Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  pick a flower,

  throw a ball,

  catch a ball,

  swat a fly,

  unscrew a jar,

  turn a doorknob—or a page—

  peel a banana,

  sign a check,

  write a letter,

  open a letter,

  paint a wall,

  hammer a nail,

  button a button,

  stir soup,

  make a fist,

  clap.

  A Zen saying came to me: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” I gave a short laugh at my black humor. Oh my god, the list of things you couldn’t do with one hand was endless. Not the least of which was running a printing press! Under normal circumstances, a printer needed three hands—even if he employed a printer’s devil.

  I dropped the subject. It was too depressing. Instead, I began to think about my patient’s personality. Max was gruff and threatening, but—with a shock—I realized he didn’t really scare me anymore. I had detected an underlying tenderness in his treatment of Lolly. That’s probably why I hadn’t totally believed his crazy threats. And his pose as a shabby farmer-printer didn’t ring true, either. There was a force to this man. And the woman in me detected plenty of testosterone under that fake facade. If he had been younger, I might even have been attracted to him. Squelching that silly thought, I concentrated on my next problem: How was I going to convince Max to go to a medical center and have reconstructive hand surgery?

  CHAPTER 10

  When Paul came in with a number of parcels, Maggie was still at the front desk. “Any problems?” he asked, not really expecting any. In tranquil Bayfield, there was rarely any trouble—except when bikers came to call. But that had only happened once.

  She yawned and shook her head. “Have you seen Jo?” she asked.

  “Not since this morning. Why?” He glanced at her sharply. Paul had developed a fondness for the young woman doctor, and he knew she had a habit of getting into trouble.

  “We were supposed to go to the farmers’ market this afternoon, but she didn’t come. And when I called her room, there was no answer.”

  Paul shrugged. “She probably had an emergency.” But he felt anxious.

  “Maybe, but she usually calls …”

  “Want me to take over now?” he asked, changing the subject. He didn’t want to hear any more worrisome news about Jo.

  “Okay. Then I can go to the store before dinner.” She gathered up her knitting and a tote bag full of paperbacks, the survival kit of a motel proprietor, and planted a kiss on her husband’s bald pate.

  Tom pulled into his driveway and unloaded his archery tackle. Then he unloaded a second tackle, the one he had prepared for Jo to use—had she turned up for her lesson. He wondered if she was done with her emergency. Falling for a doctor had its drawbacks. His best-laid plans were often blown to smithereens. However, this particular doctor was worth it. He had recovered from his earlier disappointment. Jo was the first woman he’d met who didn’t play games. She was absolutely honest—to a fault, sometimes—and she never teased or cried or played the coquette. Three attributes that were worth their weight in gold. If he had to put up with an occasional disappointment, they were a small price for the benefits of being her man of the moment.

  Of the moment? Tom grabbed a beer from the fridge and ambled onto his screen porch to enjoy the sunset. Was that all he was? A passing fancy? There had been a time when he had thought differently. But with Jo, it was hard to tell. Not because she was fickle. Not at all. But because she didn’t seem to know her own mind. It had to do with that misdiagnosis in Manhattan. He stretched his legs in front of him and sipped his beer. She still hadn’t come to grips with the death of that child—Sophie. She still blamed herself. Until she makes peace with her past, he thought, she won’t be able to plan her future. He, of all people, should know about that.

  Across the fields, the red disk paused on the horizon for a split second, then—as if pulled by unseen hands—disappeared. When all that remained was a salmon stripe, Tom stood up. If she needs time, he told himself, I’m a patient man. I can wait. He went inside to eat a lonely supper.

  Tom was not the only man thinking about Jo over a lonely supper. A hundred miles north, in Queens, in an apartment over a print shop, her father stared with a melancholy expression at the silent phone on his kitchen wall. He had learned not to call his daughter too often. It annoyed her. He had trained himself to wait for her to call him. But the waits were long and it was hard. During the days, it wasn’t so bad. He still had the remnants of his printing business. Despite the change in technology, some loyal customers continued to patronize him. And recently he had landed a new printing job—a semiannual bulb and seed catalog. But the evenings seemed endless. He wasn’t a big TV fan and his eyes were too weary after a day in the shop to read much. When the weather was fine, he’d go for long walks. He lived on a busy thoroughfare and he liked to join the bustle—trucks loading and unloading, shoppers, mothers with children. He didn’t even mind the teenagers who, pushing and shoving one another, sometimes bumped into him. He felt less alone on the street. Then he’d stop at his favorite tavern, Murphy’s , for a beer or two, and by the time he got home, he’d be ready for sleep.

  But tonight it was raining. Even if he went for a walk, the streets would be empty. Absently, he flicked through a magazine. The National Geographic. Jo had given him a subscription last Christmas. It probably was about to run out. He admired the photos, which were first-class. And the printing job, of course, was the best in the world. But he wished they’d write more about things he knew instead of all those faraway places with their weird fish and birds.

  Brrrring.

  He jumped. The phone rang so seldom after business hours that it always startled him.

  “Dad?”

  “Jo. What’s up?”

