by Teri Brown
The boy comes toward me, a wide smile on his face. “Da told me to wait and not to muss my clothes.”
The boy in the black velvet knee breeches hardly resembles the waif passing out flyers all those weeks ago. I was half afraid they’d absconded with the money I gave them for clothes, but I was counting on his father’s business instincts to come through. A chance for his son to be a permanent magician’s assistant would be a better opportunity in the long run than the ten dollars I’d given them earlier this week.
“That’s the swankiest car I’ve ever ridden in,” he exclaims.
I look out across the street. Cynthia waves to me and points, indicating that she’ll be in the audience. I wave thank-you and turn back to Dante.
I lead him by the hand to the theater. We pass the musicians setting up in the orchestra pit. Mr. Darby is waiting for me just offstage.
“All finished here.”
I give him a hug. “Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure, missy.” He gives Dante a conspirator’s wink. The two of them are already fast friends, having met when we practiced the illusions.
I kneel, face to face with my new assistant. “You remember everything we went over yesterday?”
Dante’s eyes are as wide as his smile and he looks like he’s been scrubbed within an inch of his life.
“Yes. I remember everything.”
“Good. Do you have to go to the bathroom? Get a drink of water?”
He shakes his head solemnly.
“Perfect.” I lead him back to the wings to where the set has been hidden. “I need you to hide under here until you hear your cue. Remember, there’s going to be a singer coming out and then dancers, so it will seem like a very long time.”
“Don’t worry, miss. I know what to do.” He gives me a confident nod.
I grin in spite of my nerves. He’s like a little old man in a seven-year-old body. I pull up the black coverlet and he scoots underneath.
I hold out my hand and he shakes it. “Good luck,” I tell him.
“Good luck,” he says.
I’m going to need it.
Tension ricochets through the dressing room like a bouncing ball. Mother sits straight backed at her vanity, pretending to fix her flawless makeup. I can’t help but pace, going over every detail of the new act in my mind. I’m counting on Mother’s showmanship to cover up her surprise. Then she will have nothing to do but watch as her daughter steps from the shadows into the light. My turn at last.
I just wish I felt less guilty about what I’m about to do.
A knock on the door signals that it is time for us to go on. My mother rises and we walk silently into the hallway.
Then she holds out her hand. I look at her open palm extended toward me and I take it, hurt forming in my throat at our old tradition.
“Are we ready?” she asks.
I look into her eyes. They’re flat. Cold. Emotionless. The urge to cry disappears as my pain and anger once again take hold.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer.
“Are we going to astonish them?”
I look at her and I feel a strange, triumphant smile curl my lips—one my mother has no doubt given many times. “You have no idea.”
She falters for a moment, but I grip her hand more firmly and keep moving.
This time when the curtain opens I stay in the spotlight, my pulse racing. I hit every line and cue until my mother introduces me. Then I step forward and wait until the audience settles, pausing a few beats more for effect. I’ve watched my mother captivate audiences for years. Now it’s my turn.
Tonight I’m wearing a black silk chemise dress, heavily beaded with white pearls that shimmer as I move. It’s perfect for the dreamy mood I want to set.
I hold out my hands to show a deck of cards, then I begin manipulating them. Card flourishes aren’t really magic unless you show the audience things they aren’t expecting to see, such as cards disappearing and reappearing in different places. The tricks are lovely to watch, with their delicate fans and arches, but difficult for an audience as big as this one to see. I exaggerate my movements just a bit and a cello below me in the orchestra pit begins playing, a soft melodic tone. I’ve always wanted to add music to the act and now I match my movements to the melody.
“What is magic?” I ask the audience, projecting loudly. I spent most of last night trying to figure out what I would say—this performance is, after all, my swan song. “I’ve spent my life among magicians and performers and I’ve always wondered what true magic is. Is it what my mother does? Is it what Harry Houdini does? Is it real?” At this point I show the audience the eight of spades. Turning toward my mother, I show her the card. “Or is it trickery?” I place the eight of spades between my teeth and turn sideways. Then I hold a large fan in one hand, diverting their attention for a fraction of second. Waving my free hand over the fan, I pull out the eight of spades from the end of the deck. No one saw it move from my mouth.
The audience claps and I give a little bow. Then I turn toward my mother, whose smile is frozen on her face, waiting for a cue that isn’t going to come. I flash my audience, my mother, and the whole world a smile. “Tonight, you be the judge!”
At that, a violinist joins the cello and the music swells. Dante rolls out the long table, just as smoothly as we’d practiced. I almost laugh at the confident set of his head and the haughty look on his face. He exudes professionalism and I follow suit. The table is loaded with the props I’ll need. First, I hand Dante the deck I’m holding and move into the routine we’ve practiced in Mr. Darby’s basement. The theme of the performance is freedom, and the audience gasps as I set various items—a card, a ball, and finally, a large hoop—free, levitating them magically around the stage.
Excitement flows through my veins, and at the end of each trick, I bow my head slightly toward my mother.
Look, Mother, no hands!
