Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  He laughed halfheartedly. The layman never appreciates doctor stories when they involve doctors’ mistakes.

  “I suppose you’ve been too busy to hear about the gangster that was dropped in our midst.”

  “I heard.”

  “Did you hear they ID’d him?”

  I looked up.

  “He was a Philadelphia printer … .”

  I swallowed.

  “And he had a sideline.”

  My heartbeat quickened.

  “Counterfeiting.” He scanned my face for a reaction, then went on. “Seems there’s a printer living a stone’s throw from where the body was found. At the old Wister place. Rumor is there might be some connection.”

  “Huh.” I put down my Coke.

  “Heck, I’m surprised you’re not working on the case by now.” Tom chuckled.

  I smiled weakly and stood up.

  “Another early night?

  “’Fraid so.”

  “When’s our next lesson?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Right.”

  He skipped his usual good-bye kiss.

  CHAPTER 16

  Despite the two bottles of wine tucked in my saddlebag, my mood was sober as I chugged up the drive to the farmhouse. The archery lesson had reminded me once more of the importance of right hands—and the possibility that Max might never be able to use his again. Also, the news that the fellow found up the road had been a printer was not encouraging. Could there be a link? Was Max into counterfeiting, too?

  As usual, Lolly came to greet me. She was more bubbly than ever, and delicious aromas drifted to me from the direction of the kitchen. She was wearing an apron that barely covered her vast bosom and she brandished a slotted spoon in one hand.

  “What are you making?” I asked, sniffing.

  “Surprise!” She grinned.

  I really did not think she was capable of cooking anything more complicated than steak or eggs. I doubted if she could even read a recipe. I followed her back to the kitchen. To my amazement, the table, which had so recently served as my operating theater, was set with place mats, silverware and a spray of fall wildflowers.

  “How beautiful!” I exclaimed

  For a minute, I was afraid Lolly was going to rise like a balloon—with pleasure. But she kept her feet on the ground. I set my brown paper bag with the wine on the table. She took out the bottles and started to put both in the refrigerator. I stopped her. “The red doesn’t need to be chilled.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “That’s supposed to be served at room temperature.” I took the red from her and put it back on the table.

  Lolly went to the cupboard and removed two wineglasses. They were dusty, so she washed them.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  She shook her head. Then, changing her mind, she brought me a corkscrew.

  “Can you tell me what we’re having for dinner?” I needed to know, in order to decide which wine to open.

  She frowned, not wanting to spoil her surprise.

  “Never mind,” I said hastily. “We’ll wait and open it when dinner’s ready. I’ll go check on your dad.” I left. Lolly, like most cooks, worked best without too many distractions.

  The TV was on, but Max wasn’t watching it. He was sprawled on the sofa, his eyes glued to the den door. At first, I thought it was me he was waiting for so expectantly. But as soon as I came in, he said, “Did you get the wine?”

  I smiled. “You’re not eager or anything?”

  “It’s been a long time,”

  “Oh?” Was I leading a reformed alcoholic back to his evil ways? “How come?”

  “Lolly has no ID. She can’t buy alcohol.”

  I stared. “You mean you can’t leave this place even to go to a liquor store?”

  He didn’t answer.

  This man might as well be living on a desert island, I thought. What was he afraid of? I suddenly saw the body down the road in a different light. Could it have been a warning to Max?

  “So, how long has it been since you had a drink?” I asked.

  He closed his eyes, calculating. “About six years.”

  “Holy mackerel! You can have my share.”

  He shook his head. “No fun drinking alone.”

  “Let’s see your hand.”

  He held out his hand and I began to undo the dressing. As I unrolled the bandage, revealing the two damaged fingers, I drew a sharp breath. The index finger was slightly swollen.

  He had noticed my alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I took some iodine solution from my kit and painted the wounds, hoping it was just my imagination. I slid on a sterile glove and prodded the finger gently. Max winced.

  “That hurt, didn’t it?”

  He shrugged. Translation: a lot.

