, and sympathetic nods. He didn’t want to encourage Beezo, but he sensed that a failure to commiserate would make him a target for the clown’s anger.
Pausing at a storm-washed window, his painted face further patinated by the lightning-cast patterns of the streaming raindrops on the glass, Beezo said, “Which are you having, Rudy Tock—a son or daughter?”
Beezo consistently addressed Rudy by his first and last names, as if the two were one: Rudytock.
“They have a new ultrasound scanner here,” Rudy replied, “so they could tell us whether it’s a boy or girl, but we don’t want to know. We just care is the baby healthy, and it is.”
Beezo’s posture straightened, and he raised his head, thrusting his face toward the window as if to bask in the pulsing storm light. “I don’t need ultrasound to tell me what I know. Natalie is giving me a son. Now the Beezo name won’t die when I do. I’ll call him Punchinello, after one of the first and greatest of clowns.”
Punchinello Beezo, Rudy thought. Oh, the poor child.
“He will be the very greatest of our kind,” said Beezo, “the ultimate jester, harlequin, jackpudding. He will be acclaimed from coast to coast, on every continent.”
Although Rudy had just returned to the maternity ward from the ICU, he felt imprisoned by this clown whose dark energy seemed to swell each time the storm flashed in his feverish eyes.
“He will be not merely acclaimed but immortal.”
Rudy was hungry for news of Maddy’s condition and the progress of her labor. In those days, fathers were seldom admitted to delivery rooms to witness the birth of their children.
“He will be the circus star of his time, Rudy Tock, and everyone who sees him perform will know Konrad Beezo is his father, patriarch of clowns.”
The ward nurses who should have regularly visited the lounge to speak with the waiting husbands were making themselves less visible than usual. No doubt they were uncomfortable in the presence of this angry bozo.
“On my father’s grave, I swear my Punchinello will never be an aerialist,” Beezo declared.
The blast of thunder punctuating his vow was the first of two so powerful that the windowpanes vibrated like drumheads, and the lights—almost extinguished—throbbed dimly.
“What do acrobatics have to do with the truth of the human condition?” Beezo demanded.
“Nothing,” Rudy said at once, for he was not an aggressive man. Indeed, he was gentle and humble, not yet a pastry chef like his father, merely a baker who, on the verge of fatherhood, wished to avoid being severely beaten by a large clown.
“Comedy and tragedy, the very tools of the clown’s art—that is the essence of life,” Beezo declared.
“Comedy, tragedy, and the need for good bread,” Rudy said, making a little joke, including his own trade in the essence-of-life professions.
This small frivolity earned him a fierce glare, a look that seemed capable not merely of stopping clocks but of freezing time.
“‘Comedy, tragedy, and the need for good bread,’” Beezo repeated, perhaps expecting Dad to admit his