When it’s time for the finale, I stop and face the audience, breathing hard. This is my pièce de résistance. A few members of the audience are clapping uncertainly, not sure if this is the end or not. The applause fades as the music quiets, the delicate notes of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” filling the theater. I turn and hold my hand out to Dante. He comes to me, so small, trusting, and innocent. The audience sighs. The kid should be an actor.
I lead him to the table that’s been cleared of all props. Helping him onto the top, I hold his hand for a second before releasing it. The success of this trick, any trick really, is in how it’s presented, and this is worth a slow, languorous buildup. The music slows further, into a hypnotizing lullaby, and I feel the audience holding its breath. I dance to the other side of the table and bend to kiss Dante’s forehead like a mother putting her child to sleep. I wave my hands slowly over the sleeping child in time to the music. Then I twirl to the front of the table and slowly lift the black coverlet over Dante’s body. The audience can now see under and around the table.
Dancing to the end of the platform, I slowly, carefully, detach the end piece. It now looks as if half the table were floating in air. I gracefully wave my hand where the wood had been to show that there is nothing holding it up. Then I dance to the other end and remove that piece as well.
The audience gasps. I hear murmurs of surprise and shock. Picking up the silver hoop, I begin at Dante’s feet and move it across so his body goes through the ring.
The audience goes crazy, whistling and clapping. I give a demure curtsy and then permit myself a moment to luxuriate in the sound. As I look into the audience, I see a man rise to his feet in the first row. I blush at the compliment, then freeze as I realize who it is.
Harry Houdini.
My heart bursts as the rest of the audience joins him in a standing ovation and for a moment I can’t move. Then the music begins anew and I remember my routine. I put a trembling finger to my lips and then point at Dante, as if reminding the audience of the sleeping child. As soon as they are quiet, I gracefully put the t
able ends back on one at a time, fold the black velvet back off Dante’s body, and help him off the table. He exits stage left and the music stops.
I look back out to where I’d spotted Houdini, but he isn’t there. A magician always knows when to make his exit.
“And now, it’s my mother’s turn to amaze you!” The audience claps politely.
I pivot, triumph pounding in my chest. I’d nearly forgotten her during the end of my performance, and now I brace myself, waiting for her anger to hit me like a wave. But instead of anger, I feel hurt. She blinks at me, her eyes bottomless pools of bewildered hurt.
Mother falters for a moment, then pastes a smile on her face and moves on to her portion of the show. She leaves out the muscle-reading trick completely. Though she performs without a hitch, her heart isn’t in it. Her movements are stiff and wooden, her voice flat. Her part in the show is anticlimactic, and everyone, especially my mother, knows it.
As we leave the stage I hear a few people yell my name. Mother walks a few feet ahead of me, her back ramrod straight.
The triumph I felt onstage ebbs, leaving my chest tight and empty. I follow her to the dressing room, even though I would rather be anywhere but there. But I knew when I planned my debut that this moment would come. Only a child would run away, and I’m no longer a child to be intimidated. I can take whatever she has to give.
Only she doesn’t give me anything. She just goes to her dressing-room table and drinks down her wine in several long gulps. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t look at me. Picking up her hairbrush, she runs it through her hair awkwardly, her movements lacking her normal catlike grace.
I bite my lip, wanting her to say something, anything, so I can defend myself. I want to let her know I’m different, that things have changed, but she remains silent. I begin to feel more and more like a child too naughty to be acknowledged.
The door opens behind me and Jacques comes in. He rushes to my mother, a frown on his face. “Magali, darling, are you all right?” He bends over my mother and she leans her head against him. “I could tell from your performance that you were not feeling right. Anna was brilliant, but you did not seem well at all. Is there anything I can do?”
His voice is creased with worry and concern. In the mirror, I can see that her eyes are closed, and I am struck by how drawn and tired she looks. Not like my mother at all. Her hand snakes up and he reaches out to grasp it, bending down to put his lips against her hair.
Then, for the first time, Jacques’s emotions transmit themselves to me strong and clear from across the room.
He’s achingly in love with my mother.
Suddenly I feel as if I’m peeping in on something I shouldn’t be seeing. Forgotten, I slip from the room, more alone than I’ve ever been.
Twenty-five
I stumble down the hall, looking for Dante and Mr. Darby, and instead find the short, compact figure of Harry Houdini waiting for me.
He smiles. “I couldn’t leave without congratulating you on your performance. You really are a magician, Anna.”
Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them away. “Thank you, Mr. Houdini.”
“And your mother. She is as lovely as I remember. Did she tell you that we knew each other long ago?”
His voice is mild, but his eyes are not. The look he levels at me burns right down to my soul. “Yes. She did,” I answer simply.
“Ah. I thought she might.” He pauses. “I must go. Please give my regards to your mother and again, congratulations on a fine performance.”
He turns to leave, but I catch his sleeve. I may never get another chance to ask. “Are you a . . .” I catch myself and rephrase the question. “Do you have psychical powers, Mr. Houdini?”
He laughs, his eyes amused. “You must have been reading the ravings of my former friend, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Anna!”
I hear Mr. Darby calling from behind me, but I press on. “Do you?”
Houdini’s face stills. “I’ve said it before and I will say it again. I do not. Now, you should go; your friend is calling for you.”