  “You may have some infection. I’m going to give you another antibiotic.” I dug a syringe from my bag and removed the plastic wrapper. When I was poised to give him the shot, Max asked, “Whatever happened to pills?”

  “This is quicker.” I slipped the needle in and withdrew it.

  “Is it that bad?”

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to answer, because Lolly appeared in the doorway.

  “Dinner is served.” She bowed slightly.

  I was wafted back to the first time I’d cooked dinner for my dad. I was about nine at the time. I had served burgers and ice cream. He had raved about both, even though the burgers were raw and the ice cream was soup because I had put it out too soon. He swore it was the best meal he’d ever eaten.

  As we trooped after Lolly toward the kitchen, tripping over cats in the hallway, I had a strange sensation, as if I was leading a double life—one with Max, Lolly, and the cats, the other with Maggie, Paul, and Tom. The question was, Would the two ever meet?

  CHAPTER 17

  On each plate lay a hefty chunk of steak, a baked potato swimming in butter, and a mound of canned peas. Suddenly, I realized I was starving. Max reached for the red wine and studied the label. It was a very ordinary table wine, but he seemed delighted. There was a tense moment when, without thinking, I handed him the corkscrew. He refused it, saying, “You’d better do the honors.”

  I took the bottle over to the sink, where I could recover from my blunder and add one more item to my list of things you need a right hand to do: twist a corkscrew.

  We all ate as if we had been fasting for days. Everything tasted delicious, even the peas. Lolly had added enough salt and pepper to disguise their blandness. Max drank most of the wine. I sipped mine slowly. I was worried about the swelling of his index finger. If he got a full-blown infection, I wouldn’t be able to treat it there at the house. He would have to go to the hospital. I tried to put this out of my mind and contribute to the conversation. Soon we were discussing a TV program we all enjoyed, about a detective who suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder. We were laughing over something in a recent episode, when Max’s face became contorted with pain.

  “What’s up?” I paused mid-chew.

  “My hand!” He bent over it.

  I ushered him quickly back to the den.

  “What about dessert?” Lolly wailed.

  I sat him on the sofa and swiftly removed the dressing. As I examined his fingers, he groaned. Knowing his macho nature, I guessed he was suffering great pain. I handed him two Percocets. “They should help,” I assured him.

  He tried to joke. “I guess I didn’t drink enough wine.”

  Lolly came to the door bearing two plates of chocolate cake.

  “Thanks, honey,” Max said. “Put them over there.” He nodded at the desk.

  She obeyed. “Now I’ll get mine,” she said cheerfully.

  When she was gone, I took his pulse and listened to his heart. Both were within normal limits. I felt his forehead for fever. It was cool. He grabbed my right hand with his left, turned it palm upward, and kissed it.

  I dropped the pill bottle I was holding in my other hand and
bent to pick it up—glad of an excuse to hide my feelings. Surprise, embarrassment, and even a sensual response were jostling for position. I found the bottle and stowed it in my bag. When I finally dared to look at Max, he was almost asleep. Then I understood. The wine, plus the Percocet, was what had prompted the kiss. What was wrong with me? I knew better than to allow a patient to mix alcohol and strong medicines. I also knew better than to mix business with pleasure. I was sure my diagnosis was correct, and I was annoyed at my feeling of disappointment. To my chagrin, I found myself half-wishing the kiss had been caused by something other than chemicals. Or was it simply deprivation? I wondered how long it had been since Max had made love. Six years? I allowed myself a wry smile before tucking him into bed—or, rather, into the sofa.

  Lolly brought the afghan and I got the pillow from the parlor. When we were sure Max was asleep, we took our cake back to the kitchen. Lolly ate hers, but I only toyed with mine. I was making a decision. Should I spend the night on the parlor sofa? As unappealing as this prospect was, I didn’t see how I could leave Max, in his present condition, with only Lolly in charge. What if the infection flared up?

  I stayed.

  As it turned out, Max slept through the night, but I didn’t. I kept wondering why he had not left the farm, even to perform a simple errand, for six years!

