The Illusionist (13 page)

“I got 'em at the Rosary,” he said. The Rosary had been on Route 7 for years, next to Flaherty's Funeral Parlor. Somehow, when every other establishment had gone out of business, the Rosary was still there. There was always a need for flowers for funerals, for the dead.

“They looked like you,” he said. He held his chin down in his chest as he spoke.

She was watching. I could feel her dark eyes boring into us from across the room.

I took the flowers from him. “Mommy, this is Dean. Dean, my mom, Mrs. Saluggio.”

He bobbed his head at her, extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” he said, in his low voice.

She measured him. People around here usually didn't have good manners. It was probably the first time any friend of mine had brought flowers to me, or even shaken her hand. And the gesture was funny coming from him, since he was such a punk.

I left the two of them facing each other, and I went into the kitchen to search for a vase. I tore open the paper wrapping around the flowers. They were roses, dark red buds, almost black. I jammed them into a glass vase without arranging them or
cutting off the ends. I was in a hurry. I wanted to get him away from the scrutiny of her eyes.

She asked, “When will you be home?”

“Early,” I said.

*  *  *

It was snowing hard now. We drove in Dean's truck along Route 7, onto Route 27, and then the Parkway. The air around us was a wild flurry of white, and as we rode, snowflakes hit the windshield in little bursts. The snow was like a blanket, made it so private inside the truck, him and me, alone together, sealed off from all the world, and as we drove the heavy atmosphere lulled me, made me want to sleep.

Kozlow's stood on a hill over the Parkway at the end of an access road, a plain, red brick flat-roofed building. We always went to Kozlow's on special occasions, on prom night for instance. Tonight there were plenty of parking spaces in the lot because so few people were driving in this weather.

As we stepped inside the restaurant, we were hit by a blast of warm, moist air, and underneath the smell of cooking, you could detect the lingering odor of older meals.

We sat down in a booth by the window. Drops of moisture ran down the glass beside us. Lamps with stained glass shades hung from the ceiling, threw darts of red and yellow about the room. The walls were lined with black mirrors, and planters with long vines in them hung from the ceiling.

The window looked out over the highway, and down below you could see the headlights of cars pushing up through the furls of snow.

Dean said, “I'm paying. Order what you want.”

I looked down at the menu. I didn't care what I ate—
if
I ate. I didn't want to bother with eating. I picked the first thing my eye fell on—lasagna. Usually I didn't eat much. My mom was always telling me I was too thin, and then she'd say, “You're so lucky, you never put on weight.”

“Two glasses of red wine,” he said to the waitress.

“I don't drink,” I said.

“Have a little with dinner.”

He wore a little gold hoop in his ear. He wore two faded flannel shirts, one bluish plaid, the other green, one on top of the other.

His backpack lay on the floor and he reached down and removed two packages from it. I could tell he had wrapped them himself, the corners of the package were all crinkled and uneven, the bows awkwardly tied without curls. He handed them to me, and I laughed. “You don't have to do this. You brought flowers.” I was trying to keep from really laughing now because nobody ever did this around here. It wasn't cool. It was like he was doing something he had been told was right.

He said, “I wanted to give you a present.” So I tore open the bigger package. It was a teddy bear, a
real
teddy bear, one of the old-fashioned kind with matted-looking, grayish-brown fur that looked like a real animal's, not all shiny and synthetic looking. “He's so cute!” I cried. How did he know, I wondered, that I still loved stuffed animals? I hugged the bear to my chest as if it were my baby. “I'll always love him.”

He nodded at the other, smaller package. I opened that and inside was a bottle of perfume, Passion Flower. I squirted some on my neck and wrist. “Ummm . . .” I held my wrist out for him to smell and he sniffed it. “Nice,” he said.

“You didn't have to,” I said. “That costs money.”

“Money's no problem.”

“But I thought Chrissie said you lost your job.”

“Yeah, but I got money saved.”

He took a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and his Bic lighter and he cupped the two together in one hand, lit the cigarette. Cool little gesture. I watched his fingers, he had smooth, oval nails, and his wristbone was curved like a bird's bone, I noticed.

