08 Illusion

by Frank Peretti

  So this was what it was like. She had dreamed, but now she was there, embraced by love, carried by yearning, unable, unwilling to contain the feeling and finding a whole other side of herself who’d been here before, who knew, who pressed against him, gave herself to him. Oh, to be the one who shared her life, her love, her very being with this man …

  She was just as when he first met her, newly blossomed, flawless and pure, delighting in life and love as her greatest adventure—

  He stopped.

  She opened her eyes, met his, then dropped her head, her hands still draped over his shoulders.

  He took her hands from his shoulders, gave one a kiss, and let them go. He walked into the hall, escaping with deadening reluctance into the real world.

  She came to rest against the closet doorpost, arms covering her because the wonderful blue gown made her feel naked.

  She was framed in the doorway, her head down, her body wilted. With arms still covering her, she tried to form words but could only shake her head.

  He gathered himself and said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m very, very sorry.”

  She looked at him. The joy and wonder had died from her eyes. “I, I never meant to—”

  “I know. You’re very young, and not at all to be blamed. The fault for all of this is mine. To put it simply, I’m very much in love, more than I realized, but not with you. I’m in love with my wife, and I guess I always will be.”

  “And …” She dabbed some wetness from her nose. “I know I could never replace her.”

  With a sad smile he replied, “That’s right.”

  There was a silence as each waited, but there was nothing more to say.

  “I guess I should leave.”

  He nodded, making sure his face was kind. “For your sake, and for the whole wonderful life you still have ahead of you, yes, you should leave. You should leave right away and never come back.” He turned, then paused. “You can report your hours to Shirley and she’ll send you your check. I’ll see to it that Arnie has your contact information. I’ll be downstairs. Be sure to put everything away where you found it.”

  He left her in his bedroom, wiping her eyes and leaning like a dying lily.

  Downstairs, he lit a fire in the fireplace and sat on the couch to watch the flames. He heard her footsteps when she came down the stairs. She stood for a moment in the other end of the living room, but he couldn’t turn to say good-bye. He just watched the flames while she went out the door, started up her Bug, and drove down the long driveway.

  He was still sitting there after the fire had died to embers and the embers to ashes.

  chapter

  * * *

  32

  Black television screen. Fade up.

  Illuminated by a single, hard light source to the left of screen, white hair backlit to create a corona around his head, the bearded, sagelike face of Preston Gabriel turned toward the camera. In a low, rumbling voice reminiscent of Orson Welles, he spoke.

  “Psychokinesis, the claimed power to affect matter by mind alone. Spoon bending, moving small objects, causing items to fall over or fly through the air solely by the power of the mind. Is it real, or is it illusion? Tonight we find the answers on … Gabriel’s Magic!”

  Spooky, haunting music played. Blue and fiery red images collaged across the screen: Preston Gabriel, dressed in his signature black and looking much like a wizard himself, materializing a flute, then turning it into four doves in his bare hands, levitating a girl from a table, making money appear in a volunteer’s hand, vanishing a girl from a chair, lying on broken glass while a truck runs over him, producing a girl from an empty cabinet with a puff of smoke, stabbing a selected card with a knife from a cascade of falling cards in midair. Amazing moments, looks of astonishment, teasers of things to come bombarded the eyes as the music rose to a crescendo and a title burst from a tiny pixel to huge letters that filled the screen: Gabriel’s Magic.

  The show’s intro cut to live cameras and a studio stage—a touch of stage smoke bringing out the bluish pin spots as the theme music played and an announcer said, “From Television World in Hollywood, ladies and gentlemen, this is Preston Gabriel.”