  By morning, the swelling in his finger had gone down. The penicillin was beginning to do its work. I didn’t tell Max I had spent the night. I pretended I was making an early-morning call. I didn’t want him to feel beholden to me. Or—worse—to think I had given his impromptu kiss any special significance. If he remembered it at all—which was doubtful.

  CHAPTER 18

  The next few days passed routinely. I went about my business, dropping by to see Max once a day to change his dressing. There were no further alarms. The healing process seemed to be progressing at a normal rate.

  Sometimes I asked myself, Why am I doing this? I no longer felt that Max would harm Lolly. Was it guilt? Did I suspect I had caused the accident by popping in on him that way? That was part of it. I knew I had upset him, and right afterward he had been careless with the press. My conscience wouldn’t let me desert him. I had to do what I could to make amends. But there was something else. Curiosity. I was curious about this man. What was his story? I didn’t believe for a moment he was the stolid farmer-printer he pretended to be. A singular force emanated from him, which he continually tried to suppress. I sensed someone quite different lurked under the ordinary tradesman facade. And, yes, I wanted to know if he had anything to do with that body down the road.

  Each time I came, I noticed a slight alteration in his attitude toward me. He was becoming less suspicious, more friendly. I tread very carefully. I wanted to gain his confidence. That was the only way I would be able to convince him to get the special reconstructive surgery he’d need once his hand had healed.

  Meanwhile, Lolly and I were becoming good friends. She rushed out to greet me every day and tagged after me like a puppy. And when I left, she looked like she was going to burst into tears.

  I was growing fond of her, too. And I worried about her health. Once, I came in to the kitchen while she was eating lunch. On her plate was a huge mound of potato salad, a generous portion of cold cuts, and a roll. Next to this was a glass of milk, as well as another plate with an enormous slice of chocolate cake. A perfect candidate for diabetes or heart disease, Lolly also might have thyroid problems. I made a note to test her thyroid and give her a general physical examination in the near future.

  I sat down at the table and explained to her that she should eat more fruit and vegetables, and cut out the starches and sweets. She nodded agreeably, but I never saw any change in her weight. If only she’d had a mother who was in charge of the food shopping, but Lolly did all the shopping herself. And she bought only what she liked. I mentioned this to Max, but it went in one ear and out the other. He had enough to worry about.

  One day when I had finished with Max, Lolly accosted me in the hall and said, “Come upstairs.”

  “What for?”

  She smiled and tugged at my arm. I hesitated. I didn’t make a habit of snooping in my patients’ homes. For a split second, professional ethics battled with bald curiosity.

  “Come on!”

  “Well … just for a minute,” I said, deciding to humor her.

  She led me up the main staircase to the second floor, then to a small door at the end of a hallway. Behind this door was a flight of much narrower steps, which led up to the attic.

  “I don’t think we should …”

  She planted her right foot on the bottom step and began to heave herself up to the next. The space was almost too narrow for her wide buttocks. Reluctantly, I followed. I was fearful that Max might find us—he was more mobile now—and I knew the fragile trust I had so painstakingly built between us could easily be destroyed.

  The attic was a clutter of discarded clothes, furniture, cartons, and trunks. Everything was covered with a thin layer of dust. Lolly headed straight for one of the trunks. She threw open the lid and grabbed up a skimpy scarlet costume. It glittered with spangles. I reached out to feel the material—soft and silky.

  Lolly burrowed like a bear through the rest of the contents, pulling out one thing after the other—a rumpled tuxedo shirt, a top hat, more brief silk costumes in different shades of pink, lavender, and green, all decorated with spangles or sequins. I admired everything, but my mind was racing like a NASCAR driver, trying to figure out what the contents of the trunk meant.

  Tiring of the trunk, Lolly trudged to the back of the attic and began tugging at a large piece of cardboard. Finally freeing it, she dragged it toward me and turned it around.

