Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  “What?”

  “This lady at the Wister place was beating on her kid with a stick. Her dad came out and tried to stop her, but the lady fell and hit her head. She didn’t get up again.”

  I stared at Bobby.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Your father didn’t report this?”

  “No …” The boy suddenly looked scared. “He didn’t want to get mixed up with the law, he said.”

  “What was he doing on the Wister property?”

  “Muskrat trapping.”

  “That’s against the law, you know.”

  “It is?”

  “You know that.” Becca nudged him. “You can do it on your own land but not on other people’s property.”

  Bobby was quiet. He also seemed to have lost his appetite. His eyes were full of fear. Not because of what I might do but because of what his father might do if he found out that his son had been divulging the family secrets. “You won’t tell my dad I told you, will you?”

  “No, Bobby.” I smiled. “Don’t worry.”

  He attacked the remains of his sundae.

  I chose a time when Bobby was in school to drop in on Mr. Shoemaker. His place was in its usual ramshackle state—toys scattered over the front yard, wash on the line, rusty auto carcasses behind the house. I knocked on the door. Mrs. Shoemaker opened it, holding a crying infant. Other children could be heard shrieking in the background. A dog barked, adding to the din.

  “Shad up!” yelled their mother over her shoulder, and the baby cried louder.

  “I’m sorry,” I shouted. “I’m afraid I’ve come at a bad time.”

  She stared at me without recognition, although I had treated her son Bobby for several weeks when he was knocked off his bike by a car. “I just wanted a word with Mr. Shoemaker.”

  “He’s out back.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  She shut the door without further ado.

  I waded through the tall grass to the back of the house. There was the sound of metal banging against metal and a sweet odor that was vaguely familiar, although I couldn’t place it. I scanned the auto bodies for some sign of life and spied two feet sticking out from under one of them. I went over and bent down. “Mr. Shoemaker?” I shouted.

  “What’s it to you?” came from under the car.

  “This is Dr. Banks. I’d like to talk to you.”

  He pushed his legs out, followed by his butt, then his torso. Finally, his head appeared. Not a pretty sight. Long hair, unshaven chin, large gaps where teeth should have been, and the whole smudged with black grease. But I was pleased to see he was working. I hadn’t thought he ever worked.

  “What’s up? That damned kid of mine in trouble again?” He got to his feet and pulled a plug of tobacco from his pocket. He bit off a piece and began to chew. “Want some?” With a smirk, he waved the half-eaten plug at me.

  “No thanks.”

  He laughed and shoved it back in his pocket. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ve come to ask about something that happened a number of years ago.”

  “My memory ain’t too good.”

  “But it’s very important. A man’s life may depend on your help.”

  “My help? How’s that?”

  “One hot August afternoon a few years ago a storm was brewing and a woman at the Wister place went out back to take in her laundry. Her teenage daughter was helping her. They began to argue …”

  Mr. Shoemaker stopped chawing. His mouth fell open and his complexion changed from ruddy to pale.

  “Then the woman began to beat the child with a stick. Do you remember anything like that, Mr. Shoemaker?”

  He remained mute.

  “At this point, the child’s father came out and tried to stop the woman …”

  “The brat probably deserved it.”

  I ignored him. “During the ensuing skirmish, the woman fell and hit her head …” I paused. He had grown paler. “And she never got up again.”

  He looked at me hard, his face ruddy again but this time with anger. “So what’s this got to do with me?”

  “One of the people involved saw you in the field that day.”

  “Not that dim-witted girl. Her say-so would never hold up in court.”

  “No, Mr. Shoemaker. Her father saw you.”

  He was taken aback, but he recovered fast. “So what? I was minding my own business. I was busy trapping. I didn’t see nothin’.” He started chewing again.

  “Trapping in another man’s field,” I said.

  “That fellow don’t own that land. He’s a squatter.”

