Once inside the house, she called in the dogs for dinner and toweled them off, one by one. During mealtime Ida Blue felt like Alice in The Brady Bunch. In charge of a family that wasn’t even her own, but was just where she belonged.
After feeding the dogs, she hustled to her closet. She’d forgotten she’d already chosen her evening outfit, so her polyester slacks and floral tunic hung from the door as she entered, as if some part of her were already dressed for the magic show, ready for the next chapter of her life. Though she felt more complete than she ever had, there was still a small part of her that neither a chewy-chip granola bar nor a like on Facebook could fill.
MUCH TO HER delight, she found a single vacant parking spot by the community center’s front door. Another cosmic giveaway from her fairy godmother. Although she hadn’t seen the ghostly older woman since the night of the big storm, since she’d received the unexpected gift of Sequoia and Karma, she felt her presence whenever she noticed a happy coincidence. Like when she encountered a string of green traffic lights, strung like a Christmas tree, or some nice pink pork chops on sale—ONE DAY ONLY!—just when she was in the mood.
She pushed open the wide doors, passed the crowded bingo hall, and followed the MCSWEENEY HOUDINI TONIGHT signs to a smaller room off the lobby. She’d sat for a few minutes in the front row when a woman approached. “Just so you know, the show doesn’t start until eight.”
“Yes, yes,” Ida Blue replied. “I wanted to make sure I get a good seat.”
“Oh, I see.” The woman looked around the empty room and laughed, then added, “Say, aren’t you that woman from the lagoon?”
Ida Blue nodded. “Why yes.”
“I just want to say, and I can speak for our whole community, everyone at Seven Oaks owes you a debt of gratitude. Saving all those people’s lives, sparing that poor alligator . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Thank you,” Ida Blue answered, finally understanding how Oprah must feel when approached by a fan in a grocery store.
At precisely eight o’clock, an emcee wandered onto the stage, welcomed the sparse audience, then reminded them of upcoming events—a ventriloquist in July, a puppeteer in late September. Then the Hawaii Five-O theme song roared to life from a geriatric speaker. With no curtain, McSweeney emerged from a side door, which might have been a broom closet. While waving to the audience, he stumbled forward but caught himself before landing face-first. No one laughed except for Ida Blue and a set of pigtailed girls sitting behind her.
Although McSweeney looked older, she recognized him immediately and felt an excitement rise in her chest. As a teenager he’d been tall and gangly, but now he was so slender she wondered if he’d eaten a real meal in twenty years. He wore black slacks and a long-sleeved shirt under a glittery vest. Horn-rimmed glasses sat on his crooked nose, and his thinning hair swooped sideways across his head. When McSweeney looked out to the audience, she tried to get his attention, mouthing “Hello” to him and giving a little fist pump by her hip, but he didn’t seem to notice her.
To start the show, McSweeney pulled a silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket. With a dramatic flourish, he shook it and it became a silver wand. Then he dazzled the crowd, or at least Ida Blue, with balloon art, which led to a balloon rabbit that became an actual rabbit that scampered across the stage leaving decidedly real pellets. Next he performed a routine that climaxed with him juggling a toaster, a hairbrush, and a woman’s sandal. After McSweeney changed a disgruntled gentleman’s twenty-dollar bill into an issue of TV Guide, the rear speaker roared to life again with a thumping drumroll.
“And now I need a volunteer,” McSweeney announced. While other spectators checked their watches and turned to identify exit signs, Ida Blue waved her hand. “You! The pretty lady in the front row.” The magician pointed to her, and Ida Blue flew up the four steps to the stage. All of her walking had paid off. “Welcome,” he said.
Ida Blue waited for him to recognize her. It had been twenty years, but surely he must. “Hello McSweeney,” she whispered.
He wheeled a metal table forward, then opened a briefcase in front of her. Inside, Ida Blue spied some oversize playing cards and a dog-eared copy of Playboy as well as a printed sign that read ANSWER “NO” TO ALL QUESTIONS.