  The studio audience cheered and applauded as the Man strode boldly into the floodlights, white mane shining, face pleasant, eyes steely. “Good evening. The art of magic is built upon a covenant between the performer and his audience: he will attempt to fool them, and they will let themselves be fooled in the full knowledge that the magician is only an actor pretending to be a magician, performing the impossible, but through trickery and illusion. Our ‘actors’ tonight: the amazing magical duo from Montreal, Canada, Torey and Abigail.” Applause. “And an astounding newcomer all the way from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho—I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” Laughter. “The young, the beautiful, the talented Eloise Kramer.”

  Mandy Whitacre, she thought, but didn’t say as the applause rang from the television in the green room. Mandy sat on a soft sofa, all made up, dressed up, and up against the full impact of this being her first time ever on television.

  Arnie, sitting in a chair far from her, looked up from his laptop computer with an expression that said, You asked for it, kid.

  She smiled at him the way she always did, wishing him well, hoping for friendship, and getting used to the idea that it was never going to happen. He was there to look after her, and he was doing a great job. He’d handled the whole booking, every detail from her flight to her hotel room, meals, schedule, the works, but he’d been honest with her, he was doing it for Dane, and their relationship was strictly professional.

  In other words, they could never be friends.

  So stick around, Arnie, I want to be alone. She and her favor-paying agent hardly spoke to each other.

  She looked over at—was it Dwight or Dwayne, she couldn’t quite remember, her brain was so occupied with the performance coming up. He was a young man decked out in a flowery martial arts outfit, and he didn’t smile much, if at all. He was watching the screen, eyes narrow and lips grim. She figured he was getting psyched up.

  Preston Gabriel went on with his opener. “And then we have tonight’s million-dollar challenger, a man who claims not to be a pretender but to have a genuine ability to move and manipulate objects by the power of his mind. If he can demonstrate this power to the satisfaction of our judges and this master pretender”—pointing to himself—“he could be eligible for our prize of one million dollars, offered to anyone who can prove psychic powers under controlled conditions: Mr. Dwight Hoskins.” Applause.

  Dwight. Now she remembered.

  “But first a little skulduggery. Sir, may I borrow a handkerchief?”

  Linda, the producer, wearing a wireless headset and carrying a clipboard with every minute of the show planned out, stepped into the room. “Dwight? Torey and Abigail will be on for ten minutes, and then we’ll go to a break and then you’re on.”

  He nodded.

  Linda looked down at Mandy. “And Eloise, after Dwight’s had his spot we’ll go to a break and then you’re on.”

  “Okay.” Like waiting for your turn with the dentist.

  “Do you need anything?”

  She already had a bottle of water in her hand, half empty. Her mouth was still dry. “Uh, no.”

  Linda took a second look at her. “We’d better have Amber touch up your forehead. Why don’t you come with me.”

  “The person you are calling … ‘Dr. Margo Kessler’ … is unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep. When you are finished you may simply hang up or press One for other options.”

  Dane heard the same old beep but left no message. He’d already left two. Dr. Kessler had become a phantom, just like the girl who’d driven her Bug down his driveway and evaporated from his life.

  Actually, he felt relieved. What was the point in calling her other than the fact that he said he would? She’d already stated her position, that he was crazy. Besides a pill, there wouldn’t be m
uch she could add to that.

  He smirked and put the phone down. There. I called.

  It was surreal sitting all alone before a cold, dead fireplace in a big, empty house with a .357 Magnum in his hand. He’d theorized that actually buying the gun would help him think things through, get him past What if I … and down to I really can. It worked. A little. The weight of the steel, the feel of the grip, the smell of the oil, the rattle of the bullets in the box were real, not hypothetical. He was able to hold the barrel to his head, say “Bang,” and conceive more clearly what would follow. That was how he decided that down in the meadow—Mandy’s Meadow—would be a better place than in the living room. He would stay preserved in the winter cold until Shirley, the cops, or the neighbors found him, and there’d be no messy cleanup.

  Yep. Surreal.

  Amber the makeup girl carefully dabbed Mandy’s forehead with more foundation and powder. “You feeling nervous?”