“So,” he said to me, “You with Brian?”

“No. Not in that way. Brian's like my—like my kid. Like a brother. I feel sorry for him.”

“You're too good for him.”

“I'm not good,” I said. “I'm not
good.
” I paused. “Are you with Terry?”

He seemed to think about that for a moment. “We're together,” he said, finally, blowing smoke through his nostrils. “But we got problems.”

“Problems?” I was always listening to people's problems. He didn't answer for a moment. I remembered Terry Kluge from high school. She was a couple of years ahead of me. I didn't know her that well. She was tall, a little stoop-shouldered like she was afraid of her height. Plain looking, but not ugly. Always with Eddie Lasko. She had his baby.

He was staring out the window of the restaurant, at the coronas of light from the cars on the Parkway below shining through the snow. He frowned. “Terry's good,” he said. “I love Terry. But,” he shook his head. “I don't know . . .” He left the thought unfinished.

I asked, “She know you're having doubts?”

He shook his head. “Hasn't said anything. Though maybe she feels it.” He looked at me. “One thing's Bobby, her kid. I feel responsible for him. I'm like his dad. It's complicated. Terry's so good. . . .” he said, and his voice trailed off. Then he shook his head. It was like he was suffering and couldn't finish the sentence. Now he looked directly at me, his oval eyes wide, as if the expression on his face should say the rest.

The glass of red wine sat in front of me on the table. He nodded at it. “Go ahead. It's a special occasion.”

I took a sip, grimaced. The taste was strong, unfamiliar.

“That's cute the way you do that,” he said.

When my lasagna arrived, I didn't touch it. Couldn't concentrate on eating. He hardly ate anything either. Kept asking me
questions and it was as if he was feeding me, making the words grow inside me, making me want to talk. Most kids around Sparta didn't talk—maybe because we'd all known each other so long.

And as I spoke, he sat still opposite me, his eyes fixed on my lips, as if—if he stared hard enough he could make the language flow out from my tongue, as if, to him, my voice was like music and he wasn't hearing the words but only the sound.

I told him I was lucky, had grown up with everything. I was spoiled, I knew. That was why I was a Christian now, why I had accepted Christ because He had given me so much. It had changed my life, I told him, accepting Christ—hoping to arouse his interest. I told him the most important event of my life, about my dad, and about Ralph Kurt Dewar, age twenty-four, and Kevin Valder Leach Jr., age nineteen, and I told him I knew now I would see my dad again because I knew he would be waiting for me in the Kingdom of Heaven.

He just listened, to the sound beyond my meaning. I told him I was looking for a job. I thought maybe I'd like to be a nurse or do something to help people, but I'd heard you had to have math to do nursing, and I had barely gotten through math in high school and I'd failed chemistry junior year.

“I can tell by your hands,” he said, “the way you move your hands.” He took my hand, rubbed his fingertip on the back, then turned it over and rubbed the palm. “You'd make a good nurse,” he said, with confidence.

I had never had sex with anyone. Never let anyone do it to me. Mommy said, “I want you to pay attention!
Look
at me—don't look away! Look at all those fifteen-year-olds with their babies and their lives ruined. And AIDS. Girls get it easier than boys. No matter what they say, condoms aren't enough to protect you against AIDS.”

Now, sitting opposite me, Dean asked, “So, how long have you known Brian?”

“Why do we have to talk about Brian? Let's talk about
you.
”

But he wasn't going to be deterred. “I want to know—tell me about him. If you're not his girlfriend, who is?”

“
I
don't know,” I said distractedly. “I feel sorry for Brian. I've always kind of taken care of him. He has a bad family. But girls like him, I guess—he's cute. Let's not talk about Brian,” I said again, trying to get him off the subject. “That magic stuff you do,” I asked. “Is it real?”

He shrugged, as if the topic didn't really interest him. “Started when I was a kid. Sent away for all these catalogs. I did it to make other kids like me.”