  “Oh, not much. I just wanted to check in—and I have a question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember that time I caught my finger in the Multi?”

  “Sure. Scared me to death.” He chuckled.

  “Well, I have a patient here who did the same thing—with two fingers.”

  “Oh god …”

  “Well, here’s my question. Do you remember how long it took for my finger to heal?”

  He frowned, trying to remember. “It was years ago. You were fifteen.” Now she was thirty-two. “About two weeks, I think. I remember I had to hire a kid to replace you in the shop.”

  “That’s what I thought. Well, I’ll tell my patient he can expect to be out of work for at least two weeks.”

  “Does he run his own shop?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “He has a Multi.”

  “No kidding. I thought they had all hit the graveyard by now.”

  “It’s not in the best shape.”

  “So, how’re you doing?”

  “Great.”

  “You still liking the country?” His voice held a wistful note.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “I was wondering about the holidays … .” He didn’t want to plead, but he dreaded facing Thanksgiving and Christmas alone. Not that he ever had. Jo had always come through in the end. But she tended to wait until the last minute. Of course, he knew she was busy.

  “We’ll get together, Dad. Either here or there. You can count on it.”

  “Good.” He couldn’t think of anything more to say, yet he yearned to keep her on the line. “I started the mock-up for that new catalog today.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Okay.”

  “Who’s setting the copy?”

  “Lizzie.”

  “God, is she still alive?”

  “She’s only sixty-five, Jo,” he said reprovingly.

  “Sorry. Seems like she’s been around forever. Well, I better go.”

  Those dreaded words. “Okay. Good to hear from you.”

&nbs
p; “Bye, Dad.”

  He replaced the receiver gently, as if that would keep her on the line a little longer. Sometimes he thought he should have married again. But he’d never met anyone who could hold a candle to Jo’s mother.

  CHAPTER 11

  I decided to go back to the motel before heading for the hospital. I craved a shower and a change of clothes. I cursed the slowness of my bicycle. Of all days not to have my Honda. The ride seemed interminable. As I pulled into the lot, Paul came out of the office and waved me over. “We were worried about you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Maggie was expecting to go to the farmers’ mar—”

  “Oh god.” I struck my head. “I forgot.”

  “An emergency, right?”

  “Right. Big-time,” I said truthfully.

  “An accident?”

  “No …” I paused, still feeling obligated to keep Max and his injury a secret. The less attention he attracted right now, the better. “Cardiac arrest,” I said, lying.

  “Anybody I know?”

  “No. An out-of-towner. But he’s going to be okay,” I said. “Gotta run. Tell Maggie I’m sorry.” I ran up the steps to my room.

  As I passed the massive mirror over my bureau (the only motel furnishing I hadn’t replaced), I was shocked by my appearance. The operation had taken more out of me than I’d realized. And the encounter with Paul had reminded me that I was still locked in my glass box, separated from my friends by this transparent but impenetrable barrier created by the secret I had to keep. Max’s threats still hung over me, and I couldn’t trust him completely until I knew he had nothing to do with that body down the road.

  Brrring.

  Phone.

  Let it ring. But it might be a patient. It might be Max. I picked up.

  “Hey!” Tom.

  “Hey.”

  “Free tonight?”

  “Sorry. I’m beat. It’s been a rough day.” I repeated the out-of-towner story.

  “How about tomorrow? We have to make up that archery lesson.”

  “Oh, right. Tomorrow would be good.” I had to keep up some appearance of normalcy during the next two weeks. I couldn’t hold Max’s hand the whole time. (Poor choice of words!)

  “What time?”

  “Uh … around three o’clock?”

  “Great. At my place. See you then.”

  I hung up and casually tucked my newly acquired revolver into my underwear drawer.

  CHAPTER 12

  When I pulled up to the farmhouse that evening, the house was dark except for one square of light near the side door—the parlor window. Lolly drew me into the dim hallway. “Daddy’s upset,” she whispered.

  “What’s the matter?” I hurried into the parlor, visualizing my patient tossing and turning with a raging fever, his hand swollen to twice its size.

  He was lying pale and still on the sofa, eyes closed.

  My god, is he dead? I wondered.

  I grabbed his good wrist and felt for a pulse. It was normal. His eyelids flew open. His startled expression was replaced by relief before his sullen mask fell into place. “What’s the matter?” His tone was surly.

  “That’s what I want to know. Lolly told me you were upset.”

  He cast his daughter a grim look.

  “You were upset, Daddy,” she said.

  “I just remembered I have a job due tomorrow,” he said. “Three hundred programs for a school play.”

  “One color?”

  “Yeah. Black on orange. An autumn theme. But how am I going to do it?” He glared at his bandaged hand. “I can farm the rest of the jobs out, but there’s no time—”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  He stared.

  “My father’s a printer, remember? I worked with him. I can run a one-color job on a Multi blindfolded.”

  “I wouldn’t try that.”

  Was there a glimmer of humor? Probably my imagination. “Sit up,” I ordered. “I have to take off the sling and check your dressing.”

  A trace of blood had oozed through the gauze, but nothing to worry about. I touched his bound fingers gently. “Does that hurt?”

