The Illusionist

by Dinitia Smith

  “Dean! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Are you all right? Tell me you’re not hurt!”

  “Baby . . .” he said softly.

  I clutched at the glass, wanted to tear it away, the barrier between us.

  Inside the truck, next to him, strapped to the seat, was the little boy, her boy, bundled up in a blue snowsuit, blue wool cap on his head, scarf wound round his neck, staring at me.

  “Where’ve you been! Oh God! Oh I’ve been so worried. I read in the paper what happened. I knew it was you. Those animals!” I spat out the words. “Those pigs!”

  “I’ve been driving around looking for you,” he said.

  “Did they hurt you? Did they hurt you bad?”

  I couldn’t imagine what they had done. I couldn’t bear it.

  “I’m okay,” he said, and there was something noble about the way he said it, and that he didn’t want to tell me any more.

  I looked at the boy. “Where’s its mother?” I couldn’t bear to give the kid a name, to refer to him directly. To give her that. I was punishing the child too, by not saying his name, though he couldn’t understand.

  “She’s working,” he said. “A lot of people didn’t come in today because of the snow.”

  “You’re staying with her?”

  “I got nowhere else to go,” he said.

  He saw the pack of cigarettes in my hand. “You smoking?”

  “I got no reason to live now,” I said. “Are you okay?” I asked again. We had to talk loud over the throb of the truck engine. I could feel my feet burning in the snow now that I was standing still, like I had frostbite.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Right, Bobby?” He glanced at the boy. He was being brave. But the little boy just kept staring up at me silently, like I was an alien or something.

  “How’s your mom?” Dean asked. “I’m sorry she’s pissed at me.”

  “She’s not pissed. Just ignorant.”

  “I can’t give you AIDS,” he said. “We never did anything.”

  “I know.” He said it as if it were all right with him, that we never “did anything,” when with me it was not all right. Which was something I couldn’t figure out because at the same time I respected him so much for not coming on to me, for not just loving me for sex.

  “He’s getting cold in there,” I said of the boy. “You shouldn’t keep the window open.”

  “You look bad, Mellie,” he said.

  “I don’t care.” He had said it almost as a criticism, that I wasn’t beautiful anymore, though I knew he meant I looked sick.

  “You eating right?”

  “I can’t eat. I don’t care. I don’t care if I die.”

  “Don’t say that,” he said.

  “Do you love her?” I asked, through the snow. That was all I could care about now, since I couldn’t give him shelter, just the words, just let him say the right words.

  “I love her,” he said. “But not the way I love you. You’re soaked,” he said. “I could take you home in the truck. . . .” He looked guilty, uneasy. “But I’m scared. Brian said he’d kill me. I can’t let him see me with you.”

  “Please,” I begged. “Say you love me again.”

  “I love you,” he said.

  The snow was falling down around us harder now, completely enveloping us. “You having sex with her?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. He looked me straight in the eye. “No. It’s not like that.”

  And I believed him. Once words are spoken, they hang there in the air, hard as diamonds.

  He rose up from the seat toward me, touched his lips to mine. For a moment, I could feel his warm breath fanning my face. He touched his lips to mine. Then, “I better go,” he said. “I don’t want them to see me.” The boy’s lips were trembling. “He’s getting cold.”

  “I love you,” he said. And he reached up again and touched my lips. He looked at me intently. “Nothing else matters. No matter what happens, Mellie, you’ll always feel it inside you, the love. Once it’s there, it stays forever. Even if I die, it stays there.”

  “Don’t say that!” I cried. “Don’t say ‘die’!”

  But he rolled the window up now, and then I heard the grinding sound of the gears and he was pulling away from the curb. I still touched the window with both hands, walking alongside the moving truck as if to keep him there.

  I let my hands drop. He was moving up the street. I could just make out, in the rear window, his face turned back toward me, looking at me.

  I watched the truck move up Washington, and within seconds, the red shape disappeared, blending into the whirling snow.