I smiled, embarrassed by my next question. “So, is it really magic?” I asked. “I mean, do you really use magic? Or, is it just like—tricks?”

He smiled, a mysterious, teasing smile. “Is there any difference?” he said.

*  *  *

We drove home. The air was choked with whirling flakes. He drove slowly, carefully, keeping his eyes on the snow-packed road ahead, the windshield wipers made a lullaby sound . . . whoosh . . . whoosh . . .

I had always loved the sight of a man next to me in a car driving, maybe it was that he looked as if he had power, and he was in control. One hand on the wheel with his cigarette, the other resting on his thin thigh. Eyes steady on the road. He didn't talk, wore that half-smile, conscious, I knew, that I was watching him.

When we pulled up in front of my house, I could see the lights blazing in the picture window. Ours was the only house on the street still lit up and I knew Mommy was keeping herself awake just for me.

He stopped the truck, but he kept the engine running. He didn't move to get out. There was silence.

We sat still, and I could feel my body inclining toward him like a plant growing toward the light. But he didn't kiss me.

Abruptly, he reached across me, opened the door on my side,
then got out of the truck and went around to help me down, leaving the engine running.

The walkway to our house was slippery, and he held my arm. At the front door, I paused. Hoping he would kiss me. But he took my hand, leaned over, touched me quickly on the cheek with his soft lips. “ 'Night,” he said, and hurried back down the path to the truck. I watched to see if he would turn back, look at me. But he didn't. Did he think I was ugly or something? Didn't he like me? What had I done wrong?

He climbed into his truck, shifted gear, and moved away, and I watched the truck moving slowly away through the snow. He didn't look back.

When I woke up the Sunday after I'd been with Dean, I had a headache from too much sleep. Mommy and I went to church, and I stood there and I sang the words to the hymn, and listened to Reverend Bill, but I didn't hear what he was saying so passionately up there in his pulpit. I just saw him waving his arms, and his soft, round face, smooth as if he didn't even have a beard yet.

All day Sunday, Dean did not call. He loves
her,
I thought. My thoughts were sluggish, as if my skull were filled with fog. I'd walk into the kitchen for a glass of juice and then wander around, forgetting what I'd come for. I imagined dying. What would be the easiest way?

Mommy would be better off without me. She wouldn't have to support me. Pills. How do you get pills? Jesus would understand I couldn't go on living like this.

Then, Tuesday, 6
P.M.,
he phoned, and when I heard his voice all my dark thoughts were stilled, like I was a drug addict or something given momentary relief with a fix.

“Can you go out?” he asked.

But I wasn't giving in so easily. I was going to stall. “You still with Terry?” I asked.

A hesitation. Silence, then, “I guess so.”

“That's not right,” I said. “I shouldn't be seeing you if you're still with her.”

“I'm looking for a job,” he said. “Soon as I find something I'm outta there. She doesn't know it yet.”

I asked, “Do you love her?” Had to know.

“Yeah. I love her. But since you, everything's changed.”

That night, he came to get me, and we drove around in his truck. The drive was just an excuse to talk. We drove through the empty streets, turned onto Courthouse Square, where the rich people of Sparta had once lived, the old coal and gas families, in houses hidden behind vines and hedges. We drove past the white courthouse with its wide steps and fluted pillars, like a temple. Behind it was the jail, a relatively new building, shiny yellow brick.

We talked. The talk rushed out of me like a river. The talk was like love, like kissing.

We had stopped by the side of the road, left the motor running for the heat. As I talked, he gazed at my face, as if he were listening to something beyond my words, as if he understood everything, all my thoughts. Talking was like making love would be.

“Talk about Brian,” he said, watching my lips.

“What about Brian?”

“You ever kiss him?”

“No. Not really.”

“You ever have sex with him?”

“No!”

“Does he say he loves you?”

“I don't know! I don't want to talk about Brian.”

He was still staring at my lips, as if a spell had been cast over him, and I thought he was going to kiss me. “He can't help it,” he said. “You're so beautiful.”