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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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This time, I woke to the alarm clock and there was no throb of the press beneath my bed. When I entered the kitchen, Dad was sitting in the breakfast nook, still wearing his pajamas, staring into his coffee mug. I poured myself some coffee, refilled his mug, and slipped onto the seat opposite him. “So … no big jobs today?” I asked.
“No. Not 'til next week.” He focused on me. “It's been great having you here, Jo.” He smiled. “Like old times.”
“Yeah. I've enjoyed it, too.”
“When are you coming back?”
I knew he meant for good, not just for a visit. I looked out the window at the rooftops, the forest of satellite dishes, decaying water towers, rising smoke, and thought of the broad sweep of fields and sky and clean smell of Bayfield. “I don't know, Dad. I'm happy there.” Suddenly, I realized this was true. Whatever happiness is, I'd found a kind of contentment in that remote corner of south Jersey that I'd never felt in Queens—or Manhattan.
But was it right to be content at thirty-two? Something was wrong with that. Wasn't there a fine line between contentment and complacency? Maybe that's why I was always getting mixed up in these crazy escapades. As with most unpleasant moments of truth,
I quickly buried this one. I reached across the table and pressed Dad's hand. “I'll try to come up more often—and maybe you can come down. You can take the train to Philly and I'll meet you at the Thirtieth Street Station.”
“On your Honda?” he asked wryly.
“No, I'll borrow somebody's pickup. We'll travel in style.”
That brought a laugh. “I don't know what you see in those rednecks—except Canby. He's different.”
“Right, Dad.” I rose and gathered my things together.
“Are you leaving right now?”
“I have to get back. I have patients to see.”
“Of course.” He walked me to the door but didn't accompany me down to the street. He wasn't dressed.
“Thanks for the bed-and-breakfast, Dad.” I gave him a hug and left.
 
 
It was a perfect morning. I got off the train a few stops early so I could walk in the city. As I swung up the subway steps, the air that greeted me was cool and crisp. The sun's rays slanted down the sides of the buildings, creating a golden haze in the street. People were walking even more briskly than usual, to their jobs, schools, stores, whatever. I joined them, heading for Penn Station.
As I walked, I thought about Dad and our years together. He had accepted the role of single parent with no fuss, no help, and no support groups! It couldn't have been easy, running his own printing business and looking after an energetic kid like me. I thought of that annual report that wouldn't dry. It was funny now, but it must have been hell at the time. Until Dad looked at it from a different angle, focusing on the paper instead of the ink. Hmm. Maybe I was approaching
my
problem from the wrong angle. Focusing on Regina, instead of the victim—Jane Lansing. I began to feel excited. I could go see her husband. What was his name? I dropped out of the surging throng and
drew a copy of the obit from my wallet. “Frederick B. Lansing, assistant professor of art history at Columbia University.” I wondered if he was still there. I could call and find out. But what pretext could I use for talking to him? I pondered this as I turned my steps from Penn Station to a subway that would take me to Morningside Heights.
On the ride, I made my plans. I would pose as an investigative reporter for a bogus magazine. Doris Lane (sister to Lois, of
Superman
fame). And
Quest
would be the phantom magazine. I would stop at a copy center and have some fake business cards made up. Fortunately, I had shed my jeans and was wearing my black ensemble—black sweater, black pants, and black clogs. My backpack was the only false note. I could leave it in the hall when I went in to interview him, I decided. My only worry was finding Lansing's office. I would have to pry the location out of Administration, never an easy chore and with security so tight these days … . But I'd think of something.
 
 
Clutching my newly minted business cards, I entered the university's administration building. The receptionist at the front desk was young and casually dressed, which was a break. I figured she should be easier to bamboozle than some prickly old biddy who went by the rule book.
“Did you want something?”
Not the more correct “May I help you?” I noted. A good sign. “I'm a reporter investigating the Lansing case and would like to speak to Mr. Lansing.” I handed her my card.
“
Dr.
Lansing?”
“Of course. Sorry.” This woman had probably been a teenager when Jane Lansing had died.
