The Third Day

Clarence sits on the edge of the concrete embankment with his feet dangling over the rushing city runoff. The freeway bridge above him casts a monolithic shadow; an incessant whir of traffic pervades the morning air like an empty airwave. He breathes deeply in, and the humid chill bites at his lungs in retort. He coughs.

And coughs.

“You all good there, Clare?” Baron says, approaching from behind and clapping him on the back with his bearlike strength.

Clarence tips towards the water and has to catch himself or go tumbling down. He turns to his friend. “No.” He wipes the spittle from his mouth and returns to his sulking.

Baron puts a hand on Clarence’s shoulder and makes a pouty face. “Does Clare have the grumpies?” He says. Clarence doesn’t answer, so Baron shakes him. “Huh? Does Clare have the grumpies?” In Baron’s grip, Clarence wobbles like rag doll and has to start laughing.

“Yes! Yes. Stop.” He laughs more, and Baron leans in.

“What’s that?” He says.

“I have the grumpies.” Clarence says, rolling his eyes.

Baron smiles and claps Clarence’s back again, this time more gently. He takes a seat beside his friend and for the next several minutes, the two of them look out over the swirling eddies of the city’s worst water.

“Are they still upset?” Clarence says, almost hesitant. Baron squints but doesn’t turn to look at Clarence.

“June is. And Eric.”

Clarence arches his neck in exasperation. “Ok,” he says. “Other than those two.”

Baron looks at his friend and does his best to study him, genuine concern on his face. Baron, who has known Clarence for almost six years, was the first to welcome him into their gypsy-like tribe. Back then, they were living a couple of towns over, near the edge of a forgotten financial district, before a construction crew kicked them out. At the time, Clarence was an amiable old man whose life had simply run aground, but in the years that followed, and in recent months especially, he somehow managed to ruffle the group’s feathers and his disposition soured. He lost the approval and trust of the group, and might have been expelled, but Baron stepped in on his behalf, and at the last moment, Clarence was permitted to stay. Afterwards, Clarence pretended to make amends, and things improved slightly, but that was all before yesterday, when he was caught inside someone else’s tent again—while they were away.

“Clarence,” Baron says. “I can’t advocate for you again if you really do mean us harm.”

Clarence lets out a lungful of air through pursed lips and closes his eyes, his anger rising. He takes a few slow breaths before opening them.

When he does, Baron has gone.

Clarence turns back to the water, and the rest of the day passes over him like a missed opportunity. The sun sets, and the city quiets, and he gets up to rejoin the group.

Their encampment, which is made up of three blue tents and four blanket forts, forms a kind of circle; in the center is half of a metal barrel—though whether it’s a top half or a bottom is perpetually up for debate—and a collection of milk crates for sitting. June and Eric are already there, side by side. Baron is preparing to light the nightfire. The rest of the gang—a total of seven losers each less reliable than the last, in Clarence’s opinion—are returning in ones and twos from their day in the streets.

When they are at last together, awash in the orange glow of Baron’s barrel fire, they pull out the monies they’ve collected throughout the day and place them on an industrial spool that’s been tipped over. Eric relinquishes a fistful of quarters, dimes, and pennies. June pulls her guitar from its case and a smattering of crumpled bills tumbles out. Baron stands with his great weight and reaches into his pockets, searching. Finally he produces a five dollar bill that’s seen much better days. Within moments, a paltry assortment of coins and notes lay sprinkled out like some kind of religious offering. Mingled there, too, are a few things that are not money. There’s an unopened pack of lighters, a half-plundered bag of fast food, and a little black book no larger than a child’s hand. Eric and June, the group’s de facto leaders, look over the pile and nod to Maurice, the gang’s designated treasurer, to come over and sort out the riches. Maurice limps his way to their makeshift altar and spreads it out to get a better look.

Clarence rolls his eyes. Maurice was the one from whom Clarence was caught stealing yesterday, and no one—not even Maurice—is yet sure how much—if any—Clarence took. Idiot, Clarence thinks, shaking his head, at once referring to Maurice for being Maurice, and himself for getting caught. To Clarence’s further annoyance, the troupe has been abuzz once more with rumors about expelling him from the band, and none have yet dared to even look him in the eye, much less speak to him since yesterday—except Baron. Even now, with everyone seated in a circle, they avoid his gaze much like how the rest of society avoids theirs. Exhausted, Clarence stands and huffs.

“If you want me to leave, tell me now.” He says. He means to address the group but he’s looking at Eric and June. Several band members exchange furtive glances, and a few of them look at Clarence and then quickly away. After a moment, Eric returns his gaze.

“Clarence,” he says, rising to his feet. “How much have you stolen from us since you’ve been with us?” Clarence’s doesn’t flinch—he steels himself.

“I haven’t stolen a thing.” He says, but his eyes dart to Maurice for a second, who doesn’t look up from his chore. Clarence swallows. “I was in Maurice’s tent because I saw a rat,” he says. “You know he leaves his food in there.”

