The Art of Disappearing Ivy Pochoda (electronic book reader .TXT) 📖

Toby adjusted his feet on the table and clasped his hands.

Greta stole another glance at the audience.

“Daring,” the well-coiffed woman’s companion replied.

Greta was glaring at them. Then she caught my eye. She shook her head, summoning a composure I’d never seen before. She gave me her mocking smile before returning her attention to the trick.

The assistant cocked the gun. Greta held her head up high, her arms out. The assistant extended her arm. Toby steadied himself. And Greta, with quickness I’d never have expected, leapt in front of the magician.

This time, there was no transformation of lead to rain or snow or gambling chips. There was no miraculous waterfall of conjured objects to mask what was happening on the table. Greta extended her arms, as if reaching for the bullet, hoping to catch it like a football. It sailed into the space between her open arms, tearing through her dress and cracking her breastbone. An explosion of blood, the shape of a narcissus blossom, shot from her chest.

Toby whipped off his blindfold in time to see Greta tumble at his feet. As she fell, she turned in my direction. Smoke and the acrid stench of singed polyester filled the air. My scream kept rising from my throat as I watched the teenager’s blood pool around Toby’s shoes. The assistant dropped the gun. Someone stepped forward to catch her, trampling her fallen headdress as he approached.

I remained still while the audience rushed by. A few people tried to help the girl on the table while others slipped to the sidelines to watch the spectacle unfold.

My mouth was still open when Eva appeared in front of me.

“You didn’t try to stop him?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I didn’t know.”

“You did. You just didn’t believe me.”

And suddenly, I had the answer to Eva’s question about my loneliest moment. It was here, in this chaotic gambling pit, surrounded by hundreds of guests in cocktail clothes. I saw a string of dingy motel rooms, leading me back across the country. I saw myself at the counter of nondescript diners. The faces of the stampeding audience were cold. Then I felt Toby’s eyes.

He reached down to Greta. Blood covered the front of his suit. A small fire seemed to be burning in his pale cheeks. His jaw was trembling. Our eyes didn’t leave one another until he turned away and gathered Greta in his arms. Pressing her limp body into his, he stepped off the table and carried her out of the casino. No one followed him.

I don’t know how far Toby went before he was intercepted by the police. At some point, I remember Sandra tapping me on the arm, telling me that he’d been taken to a precinct near Fremont. Somehow, she had managed to steer the remaining guests into the Hermitage Salon.

I spent the night on a bench outside the Las Vegas Police Department. I had my sewing basket and my quilt. As I watched the parade of witnesses—the showgirl assistant, the casino doctor, and Greta’s mother, who had been summoned from Intersection—I attached a scrap from the cocktail waitress outfit to the edge of my quilt. In the sharp, fluorescent glow from the police station, my quilt looked lifeless.

Folding it, I left the bench and crossed the dusty road to a phone booth. The dial tone surprised me as it cut through the Nevada night. I punched in my parents’ number, wanting to hear that I wasn’t alone. I imagined the phone ringing in their dark house, shaking them from their sleep. But no one picked up. Soon the answering machine clicked on. I opened my mouth, but my words dissolved in tears.

At 7 A.M. Toby emerged. “Death by misadventure,” was all he said as I took his hot, dry hand and wove my small fingers inside his. Greta’s mother confirmed Toby’s innocence when she explained that she had been expecting something like this ever since her daughter had run away. When she emerged from the station, she had Greta’s ball-chain necklaces twisted in her fingers like a rosary.

Toby and I sat in the minivan in front of the blue ranch house. It was two days after his accident, two days of ballistics tests and investigations into the legality of the bullet-catching illusion. I wanted to see the house and brush my fingers over a future that was slipping from reach. Toby waited in the car while I slipped inside the house and took a green-and-yellow-flowered dish towel for my quilt.

Back in the car, I turned on the ignition. A mile from the airport, I asked Toby, “Why didn’t you pick me?”

It was a moment before he replied. “There’s a place for you in my magic. But it’s not onstage.”

I unrolled the window. “You thought something might go wrong.”

“No.” Toby looked away from me, out the window. “The moment I met you, things fell into place. I’d been wandering in circles, one small town to the next, one uninterested audience after another. Not to mention the hours alone. And then, there you were in the Old Stand Saloon. I can’t tell you how many times I’d been in there.” He fiddled with the door locks, making them dance up and down. “Never saw a friendly face. I was almost ready to head home, or try out my luck in sideshows in Mexico. And then…” His voice trailed off. “And now—”

“And now, I can’t help.”

“When I was a teenager, I always got teased for being a magician. You can imagine I wasn’t the coolest kid in school. But no matter how bad it got, magic always made things better. Nothing seemed out of reach, and I could shape my world to suit myself. Who cared what anyone said?” Toby clenched his hands into fists. “There’ve been a few ups and downs in my career. But magic got me through. This is beyond my powers to fix. And it wasn’t even my fault. I will never be a Las Vegas magician.” He shook