The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  “I know,” James said.

  They trudged through the snow to a café just up the road for a late breakfast, and then James bought a shovel at the hardware store, and drove the three of them back into town. James dug out Kate’s car while Kate and Tracy talked over coffee at the sandwich counter in the market where they’d met the day before.

  When James finally joined them, he was wet and shivering, and he stood near the radiator to warm himself before he sat on a stool next to Tracy. He turned his back to the counter and looked around the store, noticing how little had changed since they’d visited years earlier on their journeys to and from college. There were the same rows of shelves to the right of the door, the same ceiling fans hanging from exposed rafters, and across the large front window, the name ‘Freeport Market’ was displayed in the same large black and silver letters. Sitting there again with Tracy, it felt as if the last fifteen years had been wiped away.

  “Do you remember when we used to come in here?” he finally asked.

  Tracy nodded. She’d been watching him scanning the room, and she already knew what he was thinking.

  “We used to sit right here on these same stools and eat apple pie and talk about what we wanted to do with our lives,” he said still looking about the room. “I guess our lives just never play out the way we imagine they will when we’re twenty years old.”

  Tracy laughed. “But the pie was good.”

  When the time finally came for them to say goodbye, even James felt his eyes mist, and he reached out and took Tracy in his arms. He held her so firmly that she could still feel his embrace hours later as they drove back home.

  9

  The Christmas Gift

  What James wanted most following his trip to Freeport was to get back to normal.

  As usual, he spent Friday evening with Peter at The Spinnaker Pub, but they spent less of their time discussing plans and blueprints and more of it drinking beer, throwing darts and discussing the many characters that remained in Bar Harbor for the winter.

  The owner of The Spinnaker Pub was Denny Kirkland. He stood at least three inches taller than Peter, with a barrel chest— and a beer gut to match— and arms as big as trees. He was, as far as James could tell, the only man on Mount Desert Island who was larger than Peter Langston, and whenever James was in their company, he felt as small as a child. They were both perpetually jovial and friendly, particularly when they were swapping stories about their youth, although they rarely agreed on a single version of any story.

  The story upon which they disagreed most passionately had to do with a cheerleader named Wendy Ross, and which of them had slept with her after the final game of their senior year. They each claimed to have bedded her at a party that night, and as with every other story they told, each was equally convinced that his version of the story was the truth. They argued about it again that Friday night, so passionately that James couldn’t resist asking Peter about the story once Denny had stormed away in frustration.

  Peter chuckled. “Don’t believe everything you hear, my friend,” he said.

  “So, it’s not true?” James asked. He sounded disappointed that such a long-standing dispute was just a fabrication.

  “Well,” Peter said. “It’s half true.”

  “Which half?” James asked.

  Peter thought for a moment, as if he was deciding if he should tell James the truth. “His half,” Peter confessed, smiling broadly. “Denny’s the one who slept with Wendy Ross. I never did.”

  James appeared confused by the admission. “You never slept with her?”

  “Never had the pleasure,” he said. He took a sip of his beer, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  “Then why do you keep arguing with Denny about it if you know it’s not true?”

  Peter shrugged. “It’s a matter of pride now,” he said casually. “That and because it makes him crazy, and I have to admit I get some pleasure from that.”

  “So, then he knows you’re lying?” James asked.

  “Of course,” Peter offered. “But do you want to know why it really gets to him?”

  James nodded.

  Peter surveyed the room and then leaned across the table. “Because he married her,” Peter whispered. He laughed when he saw James stunned expression. “That’s right,” he said. “Wendy Ross, that cute little cheerleader, is now Wendy Kirkland, Denny’s wife and mother of his three children, and it makes him insane when I tell him that I slept with her in high school.”

  “Even though he knows you’re lying?”

  “Especially because he knows I’m lying,” Peter said.

  Peter thought about it for a moment, and then he howled so loudly that everyone in the bar turned and looked at him. Peter was prone to loudly expressing his emotions— it came with the size, James assumed— and he rarely worried about who might hear his outbursts. He knew nearly everyone on Mount Desert Island, and he certainly knew everyone who came to The Spinnaker Pub on any given Friday night. But in a moment, he was silenced by a large mitt of a hand that clamped down on his shoulder.

  “Am I gonna have to throw you out of here, Langston?” Denny asked Peter. He winked at James.

  “You can try,” Peter said. “But I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” He patted Denny on his round stomach. “You’re not as young as you used to be.”

  Denny wrapped his big arm around Peter’s neck and held him in a friendly head lock. “I can still whip your butt, Small Fry.”

  James always enjoyed listening to these two old friends reliving their favorite memories or just bantering back and forth. It was the history that James missed, the idea of having a longtime friend with whom he could reminisce. The only people with whom he had such a history were Tracy and Kate, and they seemed a million miles away. He envied Peter and Denny for their friendship, and for that reason as much as any other, he enjoyed being in their company.

  On Sunday morning, James arrived at Ruth Kennedy’s door for their weekly visit. He missed her fresh blueberry muffins the previous week, although she'd brought some to him when he returned on Sunday evening. What he really missed was the easy conversation they shared in her kitchen each Sunday morning.

