The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  Those who knew Claire Trumbull understood that it wasn’t entirely out of a lack of vanity that she chose to let her hair go gray. The truth was that she’d simply waited too long to change it now without everyone in town taking notice. She imagined the locals whispering about it behind her back, commenting to each other about her vanity and snickering at her futile attempt to appear younger than she was. The idea of becoming the subject of such gossip filled her with such anxiety that she chose instead to allow nature to simply have its way with her.

  Claire was as aware as anyone of the local gadflies who passed such gossip in the shops and restaurants of Bar Harbor, particularly in winter when there was little else to do. She knew because her own gossiping prowess had become legendary. To anyone who took offense, she was quick to point out that she’d never started these rumors herself, something of which she seemed quite proud. But while it was true that no reckless rumor ever started with Claire Trumbull, it was equally true that none ever stopped with her either.

  As Jean introduced James, Claire smiled and took his hand in both of hers.

  “Jean’s told me all about you,” Claire said. She squeezed James’s hand, and winked at him, not in a flirtatious way, but rather as if they shared a secret, or at least a common interest. “It’s so good to see her happy again.”

  “I doubt that I can take any credit for that,” James said, glancing at Jean. “She was a happy person when I met her.”

  Claire smiled and patted his hand, and then finally released it. “So you work with Peter Langston?” she said.

  “Since September,” James acknowledged.

  “And you’re living in Ruth Kennedy’s place?” she asked, again already knowing the answer.

  James looked again at Jean, assuming she’d been providing Claire Trumbull with her information. “I’m renting an apartment on the second floor.”

  “She’s such a sweet woman,” Claire said. “You tell her I said hello.”

  “I sure will,” James said.

  “And how’s the puppy?” she asked.

  James laughed. “You really are plugged in, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I just like to stay on top of things,” Claire told him.

  “Nothing gets by Claire,” Jean added. “If you want to know anything about anyone, she’s the one to talk to.”

  Claire pretended to take exception to the remark and she frowned at Jean. “You make me sound like a busybody.” She turned to James and winked at him again. “But she’s right, you know. If you want to know anything at all, I’m your girl.”

  James made a mental note to be cautious around Claire Trumbull.

  The Criterion Theater on Cottage Street dated back to the 1930s, and was meticulously maintained in its original art deco style. James passed it almost every day, but had never ventured inside. He often walked beneath its marquee, which extended out over the sidewalk, sometimes stopping to peer through the big double doors into the lobby. He was looking forward to finally seeing it.

  They bought their tickets at the ticket window on the sidewalk, and strolled inside. As they walked slowly down the sloped hallway that led to the lobby, Jean noticed James admiring even the simplest details. She remembered feeling the same way the first time she'd gone to The Criterion with Richard shortly after they first moved to Bar Harbor. She was so enamored with the old theater that she remembered thinking that she would have gladly paid the price of admission just sit in the balcony and admire it in silence for a few hours. Richard liked the old theater, but he never appreciated the romance of the place the way she did.

  Directly across from the entrance to the lobby was a small concession stand, flanked on either side by two doorways to the main theater. The carpeting in the lobby was a dark burgundy, almost brown, and the walls were decorated with black-and-white framed movie stills dating back to the 1930s. To the right and left of the entrance were turned staircases that led to the balcony.

  James had purchased loge seats, and after they paid for their popcorn and cold drinks, they climbed the staircase that led up to a dimly lit hallway with a series of doorways along one side, each veiled with heavy velvet curtains. Jean led them to the third door, and when they pushed the curtain aside and walked through the doorway, they found themselves in the balcony high above the main auditorium. The balcony seating was divided into sections by several low walls that gave the effect of private boxes, each row consisting of three seats. As they chose seats at the front of their section and sat down they spoke in the same hushed voices usually reserved for churches. James was in awe of the rustic elegance of the main hall as it opened up to him, and Jean so enjoyed watching her companion experience the place for the first time that she didn’t want to spoil the moment by speaking.

  James leaned forward in his seat, resting his arms on the brass rail that ran along the low wall in front of them, and he looked out over the theater. A large white-paned chandelier hung from the ceiling in the center of the theater, casting a soft light over the seats below. The ceiling was painted with an intricate pattern of geometric shapes, interwoven and radiating out from the center. At the base of the screen, a brass rail surrounded what had once been an orchestra pit, and off to the side was an antique spinet piano, standing silent and still. It was as if he’d stepped back in time, and he felt a thrill surge through him as he waited for the lights to dim. In front of the screen, a heavy red curtain hung, reminding him of the theaters he’d known as a child.

  He remembered the flush of anticipation he always felt when the movie started, the soundtrack always garbled at first, and the curtains splashed with the first images of light as they drew back away from the screen. He found himself waiting for that moment with the same excitement he’d felt when he was a boy.

  He turned to Jean and smiled and then leaned back in his seat, their shoulders touching. “This place is amazing,” he told her. “I can’t believe I’ve never been in here before.”