  “A tenant. He pays rent, and as long as he does, the use of the land is his.” I took a deep breath, wondering how I was going to persuade this slug of a man to help me. Suddenly I knew the source of the sweet odor that permeated the air. I looked past Mr. Shoemaker at the field behind his house. Marijuana. Row after row of it waving in the breeze. Bobby’s father had a nice little business going.

  Shoemaker followed my gaze and began to steer me back to the front yard. “We can talk better on the porch,” he said.

  I sat in a rickety rocker that hadn’t seen a paintbrush in years; Shoemaker sat on the step, chewing for all he was worth. I told him my proposition. It was very simple. He would testify to what he saw that day—that Regina’s death was an accident—and I would keep quiet about his crop.

  “I don’t want to get mixed up with the law. I don’t trust them lawyers,” he whined.

  “You have nothing to do with this accident, Mr. Shoemaker. You were just a bystander. The law has nothing to do with you.”

  “But they twist things.”

  That, I couldn’t deny. “But you have nothing to hide. You were minding your own business—walking through the fields—just like you told me.”

  “No, I was trappin’.”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Huh?”

  “You were just taking a walk,” I repeated. “You know, there are lots of ‘walkers of the field’ around here. People looking for Native American artifacts—arrowheads, pottery shards … That’s what you were doing, right?”

  “Oh, sure.” He gave a short laugh, catching on at last. “I love those redskins.”

  “I hear your son Bobby has quite a collection of arrowheads. Didn’t you help him find them?”

  “Oh, yeah. I found most of them. That kid has no eye.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I winked at him and got up to go. “I’ll be in touch when we have a trial date,” I said.

  As I mounted my bike, I took one last look at the field behind the house. “That sure is a fine crop, Mr. Shoemaker.”

  The cocky smile he’d worn while we were conspiring about the trapping disappeared. He turned abruptly and went into the house.

  CHAPTER 53

  Little by little, things seemed to be falling into place. Peck had lost interest in Max. I had found an eyewitness to Regina’s accidental death. Granted, not a very reliable witness, but a strong hand should keep him in place. The only thing left was to clear Max of any connection with Jane Lansing’s death. This was the last obstacle standing between Max and his reconstructive surgery. Once this was accomplished, he and Lolly could live a relatively normal life. But this last obstacle might be the hardest to overcome. It had been my first stumbling block, and I still could see no way around it.

  One day when I stopped by to see Max, Lolly appeared, looking disheveled and covered with dust. She said she was cleaning the attic. She seemed worn-out, so I offered to give her a hand. I began by emptying the trunk that held Max and Regina’s old costumes. They were still in good condition. We gave them all a shake and hung them on the clothesline to air. With their bright shades of pink, purple, turquoise, and green, they made a pretty rainbow flapping in the breeze. As I pinned the last pair of spangled tights to the line, Lolly came running out, holding something in her hands.

  “Look what I found!” she said, and han
ded me a silver sphere about the size of a tennis ball. It was beautifully made and had a seam around it, as if it would open, if you knew the right combination. But try as I would, I couldn’t find its secret. “Where did you find this?” I asked her.

  “In the bottom of the trunk.”

  It looked valuable, so I took it in to Max and asked him what he wanted me to do with it.

  Taking the trinket from me with his good hand, he stared at it for some time. He seemed deeply moved. “We sent notes to each other in this during our performances,” he murmured.

  I suspected they were love notes.

  He pressed the base of the sphere and it sprang open. Inside was a sheet of paper that had been folded over many times. He set the sphere down, drew the sheet out, and unfolded it awkwardly. I thought of helping him, then decided against it. As he read, his expression underwent a variety of changes, from apprehension, to curiosity, to solemnity, to sadness. When he finished reading, he handed the sheet to me.

  It began with some words written in a girlish hand: “To Max, in memory of our magical days (and nights) together.”

  This was followed by a typewritten confession, signed, witnessed, and notarized. It said that she, Regina Rawlings, née Regina Cox, was alone responsible for the attempted robbery and subsequent death of Jane Lansing. “In the case of my death, this document will completely exonerate my husband, Max Rawlings, from any part in this crime,” it concluded. Then, in her own hand, she had signed her name, Regina Rawlings.