“Now tell me, miss, do you believe in magic?”
“Yes!” Ida Blue thundered.
“Let’s try again.” With the briefcase blocking the audience’s view, he pointed to the sign, moving his index finger as if tapping out Morse code. “Do you think I can create something out of nothing with just a wave of this magic wand?”
“I think you can do anything you put your mind to. You’re McSweeney Houdini!” The audience laughed.
“It’s true we’ve never met, correct?” He looked at her as if he had something stuck in his eyeball.
“But we have!” she shouted.
McSweeney pursed his lips in irritation. He cocked his head and pushed his glasses farther onto his nose.
“Don’t you remember? We used to go parking at Flo’s Drive-In.” The audience roared, and Ida Blue wondered if a busload of people had arrived since she’d been selected for the spotlight. She might have seen a flicker of recognition, but it was not the reunion she expected. “I’m Ida Blue Childs,” she said, weakly. Perhaps he didn’t recognize her now that she’d shrunk to a size twenty-four, thinner than she’d been since seventh grade.
“Ida Blue?” he asked, confused. She felt suddenly tired and hoped there’d be a way to drift inconspicuously offstage, but she heard: “Is it really you?” She felt his hand, hard on her elbow, and he spun her around. While doing so, he reached behind her and pushed something solid into her elastic waistband. “Yes, we do know each other.” He twirled back to the front of the stage. “And yes, we did use to park at the submarine shop.” He gave an exaggerated wink and a murmur rose.
Then the music started again, the beat thumping as if someone was stuck in a car trunk. Within minutes, in a final routine of unimaginable precision, he broke apart solid linked hoops, then swallowed a steel sword. With steady applause he bowed dramatically before her, one hand on his torso, one behind his back. “Thank you, milady.” Then he reached into her elastic waistband and presented her with a flapping, if somewhat dazed, white dove.
SHE WAITED IN front of the men’s locker room door for several minutes. Although she’d imagined she’d be sharing the lobby with autograph-seeking fans, she stood alone, the distant hum of a vacuum in the background. Although part of her wanted to go back to her dogs, another part of her needed to see him.
But then, as if someone were right next to her, she heard: Stand up straight. Don’t be afraid. Let your smile be your umbrella.
With head up and shoulders back she brushed any lingering dog hair from her outfit and knocked lightly. No answer. After a minute, she knocked again. “Just a sec!” Ida Blue heard anger in his voice and wondered if she’d interrupted a TV interview.
The door opened and McSweeney Houdini popped his head out. Slowly, he opened the door and stood before her, sweat staining his undershirt. He held a half-empty bottle of bourbon. Their eyes locked and his mouth melted into a smile. “Ida Blue Childs,” McSweeney said sweetly and softly this time, like he meant it.
She stood frozen but felt a firm push from an invisible hand.
Let the magic begin.
chapter 45
After a full day of teaching summer school, Amity drove straight to the natural food store south of Forsyth Park. As she pushed her half-full grocery cart outside, she noted the rising moon behind the wide live oak trees and thought of Catherine. Before her friend had left on vacation, Catherine had told her a story about the Sea of Tranquillity and how the ancients looked for signs in the stars.
Okay, okay, she thought. So show me a sign already.
As she maneuvered down the flare in the sidewalk, that’s when she saw PUPPY’S FOR SALE—$10. On another evening she might not have been bothered by the grammatical error. PUP
PY’S. Or she may have noticed, but not made it her business to care, but Amity had asked for a sign. She wheeled her groceries to a grizzled older man sitting on a plastic chair with a small fold-out table beside him from which the scotch-taped sign hung. She would stop just for a moment. The low-fat ice cream and vegetarian pizza and frozen organic peas were going to melt.
“Your sign,” Amity said, motioning to the cardboard message.
“Want a puppy?”
“No. Your sign. It should be plural, not possessive.”
The man looked at her, his head tilted slightly to the right as if he’d lost feeling in his neck.
At once she realized her mistake. She should just mind her own business. But he was marketing puppies to an upscale crowd. She started again, “I’m a teacher. I can’t help myself sometimes.”