Maurice pauses his copper-counting for a second as all eyes turn to him, except Eric’s. He and Clarence are suddenly locked in a stare-down. It’s true—Maurice does keep his food in his tent, and so the group, though reluctant, is ready to accept Clarence’s lie and move on, but they need Eric’s go-ahead and it doesn’t look like he’s going to give it. After what feels like forever, June reaches up to take her boyfriend’s hand, and with great reluctance, Eric sighs and sits back down.

After a second, Clarence does too, and the group melts into friendly conversation. Baron gets up and stokes the dying fire with a charred wooden dowel.

The next morning, as they’re seated once more around the metal barrel that cooled throughout the night, Maurice stands to speak. At first, this makes Clarence nervous, but it is soon clear that Maurice isn’t about to finally give a coherent report on the group’s financial standing; in his hands, which are for some reason shaking, is the little black book from yesterday’s pile of treasure. “Maurice,” Eric says. “Do you have something to say?” Maurice, ever the tight-lipped recluse, nods nervously. Eric raises his eyebrows and gestures to the ground, giving him the floor. The troupe’s treasurer shifts his weight from side to side, looking back and forth between the little leather notebook in his hands and the cold metal barrel full of last night’s ash. He clears his throat and holds up the book.

“Who brought this in?” He says. The group members look at one another, shrugging. None answer. “Who brought…this in?” He says.

This time, when no one speaks up, the group’s interest turns to confusion. Eric stands to help. “Maurice, is something wrong?” He says. He reaches for the book but Maurice snatches it away. Alarmed, Eric takes a step back and shows Maurice his empty hands. “I’m not going to touch you,” he says. “Why don’t you tell us what’s got you upset,” Eric says. After a moment, Maurice shivers and drops the book.

“That book is cursed,” he says, pointing at it, his hand trembling.

Clarence does his best not to laugh and looks at the ground to conceal a smile. Eric kneels and reaches for the book. Maurice shouts.

“No!” He says. “Don’t touch it!” But Eric picks it up and flips through the pages.

“Maurice are you sure you’re all right?” He says. “It’s a notebook.”

“It’s cursed,” Maurice says, and even Eric rolls his eyes.

“No! It’s real! There’s a note inside the back cover. Whoever has that book for three days, the person they love the most, dies.” Maurice says. Then he shudders, pivots, and hobbles back to his tent, leaving the group befuddled and bemused as ever. Eric wears a face of utter astonishment and Clarence chuckles. A few troupe members shake their heads and shrug their shoulders. Oh, Maurice, they think, dismissing him. Eric pockets the book and the group disbands for the day.

Later that evening, around the fire, Maurice starts it up again, and for ten full minutes he implores the group to follow his plan. “If we just circulate the book among ourselves,” he says, “…if we take turns holding onto it for no more than three days, and then we hand it off to someone else, I don’t think the book won’t be able to harm anyone.”

For a while, no one speaks; they’ve had just about enough. Finally, Baron breaks the silence.

“I’ll take the book, Maurice. You and I can pass it back and forth.” He holds out his hand to Eric, who gladly surrenders the book to him. Maurice smiles, satisfied, and collectively, the groups sighs, happy to have the matter resolved.

For weeks it goes on like this. Baron and Maurice take turns holding onto the book, and on each third day, they give it back. In time, more members of the group join in, and it becomes a sort of social game. The inexplicable appearance of each person’s name at the top of the most recent page helped with that. Though none could explain it, the troupe members began to look forward to their turn and seeing their name replace the previous person’s name on the paper. Within a couple of months, all are participating—except Clarence.

“It’s a notebook,” he says to Baron one morning. “It’s just a stupid notebook. You guys don’t actually believe Maurice, do you?”

“No,” Baron says. “But how do you explain our names showing up in it each time it changes hands?”

“That’s not happening,” Clarence says.

Baron tilts his head, incredulous. “Have you even seen it?” He says.

“I don’t have to, Baron. Come on.”

Baron throws up his hands and looks out over the water. After a moment, he turns to his friend. “You know what, Clare. I don’t know why you’ve turned into a cranky old bastard, but it’s starting to get old.” Baron rises to his feet and walks away.

At the fireside that night, Clarence stands to address the group.

“I’d like to take a turn with the notebook,” he says. After a few seconds of genuine surprise, he is met with cheers and applause. Eric, who happens to be on his third day with the book, gives it to Clarence. When Clarence takes it, he turns to the latest page and has to stifle a smirk.

“It still says ‘Eric’ at the top,” he says, and Maurice chimes in.

“There’s a bit of a delay for the new name to appear,” he says. “We think it changes at midnight.”

Clarence looks around the group for confirmation; many of them are nodding.

When the fire is nearly dead, they all go to sleep.

Except Clarence.

When the night finally quiets, and soft snores permeate the air, Clarence leaves his tent, little black book in hand. Engulfed in the bridge’s interminable shadow, he slinks through the encampment towards Eric’s tent. This’ll show ‘em, he thinks. Goddam Maurice making everyone crazy. As slow as he can, Clarence unzips the flap door of Eric and June’s tent and drops the little black book into Eric’s boot, checking the latest page one last time. It still says ‘Eric.’ Clarence returns to his tent and sleeps.