  I didn’t gasp, but it was hard not to. It was a poster. Filling the central space was the figure of a man in a tux and a top hat—a younger, more debonair Max. Behind him, more sketchily rendered, was a scantily clad woman. Beneath the two figures, in bold red type, flowed the words MAX THE AMAZING!

  I had barely taken this in when we heard Max himself call from below.

  “Lolly?”

  For a split second, we were both paralyzed. Then I acted. “You go down,” I whispered. “I’ll hide back here.” I pointed to a bunch of old clothes that were hanging from the rafters.

  “Coming, Daddy,” Lolly cried.

  “What are you doing up there? I’ve told you a hundred times not to go up there.”

  “I was looking for something.”

  “You have no business …” Their voices grew fainter as they moved down the stairs to the first floor. I prayed he wouldn’t notice my motorcycle, which was still parked in the drive—and that Lolly, in her innocence, wouldn’t spill the beans.

  Ten minutes passed. Twenty. I could stand the tension no longer. I crept to the top of the stairs and strained to hear them. All I heard was the TV, which they left on all day, whether anyone was watching it or not. Lolly had such a short attention span, she could easily forget I was here. I decided to risk it. I had work to do and other patients to see.

  I tiptoed down the stairs. There was no sound on the second floor. The only occupant was Sapphire, snoozing on a windowsill. The first floor seemed deserted, too. When I reached the side door, I had a moment of panic. How could I disguise the sound of my motorcycle when I left? Wait, I thought. If Max was in the den, I could roll it down the drive and along the road a bit before I started the motor.

  I ducked out the back door and loped over to my bike. I was struck, as I often was, by the emptiness of the landscape—and the silence. There were times in Bayfield when I had the feeling I was the last person on earth. I released the brake—another one of those things you do automatically with your right hand—and began to roll it down the drive. If only Max doesn’t come out, I prayed.

  “I thought you’d gone.”

  I jumped. Turning, I saw him standing in the doorway of the barn. My mind went blank. I could think of nothing to say. He began walking towar
d me. I swallowed and took a deep breath. There was no point in lying. The only way I could save our fragile relationship was to tell him the truth. When he was a few yards away, I said, “Lolly wanted to show me something …”

  He waited.

  “In the attic.”

  He blinked, which was my only clue that he understood.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone up there,” I said.

  “Why not? Is it that dirty?” His laugh was sarcastic.

  I said nothing.

  He moved closer. He was only a few feet away when he said, “So, now you know. I had two careers. So what? It’s a growing trend, I hear. Would you like me to show you a few tricks?” His voice took on the high-pitched treble of the practiced performer. “Max the Amazing will now disappear in a puff of smoke!”

  In a crowded theater, it might have sounded exciting, but in the midst of empty fields and sky, it sounded eerie. My gaze fell on his bandaged hand. He had rolled the sleeve of his plaid work shirt above his elbow to make room for the bandage. The skin of his exposed upper arm looked pale and vulnerable. I wanted to cry.

  “Don’t worry.” He read my mind. “I won’t be going back to the stage. Sleight of hand is a thing of the past for me.” He paused. Then he said, “Do you have a minute?”

  I didn’t. “Sure,” I said.

  He turned toward the house.

  I rolled my bike back up the drive and parked it. Max held the door for me with his left hand. I could hear Lolly singing some childish nursery song—“I had a little nut tree,/Nothing would it bear”—as she went about her chores in the kitchen. He ushered me into his inner sanctum—the den. The last thing I saw before he flicked off the TV was Oprah laughing.

  CHAPTER 19

  Max settled onto the sofa and began his story.

  “I grew up in a small town in western Pennsylvania—very much like Bayfield. It was quiet and pretty and there was absolutely nothing to do. I was a smart kid and I was bored out of my mind. On the main street, there was a movie theater and a hobby shop. I spent my spare time running back and forth between the two. I loved the glamorous musicals of the forties and fifties—An American in Paris, The Red Shoes, Singin’ in the Rain—and sometimes they would bring these back and show them. And I loved the dark, musty atmosphere of the hobby shop.