  For the moment, they had the balcony to themselves, but they still spoke in hushed voices as others filtered into the main hall and settled in the seats below them.

  “I’ve always loved coming in here,” Jean said. “After Richard left, I used to come in here a lot, just to disappear for a while.” She nibbled on some popcorn and looked at the screen as if the movie was already playing, but it was her own life she was seeing. “It never even mattered if the movie was any good. It helped to just sit up here in the dark for a couple hours and forget everything else out there.”

  James understood exactly what she meant. After his mother’s death, he went to the movies almost every Saturday afternoon seeking just such an escape, hoping that the images that flickered on the screen, so much larger than life, would somehow make his own problems seem smaller. It worked some days, but only briefly; his sadness was always waiting for him when he emerged into the harsh light of the day. But for two hours every Saturday, he was able to lose himself in the darkness of the theater while someone else’s life played out before him.

  The movie James and Jean saw that night that was “Dances with Wolves.” In the film Kevin Costner plays Lieutenant John Dunbar, a Union officer in the Civil War who leaves his old life behind for a post on the western frontier. Dunbar befriends a Sioux tribe and, after becoming enamored with a fiercely independent Sioux woman, finds that life among them is more appealing and more fulfilling than the life he left behind.

  James was engrossed in the film, but the irony that that particular film marked his introduction to The Criterion wasn’t entirely lost on him. When the lights finally came up, he remained staring at the screen as Jean had done earlier, imagining his own less heroic journey playing out before him. Jean watched him for a moment and then nudged him gently with her elbow, and James turned to her and smiled.

  As they stepped out of the theater and onto the sidewalk, the cold winter air brought them quickly back to reality. They considered stopping into a pub for a cup of coffee, but it had been
a long movie and James needed to get home to relieve Ruth Kennedy who was caring for Max, so they settled for a leisurely walk back to James's Jeep.

  James offered his arm to Jean and she clung to it and pulled him close in much the same way that Christina had done on that Saturday in Ellsworth after leaving Del Miller’s studio. As cold as it was, James slowed his gait, hoping to enjoy their closeness for as long as possible. He felt a flash of disappointment as they arrived at his Jeep, but Jean, who was shivering, was relieved to get out of the wind, and she quickly released his arm, and climbed into the passenger's seat. It was another of those moments that could have easily led to something more intimate, were it not for the biting cold.

  In early March, James arrived home to find a card from Tracy in the mail, and he opened it as he mounted the long staircase to his apartment. Inside was a two-page letter. James read it twice as he prepared supper.

  She seemed happier now, although he imagined much of that was for his benefit. She always wrote cheerful letters, even when she was feeling low, and James believed that if she’d composed a letter to him on that day in November when she might have attempted suicide were it not for the stubborn cap on the bottle of sleeping pills, she somehow would have filled it with happy thoughts. This letter was no exception, and only as he read it the second time— and even then only out of years of receiving such letters— could he begin to see the truth.

  She was working again. Kate had helped her find a job with a mortgage company in Warwick, and Tracy seemed to be content with herself for once again earning a paycheck and paying her way, although she admitted that the work was tedious. It was a small confession, James decided, meant partly to convince him that she was being completely honest with him about everything else. She said nothing about her drinking, but James tried not to read too much into that. He knew from Kate’s last letter that Tracy had been upbeat and sober since their visit to Freeport on that snowy weekend in November.

  He leaned against the counter as he heated his soup, and he read for a third time the passage about Tracy’s conversation with Gloria. It made him anxious to think of the two of them speaking. He knew what a difficult secret he’d asked Tracy to keep, and he was profoundly aware of the consequences if the burden became too much for her. For that reason alone, he wished she wouldn’t communicate with Gloria at all for fear that Tracy might inadvertently let something slip.

  Tracy had run into Gloria, innocently enough, at the mall. James was reassured knowing that it was a chance meeting, and not one they’d planned. Gloria had been pleasant but distant.

  “I couldn’t help wondering,” Tracy wrote, “if she knew about me, or if maybe I just made her think about you. She’s still very sad, even though she pretends not to be.”

  James thought it ironic that she would notice such a thing in someone else, and he continued reading.

  “It was hard to see her like that, especially knowing what I know.”

  It was that comment— especially knowing what I know— that made him stop. He read it over several times, wondering if Gloria might have seen something in Tracy’s guilt-ridden expression, or if she might have caught some small slip of the tongue that would somehow lead her to him. He managed to convince himself that nothing like that had happened, but his old fears had returned. Whether or not they were justified, he couldn’t help but worry.

  After supper, he sat down at the kitchen table and quickly wrote Tracy a letter. It was a thoughtful letter, thanking her for her card and telling her how proud he was of her for putting her life back together. But it was the comment he added at the end, just beneath his signature, that he considered for some time before he folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope.

  “PS: I don‘t think you should be talking to Gloria. We have too many secrets.”

