Robert Steven Williams

I've spent the last few years working on this story. Although it's fiction, my marriage did bust up in spectacular fashion.

Friends wonder how much of "Clown" is true. Given the fray over the Frey memior, let me say:

I never let the facts get in the way of a good story, but I do stay honest with the emotional truths of my experience.

I'm fortunate to have Joy Johannessen assisting with this book. She's an amazing editor and teaches at the Squaw Valley Writers' Conference. She also helped Alice Sebold with her first book The Lovely Bones.

Here's the most recent first chapter as well as an earlier draft that ended up on the cutting floor. Think of the latter as a deleted scene in the special features section of a DVD:

The latest opening

I dash out the front door, tossing the dozen supermarket roses on the back seat. I gun the Toyota. Claudia's flight is due in an hour and I’m ninety minutes away, but I still stop at the exit 12 rest area for a double espresso. I down it like a whiskey shot and hop back on the highway. Midday traffic is light, and I push the car to its eighty-five mph limit, backing off only when the front-end rattles and the steering wheel shakes.

The espresso sharpens the blur. Hyper-alert, I scan the side and rearview mirrors, weaving through traffic as if I’m the only car moving. The A/C is busted and the windows are down. Humid air swirls around, helping me to pretend it feels cooler. I crank up the radio to cut the wind’s roar, tuning into Mike and the Mad Dog, who debate the opening day losses of both the Giants and Jets. Whatever. It makes no difference to me, a die-hard Philly fan. The Eagles play later tonight, and I’ll be in front of the TV at game time.

The George Washington Bridge is clear, as is the Turnpike. I zoom past the Meadowlands, home to the Giants and Jets, and a strip of wetland that somehow survives amongst the oil refineries. Twenty minutes later, I’m running through the international-arrivals lounge. The Copenhagen flight landed forty-five minutes ago. I wander through the line of limo drivers holding signs with passenger names. I sidestep immigrant families waiting for loved ones. I dodge janitorial crews.

No Claudia.

She’s returning from another twelve-week archeological dig, this one in Denmark. The separation is never easy, and Claudia’s first week back is always awkward. Like quarterbacks and receivers at an off-season mini-camp, we need time to rediscover our rhythm. My brother says most men would kill to get a three-month vacation from their wives. At forty-nine and still single, Jimmy’s hardly an expert.

But friends do ask how I get by without her. Some wonder if I just shut down. Do they really want to hear that I beat off to Cheerleader Sex Addicts III? Still, there’s nothing like the real thing, and in our early days, it was difficult to keep Claudia and me apart. But when we get home from the airport, she’ll shower, eat, and be off to bed, zonked from the flight. I miss that couple who had once pushed the limits on the suspension of my old Volkswagen bug; at least I’ve got the Eagle’s game tonight.

Back at the arrivals lounge, passengers leak out of customs in a slow ooze. The occasional cluster of dark-haired Spanish-speaking people drip out, followed by a ragtag collection of Eastern Europeans carrying suitcases wrapped with duct tape. In the waiting area, kids circle and make loud obnoxious noises; families chat as if they’re at a backyard barbecue. Finally, fair-skinned Nordic types parade down the ramp, neatly dressed in casual wear. Even the children look like they've stepped out of a Nordstrom’s catalog.

I met Claudia backpacking Europe in 1982. She’d just turned twenty. Her British accent floored me. Most guys returned with photographs and souvenirs, a beer stein or an ashtray. Not me. I was the luckiest man alive coming home with Claudia. The day we met she was wearing a tie-dyed dress and Birkenstock sandals; now a Barbour jacket is draped across the handle of her luggage cart, blue eyes peer through Gucci frames, her long chestnut hair is tied back in a ponytail. I love to watch her from afar in public, as if I were a stranger noticing her for the very first time. It’s like falling in love again. At forty-one she still turns heads, and even after a nine-hour flight, eyes follow her through arrivals.

Claudia takes the left ramp, forcing me to bob and weave through the crowd. "Hey," I say, touching her lightly on the shoulder. Taller by four inches, I bend to kiss her, but she twists away.

"I thought you still had that cold,” Claudia says. “I can't afford to catch anything." Admittedly, she’s a germ freak, but this is beyond even her obsessive self.

