His main tasks so far had been to walk Doctor Faustus, Jonathan’s pug mix, and get him groomed once a week. And the same Doctor Faustus was currently tied to a parking meter outside Merlin’s Wonderporium with intestinal distress. So all Felix had to show for his internship thus far was a pocketful of phone numbers from the cute girls who walked their dogs at Runyon Canyon, and an unreimbursed vet’s bill for $209.
His first real assignment was to ghostwrite Jonathan’s “Letter from the President” for the Club Deception online newsletter, using the theme of autumn renewal to inform members about an upcoming magic swap. Jonathan had assured him eight hundred words would suffice and that it shouldn’t take more than half an hour of his time, but it had already taken three days to write the first sentence. So far all Felix had was, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” but wasn’t that copyrighted? And the word trash didn’t set the right tone, he was pretty sure. The letter was due this afternoon.
With a sigh, he gathered his deck of cards and Doctor Faustus’s Beggin’ Strips, and headed out the door.
* * *
The drive to the top of Edgecliffe went way too quickly. He could normally count on a forty-minute delay any time of day, any day of the week, except when he actually wanted one.
The swift commute seemed to have worked in his favor, however. Jonathan’s black SUV wasn’t parked in the driveway yet. Maybe if he was quick, Felix could get away with securing the dog in the backyard with a water dish, and leaving a note—proof he’d shown up as promised, but without any of the fallout from neglecting to write the column. Right?
He knocked.
Nothing.
He waited ten seconds and rang the doorbell.
The house was small but somehow intimidating, with its corner glass windows, solar panels, and thermal roof. Not that Jonathan was particularly eco-friendly, driving around in his ugly-ass gas guzzler, so this must have been his wife’s influence. The dense, packed trees surrounding the property provided shade and privacy, making the house seem secluded. Felix wouldn’t mind lying down and taking a nap right on the grass.
“Yo, Mr. Fredericksson, you there?” he shouted. It was pointless, but he wanted to cover all his bases.
Nothing.
He knocked a second and third time, loudly.
The door suddenly swung open to reveal the irritated face of Mrs. Fredericksson. She held a glass of red wine in her hand.
“What’s next, a flare gun?” she asked in a slightly hoarse voice.
Felix had seen her in passing a few times, usually on her way out, dressed to the nines. But now she stood in front of him, barefoot, in jean shorts and an old SMASHING PUMPKINS T-shirt. It was a tomboy outfit, but there was nothing boyish about her; you could tell she had a great figure. Her breasts pushed against the confines of the T-shirt’s fabric, stretching and reshaping the band’s heart-shaped logo. Her blond hair fell in thick, loose curls. She looked like a 1950s calendar pinup about to hop on the hood of a car.
He took off his sunglasses and tried to joke his way out of his discomfort. “Thought I’d break a window next.”
She stared back: no smile.
“Uh…sorry for the racket. I guess he’s not here? I’ll come back another time.”
She looked behind him and motioned with her wineglass, causing the wine to slosh against the sides. “Where’s the dog?”
“Oh, right.” He fought the urge to smack his forehead. “He’s in the car.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “The car? In this heat?”
He quickly retrieved Doctor Faustus and led him to the door.
Mrs. Fredericksson gave the dog a perfunctory pat on the head as he walked inside. “You don’t leave him in the car a lot, do you?”
“No, never.”
“Well, not ‘never.’”
“I swear, just this once while I knocked.”
“And yelled. And rang the doorbell. And pounded on the door.”
She was treating him like a gardener, which would have irritated him more if he weren’t also terrified of her. “Ma’am? Are you going to tell your husband?”
She chuckled. “No, I’m not going to tattle on you. And please call me Claire.”
The sun descended behind a tree, and in the fuzzy light of the porch lamp she looked even softer, classier, prettier. She took a long sip of her wine, lingering, and leaned against the frame of the door. He didn’t know what to do.
Until the next words fell from her shiny, red-stained lips. “You may as well come in.” Claire held the door for him and he looked down at her bare feet as he crossed the threshold. Even barefoot, she was tall; Felix was six foot one but he didn’t tower over her the way he did most women.
“Something to drink?” she asked.
He closed the front door and followed her down the hall like a puppy. “I’m not much of a wine drinker…”
She looked back. “We also have milk. No cookies, though, unless you bake them yourself, which you’re welcome to do.”
He wasn’t sure if she was teasing him. His whole day—his whole week, his whole year, it felt like—had been one big mockery fest, though, and why should Mr. Fredericksson’s wife be any different?