The receptionist studied the card so intently, I was afraid she would discover some flaw. But she handed it back and reached for a battered booklet that I hoped was the faculty address book. She ran
her finger down the page and looked up. “He's in Johnson Hall, third floor, room six. But he's in class now. His office hours are from two to four.”
I glanced at my watch. It was only 10:15. Four hours to kill. Shit. An older, more smartly dressed woman came out of an office at the back. She looked at me curiously. “Need any help, Ginny?” she asked.
My heart skipped a beat.
“No. It's all right,” Ginny said.
“Thanks very much.” I said, and quickly left.
When I was safely out of the building, I sighed, contemplating my four-hour wait. I decided I could sneak into the back of a classroom and brush up on my education.
I chose a classroom in the Art Department building. There was a slide show in progress, so it was dark. I slipped in the back easily without being noticed. I'd always wanted to take some art courses, but my premed schedule had never allowed for such indulgences. The female professor was spouting some gobbledygook about the theory of aesthetics. I concentrated on the slide on the screen—a pen and ink drawing of praying hands. The delicate fingers pointing to the sky reminded me of a church steeple. With her remote, the teacher advanced to the next slide. A close-up from an oil painting of a farmer's hand wrapped around a spade. Square and sturdy, it conveyed a sense of power. Next came a statue, which I actually recognized, Michaelangelo's
David,
followed by a slide of just his hand, grasping the stone he would later use to bump off Goliath. His strong fingers curled around the stone, full of purpose and intent. I thought of Max's hand, lying useless and inert. I grew restless. What am I doing here? Wasting time. I crept out the back and went in search of a coffee shop.
I found one on Amsterdam Avenue. The fragrant fumes pulled me in off the street. But everywhere I looked, I saw hands. The girl working the cash register; the young man in the corner with his laptop; the elderly woman seated by the window, stroking the owner's cat; my
own hand as I lifted the steaming mug to my mouth—and set it down again. I knew I had to get Max to a surgeon as soon as possible so he could do all these simple things again—things that we take for granted. If I was lucky and could find the right surgeon before Max's muscles degenerated too much, he might be able to go back to printing—or even magic!
 
 
When two o'clock arrived, I was waiting outside Dr. Lansing's office. He was five minutes late. Lanky and disheveled, he came loping down the hall, laden with the usual professorial paraphernalia—books, papers, and briefcase. He had to set them on the floor before he could unlock the door. “Come in. I'll be with you in a minute,” he said to me.
I took a seat. While he removed his worn tweed jacket with elbow patches (was there a special store that sold those to professors?) and made some order out of the chaos on his desk, I used the time to examine his office. The woodwork was dark brown and the walls a colorless beige. He had made an attempt to brighten it up with prints and family photos. On top of a bookcase stood the framed photo of a plain woman, but whose eyes radiated intelligence and humor. On the other side was a photo of a younger, prettier woman, holding a sweet-looking boy of about two. So Professor Lansing had remarried and had a child. Maybe he would no longer be interested in his first wife's death.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair and with a pleasant smile asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I'm Doris Lane, a reporter for
Quest
magazine.”
“I don't believe I've heard of it.”
What a surprise! “It's fairly new.” I prayed he wouldn't ask to see a copy. “Its purpose is to take an in-depth look at old news stories, problems that have never been resolved, from missing artwork to missing persons … .”
He frowned. “But I don't see what this has to do with me.”
“We know that your first wife's death was never solved, Dr. Lansing.”
His gaze flashed to her picture on the bookcase and his expression changed from mild to angry. “Yes, the police seem to have reached a stalemate. The case is still open, and they report to me once in a while. But there's been nothing new for some time.”
“What do you think happened to the person responsible?” I asked.
His expression grew darker. “They think she is still in the city, but they haven't been able to locate her. They suspect she may have fallen on hard times and disappeared into that fringe population that live in rooming houses or homeless shelters. Too young to collect Social Security or qualify for Medicare, they are almost impossible to trace.”
“Have they searched these places?”
“Yes, but it's a bottomless pit. There are so many people. Most of them don't give their real names, and, of course,
she
has a special reason not to.” He smiled without humor. “It's hopeless, I'm afraid.”