“I before e ’cept after c, right?” He smiled when he spoke, his teeth lurching forward.
“Yes. Of course.” She might have offered other mnemonics, but she was determined to stick to the problem at hand.
“Wanna puppy?” he asked again.
“Pardon?”
“A puppy.” He pointed to the box.
She hadn’t even looked in, they’d been so quiet. So she took a step forward and peered down. She was surprised by the still heads, closed eyes, and limbs splayed in every direction. Oh my god, they’re dead, she thought.
“Got four left and Mama ain’t doing so hot.”
“I don’t know.” After getting to know Catherine and spending time walking with Karma she had certainly thought a dog might be nice one day. But this wasn’t the right time.
“If so, yer in luck,” the man continued.
It sounded like Your in luck or even worse, urine luck.
She could have turned to go, bid him goodnight, wished him well, or just handed him ten dollars to get a good shave, but just then a puppy awakened. He scrambled onto his hind legs and peered at her over the top of the corrugated carton.
“Cute, huh?” The man lifted an eyebrow solicitously.
But cute wasn’t what Amity was thinking. Desperate. Sad. Heartbreaking. To begin life in a cardboard box on a hard sidewalk on a warm June evening. “What kind are they?” Not that I care, she thought.
“They’re what you might call high-birds.”
“Pardon?”
“Mutts.”
She had groceries to bring home, dinner to make, soy milk and cottage cheese to get to the fridge. She even had a load of gym clothes to wash before morning. “How old are they?” As if it makes a difference.
“Four weeks. Need their shots is all.” A second puppy popped his head over the edge of the box. “Two boys and two girls all that’s left.”
Boys and girls, like they’re little people. Like they are babies.
Then the third one popped up.
“The one back there.” The man pointed to the final puppy. “He’s the one always sleeps.”
And then Amity heard high-pitched childish chatter behind her. She turned to see a young girl of three or four sitting with a red lollipop in the seat of a grocery cart pushed by her mother.
“Puppies!” the little girl shouted.
The mother laughed. “Yes, puppies,” as if her daughter had just identified a new species of vertebrate.
The man shifted his focus. “Puppies!” he sang out. “Ain’t they cute?” He had directed his question to the girl, but winked at her mother. “Only ten bucks.”
You snooze, you lose, Amity thought and managed to smile at the two. The mother wheeled her cart and child closer. The three puppies clambered together as one squirming three-headed monster while the fourth remained still, a lifeless lump in the back.
“Look at the sleepy one!” the girl shouted.
And that’s when Amity really stopped herself. She peered into the box again as if looking into the Grand Canyon for the first time. She was overwhelmed by the possibility it contained, amazed the tiny creature could experience sleep or perhaps serenity in the darkening parking lot.
“Yes, he’s dreamy dreaming,” said the mother, fluent in the nonsensical talk of all parents. “Just like you get.”
“I like that one, Mommy. He’s so pretty.”
“I’ll take him.” Amity spoke loudly and suddenly. They all turned to her with surprise. Even the young girl stopped licking her lollipop, her mouth open, cherry tongue hanging halfway out. Before the man said anything, before the child started to cry, before the woman could meet her ten dollars and raise her twenty, Amity opened her purse, pulled out her wallet, and grabbed a fistful of bills. She counted out a five and five singles, thumbing them quickly into the outstretched hand of the man.
Puppy’s for $10. Your in luck. A high-bird. Boys and girls. It would make a nice story for her students.
Just as the man placed the warm and sleepy puppy into Amity’s arms and she pulled him to her breast, she looked down at her sneakers. On the pavement by her feet was a large puddle. Her frozen ice cream and pizza and peas had started to melt, as if her water had just broken and her womb was crying with joy.
chapter 46
On the court today,” Fred said, taking a sip of wine from his plastic cup, “you were good.”
“I was rusty.” Catherine leaned back in her beach chair and looked up into the dark Maine night. She had one arm hooked around Karma, who lay heavy in her lap, exhausted from their first day of vacation. Sequoia snored on a large beach towel at their feet.