  CHAPTER 27

  TERRY

  Four P.M. at the Nightingale Home, when work ended, I said good-bye to Chrissie and I went outside. I could hear the sound of the cement plant filling the valley, echoing against the cliffs as usual. Down below, the river was the color of liquid steel, the sky above it pale, yellowish in the cold, the mountains beyond like gray shadows in the air. A strong wind swept in off the water, and I wrapped my wool scarf tight and pulled on my mittens.

  Across the parking lot, a figure leaned against a car, watching the entrance to the Home. At first I couldn’t make out who it was. The person was forlorn-looking. I could see the fuzzy, long, pale blond hair. His parka was unbuttoned, his shoulders were hunched over, he was smoking a cigarette. There was something broken about him. He didn’t have a hat on in the cold, or gloves. Brian Perez. I wondered how long he’d been there waiting.

  He caught sight of me, threw his cigarette to the ground, walked across the lot toward me. “Terry.” His voice echoed in the cold. No one but us here.

  I stopped. “Yeah?”

  “I’m looking for Lily Dean.”

  His eyes had big black pupils, looked almost as big as the iris itself. I wondered if the holes in his eyes went all the way back into his brain.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I said.

  “I mean Lily Dean.”

  “I don’t know Lily Dean.” I was carrying my car keys in my hand in readiness and now I brushed past him and leaned down to unlock the door.

  “You know who I mean.”

  I stood up straight and faced him. I was his height, maybe an inch taller. I was pulling my schoolmarm bit.

  “No. I don’t know Lily Dean.” Best loyalty I could give Dean—call him what he wanted to be called, respect that. Define him as he wanted to be defined. That was the most profound loyalty you could give someone.

  I unlocked the car door, and I slid down into the front seat. But he put his hand on the door and I slammed it shut quick so he had to pull his hand away or it would’ve chopped his fingers off.

  I backed the car back out of the parking space, wheels spinning in the slush, and made a U-turn. And then I slid down the driveway of the Home, leaving him there, looking after me, his parka unbuttoned in the cold.

  * * *

  When I got home that night to West Taponac, I told Dean, “Brian Perez was in the parking lot at work.”

  “Now he knows I’m with you. He knows how to find me. He’s gonna follow you here. You can’t go to work anymore.”

  Bobby was sitting up at the round oak table, crayoning something, a project that Dean had started. He seemed absorbed but I wondered how much he understood. “I got to work,” I said. “How’re we going to eat?”

  Dean paced about the room, punching his fist into the palm of his hand, peering into the corners as if searching for something. “He’s gonna kill me. He’ll kill you too—and Bobby. He’s capable of that. He set fire to his landlord’s apartment building.”

  It’s the mention of Bobby that does it to me. I look at Bobby, sitting up at the table, his feet not even touching the floor yet, the tendrils of dark hair against his pale skin. Bobby’s been quieter lately, watchful, as if he knows something is up, as if he’s afraid and trying to understand. He doesn’t look at us, but I know he hears everything.

  I say to Dean, “I�
��ve got sick days coming. I’ll take a few days off. Till it dies down.”

  * * *

  Later that night something wakes me. I climb out of bed, walk into the bathroom. Through the little rectangular window, I can see only wave after wave of white fields, and silence. I see the ridge in the distance, and a faint light behind the trees, beginning to blend through the sky. No sign of animal tracks on the icy surface of the snow. I study the contours of the fields, so smooth and white, as if they are bathed in all the reflected light of the universe. This inhospitable land.

  Mr. Jukowski’s barn is down the road, out of sight. That big brown bear they talked about in the Ledger-Republican, it must still be somewhere out there. If bears get hungry enough in winter, if the snow is deep enough, they’ll approach your house, they’ll forage. Hunger makes them unafraid.

  It’s so still here. I can hear a faint crackling from inside the woodstove, the embers still lit even after all night. In the kitchen beyond, the dishes are stacked clean on the drainer, Bobby’s toys picked up, put away for the night in his basket. There is the faint tick tick tick of the clock on the wall.

  I walk over to Bobby’s room and peer in. The little night light sends out a faint, warm glow into the room. I see Bobby is sleeping with his back to the door. The two of them, I think, the two I love most in the world, so still here under my protection.