  When I looked up, Max had left the room.

  Jubilant at this incredible turn of events, I would have been ready to celebrate—except for one shadow that hung over me, not Max: the threat of the black hand. During the day I could ignore it, but at night my subconscious took over and I would wake up from a terror dream, shaking. It was always the same. I was blindfolded and shoved in a car. When we reached our destination, I was told to get out and kneel down. I knelt and waited for the first shot. I always woke up before it came—but in a cold sweat.

  CHAPTER 54

  Lolly and I sat in the waiting room on the surgical floor of Pennsylvania Hospital. It resembled most hospital waiting rooms: pale green walls (was there a special shade called “hospital green”?), uncomfortable metal chairs, old magazines strewn around, and a television in one corner with the volume set so loud that you couldn’t talk to your companions—if you had any.

  We had been there since 6:00 A.M., the time of Max’s operation, and now it was almost eight o’clock. Lolly was getting fidgety—and I was getting worried. “Why don’t you go down to the snack bar and buy us some coffee and doughnuts?”

  Her face lit up.

  “You remember where it is?”

  She nodded. I gave her some money and she took off. When I was left alone, my thoughts flew to the operating room. I tried to imagine what stage the surgeon had reached. Had he been able to correct the regeneration problem? Were they sewing up the incisions? Would Max be able to work again? Why was it taking so long? I began imagining all kinds of dire developments—a severed tendon, a blood clot flying to his heart or brain, the anesthesia being too much for him. He was no spring chicken. I kept wishing I was in there. The surgeon had offered to let me observe, but I had declined, knowing someone would need to stay with Lolly. But I wanted to be there. I felt so helpless out here.

  Lolly came back. They had given her a cardboard carrier for the coffee cups. The coffee was steaming. It would be a while before we could drink it. I grabbed a doughnut and took a big bite. Lolly ate hers more delicately, brushing the sugar off her hands with her napkin after each bite. At one point, she sighed and said, “I wish Sapphire was here.”

  I was glad there was no one else in the waiting room. I didn’t feel like making small talk. I tried to think positively, imagining all the things Max would soon be able to do—pick up a cup of coffee, turn the page of a magazine, tie his shoes … .

  The surgeon appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Banks …”

  “Yes?” I stood up.

  “The procedure was difficult because of the time lapse since the injury. Regeneration was well established. But there is a chance, with therapy, that Mr. Rawlings may regain some use of his right hand.”

  Real life, I thought. A cautious prognosis. No magic formulas. No miraculous cures. Just a feather of hope: if he followed a hard and painful course of therapy, his hand might become partially right again. And it will be up to me, I thought, to see that Max sticks to it. No, it won’t! I suddenly realized. Max was free now. Since he was no longer a fugitive, I could assign him a therapist, like any other patient. I felt a surge of exultation. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “He’s in the recovery room. He won’t wake up for about an hour. Why don’t you two”—he seemed to notice Lolly for the first time—“take a walk and get some breakfast.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed.

  Lolly had been listening to the doctor carefully, but as soon as he left, she asked, “Is Daddy okay?”

  “Yes, sweetheart.” I hugged her. “He’s fine. He’ll be sleeping for a while. When he wakes up, we’ll go see him.”

  She smiled.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  The weather was mild for November. The sunlight filtered through the sycamores, spattering the redbrick pavement. At the end of a row of brick houses, I saw a sign that said PINE STREET CAFÉ. As we hurried toward it, the aroma of coffee, bacon, and freshly baked muffins floated our way. Sometimes it takes a crisis to make you appreciate simple things like bricks and trees and breakfast, I thought.

  It was a cheerful café. Sun poured in the windows, illuminating the blowups of old Philadelphia scenes that decorated the walls and glinting off the highly polished coffee urn. The delicious aromas we had sampled outside now enveloped us.