“We are all rusty. Anyone over fifty has a little oxidation. But give yourself a break. You haven’t played in forever.” Fred stood and stoked the fire with a thick branch. They both watched the flames dance, then he sat back down. “Our goal this week is to blow out those cobwebs from your chassis.”
“Blow out my chassis? Really?” Catherine wasn’t sure if he was flirting with her or she with him, but it hardly mattered. They both laughed.
She’d so wanted to impress him with her tennis, but she’d never found her racket’s sweet spot. Her timing had been off as she’d swung too early on volleys, too late on ground strokes. Despite her own disappointment, she’d been pleasantly surprised by his game. In the four months they’d known each other, Fred had never told her he was good, never made a deal out of it the way Ralph would have. Ralph would have bragged about playing tennis in college or having box seats at the US Open.
“By the end of the week you’ll be good as new,” Fred promised. “And no more excuses about not playing when we get home.”
But Catherine knew there hadn’t been excuses so much as other commitments. After the shoot-out at the Seven Oaks corral, Audrey had threatened to prosecute her for breaking and entering into the real estate center and the house on Fletcher Lane, but in both cases it was just Audrey’s word against her own. No fingerprints. No forced entry. Amity had taught her well. Besides, Catherine made it clear that if charges were filed, she would tell everyone at the dog park that Audrey stole her husband. It wasn’t true, as Catherine learned, but rumors have a way of rebounding and imploding within the protective boundaries of a gated community.
In a single meeting with a mediator, Ralph and Catherine agreed to separate. They worked out the preliminaries of a financial arrangement involving the house and retirement assets. Without further drama, Ralph moved his golf clubs and Civil War memorabilia downtown, to a two-bedroom rental Audrey found for him on Whitaker Street. Thoughtfully, Fred kept Catherine busy, organizing picnics with the dogs and museum and lecture outings for just the two of them. He even took her on a haunted walking tour, though their tour guide, dressed in top hat and tails, looked more like a judge at Westminster than a ghost hunter.
“My forehand wasn’t working.” Catherine buried her toes into the sand, still warm from the afternoon. “That’s usually the best part of my game.”
“Could be, but distracting me with your legs was a wonderful strategy.”
Catherine still couldn’t get used to his compliments, whether it was about her dinner ro
lls or her dancing. And although she was still self-conscious in the bedroom, Fred was infinitely patient during their lovemaking, paying careful attention to her needs. Are you all right? Would you like me to touch you here? Does this feel good?
Fred cleared his throat. “There’s a regular Sunday round-robin I think we should join when we return. I’ve already inquired and they’d be happy to have us.”
“So we’re a team?”
“If you’ll have me as a partner, it’s official.”
Catherine felt excitement rise in her throat. She might have even shouted for joy had it not been for the sleeping dogs. “This is cause for celebration,” Catherine said, sitting forward.
Karma stirred briefly, sleepy eyes half-open, as Catherine transferred him to Fred. Their dogs were exhausted from their morning walk in West Quoddy Head, with the silver-gray fog creeping in from the sea and the distant moan of a foghorn. After they had returned to the cabin, they played in the lake for hours as the sky cleared, Fred and Catherine throwing tennis balls to Karma, while Sequoia stood knee deep, slapping the water with her forepaws, trying to grab fish.
“I’ll be right back,” Catherine said.
She followed the gravel path to the two-bedroom log cabin. It wasn’t fancy, but with an unobstructed view of the lake and plenty of privacy, the rental suited them perfectly. A collection of antique leather-and-wood snowshoes hung from the walls; Mason jars filled with dark smooth rocks populated the heavy bookshelves. Much to her relief, the moose head over the stone fireplace was hand sewn and looked as if it had been pieced together from flannel pajamas. The master suite held a comfortable king-size bed with a colorful quilt and extra wool blankets should the weather turn. Catherine was secretly excited by the prospect of rain in the forecast during their week at the lake.
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