I take over her cart, squeezing the handle bar until my knuckles turn ghost white.

Derailed in less than sixty seconds, a new record.


Claudia is cranky, the PMS sort of stuff. It’s best to lie low. At the car I load the suitcase without a word, like a limo driver.

"Can you turn on the air?" she says, fastening her seatbelt. "It's hot."

"Still broken."

She pushes the window button and it slides open. She takes a map from the glove compartment and fans herself. I point to the roses in the back seat next to my gym bag. "Those are for you."

She waves a hand in front of her uptight English nose. "How long have those dirty clothes been in there?"

"A few days."

We weave through the maze of airport ramps. I E-Z pass the turnpike entrance. The traffic north is thick, greasy. We chug past oil refineries and the odor envelops the car. "Ugh," she says as if I just farted. She rolls up the window. "Look at the sky, it's a yellow haze."

I inch the Toyota forward and reach for Claudia's hand to make peace. "We're always a bit on edge when you come back," I say. "Was it a rough flight?"

"Actually, it was. I didn't get much rest because -- look, there's no easy way to say this: I met someone on the dig. I have a job in Wisconsin. I'm leaving Thursday.”

The hero of Clown submitted a piece to this web site and they published it...

Deleted Draft -- Chapter One – My Year as a Clown

We inch forward, and I reach for Claudia's hand to make peace. This time I wanted us to get off on the right foot, but she acts as if I'm not here. Her arms are wrapped around her chest.

"We're always a bit on edge when you come back," I say, paying the bridge toll. "Was it a rough flight?"

"Actually, it was. I didn't get much rest, because, well -- look, there's no easy way to say this. I have a job in Wisconsin. I'm leaving next week. I want a divorce."



I dash out the front door, tossing the dozen supermarket roses on the back seat. I gun the car. Claudia's flight is due in an hour and I’m ninety minutes away, but I still stop by the exit 12 rest area for a double espresso. I down it like a whiskey shot and hop back on the highway. The midday traffic is light, and I push the Toyota to its eighty-five mph limit, backing off when the front-end rattles like a space shuttle on reentry.

The espresso sharpens the blur. Hyper-alert, I scan side and rear-view mirrors, weaving through traffic like an Olympic skier. The windows are down because the A/C is busted. Humid air swirls, and I crank the radio to cut the wind’s roar. Mike and the Mad Dog, the sports talk duo, debate the opening day losses by both the Giants and Jets. I’m a die-hard Philadelphia Eagles fan. They play tonight, and I’ll be in front of the TV by game time even though I haven’t seen my wife in three months. Trust me, she’ll be zonked out from the nine-hour flight, still on European time.

The GW Bridge is clear, as are the roads on the Jersey side of the Hudson, but the turnpike sky is a refinery haze and smells like a swampy sewer.

Despite the light traffic I’m late. I glance at the dashboard clock hoping to slow time, but all I can do is pray that the new homeland security procedures will add a half-hour or so to Claudia’s journey through customs.

Twenty minutes later I’m running into the international-arrivals lounge. There’s no sign of my wife even though the video screen indicates the Copenhagen flight landed forty-five minutes ago. I wander through the line of limo drivers holding signs with names like James T. Buckminster, Waddel Filmore, Thomas Johnson. I sidestep immigrant families waiting for loved ones. I dodge janitorial crews.

Claudia must be hung up in customs. She’s an archeologist and she’s returning from a twelve-week dig in Denmark. She makes annual trips, so I'm used to this Jersey jaunt. Each time I cut it close and swear that next time I'll leave earlier, and next time I really will.

Three months apart might seem like an eternity, but for me and Claudia, it’s the normal ebb and flow of our relationship. My brother says, “Most men would kill to get a three-month vacation from their wives.” Jimmy's hardly an expert – he’s forty-nine and has never been married.

Before I got laid off I’d break up Claudia’s digs with a visit – we’d rent a car and gallivant for a week in the surrounding area. We’d done Turkey, Iceland, and France during the Internet boom. But things changed once the bubble burst. We’d been living off investments while she completed her PhD and I worked on a novel. Here it is, September 2003, and neither one of us is done.