  11

  The Reunion

  The arrival of the first warm spring day brings with it a kind of bliss that’s unattainable except after enduring long months of the raw, bitter cold that comes with winter along the Maine coast. The scents and sounds of spring seem to hang on every breeze, beckoning to every winter-weary soul to step outside and breathe them in. The locals emerge from their homes as if from cocoons and blink up at the bright sky, savoring the warm sun upon their faces.

  The world, once again, seems filled with promise.

  James Perkins walked down Clark Point Road toward Main Street, Max bounding along at his side, tugging at the end of his leash, and sniffing at every rock, tree and leaf in his path. A stiff breeze swept steadily in off the water, chilling him whenever he walked through the shadows of the spruce and pine trees that lined the road on either side, but James wouldn’t allow it to detract from the euphoria he felt that day. The sun was bright and warm on his face as he looked up at the few wisps of clouds that drifted across the otherwise clear and pale blue sky.

  It wasn’t really the first warm day of the year. It had been unseasonably warm for a few days in March, but to no one’s surprise, it never took hold, and the cold grip of winter seemed to make one last lunging grasp before finally letting go. April brought its share of clear spring days, but with them came even more gray afternoons and long stretches of drizzle and rain. This perfect afternoon seemed to hold in it the first real promise of summer.

  As he walked, he acknowledged his neighbors with a wave and a smile as they labored over their lawns and knelt toiling in their gardens. Everyone, it seemed, was outside on that day, and for the first time James felt that he was truly a part of the community he’d grown to love. He was only now beginning to realize, as his neighbors came out into the open, how large that community really was, and how quick it was to embrace him now that he’d spent a winter in their midst.

  James and Max had become an inseparable pair on the weekends. During the week, while James was at work, the dog usually spent the day with Ruth, who enjoyed having the puppy to keep her company. As if Max sensed that Ruth was less active than James, he appeared content to sleep by the fireplace or at Ruth’s feet while she watched her soap operas. James sometimes felt guilty for imposing on Ruth, but she seemed genuinely disappointed when Max didn’t spend the day with her.

  On weekends, whenever he walked the dog through town, everyone he passed stopped to pat Max on the head, and Max delighted in the attention. The locals seemed particularly friendly on those occasions, and James wondered if the kindness he felt from them was directed toward him or the dog.

  Although Memorial Day weekend was generally considered the official start of the tourist season on Mount Desert Island, there were already a few tourists peering into the shops and restaurants at the center of town. Some of the shops were open for the season, and James waved at the shopkeepers as he passed their windows. Many of them knew him by name, and James was quick to introduce himself to anyone he hadn’t met. He’d long since abandoned his fear of being recognized. He was becoming an accepted member of the community— as much as anyone who arrives from away ever is— due mostly to his associations with Peter Langston and Jean Berkhardt, with whom he was often seen, as well as for the kindness he’d paid to Ruth Kennedy, who spoke well of him whenever she was in town.

  As James walked past the open door of Sawyer's Market, a voice called out to him from the shadows. James recognized the heavy New York accent even before he turned to see the affable Lucky Meeks standing in the doorway, holding up a wiry finger.

  “Wait here a minute,” he said to James before disappearing inside.

  James knew what was coming, and he looked down at Max, who slobbered as he eagerly watched the door, waiting for Lucky to reappear.

  “You’re spoiled,” James said to the dog. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Max looked up at him quickly and smacked his lips, but immediately returned his attention to the door of the market, not wanting to miss Lucky’s return.

  Lucky's birth name was Lester Meeks— which he considered particularly unlucky— and his unfortunate name, along
with his small frame and his mole-like face, made him an easy target for ridicule when he was growing up on the streets of Brooklyn, New York. That his full name was Lester Irwin Meeks, Jr. only proved to him that his father, cursed with the same name, should have known better. For obvious reasons, he preferred to be called Lucky.

  Lucky practically grew up in his father’s neighborhood grocery store in Brooklyn. The city streets were tough— even tougher on a wiry, rodent-faced boy named Lester— but the market was always a safe haven for him. He went directly there after school each day, the taunts of the other boys following him all the way to the door. He worked for his father every afternoon and all day on the weekends and during school vacations, stocking shelves, labeling cans and sweeping and mopping the floors.

  After his father retired, Lester and his brother inherited the business, continuing to operate it together for the next six years. Lester fully intended to operate the family store until he eventually retired and passed his share along to his own son, but all of that changed in 1977 when Lester and his wife visited Southwest Harbor during a rare family vacation.

  Just across from the corner of Main Street and Clark Point Road, Lester spotted a small market with racks of fresh fruit resting neatly in the shade of a green awning that extended out over the sidewalk where passersby could grab an apple or a peach and drop a quarter in a wooden box. He couldn’t resist going inside, and when he sought out the owner, they struck up an instant friendship. Within a week, Lester sold his share of the family's store in the city to his brother, and in September of that year, he moved with his wife and young son to Southwest Harbor, where he began his job as the resident butcher at Sawyer's Market.