  When he walked into her house, he noticed the boxes piled at the far end of the living room where Ruth had placed them the week before. Ruth kept such a tidy home that he felt compelled to ask about them.

  “Those are the Christmas decorations,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I brought them down from the attic last weekend, but I just didn’t have the energy to do anything with them.” She gazed sadly at the boxes. “That was something Henry and I always did together. I just couldn’t bear the thought of doing it alone this year.”

  Ruth rarely wept in front of James when she talked about her late husband. That usually happened during those solitary moments when the house was quiet and she could feel his absence just as vividly as she’d once felt his presence. The sadness tended to sneak up on her at odd moments when she was unprepared for it, sometimes when she hadn’t even been thinking about him, and she would just sit herself down and have a good cry.

  James had seen her eyes well up on more than one occasion, but he’d never seen her sadness linger as it did that morning when she contemplated her first Christmas without Henry. Because Henry was already gone before James arrived, he sometimes forgot how fresh the wound was for Ruth.

  They were sitting in the kitchen a short time later, each of them tactfully evading the subject of Henry, and the even more shared issue of being alone for Christmas. Ruth would spend the holiday with her daughter in Massachusetts, but it was those weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, usually such a joyful time, that were suddenly less joyous when there was no one with whom to share them. Even something as simple as putting out Christmas decorations became a sad reminder that this year was different from all the others.

  James noticed that Ruth was quieter than usual on this particu
lar Sunday morning. He tried to be cheerful for her benefit, but he couldn’t help but be aware of the long, introspective gaps in their conversation.

  “Do you mind if I ask a favor?” James asked, breaking the silence. “You can say no if you want to, but I was wondering if there’s any chance you might let me help you decorate the house?” he said. “I know it was something you and Henry always did together, but it seems a shame to have all those decorations and leave them sitting in boxes.”

  “Thank you, James,” Ruth said, touching his hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. “But I’m sure you have more important things to do today.”

  “Not a single thing I can think of,” James said. “Besides, I always liked putting up decorations for Christmas, and I don’t really have anything of my own to put out this year.” He offered Ruth a kind smile. “So, you see, you’d really be doing me a favor.”

  Ruth’s face brightened as she stood up from the table and walked to the stove, placing her hand on James’s shoulder as she passed. “You really are a good boy, James,” she said. Once she’d stepped out of James’s view, she discreetly dabbed at her teary eyes with her napkin.

  They spent the remainder of the morning and much of the afternoon carefully unpacking the boxes and placing the decorations around the house. Most of them were quite old, some of them older than her children, and several of them were nicked or scratched, having survived so many Christmases. Every ornament had a specific place that only Ruth knew, and in many cases, James simply removed each from its box and held it up for Ruth to see so she could direct him to its precise location. Other times, he handed them to Ruth and watched her face as she recounted some tale from years past that a glass ornament or a ceramic angel brought suddenly to mind. She even managed to smile as she shared stories of Henry or the children from years earlier.

  He was reminded of his own childhood and the many Christmases they'd spent decorating the house and the Christmas tree. Even memories of his earliest Christmases came rushing back to him— those years when his mother was still healthy and still very much a part of their lives. Some of them were images or moments that he hadn’t thought about for years, the memories like decorations packed away. Listening to Ruth brought them all back, and as he sat on the floor envisioning those happy times with his mother more vividly than he had in many years, he realized that Ruth had done him a favor after all.

  Just as it had become a weekly tradition to spend Friday evenings with Peter at The Spinnaker Pub, it soon became a Sunday ritual to have supper with Jean Berkhardt. She was an extraordinary cook, but with Christina away at school, she decided it simply wasn’t worth the bother to cook only for herself. So she was genuinely pleased to have the opportunity to cook for James.

  It was already dark when he arrived at Jean’s house for an early supper. As he made his way up the brick walk in front of Jean’s house, clutching a bottle of wine, he had a noticeable bounce in his step and a broad smile fixed upon his face as he reflected on his afternoon with Ruth Kennedy. He knocked on the door, and when it opened, he was surprised to see Christina standing before him. Jean hadn’t mentioned that she was home from school.

  “Hi, James,” she said cheerfully. “Come on in.”

  “I didn’t know you were home,” James said as he stepped inside.

  “Just a quick visit,” she told him. “I’ll be heading back to school right after supper.”

  He was glad for her company; he knew Jean was always especially cheerful when Christina was home. He handed her the bottle of wine and began removing his coat.

  Christina held up the bottle and smiled. “Wine, James?” she teased.

  He knew instantly that she was referring to his first dinner at the Berkhardt home when he drank too much and passed out on their living room floor. He smiled at the remark.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Maybe you should just hang onto that.”

  She gave him a quick wink as she turned and led him inside.

