Well, duh …
She sank to the floor, her back against the bed, the tennis ball on the floor beside her. She absentmindedly rolled the tennis ball under her palm, scanned the walls around her, the dresser, the nightstand, the lamp, and the bed, all solid and really there, and then she sighed.
Well, yeah, sure, she was crazy. Not that she’d had much doubt about it, but finally, sitting on the floor in a cozy little room where she was safe, she accepted it, and without fear. She was a little surprised how calm she was, but crying and freaking out were behind her, an old debt she’d already paid to this problem. There was no point to them now.
She made the tennis ball land on the tip of her finger and spin there, perfectly balanced, until she let it stop.
chapter
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13
Adigital photograph of the Gypsy Girl popped up on the computer screen. She was hurrying up a sidewalk in a downtown district, one hand clutching a sweater closely about her and the other toying with a wool hat she was wearing. She was looking away from the street and her face was not visible.
“Yeah, I’d say she’s hiding her face,” said a male voice from the computer. “Look at 23.”
Stone tapped the right arrow key until Gypsy Girl 23 scrolled onto the screen. This photo was zoomed in closer. The girl was looking down, her profile mostly obscured by her street side hand. She was yanking a scarf out from under the wool cap.
“Most of the shots show the same behavior,” said Stone, speaking to the computer.
“Wonder what he told her.”
Mortimer, binoculars in hand, divided his attention between the satellite conversation in the farm house and the Collins ranch house across the valley where a moving van had finally arrived. As two movers wearing back braces muscled a sofa from the van through the front door, he glanced over at the computer. Stone had pressed the right arrow key and scrolled number 24 from offscreen to center. Now the girl’s eyes and nose were visible, but the makeup still disguised her.
“Whatever it was, it ruined her day. She got out of there,” Stone remarked.
“Hoping no one would see her,” said the voice. “Not too friendly an encounter.”
“He did give her the hat and the sweater,” Stone said.
“And a tip,” said Mortimer.
“And she’s a magician,” said the voice on the computer, “which definitely makes her a person of interest. But was there any indication that they knew each other? Remember who we’re talking about here.”
“None that we could see,” said Stone. “I think he was just being generous to a busker.”
“How old would you say she was?”
“Hard to tell. Twenties, thirties. But what if … ?” Stone and Mortimer looked at each other, and Stone went ahead. “If this is the subject, can she be young enough not to know who he is?”
“What if she hasn’t met him yet?” asked Mortimer.
“That young?” the voice said. There was a long silence followed by a muttered “Incredible.”
“Sir?” Stone inquired.
“Parmenter would have to rework the protocol … see if anything matches. This is way beyond our projections …” Another pause, and then the voice commented, “But if she hasn’t even met him yet, we’d be downright lucky, wouldn’t we?”
Splosh! Eloise dipped the long-handled window mop in the bucket of soapy water, then soaped and squeegeed the front window of the Real Life Ministries Thrift Store. Only one more pane to go, and then she could move on to sorting out the donations for the day, price-tagging and hanging up the new clothes, and making sure the children’s toys were arranged on the shelves by age group.
The job was fun. Mia and the others were great to work with, and it was a sweet arrangement: girls from the halfway house—today that meant herself and Darci the former jailbird—put in hours at the thrift store, and in exchange the thrift store helped meet the needs of the halfway house with clothing, food, and whatever else might come through the donation door that was useful. So Eloise didn’t earn dollars, she earned safety, well-being, and time to figure things out. Such a deal!
She squeegeed the last window, then stopped to look at the girl in the glass looking back at her with clear, expressive eyes. The girl was still a bit of a hobo, she supposed, still a little lost in a strange world and working through some heavy sadness besides, but she was getting there; she was digging her way out. She was getting to know herself, settling on those things about her that were true and likable no matter what world she thought she was living in. She had friends, and that made her world real enough to touch with her heart, and that made all the difference. She was wearing clothes of her own choosing: a warm jacket she’d earned with her labors and the wool cap the mysterious man on the street had given her. Before long, she hoped, she would find a way to actually make some money and pay for the things she needed.
Which got her thinking about her current plan and that tattered black derby hanging inside the store. When did that come in? It looked like something Emmett Kelly would have worn, a little bashed in, old but proud. If it fit it might be perfect.
And what was that term the mysterious man used?
“I know what an independent contractor is,” said Mr. Calhoun, leaning on the counter, looking as if she was trying to sell him a quilting club membership or spring-wound fire alarms.
“So you wouldn’t have to pay me like an employee. I could start out just making tips.”
He looked away from her and took more interest in how things were going in his coffee shop. All around them, McCaffee’s Sandwich and Coffee Shop was in full swing. The coffeemakers were pounding, grinding, and squirting out espressos, lattes, mochas, frappuccinos: his wife, Abby, and their two young employees—Megan with the coffee-stained apron and black curls, Myron with enough rings in his face to hang a shower curtain—were taking orders for coffee and sandwiches and hustling them out to the tables as if their jobs depended on it, which they probably did. “The way I see it, any money you take out of here is money I don’t get.”
“But I might bring in more customers and they might stay a little longer and buy more.”