They reached the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and gave him an expectant look.
“Oh, uh, beer’s fine.”
“‘Beer me, bro,’” she translated in a dumb-jock voice.
He was insulted. “Hey, I’m no frat dude.”
“But you played baseball, right? I think Jonathan said—”
“Yeah.”
She turned and tossed him a bottle of Corona Light over the opposite shoulder, trusting him to catch it, which he did, more at ease now that she’d displayed a sense of playfulness. Maybe not everyone had it out for him today after all.
“Opener’s in the drawer.” She motioned to a pullout section of the island near his hip, but he placed the edge of the bottle top against the counter, smacked it firmly, and opened the beer that way.
She raised her glass in a toast. “Felix, right? Felix the baseball player.”
“I was a catcher till I wrecked my knees. My teammates called me El Gato.” The nickname was a cruel joke now. “The Cat’s” luck had run out, nine lives gone, and he no longer landed on his feet. After months of physical therapy and no results, he’d been forced to start over.
“I’ve never met an athlete-turned-magician before. Real estate and used cars not doing it for you?”
“Something like that.” Actually, to Felix it made perfect sense. He couldn’t imagine holding a nine-to-five job, despite growing up in a household where those were prized. Dad an acupuncturist, Mom a paralegal, even his show-off hermanita had her class elections, volunteer work, and after-school jobs.
What Color Is Your Parachute? had asked “What do you most love to do?” and since baseball was out, the first image that had popped into his mind was the fifth-grade talent show at Castaic Elementary, where he’d won first place with Hippity-Hop Rabbits, a store-bought routine consisting of two wooden rabbits that magically changed places and colors. The award had led to his first kiss, and birthday party gigs for classmates. A job at Merlin’s Wonderporium and an internship with Mr. Fredericksson, and here he was. Boom.
He wasn’t about to lay all that on Claire, though. Felix set down his beer and reached inside his front pocket for the crumpled sheet of paper containing his pathetic attempt at Jonathan’s “Letter from the President.”
He opened it and slid it across the island to her.
Claire squinted at it, confused. “He asked you to write this for him? Lazy bastard.”
He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to agree with her.
She scanned the page and tapped her fingers on the table, reminding him of a teacher. “This is really bad.”
“I know! That’s why I haven’t finished it. What should I do?”
She finished the last of her wine and placed her glass in the sink. “How about this: You do my ch
ores and I’ll do yours.”
“Uh, what are your chores?”
She went into another room, and when she returned, she was carrying an overflowing basket of laundry.
Holy shit, if you thought walking the dog was humiliating…
“Separate the darks from the lights, and then separate the reds and blacks.”
He gaped at her.
“They’re clean,” she added. “I assume you know how to fold?”
“Uh, I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you ‘can’t’?”
“I’m color-blind.”
It was her turn to gape. “A color-blind magician. Where did he find you?”
“It’s not like I can’t tell the difference between hearts, clovers, spades, and diamonds. The shapes are different.”
“Did you just say ‘clovers’? Are you…” She cleared her throat. “Are you aware there might be another name for them besides clovers?”
“Of course,” he said solemnly. “Puppy-dog paws.”
Her eyes widened.
“What?” he asked.
“God help us. They’re clubs.”
He grinned. “Gotcha.”
She rewarded him with a throaty laugh. “And the color-blind thing—that was a joke, too, right?”
“Just with greens. Like, right now…” He leaned in slightly. “I’m not sure if your eyes are blue or green.”
“I guess you’ll have to keep wondering.”
“It would help if Mr. F gave me something worthwhile to work on, or at least got me into Club Deception like he promised.”
She leaned against the kitchen island. “I can get you into the club.”
“Right now?”
“No, not right now. Sort the clothes, whatever you can do, and order something for dinner.” She smacked her hand against the fridge on her way out, so he’d notice the take-out menus held there with magnets.
He wasn’t sure where she’d gone or when she was coming back. He folded all the clothes and called Jonathan’s favorite pho place for delivery.
When Claire returned, she carried a deck of cards and a small contraption, both of which she dumped on the table with a clatter.
“Your column’s written,” she said. “Show me the tricks you’re having trouble with.”
“What makes you think I’m having trouble?”
“Jonathan has trouble with things all the time, and you’re no Jonathan. So…”
He sat beside her. Can’t argue there. “I can’t decide if I should use Brainwave or Invisible Deck for my prediction trick.”