  During their dinner, Jean was so pleased that Christina was able to join them that she was constantly smiling at her daughter and patting her hand and telling her how wonderful she looked, as if she hadn’t seen her only a week earlier when she came home for Thanksgiving. At first, Christina appeared to enjoy her mother’s attention, but before long, James noticed that she appeared embarrassed by her mother’s adulation. Whenever Jean praised her, Christina would glance quickly at James, and realizing that he was watching, she would blush, smile prettily, and scold her mother.

  On those occasions that Christina noticed him observing her, she found James smiling as if he was amused by something she’d done. Jean was unaware of the glances that passed between them and realizing this, Christina smiled impishly at James, as if the two of them shared yet another secret.

  When Jean went into the kitchen to prepare dessert, Christina leaned across the table. She reached out her hand so that their fingers almost touched.

  “I was wondering if I could ask you for a big favor,” she said.

  James glanced quickly at her delicate hand resting on the table so close to his own. “Okay,” he said cautiously.

  “I haven’t found anything for my mother for Christmas,” she said quietly, watching the door to the kitchen for her mother’s return. “I was wondering if you’d help me pick something out. You’ve spent more time with her lately than I have. Maybe you could help me find something.”

  James agreed, delighted with the prospect of spending time with Christina. She would be returning from school on the Friday evening before Christmas after she finished with finals and would be home through the holidays. They decided to plan their excursion for that Saturday while Jean was at the gallery.

  Three weeks later, James arrived at Jean’s house just after noon to find Christina waiting for him. She wasn’t sitting on the porch this time— it was far too cold even for her that afternoon— but she must have been watching for him through the window, because she came bounding through the front door and down the walk as soon as he pulled up in front of the house. He was pleased that she seemed so eager to see him. As she climbed into the passenger's seat, James could smell her perfume mingling with the crisp December air.

  They decided to drive to Ellsworth, where the shops along Main Street were less geared for the tourists than those on Mount Desert Island. They stopped into several without success, and Christina grew frustrated.

  “I’m out of ideas,” she complained. “What should I do?”

  They were standing on the sidewalk in the shadow of The Grand Theater when James noticed the photography studio across the street. In the window, James could see family portraits displayed in ornate wood frames, and he smiled at Christina and led her across the street. Standing in front of the studio, he pointed at the framed portraits in the window. “There,” he said.

  Christina glanced at the portraits and back at James, a bewildered expression on her face.

  “Give her a mother-daughter portrait,” James suggested. “She’ll love it.”

  Christina considered the idea and again turned her attention to the photographs in the window. James could see her reflection in the glass, more beautiful than all of the attractive portraits that stared back at them, and he leaned close to her.

  “Trust me,” he said softly. “It’s perfect.”

  The Berkhardt home was filled with pictures of Christina, most of them when she was younger. There were the school pictures and her high school graduation portrait and various candid photographs scattered about the house, but he’d never seen a professional portrait of Jean and Christina together. He was certain there was nothing Jean would like more than a nice portrait of the two of them that she could display proudly in her living room.

  “But I want to surprise her with something on Christmas,” Christina argued.

  James opened the door and guided her into the front office of the studio where they were greeted by Del Miller, a thin man in his early fi
fties with a thick head of graying hair in need of a trim. He smiled at James and Christina as they approached him, and he tapped the tip of a cigarette into an ashtray. As they spoke to him, James noticed that Del always appeared to be addressing him, without ever taking his eyes off Christina, as if he were measuring her every feature, photographing her first in his mind.

  Del Miller convinced Christina that the idea of a mother-daughter portrait was an ideal Christmas gift, and they scheduled a sitting for the week after Christmas before she returned to school. He quickly resolved Christina’s dilemma about having something to put under the tree by persuading her to sit for a few portraits, which he would include at no charge, and she could select one to put in a small frame. James suspected he made the offer in part to help her with her problem, but mainly to satisfy his eagerness to photograph her. After only a brief hesitation, Christina agreed.

  As Del Miller escorted Christina into the studio, she reached out and took James firmly by the hand, pulling him along.

  “You got me into this,” she said. “You’re coming with me.”

  Christina paused for a moment to check her makeup and to run a brush through her hair, but she did little else to prepare herself for her session before Del Miller’s camera. James was intrigued by her lack of vanity, a trait she shared with her mother. He’d expected her to complain about her hair or her makeup or her outfit, but she clicked her compact shut and tucked it back into her purse, and James wondered if, like him, she realized that there was simply no improving upon that remarkable face.

  James stood behind the camera and off to one side, trying to stay out of the way as Del positioned Christina on a stool in front of a dark background. On either side of the camera, he clicked on two large lights in softboxes which cast a diffused glow upon her face. He adjusted one very slightly, and then he approached her again. He switched on a key light above her head that shined brightly down upon her hair and another on the floor behind her that illuminated the backdrop. Del took great care in the way he positioned her shoulders and tilted her chin, and only when he was satisfied did he finally step behind the camera. As Del photographed her, James watched the subtle changes in her expression. There were moments when he could clearly recognize Jean’s features in her lovely face, and others when he could only see the sweet smile of a young girl. Every expression delighted him, and he watched her with a broad smile as Del fired his strobes.