With no money coming in we’d cut out my overseas trip, but when the stock market perked up this June, I bought a ticket to Copenhagen. When I called Claudia with the surprise, she hit the roof of that 16th-century barn she was camped out in. "I can't just break away," she said. "I'm one of the people in charge now. It's not like it used to be."

"Excuse me for thinking it would be nice to see my wife."

She sighed. "I'll be home soon enough."

That was two months ago, and she was right, the time apart did go fast. Now she’s down that carpeted corridor, behind those gray metal security doors.

The first week my wife returns is always awkward. We’re like newlyweds after the honeymoon. We have to sort out schedules, divvy up household chores, buy food. We’ll trip over each other in the bathroom and argue about chicken or fish for dinner, but these spats only last a few days. It’s like relearning a dance, and soon enough we’ll stop stepping on each other’s toes.

Friends ask how I get by without Claudia. Some wonder if I turn off my sexual drive the way you shut off the outside spigot in winter. Do they really want to hear that I beat off to Tokyo Rose doing the Dallas Cheerleaders? Maybe they want to borrow the DVD because they don't have the guts to walk into the local porn shop. Still, there's nothing like the real thing, and during the early days of our marriage, it was difficult to keep Claudia and me apart. Today despite our three-month separation, we’ll go home and she'll take a shower, eat something, and be off to bed. I do miss the couple that once pushed the limits on the suspension of my old Volkswagen bug.

According to the arrivals video screen, an Air India flight landed before Claudia's, and groups of Indians are now coming through the customs promenade. Some of the men wear turbans, many of the women are wrapped in flowered silk saris. None are SAS Copenhagen types.

I hit the bathroom to freshen up. I stand in front of one of the metal sinks to tame the strands of hair still left on my head. My eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep because I've been up most of the night cleaning. It's not that I'm messy, actually Claudia's the sloppy one, but this time I did let things go while she was away. I splash water on my face and feel the stubble – oops, Claudia doesn’t like it when I don’t shave.

I look around the airport bathroom for the roses and realize they're still in the car. Shit.

Back at the arrivals lounge, passengers ooze from customs like a slow leak. In the waiting area kids circle and make loud obnoxious noises, couples lean on one another, extended families chat as if they're at a backyard barbecue. The occasional cluster of dark-haired Spanish-speaking people drips out, followed by a ragtag collection of Eastern Europeans carrying suitcases wrapped with duct tape. Brits looking as if they've eaten one too many fried breakfasts, many in Marks and Spencer track suits, walk down the promenade.

Did I mention that Claudia’s British? Born and raised in London. We met over twenty years ago on the ferry from Dover to Calais and I fell the instant I saw her. That's no exaggeration. I have proof: only hours after we met I wrote in my journal that this was the woman I was going to marry.

The customs area fills with more Indians and Eastern Europeans. A group of Chinese led by a man wearing a white cap and carrying a green flag forms a line by the rest rooms. Families laugh, cry, hug, and kiss.

Finally some fair-skinned Nordic types start parading down the ramp, neatly dressed in casual wear. Even the children look like they've stepped out of a Nordstrom’s catalogue. About twenty minutes later Claudia appears, pushing a luggage cart. The day we met she wore a tie-dyed hippie dress and Birkenstock sandals; now a Barbour jacket is draped across the handle of the luggage cart and she peers through Gucci frames.

I enjoy watching her from afar in public places as if I'm a stranger noticing her for the first time. It's like falling in love again. At forty-one she still turns heads, and even after a nine-hour flight several pairs of eyes follow her as she walks through arrivals.

She doesn't see me and takes the left ramp, forcing me to bob and weave through the crowd. "Hey," I say, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

"Oh, there you are."

I'm taller by four inches and I bend to kiss her, but she twists away. "What?" I say.

"I thought you still had that cold. I can't afford to catch anything." The can’t is the British pronunciation caun’t. Admittedly, Claudia is a germ freak, but this is ridiculous. We once backpacked in Japan and saw people wearing diaper-like masks across their mouths to prevent contagion. "Very civilized," Claudia commented. She bought a family pack in the Seibu department store. She's hasn't worn one in years, and I conveniently lost mine. This slight must have more to do with the argument over the plane ticket than with germs.