Mr. Calhoun’s bald head was getting little sweat beads on it. “Look, people come in here to grab a bite and talk business, play some chess, work on their computers. They don’t want to stop what they’re doing and watch card tricks.” One look around the room told that story: the place was noisy with chatting customers, and almost every other table had someone tapping and clicking away on a computer. At one table in the center, two guys wearing their billed caps backward were playing a game of chess. “You used to be the Gypsy, right?”
“I bagged that idea. It didn’t have family appeal.”
“So”—he waved his finger at her new outfit—“what’s this, Charlie Chaplin?”
She’d claimed that tattered and dented derby hat from the thrift store, along with some baggy trousers, an oversize black suit coat, and cloddy shoes. A little makeup to stubble her face, sadden her eyes, and redden her nose completed the character. “Hobett.”
He made a face at her face. “Hobett?”
“A girl hobo.”
“A girl hobo with whiskers?”
She shrugged. “It’s funny. And what’s a hobo without whiskers?”
He granted her half a smile. “Cute.”
“And I do new tricks now.”
He looked around the room again, antsy and preoccupied. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a coffee and muffin, on me. It’s the best I can do for you.”
Sad news. She pouted a clownish pout, but then doffed her hat with a salutary flourish. “You’re a sweetie.”
“I’m telling you no, did you catch that?”
She nodded. “No. I mean, yes, you said no.”
He tapped on his wife as she hurried by. “Abby, give her a muffin and whatever coffee she wants. Hate to see someone go hungry.” Then he turned back to Eloise and aimed his finger at her. “But this is it,
all right? You don’t come back, not with this, this hobo thing or any other thing. All right?”
“Yes, sir!”
“All right.”
When Abby came back behind the counter, she was sympathetic. “I think your outfit is really cute.”
“Thank you.”
“What would you like, honey?”
Eloise asked for a blueberry muffin and a sixteen-ounce double-shot decaf mocha. Abby prepared the order herself. Eloise told her, “Thank you so much,” and she really meant it.
“You’re very welcome. Go ahead and take a table.”
She was in a costume for no particular reason now, but this was an artsy kind of place with theater posters on the walls and a musicians/artists/yoga/herbal remedy/colon health bulletin board; looking weird was no big deal. A few folks looked her way, but were immediately satisfied—oh, a hobo. Okay.
She found a table in the center of the room and settled in for a consolatory meal that would end soon enough, but hey, she was going to enjoy it. Her first bite of the muffin was hot, moist, and flavorful; a blueberry burst inside her mouth, spilling its sweetness. The first sip of the mocha topped off the muffin so well she closed her eyes, held it in her mouth, and savored it before swallowing it. This was joy, just enough to close out the talkers and planners, the tapping computers, the chess players, the periodic moan of the front door, and her little dark cloud of disappointment.
When she opened her eyes, she noticed a little girl at the next table sitting in her daddy’s lap and looking at her—not staring, looking. She was four, maybe five, with golden curls in blue ribbons, a blue dress that matched, and big blue eyes. She was munching on a cookie, had crumbs on her cheeks, and must have found Eloise to be the most engaging thing she’d ever seen.
Eloise looked back, drawn to those eyes. The little girl was comfortable with that, so neither thought to look anywhere else. While all around them the talking and tapping, the sipping and chewing, the serving and paying rattled on in isolated clusters, she and the girl visited, getting to know each other without a word. You see me, don’t you, little girl? I’m really here, a somebody. I fit into your world and that’s okay with you.
Eloise smiled, head tilted, and gave the girl a little wave with her fingers.
The child pressed close against her daddy’s chest but never looked away, and she smiled a teeny bit.
Now her daddy was smiling at the exchange as he took a sip from his coffee. Mommy was smiling, too, watching her daughter.
A mommy, a daddy, and a safe and loved little girl. Eloise felt an ache and a warmth at the same time. She could have cried, but something in the little girl’s eyes drove the tears from hers: wonder.
Yes, that was it. Wonder. What Eloise—or Mandy?—used to feel when looking at a flower, cradling a dove chick in her hand, or sitting out on the tractor watching the wispy clouds at the very top of the sky.
Misdirection. Eloise fell into it, just had to do it. She took a long, slow bite from her muffin, drawing the little girl’s eyes to her comical face while her free hand found some quarters in her pocket—props left over from the Gypsy’s fateful day. A quick load and she was ready. She waved a little wave again, but this time a quarter appeared between her first two fingers. She stared in wide-eyed, clownlike astonishment.
“Oh-ohh,” said the mommy.
The little girl stared. Maybe she got it, maybe she didn’t.
Eloise closed her fingers, opened them again, and there was a second quarter between her second and third fingers.
“Where’d that come from?” the daddy asked the girl, and now she smiled as if to say, “Hey, what’s going on here?”
Eloise waved up a third quarter, then vanished all of them, rotating and showing her empty hand. Mommy and Daddy did some quiet little claps. The little girl just watched.
Eloise’s eyes followed an invisible quarter buzzing by. She snatched it from thin air, put it in her mouth, and drew it from her ear.
Clap clap. The girl smiled with one finger in her mouth.