I had been taking notes. Now I looked up. “Maybe my magazine can help … inject new life into your quest.” I felt like a real rat.
“Perhaps.” His tone was not hopeful. He glanced over my shoulder through the open door and called out, “I'll be with you in a minute, Jeremy.”
I turned and saw a young man in a Columbia sweatshirt hovering in the hall. Time to go. “Thank you for talking to me, Dr. Lansing.” I rose. “If any new evidence should turn up, I'd appreciate your contacting me.” I handed him my card, on which was printed Dad's phone number. If things went well, his phone would be ringing off the hook.
Lansing rose and shook my hand. “Good luck with your article. Will you send me a copy?”
“Of course, if it ever sees the light of day.” My guilt feelings had
escalated. “If there isn't enough material, sometimes articles never make it into print.”
He nodded and remained standing until I left. “What's the problem this time, Jeremy?” I heard him greet his student.
As I made my way down the hall, I was brimming with mixed feelings—disappointment at learning so little, and a deep feeling of sadness for the nice professor and his dead wife. Even though he had remarried, I felt he still mourned her. I wondered why I was so eager to help someone who was partly responsible for this tragedy. Max hadn't pushed the woman in front of the taxi, but he'd said Regina had probably learned the technique of bumping into her victims from him. I wrestled with these mixed feelings all the way back to Bayfield.
After my visit to Manhattan, getting back into my routine in Bayfield wasn't easy. Some of that electric energy had rubbed off on me and I felt recharged. I went through my daily tasks, checked on Max and Lolly, but I didn't feel the same involvement I'd felt before I'd left. I felt as if I was looking at them through a telescope, from a distance. Meeting Frederick Lansing and seeing the photo of his wife had changed my perspective toward Max. But not Lolly. Warm, bubbly Lolly was in no way responsible. But her father was far from blameless.
Tom was the first to notice the change. Our archery lesson didn't go well. I was too jittery.
“Steady,” he kept intoning. “Relax.”
I tried, but my aim was way off. Finally, he gave up. After he put the tackle away, we ended up on the porch.
“You're restless, Jo,” he said after I'd paced the porch several times.
My dad would have said I had ants in my pants. I flopped into a wicker chair in an attempt to prove him wrong.
“What did you do in New York besides nurse your father?”
I blinked at the white lie he had tossed innocently in my face. “Not much. He felt better the second night, so we went out to dinner at one of his favorite eateries in Brooklyn. Then we walked across the bridge to Manhattan. It was a favorite outing when I was a kid.”
“The view of the skyline must be spectacular,” Tom said.
“Yeah.” I paused. “But now there's this big gap.”
“I see,” he said. “This was the first time you'd taken that walk since before nine-eleven.”
I nodded. Since I couldn't tell him the real reason for my moodiness, I let him think it was 9/11.
He got up, went behind me, and started kneading my neck and shoulders. It felt good.
“Did you know anyone who was lost that day?”
“No … I didn't.” I wasn't going to lie again. “I had a close friend who worked on the top floor of one of the towers. I couldn't bring myself to call her all day. Finally, I got up the courage around ten o'clock—and she answered the phone! She had gone to visit her mother in Connecticut that day. I burst into tears, and so did she. Of course, she had lost many friends and coworkers … .”
“It's hard to imagine. I don't have a TV, but I listened to the radio all day.” He stopped massaging my shoulders.
“Don't stop.”
“Let's go upstairs, where it's more comfortable.”
He meant his mattress with the old patchwork quilt that his grandmother had made. He gently pulled me from the chair. Meeting no resistance, he led me inside and up the stairs. His bedroom took up the whole second floor, with large windows on all four sides and a skylight overhead. It was an old house, but he had redesigned the second floor himself. He called himself a carpenter, but he was really an architect—without the credentials.
Being in this room was like being in a spaceship, especially at
night with the stars overhead. I loved to lie flat and look up at them. But my view was quickly blocked by Tom coming toward me. His first kiss was gentle, but when I responded, the gentleness vanished. I forgot the stars and thought only of him.
BOOK: Sleight of Hand
3.39Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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