“Indeed,” I said. “Now, my hope is that the scarf is inside this box. I would hate to think I needed a new one. Foster, would you please open the door for me?”
The boy did. And the trick worked like a charm. Foster pulled on the tiny front door handle, the very same one I had used, but this time all four sides and the base of the box exploded out, falling to the floor with a clatter. Only the roof and the tassel remained in the boy’s fingers. And there, dangling from a hook in the ceiling, was the cobalt-blue scarf. The kids squealed and their parents clapped, and Foster would be putty in my hands for the rest of the show. I could now turn my attention to the birthday girl, a child with blond hair and a blue bow and a white party dress—which I did.
But always as I worked, I was aware of Detective Rikert.
“That costume is quite the bold fashion statement for Vermont,” the detective said to me. He had a bottle of soda in his hand and was leaning against the counter beside the dishwasher in the kitchen. His niece was opening her presents with the other kids in the living room, and the two of us were the only adults not watching. His sister had offered me a glass of wine, but I had declined. I hadn’t been twenty-one all that long, and I didn’t believe that Lianna the Enchantress should be drinking in front of children: it would be like the clown removing his makeup. Besides, I usually left the party as soon as I finished. The mom or dad would discreetly slip me a check and I’d be gone. Finally I had accepted a Barbie-pink paper cup of lemonade, but it was only so I would have something to do with my hands.
“It…evolved,” I began. I wasn’t nervous, but I was wary. He was a detective, and I knew I still had much to learn about his relationship with my mother. And yet I was drawn to him: he was handsome and glib, and I felt a little unsteady around him. “There were iterations. When I was a kid—”
“Spoken like someone who is facing midlife with real courage,” he said.
“You know what I mean. When I was in middle school, I actually wore a cape and black pants. I had a top hat. But the whole outfit was, I don’t know, too manly. So I started trying to be more feminine.”
“Always play to your strengths.”
I tried not to be self-conscious. I would have untied my shirt and covered my stomach, but I feared that would only draw more attention to what I was wearing. “At first, I went with a sort of Merlin the wizard vibe. This was before Harry Potter, so he was the gold standard for me. I got a church choir robe and dyed it black. But I looked like I really was wiccan. And I couldn’t move the way I wanted. I need very free arms and very free hands.”
“Which do you practice more? Your sleight of hand or your stories?”
“Sleight of hand. I could ad-lib the patter if necessary—especially when my audience is second and third graders.”
“I liked the stories and I am way older than the kids on the floor. Some of your stories reminded me of Indiana Jones.”
I smiled. “When I was a junior in high school, I actually toyed with an Indiana Jones persona. But the safari jacket I tried on looked kind of ridiculous on me.”
“So you went with something less ridiculous: harem pants.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m kidding you! I’m teasing. They’re perfect—especially for Lianna the Enchantress.”
I took a sip of my lemonade.
“What do you wear on your feet when it’s too cold to be barefoot?” he asked.
“I have a pair of beaded slippers. They’re supposed to be Persian.”
“Supposed to be?”
“I’m pretty sure they were made in China.”
“How many shows a year do you do?”
“Eleven or twelve during the summer when I’m home. Maybe three or four during the semester when I’m at college.”
“And you told me you do a couple of clubs,” he said.
“Wow. You have a good memory.”
“It’s okay. It helps, given what I do. What about when you’re home in Vermont? Any clubs here?”
“Nope—though I did do a country club on the Fourth of July. It was just outside of Burlington. I entertained the kids on a patio near the barbecue.”
“In your harem pants.”
“You really are fixated on them.”
He shook his head. “Nah. You just don’t see them much around here.”
“What was your favorite trick?”
“I think when you made the ball levitate behind the scarf.”
“Why?”
“I liked the story you told. ‘Believe in ghosts,’ you said. That was it, right? You said you found the ball at a haunted minor league baseball stadium.”
“Yup.”
“And I never could see the wire.”
“Not a wire.”
“Oh, you really are magic?”
“A magician never reveals the secret behind a trick.”