  Lolly headed for a table by the window. Only one person stared at her, a middle-aged woman. I stared back and she quickly looked down at her plate. Lolly settled herself comfortably and glanced around the room with delight. I envied her ability to live for the moment. She was totally content, all anxiety for her father forgotten. She reached for the little menu card and handed it to me to read. “Do they have blueberry muffins?” she asked.

  I scanned the menu. “Yes.”

  She smiled. “I’ll have two.”

  “One.”

  “Two.”

  “You just had a doughnut.”

  Her expression changed. I felt as if I’d pulled a cloud over the sun. “Oh, all right,” I said, relenting. The sun came out again.

  As I placed the menu back in its holder, a thought struck me. Now Lolly can learn to read! She knew her alphabet and recognized simple signs like STOP. But her special education had ended abruptly when she left New York for Bayfield. I had tried to teach her a few times but had failed miserably. Teaching the mentally disabled is a special skill. But I felt sure I could find someone in the area that had this skill. If she could read, someday she might be able to hold a simple job. I knew she was dependable and capable of many things. She had proved that when she helped me during Max’s operation, and in the way she cared for the cats, and the house, and her father. Elated as I planned Lolly’s future, I forgot all the obstacles that lay ahead—exhuming her mother’s body, her father’s coming trial. Taking a leaf from Lolly’s book, I lived in the moment and ordered two chocolate-chip muffins.

  “Oh, naughty.” Lolly shook her finger at me.

  “I’m celebrating,” I said.

  “Is it your birthday?” she asked eagerly.

  “No,” I said. “Yours.” She didn’t know it yet, but a rebirth was in store for her as well as for her father.

  She looked puzzled.

  “Sorry, Lolly, I know your birthday’s in July. I was just kidding.”

  The waitress brought our muffins, ending all conversation.

  CHAPTER 55

  Three days later, Max was tucked into bed on the sofa in his den, and the television was droning away. I had give
n Lolly my cell phone number and strict nstructions to call me if her father had any trouble with his hand. The cats had been fed and Sapphire was curled up on the end of the sofa, next to Max’s feet. It was a clear evening; the unusually mild weather had continued. I decided to take a spin before the sun set.

  As I rode, I realized I hadn’t really looked at the landscape for weeks. My mind had been focused inward, on my all-absorbing problems. There were still problems, of course. Digging up Regina’s remains, Max’s coming trial, the healing of his hand, dealing with the bureaucrats over Lolly’s future. But I felt all these things could be handled. No longer would I have to work in secret, bear the burden alone. I would have help. The glass box that had separated me from my friends had dissolved. I was back in touch with the world. Exhilarated, I pressed the accelerator. I hadn’t gone far before I realized I was heading for Tom’s.

  He was taking down his wash from the line behind his house. When he saw me, he hesitated, not sure what this unexpected visit meant. There was no archery lesson scheduled.

  I dismounted and ran up to him, embracing him amid all the fresh-smelling sheets.

  “Hey, watch it. I’ll drop them!” He laughed.

  “I’ll wash them again,” I said, kissing him fervently.

  Before we knew it, we were rolling on the grass amid the sheets and towels.

  “Holy Christmas!”

  “Not yet. We haven’t had Thanksgiving.”

  He untangled himself, dumped the now grass-stained sheets in the straw basket nearby, and pulled me to him. After a minute, he pushed me away so he could look at me. He must have liked what he saw, because he said softly, “Welcome back.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’ve been away a long time.”

  Meeting his gaze, I said, “I guess I have.”

  “Come here.” We clinched again, then retired to the porch and the wicker sofa, where we necked like two teenagers.

  After a while, from sheer exhaustion, we drew apart and Tom went in for a couple of beers. When he came back, I told him the whole story—from the day I heard the pulse of the printing press in the barn to Max’s operation. Tom was a good listener. The only time he looked skeptical was when I described the Mafia episode. But the look vanished quickly. He had learned that where I was concerned, the unbelievable was usually true. With one exception. He had to ask, “Do you really have an Irish grandmother?”