Frantically, I send out a ribbon only to find it . . . blocked.
With another unreadable look, the great magician turns and walks down the hall.
I stand there looking after him, loss, grief, and desolation warring in my chest. Without another word, I turn to where Mr. Darby and Dante are waiting for me.
I accept their congratulations woodenly as we wheel the table to the waiting truck.
Cole is fidgeting outside when we come through the doorway. I stand slightly away from the group as the table is loaded into the back.
“Careful now.” Mr. Darby grunts, gripping his end. “This thing is worth its weight in gold.”
I don’t tell him that I’m not sure I have the heart to use it again.
Ezio is waiting to take his son home. I can’t tell which one is prouder, Dante or his father. I bend and give Dante a hug. “You were wonderful.” I hand him a five-dollar bill, which he pockets.
“Anytime you need me, I’m your man!”
I watch them leave, the father’s hand on his son’s shoulder.
Without a word, Cole’s arm folds around me. I tilt my head back to look into his eyes. He’s hardly spoken to me for days, but he knows without a word how I’m feeling.
I give him a small half smile, liking the feeling of his arm across my shoulder. I shuffle closer, noticing Mr. Darby has already climbed into the truck to leave us alone. I want to tell Cole that I’m sad and confused and lonely. I want to tell him how much I love my mother and how much I hate her at the same time. I want to tell him how desperately I wish she loved me back the same way I love her. I want to tell him how I feel about Houdini, who may or may not be my father. “I forgot my coat,” I say instead.
“Do you want me to go get it?”
I shake my head, thinking of the scene I just left. “No.”
“You’ll get cold,” he objects.
I move even closer into the protective circle of his arm. “No, I won’t.”
Heat flares in the depths of his dark eyes and his arm tightens, but all he says is “We should get home, then. We need to get the table unloaded and return the truck. Besides”—he looks up at the sky—“I think it’s going to snow.”
The ride home is quiet. Cole keeps his arm around me and I’m grateful that he doesn’t press me for answers to the questions I sense swirling in his mind.
The first flakes are falling as we unload the table. After we put it away, Mr. Darby leaves to take the truck back before the snow starts to accumulate.
“You want to tell me what happened?” Cole asks, handing me a cup of tea. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, the fire from the stove warming my frozen limbs.
I stare at the steam coming off the tea as tears sting my eyes. Putting my head in the crook of my arms, I sob until I can’t sob anymore. I hear Mr. Darby return, but he slips out as quietly as he came in.
I wipe my eyes and then tell Cole everything from the very beginning. I tell him about seeing the Titanic sink and the time I envisioned stacks of dead bodies in the street just before the Spanish flu made that vision a reality. I tell him about my fear of policemen and about all the menial jobs I took in order to research clients. I tell him about my mother’s obsession with Harry Houdini and how badly I wanted to believe he was my real father.
I talk until I’m almost hoarse, and as the words pour out of me, I realize how much time I’ve spent alone, waiting for my mother to come home.
At some point during my monologue, Cole places his hand over mine. I become aware of his concern as I wind down with the scene in the dressing room. I don’t tell him about talking to Houdini. It’s too personal, and I don’t know how I feel about it yet.
“Do you think your mother loves Jacques, too?” Cole asks.
I raise a shoulder. “I don’t know if she’s even capable of love.”
“Everyone’s capable of love, missy,” Mr. Darby
says from behind me.
He takes my untouched cup of tea and pours it down the sink, then adds water to the kettle and puts it back on the stove to heat. I wonder how much he’s heard about my visions and decide I don’t much care.
“Your mother did the best she could with the talent and beauty God gave her. She was a woman alone raising a child, and instead of giving you up, she kept you with her. You spent your life traveling, meeting new people, and seeing new things.” He raises a hand when I try to speak. “No, what you saw wasn’t always pretty. Sometimes it was ugly and hard. But life is both the pretty and the ugly. Sometimes you were alone and afraid and hungry. Lots of people are alone and hungry.”
I sit silent, taking it in. Part of me wants to argue, but I’m too tired to find the words.
The kettle whistles and Mr. Darby makes me a fresh cup of tea. I notice for the first time that the sink is full of dishes and crumbs cover the counters. He sees me looking at the mess as he hands me my cup.
“The cleaning girl didn’t show up today. It’s so hard to find good help. Now drink this and you’ll feel better.”
I sip obediently.
“I don’t want to be too hard on you. Your mother is a cold woman. But I bet in all that travel you had some real good times too, didn’t you?”
I think of Swineguard, Kam Lee, and all the rest who went out of their way to befriend me and teach me how to survive. I nod reluctantly. Parts of our journey have been wonderful.
“There you go,” Mr. Darby says smugly.
“There I go what?” I’m irritated and exhausted and I hate being told that I’m wrong. It’s another thing I have in common with my mother.
“I think what he means is that you take the good with the bad because you don’t have a choice. That’s what life is made up of.” Cole gives my hand a gentle squeeze and I feel his sadness.
I wonder if he’s talking about the war. About losing his father. It’s no wonder he takes life so seriously. I squeeze his hand back.