  Mandy was captivated by the pretty girl in the big mirror, but not out of vanity. She’d seen this girl in another mirror … and she was still wishing. She nodded at Amber’s question.

  “Oh,” said Amber, giving her a looking over, “it’s showbiz, like any other gig. Forget the cameras. Just go out there and wow that audience.”

  With everything Dane taught you, she thought, but all by yourself, cut loose and lonely. Small, but smile. A screwup, but you show ’em. Spread your wings and fly. God’s still with you even if he isn’t.

  God?

  “Hey, why the face?”

  She put on the professional social interaction smile she’d been practicing. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

  It’s not fair.

  Applause came from the television on the wall. Preston Gabriel was back from a commercial break and introducing …

  “Dwight Hoskins.”

  Hoskins strode onto the stage looking like a flower vase. He shook Gabriel’s hand. Gabriel asked some questions and Hoskins talked about psychic powers: everyone has them, they just need to be developed, he developed his abilities through kung fu and learning the laws of nature from an old Chinese master …

  Lord, if I only knew how to feel.

  … learning to recognize his inner self, his outer self, and achieving a level of consciousness matching the absence of mind to the motions of the body …

  Your grace is enough. I’d love to feel that.

  Hoskins placed a pencil on a low table so that it teetered on the edge in precarious balance.

  And Arnie—oooo, Arnie! I can’t explain it to him—maybe because You’ve never explained it to me!

  Hoskins crouched, waved his hands about in cool, martial arts gesticulations, the pencil moved, the audience applauded.

  So he can make a pencil move. Wow. Got a show to go with that?

  Next came the phone book lying open on the same table, sideways in relation to Hoskins. Hoskins did his little martial arts dance again, slicing the air with his hands and striking poses, then came in close and made a few pages flip, apparently by themselves.

  The audience was impressed, or maybe just being nice.

  “It’s an old trick,” said Amber. “Preston’s going to nail him.”

  Gabriel was talking about controlled conditions being a requirement for the challenge and bringing out a canister.

  “A million dollars,” said Mandy.

  “It started out as ten thousand thirty years ago and it’s grown from there, probably because nobody’s ever won it.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Nope. Nobody’s ever produced a psychic phenomenon that Preston hasn’t been able to expose.”

  Gabriel was spreading Styrofoam packing pellets all around the phone book. “It’s widely known among magicians that objects can be made to move by a surreptitious puff of breath. Just to be sure that isn’t the case here, I’d like you to try again, this time with these Styrofoam pellets surrounding the phone book.”

  Hoskins stared, and his face was readable even on television: he was trapped like a fly in a spider’s web and trying not to look like it. “The pellets might absorb the psychic energy, I don’t know.”

  “What if we placed a mask over your mouth and nose. Would that be fair?”

  This guy was melting on his feet. “I don’t know. I need to concentrate.”

  “One last offer: suppose we turned the phone book ninety degrees so that the pages are upright in relation to you and would have to be turned sideways as one would normally turn pages? In that position, it seems to me that only psychic power would be able to move them.”

  Amber wiggled a finger at the screen. “He’s gone.”

  Hoskins tried it with the Styrofoam pellets around the phone book, but his energy had left him. Too much interference, he said.

  “So it appears you have not met the million-dollar challenge, but I thank you for trying,” said Gabriel. To the audience, “Please bid a kind adieu to Mr. Dwight Hoskins.” They applauded him off the stage. “Next up, the lovely Eloise Kramer. Don’t go away.”

  Linda, the producer, came for Mandy. “All set?”

  “All set,” Amber answered, swiveling Mandy’s chair around. Mandy got to her feet, her legs a little weak. In the hall behind Linda, Dwight Hoskins passed by as if looking for the nearest exit.

  The .357 Magnum remained on the lamp table near the fireplace. Dane sat in the breakfast nook, winter scenery glorious outside the windows, and tapped on his computer,

  Suicide Note, First Draft

  By now you have found me

  (delete, delete, delete)

  If you haven’t found me yet, look down in Mandy’s Meadow.