When morning breaks, a blood-curdling cry rends the air. “June! Juuune!” In a heartbeat, everyone is awake and scrambling to dress, rushing to the sound of Eric’s cries, and though Clarence’s heart is pounding out of his chest, he climbs out of his tent in slow motion. His mind is a blur. No, he thinks. No. He pulls on a coat, and when he is the last to arrive at June and Eric’s tent, Maurice takes notice.

Inside, Eric is on his knees and sobbing over June’s lifeless body. She is cold to the touch. Baron goes into the tent and puts a burly hand on Eric’s shoulder. He check’s June’s pulse and bows his head. Eric’s sobs intensify, and the rest of the troupe descends into mournful silence. Maurice is still staring at Clarence.

“Check his things,” he says. The troupe doesn’t hear him. “Check his things!” He says. Baron looks up at Maurice, and then at Clarence.

“Clarence’s?”

“No,” Maurice says. “Eric’s.”

Baron sighs. “Maurice, I don’t think—“

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Maurice barges into the tent and begins rifling through Eric’s possessions. Baron puts up his hands to stop him. “Whoah, Maurice, come on now. We don’t have to—“

But Maurice will not be stopped. “I know it’s here! I—”

Maurice gasps and jumps back, and everyone sees it. Next to Eric’s toppled boot is the little black book.

All eyes turn to Clarence, who stands shaking, horrified.

After a quiet moment, Baron gets up, shoos Maurice out, and picks up the book. When he opens it to the latest page, there is not one name, but two.

“Eric…and June,” he says, closing his eyes.

Clarence looks fearfully at Eric, whose face is going from red, to white, to red again.

Clarence turns and dashes back to his tent, the world collapsing around him. In a mad hurry, he stuffs his things into an ancient green duffel bag and tries to zip it closed. He kneels on it, struggling.

When he stands, a moving shadow catches his eye, and he pivots just in time to see a two-by-four flying toward his face.

~

Clarence wakes to a splitting headache and the sound of rushing water. Painfully, he works his eyes open and tries to get his bearing. His vision is blurry at first, and the light sends veins of pain through his skull. He moans, and vomits. “Baron.” he says. “Baron!” He tries to sit up but there is a terrible aching in his elbows. Blinking his tears away, he looks down and finds that his hands are tied behind his back. He is leaned up against the metal barrel; it has been filled with broken cinder blocks.

He looks around. Surrounding him are the vestiges of a vagabond troupe that has picked up and left. Where tents and blanket forts once stood is now a lonely lot of concrete. A handful of milk crates lay scattered about, strewn amongst crumpled up newspapers and trash.

A noise from behind Clarence makes him jump. “Baron?” He says. For a moment, his heart drops further, but the sound of Baron’s heavy footfalls is unmistakable to him.

Baron ambles into view and crouches beside Clarence, sadness in his eyes.

“Baron! Oh thank God. Untie me.” Clarence says, but Baron doesn’t move. His face only grows more somber. After a moment, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the little black book, and sets it gently on Clarence’s chest. He taps it with his finger, as if telling it to ‘stay.’

Clarence’s eyes widen in confused horror.

Baron stands and sighs. “I wasn’t happy about it going this way Clarence, but Eric is right. You don’t seem to love anyone, so the book should be safe in your hands.”

Clarence mouths words but no sound comes out. Baron hoists his backpack higher onto his shoulders. “Goodbye, Clarence,” he says, and climbs up the slanted embankment, disappearing into the street above.

In the silence Baron leaves behind, Clarence looks at the leather-bound notebook on his chest and quietly cries until the night comes.

Eric was wrong.

The entire next day, Clarence struggles to get free. He screams, but the overhead whir of traffic drowns him out. For hours, his shouts vanish like smoke into the fray of the city’s noise. When the first day comes to an end, he can barely croak and his wrists are red and raw.

On the second day, hunger ravages his body and the delirium kicks in. That night, he goes in and out of consciousness, and by the time the third day dawns, he isn’t sure at all that it’s even the third day, and his efforts to escape go into hyperdrive. It could be the fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh day; he has no way of knowing, so frail is his state of mind. So, with every bit of waning strength he has, he wrenches this way and that, pulling at the plastic cords that bind him.

Suddenly, like a miracle, they snap apart, and Clarence rolls over, his hands free.

At first, his joints are too stiff to stand, but an unseen force compels him. He pushes against the ground and sits up, panting. His shoulders, which have been pinned back, are screaming with pain, and his wrists are a mangled mess.

Slowly he collects himself and picks up the book.

For a second, he makes to open it, but he claps the covers shut and sticks it in his pocket, eyes clenched. He does not want to see it; he simply needs to get rid of it.

Clarence picks up his army green duffel bag and looks it over; it doesn’t appear to have been opened.

Thank God, he thinks, and like a drunkard, he clambers up the side of the concrete embankment and stumbles onto the sidewalk. He shivers in the crisp morning air, scanning the street.

The closest person to him is only a half a block away; a short, portly man with a Pomeranian on a leash.