I head toward the exit, and she follows a step behind, as if I'm towing her. "How was the flight?" I ask.

"All right, I slept for most of it. How are the cats?" The steam in her tone cools.

"They're fine."

At the escalator she pulls her daypack off the cart's upper basket. I grab the suitcase. "Hang on," I say, "you've got the wrong one."

"Don't worry, that didn't cost you a thing. Mum bought it when I was in London." The voice is arrogant, presumptuous, the BBC accent even more exaggerated.

I thought she’d grabbed the wrong bag. It’s easy to do since they all look like that special in the Sunday ads from Luggage Emporium. "How was I supposed to know?" I say on the down escalator. "I didn't recognize that suitcase. I wasn't thinking about the money."

"It doesn't matter."

Claudia is cranky, the PMS sort of stuff. It's best to keep quiet, and at the car I load the suitcase into the trunk as if I'm the limo driver.

"Can you turn on the air?" she says once her seatbelt is fastened. "It's so hot."

"Still broken."

"Ugh." She pushes the window button and it slides open. She takes a map from the glove compartment and fans herself.

I bet she's thinking, if there was money for that plane ticket, you could have at least fixed the damn air conditioner. She keeps fanning, and I point to the roses in the back seat next to my gym bag. "Those are for you."

She waves a hand in front of her Church of England nose. "How long have those dirty clothes been in here?"

"A few days."

"Whew."

We weave through the maze of airport ramps, and she's puffing her cheeks and curling her lower lip.

"It hasn't been too bad this summer," I say, lying. "I hardly had the air on in the house."

"This weather is awful," she says. "In Denmark it was delightful."

The traffic on the turnpike is thick and slow. As we chug past those oil refineries, the vapors roll into the car like fog.

"That smell is worse than your gym bag," she says, closing the window. "Look at the air, it's an oily haze."

I hate this part of Jersey too, but whenever Claudia returns from Europe she goes on about how great things are over there and I feel compelled to defend my country, even the horrible bits.

"We need fuel to drive, and you wouldn't have gotten to Denmark without it."

"I'd have been happy taking a boat."

I laugh. "That time we went whale watching you puked your guts."

"Big boats are different."

"You were sick on that Caribbean cruise too."

"It was a bloody hurricane, I wasn't the only one."

"Tropical storm."



The steering wheel slips from my hand and the Toyota veers left. I recover in time to get back into my lane, but my hands are shaking. "This is a joke, right?"

"No."

"What are you saying? Can't we talk about this?"

"My mind is made up."

"Is there somebody else?"

"Actually, there is."

I have no idea how I manage to keep driving, but I do, because the toll booth is a speck in my rearview mirror. I'm short of breath, as if there's no oxygen, my palms are sweaty, and there’s a thump in my ear, like hammering on concrete. My mind is an angry mob shouting: This can't be happening. How could she? Fucking bitch. Who is this guy? How could you not see this coming? You’re an idiot. Admit it, you still love her -- dipshit.

The traffic now moves in cinematic slow-motion. Claudia puffs her cheeks like a blowfish in a nature program. She fans herself with that map and I'm crying like I haven't cried since my father died four years ago.

"It's for the best," she says, the edge in her voice gone.

"I can't believe this," I say, and I truly can’t.

Beyond the cables of the GW Bridge, a Circle Line ferry is floating up the Hudson. The horn blasts, and it's the same sound I'd heard on the Dover docks twenty-one years ago. I was just out of college, a kid. I'd come to Europe for an adventure. Most guys return with a bunch of photographs and some souvenirs, a beer stein or an ashtray. Not me. I thought I was the luckiest man alive coming home with Claudia, and for a while I was.

The hero of Clown, Chuck Morgan, makes a guest appearance on Jeep Rosenberg's new CD -- Silver Bluff Estates. Chuck plays keyboards on the song -- Afterglow. The CD will be released in July 07.

Chuck Morgan, the protagonist, loves Philly sports too. In his honor, I started the blog, the Connecticut Philadelphian. Click on the image of Donovan McNabb to learn more.