  Back in the main room, I sit down on the saggy couch. I’m wide awake, as if it’s morning.

  Then I hear a sound. I look up and Bobby’s standing in the doorway to his room, rubbing his eyes.

  “Why’re you up, honey?”

  But he only rubs his little fists into his eyes more fiercely, and I realize he’s sleepwalking.

  “Wanna go pee-pee?”

  He nods, rubbing at his eyes now as if he’s trying to gouge them out. I take his hand and lead him into the bathroom, unzip his sleeper pajamas, and stand over him while he aims in the bowl.

  He does all this automatically, and then I pick him up and carry him back to bed, his head resting in the crook of my neck, fast asleep.

  * * *

  That night, the real snow came. A blinding blizzard, the air outside went solid white, so that you couldn’t see in front of your eyes. A heavy wind was pushing behind the storm and it was impossible to leave, but we had enough wood stacked on the porch to last for months. We were trapped, warm and cosy.

  In the early morning of the next day Mr. Jukowski drove up the hill and plowed us out. I could see him from the window up on his plow, red wool hat, face red too from the weather.

  Midmorning I drove cautiously out to the Taponac convenience store on the Parkway to buy some food. The store had mostly canned goods, frozen pizza, supplies for campers. Everything was more expensive here, but I didn’t want to go into town.

  That night for dinner we had frozen pizza and leftover wine, which was sour, but went right through my body anyway. I wanted Bobby in bed, wanted him asleep so I could be alone with Dean. “It’s late,” I said to Bobby.

  “I don’t wanna. . . .” Bobby said, knowing I meant it was time for bed.

  “Look!” I cried. “Look at the snow!” I pointed to the window, trying to distract him. The flakes were falling again, harder. “You gotta go to sleep so you can get enough rest and play in the morning.”

  “Not sleepy,” he said irritably, showing me he was sleepy.

  “Let’s have a bath. That’ll help you sleep. . . . He doesn’t get out enough,” I said to Dean. “He didn’t get out today so he’s not tired.”

  After his bath, Bobby made me read to him, Green Eggs and Ham. I recited the words of the book mechanically, knew them almost by heart. Felt guilty because reading to him should be a pleasure, but he was delaying me and I just wanted to finish it so I could be alone with Dean.

  So I raced through the book, and when I finished, I slapped it shut, and led Bobby into his room. “You go to sleep now,” I said, firmly, almost cruelly, I realized. Usually I was not firm enough with Bobby, let him do almost whatever he wanted to do. But he knew I meant business now, and he went down without any more fuss.

  When I went back into the main room, Dean was standing at his usual spot by the kitchen window, looking out. It was as if he was drawn to that window irresistibly, as if it was a magnet. But there was nothing there but the steady beat of snowflakes, all lit up near the house by the light from the window.

  “Nobody can drive up on that road now,” Dean said. “He won’t even be able to plow in the morning.”

  “They always plow, not matter what.”

  “Not if it keeps up like this.”

  The TV was on. It was Roseanne. The voices were chattering, and every couple of minutes there was a splutter of laughter. I hated Roseanne, there was something crazy about her eyes.

  A weather bulletin moved across the base of the screen. “Winter storm warning . . . accumulations up to twenty inches . . .”

  Abruptly, he turned the TV off. “Can’t take it anymore! I need a blunt,” he said.

  “Make one for me,” I said. “I want one too.”

  This was our language, the language we both understood. It was about sex, fuck me, let’s have some dope and then we’ll fuck.

  He rolled the blunt, lit up, took a drag on it, then handed it to me. I moved close to him, bent down over him, and I ran the tip of my tongue along his lips, then down the side of his neck, tasting the salt of him, smelling the faint animal smell where his body’s breath came up through the opening in his shirt.

  As I licked him, “Oh God,” he said. “This is what gets me about you. Nobody else would know you’re hot like this.”

  I giggled, slurring it at the end. I was standing over him now, he was kissing my breasts through my T-shirt, sucking on my nipples.

  “Ummmm,” I said. “Nurse me, nurse me.”