For no more than a second, Eloise wondered if she should be doing this in Mr. Calhoun’s coffee shop when he told her no, but she bumped that thought. This wasn’t a show, this was making friends.
The little girl was watching, expecting.
Eloise set the quarter she’d taken from her ear on the table and flicked it with her finger, making it spin.
The girl craned to see, wide-eyed, watching, munching another bite of cookie.
Wonder. It was beautiful to see.
Make it quick, Eloise.
She shooed the quarter away with a little jerk of her finger and away it went, spinning around the table, circling the salt and pepper shakers.
Now Mommy and Daddy were starting to get wonder in their eyes.
She gestured “come here” with her finger and the quarter came back around and stopped a few inches shy of the table’s edge, still spinning.
Now two guys—they looked like college types, in clothes that cost a lot but were made to look like they didn’t—halted their conversation and started watching the quarter spin. They exchanged a look and kept watching, two more friends, two more human beings touching her life as she touched theirs. What a feeling.
The little girl was looking up at her daddy. Oh-oh, got to get her back!
Eloise bent low, her nose just above the table, and mutely beckoned to the coin. It advanced a few inches and stopped. She beckoned again. It backed up.
Come on, now, she mimed in clownish gestures, don’t be a wuss!
The quarter wavered, inched forward, backed up, came forward again … slowly …
She placed her index finger against the edge of the table, beckoned and cajoled, and finally … the quarter spun onto her fingertip. She lifted it slowly aloft, spinning and balancing on her finger.
Now, that got a response! Mommy and Daddy, the little girl, the college guys, and now the guys playing chess all watched in disbelief and delight.
Oh, brother. Where do I go from here? Call it quits before I get in trouble?
They were applauding now, and she had the little girl back.
Top it, top it, top it!
She mimed for the daddy to hold up his finger. He laughed, a little nervous about it, but he stuck up his index finger. She steadied his hand with her free hand and brought the quarter down.
It was like lighting a candle. The quarter passed from her finger to his and he held it there, astonished, looking at the quarter from different sides, watching it spin all by itself.
“Hey, check it out!” somebody said.
“What? How’s he doing that?” said a lady at a table close by.
“She’s doing it!” said the man sitting with her.
The little girl was enraptured. She reached for the quarter as if it were something truly magical, then shied away. Eloise mimed an open palm, and the girl’s mother reached and helped. The child held out an open palm. The father brought his finger down, and the quarter hopped into the little girl’s palm. Kerplop! It lay flat, happy, harmless, and hers.
Eloise closed the little girl’s hand around the quarter and pointed, miming, It’s yours!
There was a circle of laughter and applause from the four nearest tables, enough to make some of the computer tappers look up. A few heads turned from the front of the place.
Oh-oh. Now Mr. Calhoun was watching. So was Abby. Would they be mad or amazed? They weren’t smiling yet.
Well, she’d better be sure they were amazed—and that she had the crowd. It felt a little nutty, something between a ray of hope and a flying leap, but she stood and pulled Burt the Tennis Ball from her coat pocket.
The folks she had were all hers, watching every move she made, expecting something.
She perched Burt on the tip of her finger and gave him a spin. He spun there, never slowing.
How about the little girl? Was she ready? Was she trusting? Eloise mimed for her to point her finger upward.
The little swe
etie looked at her daddy. “Go ahead,” he said, and she pointed her finger in the air.
Eloise approached slowly, all smiles and adventure, and brought Burt in for a gentle landing on her fingertip.
This child was going to handle the rest of her life just fine: she held her finger still and let Burt spin while the friends sitting closest, joined by friends a few tables out, applauded and cheered.
And oh, the triumph in her eyes!
Eloise brought her own right hand close and the little girl let Burt hop back onto Eloise’s finger. Eloise raised her right hand and let Burt roll down her arm, over her shoulders, down her left arm, and then—ta-da!—he spun on the finger of her left hand as she held him high.
Applause and even a few whoops.
Now the clatter and chatter were dropping off table by table, talker by tapper, sipper by muncher, as the circle of quiet attention rippled outward. Folks were leaning, looking around heads and bodies, curious.
Mr. Calhoun was watching; she could feel it.
She let Burt roll back to her right arm and out onto her right index finger again. More applause, but it was time to move on. She let him roll across to her left hand one more time and then, after bringing both left and right hands together and letting Burt twirl on both fingers, she jerked her hands apart and let him fall.
He bounced on the floor, and bounced on the floor, and bounced on the floor as she watched, following him with big nods of her head.
But he wouldn’t stop bouncing, and folks were catching on, laughing, marveling. Her look-away deadpan would have made Jack Benny proud, and it got laughs.
Enough of this bouncing. She reached on a bounce to catch Burt—he curved sideways and she missed. She grabbed at him again and he zipped from her grasp. She chased him, groping and grabbing while he bounced between the tables, and finally netted him in her hat. Well, there! She was in charge again. She put her hat down on her table with Burt under it and began her next trick, materializing playing cards in her empty hand.
The folks watched her produce a card, then two, then a full hand of them, and they applauded politely, but their eyes were straying and she noticed. They were looking at her table and laughing.
08 Illusion Page 10