  He shook his head. If there had been any inflammation, his fingers would have been tender and he would have flinched. So far, so good. I readjusted his arm in the sling.

  “Are you having much pain?”

  “No.”

  It was hard to tell if he was being macho or telling the truth. Men! “Did you have anything to eat?”

  “He said he wasn’t hungry,” Lolly broke in.

  “I think you should sleep in your own bed tonight,” I said. “Not on this thing.” I cast a disparaging glance at the stiff Victorian sofa. “It’s important that you get plenty of rest.”

  “Okay.”

  My god, he was docile. What had happened? “And if you want to wash, cover your hand and arm up to the elbow with something waterproof—like a plastic bag, The dressing must be kept dry during the recovery period.”

  “Which is?”

  “About two weeks,” I said, dispensing my newfound knowledge.

  He grimaced.

  “I’ll be over early in the morning to change the dressing—and run that print job.”

  He stared at me hard. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you doing all this? You have my gun. I’m helpless. You can leave us anytime.”

  I shrugged. “It’s for Lolly. She was a big help to me today.”

  Lolly beamed. “It’s true, Daddy.”

  “One good turn deserves another.” I began packing up my equipment. “Do you need anything? Food? Supplies? I could bring them tomorrow.”

  “Lolly can take care of that.” His tone was sharp again.

  I was relieved by the return of his gruff manner. The very submissive patient is often a very sick patient. I turned to Lolly. “You remember those pills I gave you in the kitchen?”

  She looked blank.

  Uh-oh. Short-term memory might not be one of Lolly’s strong points, I realized. “I’ll show them to you again before I go.” I scribbled my cell number on a prescription blank and handed it to Max. “Call me, no matter how late, if the pain increases, your hand begins to throb, or if you think you have a fever. Anything at all.”

  He took the slip of paper with his left hand and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

  I went with Lolly to the kitchen and found the two Percocet tablets on the table where I’d left them. I filled a glass with water and carried the glass and the tablets back to the parlor. “These are for pain. Don’t be afraid to take them. Do you want me to help you with the stairs?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Overkill, I thought. Back off, Jo. Time to leave.

  I was going out the door when Lolly said, “Will the police be back today?”

  I froze on the threshold.

  “They came this afternoon—to talk to Daddy.”

  So that’s what upset him, I thought. Since my throat was paralyzed, she went on. “They said they were asking all the neighbors about the body down the road. They wanted to know if Daddy knew anything about it.”

  “Did he?” It came out before I could think.

  Lolly frowned, trying to remember.

  “Did your dad know anything about the body?” I asked in a quieter tone.

  She shook her head.

  A wave of relief washed over me—until I realized this didn’t prove anything. What else would Max say?

  “If they come again, call me,” I told her. “Promise?”

  She nodded, her expression solemn.

  “Don’t worry.” I gave her a quick hug. I wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right, but I couldn’t be sure of that.

  CHAPTER 13

  As I trolled down the darkening road, mulling over this latest development, I spied two small figures walking along the side. As I drew nearer, I recognized them. Bobby and Becca, two young friends of mine. I shut off my motor a
nd coasted up to them.

  “Hi, Jo!” Becca’s face lighted up.

  Bobby, more reserved, gave me a cautious smile.

  “What are you two guys up to? Isn’t it a bit late to be out on a school night?”

  “We’ve done our homework,” Bobby said hastily.

  Becca, the older—and cooler—of the two, didn’t deign to answer my question. “We’re planning something,” she said enigmatically.

  “Oh?”

  “We’re planning a magic show,” Bobby said, letting the cat out of the bag.

  “We’re deciding what tricks to do. We have a book. See?” He held up a tattered paperback bristling with colored markers. I could just read the title in the twilight. Magic Tricks: Fool Your Family and Friends.

  “Sounds good. Where are you going to hold this show? In a barn?”

  “We’re performing in a talent show at the junior high school auditorium in November—just a few weeks from now,” Becca said haughtily. (No barns for her.) “But you better get your ticket soon. They’re selling fast,” she warned.

  “Wow! Am I impressed. When did you guys learn all this?”

  “We’ve been practicing for weeks,” Bobby said proudly. “Ever since Becca found this book. She’s the magician; I’m just her helper.”

  “The helper’s very important,” Becca said kindly. “I couldn’t do it without you.”

  Bobby shuffled his feet. But, recovering quickly, he announced, “We’re doing card tricks and juggling, and even pulling a rabbit out of a hat!”

  The headlights of a passing car illuminated their faces and I caught a glimpse of their excited expressions. “Well, I’ll be in the front row. You can count on that,” I said.

  They both grinned broadly. Even Becca forgot her cool.

  I throttled down and took off with a wave. A brief encounter with people outside my glass box—normal people, with simple pleasures—did wonders for me. I slept like a rock.

  CHAPTER 14

  It was a perfect fall day. The blue sky curved smoothly overhead like the inside of a china cup, the soybean plants were the color of melted cheddar, and a brisk breeze blew wood smoke from a neighboring farm. It’s rare when the weather fits your mood, but this day it was in perfect sync. It was a good kite-flying day—and I felt as high as a kite.