  Would they even know which meadow was Mandy’s Meadow?

  (delete, delete, delete)

  I’ve thought long and hard about this and

  After giving my life due consideration

  You may be wondering why I

  (shift up arrow, select, delete)

  Mandy’s Meadow. From where he sat he could see the meadow cloaked in a winter mantle, crisscrossed by the hoofprints of deer and elk, the lope and rest patterns of white rabbits. Shirley had talked about the wildflowers that would bloom in that meadow come springtime, the yellow fawn lilies, mountain bluebells, purple shooting stars.

  The computer screen was waiting, having only four words: Suicide Note, First Draft.

  He extended his hands over the keyboard—they were still in pretty good shape, no arthritis to speak of, good tendons, clear skin. Most of his body was that way. His legs were good enough to climb the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. He was watching his cholesterol, and his blood pressure was normal. His prostate … well, he couldn’t pee over a fence, but there was no cancer and he could pee well enough.

  Was he getting—what did she call it—“leadbutt”? He checked and didn’t see himself sinking too deeply into his chair. He hadn’t started whining about the good old days yet—but he had started thinking about them.

  You think your wife would want that … you just chucking the whole thing and turning into an old raisin? I know what she’d say: buy some testosterone, get a motorcycle, do whatever it takes to get living again, but don’t waste the years God still has for you. You believe in God? Well, give Him some credit. He might know what He’s doing.

  Dane’s hands fell into his lap. He felt chastised.

  He might know what He’s doing.

  Well … He just might.

  Delete, delete, delete.

  Dane tapped on the keys,

  Since when did God choose only painless lessons for His children?

  He closed the file without saving it, then strode back to the lamp table by the fireplace, wrapped the gun in its plastic wrapper, and tucked it away in its original box. He still had the receipt.

  He thought he might like a cup of coffee, maybe with some of those little bake sale chocolate cookies he bought from Noah Morgan.

  Arnie remained in the greenroom as Preston Gabriel announced from the television screen, “Ladi
es and gentlemen, Miss Eloise Kramer.” Her recorded music began, and he saw two hula hoops roll out into the stage lights, one from the left, one from the right. They rolled in a circle in opposite directions and then, as they crossed each other from the camera’s viewpoint, poof, as quick as a blink, there was Eloise spinning to a graceful ta-da pose in the center. The audience gasped, and Arnie had to concede, Just wait, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Her act was astonishing, total fun, total entertainment. She would go far, no question—but without him. Someday her shady morals would catch up to her. She’d pick the wrong man, cross the wrong woman, get the wrong kind of attention. He was thankful that it wouldn’t be his job to cover her back or explain a scandal to the news hounds.

  He opened his e-mail account and typed a quick e-mail to Dane:

  FYI: Booked Kramer on Preston’s show. Taping today, January 17. Have since withdrawn as her agent. She has secured other management. Take care. Arnie.

  No, her performance was not up to her standards. She danced in, around, and through the hula hoops as they danced with her; she set her doves flying in tight formations the cameras could follow and materialized bottles that floated around her singing counterpoint to the music; she did it all with a big smile on her face and boundless energy that played well on television, but it felt slow to her, mechanical, and she was trying too hard. The life wasn’t there, the playfulness and wonder that always popped up and surprised her to the delight of her audience. She was pretending, working against a lingering, leeching knot of sorrow she couldn’t shake.

  She pushed through, draining herself, then struck her closing pose, standing in one hula hoop while framing herself with the other, the doves perched atop it. The crowd rose to their feet, as did Preston Gabriel behind his Johnny Carson desk at the side of the stage.

  Stagehands gathered up the hoops, doves, and bottles, and she took a bow. She was so relieved she wanted to cry, but she laughed, smiled, and bowed again. Sweat dripped to the floor. So much for her makeup.