  He pulled on my nipples with his teeth, making a vacuum with his lips, hurting me. “I’m gonna draw milk,” he said, through his teeth. He buried his face between my breasts, and I was burning now.

  I came to consciousness a moment, glanced at Bobby’s door. He saw my look. “He’s asleep,” he said.

  Then, in the little bedroom, can’t get my pants off quick enough. He arches over me, wants to watch my face while he’s got his hand inside me, wants to see me go out of control, that’s his thrill. Likes to watch me, reaching his hand, his whole fist practically, deep, deep inside me.

  Then, we’re finished. Resting, I turn my face to him. “Now you,” I say.

  His hands fly to his chest. But I pin his arms back at the elbows, and when I release him, he folds them back again over his chest. I force them open again, and down flat along the side of his body.

  I lift his T-shirt. His flat breasts are exposed, I can see the silky skin shining and I wet the nipples with my tongue.

  At first, he’s reluctant. Then his chin starts to move, side to side.

  “Oh baby,” I say, “trust me . . . trust me . . . I love you. . . . I love you—whatever you are. . . .” Wetting the smooth skin of his breasts with my tongue, circling his nipples.

  His thin thighs are locked tight together. “You’ve never known anyone you can trust like me, baby,” I murmur. “I know everything . . . yes, I do, I do . . . I am you. We’re the same, you don’t need to be afraid. . . .”

  And now in the dark, my hand’s going slowly down his belly, as light as I can make it so he won’t notice, toward the mound of his crotch. His legs are still locked tight. “Let me try,” I say. “Trust me,” I say. “It’s our secret. We got nothing to lose, baby. Have we? We got nowhere to go but up, huh?” And I slip my hand into his jeans, and force my fingers between his legs.

  This time he doesn’t squeeze his legs together like he usually does, but I can’t get my hand in all the way because of his jeans, the space is too tight. Pulling my hand out for a moment, I unzip his fly and he doesn’t resist. And then—my fingers find him there—warm and wet and thick.

  His legs relax
and his thighs spread apart wider and wider and I pull the jeans down at the waist, then his Jockeys. I try to keep my fingers inside him while I do it because I’m afraid if I take them out he’ll forget how good it feels and he’ll close his legs up tight again. He’s not wearing shoes, so it all comes right off. I’m a mother, I know how to do this, I’m used to it. Now in the dark, I can just see his dark mound, but I can’t tell what it is—male . . . female. . . .

  Slowly, I lower myself down between his parted legs, slowly so he almost won’t realize what I’m doing, and I move my face into his warm center. He lets me find him. And he lets me taste him. He’s all fresh there, like cucumbers, a little salt. He lets me find the little knob with the tip of my tongue. “See, it doesn’t hurt,” I say. My voice is soothing, like he’s my baby, don’t frighten him. “Nobody’ll know. . . . You deserve it. . . . Don’t be scared. . . . Don’t be afraid, baby. Don’t be afraid. . . .” And soon our bodies are all tangled up together, and inseparable, and we can no longer tell where one of us begins and the other ends, we thrash wildly, each of us selfishly wanting it, and wanting to give it to the other at the same time and it is like we are fighting, between love and greed and love again.

  Afterward, he lay on his back, not moving, eyes wide open. I could see a beam of light from the other room in his eyes. It was as if he were suddenly grief-stricken.

  I nestled down against his side, making myself smaller so I was looking up at his face.

  “Never happened before?” I asked. “Happy New Year,” I said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Well,” I said. “I’m glad it was me.”

  * * *

  Next day, we woke up late because Bobby didn’t come in to get us till eight. It was still snowing out, and almost dark, as if it were the late afternoon, not the morning. The heavy atmosphere must have made Bobby sleep too.

  Dean sat up in bed and knelt on the mattress at the window, springs creaking, peering out the window in his boxers and T-shirt. “Did he plow?” he asked.

  I had never seen Dean completely naked, except in total darkness. “Wouldn’t do any good if he did,” I said. “It just keeps coming. He’s probably waiting till it stops. Nobody could get up that road. My dad couldn’t get up here.”