“I prefer Brainwave,” she offered. “Visually, it’s more interesting.”
“But then you can’t have dual reality with the volunteer onstage.”
“Why would you want to? That’s like running when you’re not being chased.”
He nodded. “And then there’s Secrest Count.”
“One deck or two?”
“And Twisting the Aces,” he admitted. “And my Zarrow Shuffle…”
“Okay, one thing at a time.” And she picked up the cards.
He’d heard that magicians’ wives weren’t the same as laypeople, but Mrs. Fredericksson took it to a whole new level. She was the first female knuckle buster he’d ever met.
For the next half hour they went over Twisting the Aces, in which the magician holds all four Aces in his hand, facedown, then turns them 180 degrees clockwise to reveal that one of them has magically turned faceup. The construction required proficiency in at least three types of lifts and turnovers.
Next she picked up the device she’d brought in, a palm-size square with four finger levers.
“‘Musician’s Friend,’” Felix read aloud, giving her a sidelong glance. “Look, they spelled magician wrong.”
“Cute,” she said, and he mentally scolded himself. Don’t be cute with her. Only be actually funny.
“It’s to strengthen your fingers, build speed and dexterity. Most people don’t think about those things, but it’ll help. Here.” She placed her hand over his, lacing their fingers together and curling his hand around the levers.
He swallowed. “Good to know.”
The way her fingers slid through his made him think of legs intertwining, hips slamming against each other, fingers laced together and pinned against sheets.
She molded his hand into different positions and pressed on his fingers as she taught him how to best use the grip. “You can squeeze it with your whole hand, like this; you can work on individual fingers, like this; you can build up calluses, like this; or you can work on the muscles of your hand and forearm, like this.”
He almost joked about other ways of building up hand and forearm muscles but stopped himself just in time; it wouldn’t have impressed her. It wouldn’t have even warranted a “cute.”
When she let go of his hand, he was surprised by the strips of tension already shooting through the tendons of his wrist.
“Take it home. Use it when you’re watching TV, on the treadmill, whenever you’ve got a free moment. You’ll see results pretty quickly.”
“Won’t he get mad?”
“He won’t even notice.”
“I’m beginning to think I should’ve interned with you,” he remarked. “And, uh, that reminds me…I have a bill from the vet.” He reached in his other pocket for it. She didn’t take it from him, and he felt foolish holding it in the air.
“I’ll let him know to bill my card next time, he’s a friend of mine.” She finally took the receipt from his outstretched hand and wrote him a check for the amount. “But you know, Felix, you shouldn’t let Jonathan jerk you around. Life’s too short.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
She got up abruptly, opened the cupboard, and pulled out some dinner plates.
He moved to her, bridging the distance between them, and reached for the dishes. “Let me do that.”
They were so close, he could smell her perfume: a light floral scent with just a trace of lime.
She allowed him two plates but held the third to her chest. “It just occurred to me…I’m so used to setting the table for three…” She was still, seeming pensive and a little dazed.
They looked at each other again, an unmistakable current pulling them together. He reached out to trace the outline of her lips with his thumb.
Before he could make contact, the sound of the garage door opening stopped him.
She turned away and put the third plate back in the cupboard.
With a deep breath, he stepped back and set the two plates on the table at opposite ends, miles apart from each other. “I better go. Thanks for your help, Mrs. F.”
She nodded, still looking at the cupboard. She didn’t ask him to call her Claire that time, or even open her mouth to say good-bye.
Claire
When Claire was pregnant with Eden, she and Jonathan lived la vie bohème in a two-room shack on Washington Boulevard near the beach. They couldn’t afford air-conditioning, but keeping the windows open provided a cross breeze from the Pacific. It also provided constant noise from tourists, beach bums, hot dog vendors, skate rats, doomsday prophets, patrol officers, and, of course, the criminals they sought.
The days were long.
Jonathan was a fixture along the Venice boardwalk, busking from sunup to sundown. Part fakir, part improv artist, he tailored his fifteen-minute shows to whatever was popular with the crowd. Eat glass? I can do that! Walk on hot coals? Why, that’s my specialty! Balloon animals for the kiddos? You’re in luck! It was grueling, sometimes demeaning work, but he put every ounce of energy he possessed into it, and audiences loved him.
While her husband scraped and bowed, Claire searched used-book stores and video vaults for classic magic tricks Jonathan could learn, update, and personalize.
She wrote new scripts by hand in a yellow legal pad and altered the patter to fit Jonathan’s style. She sewed hidden pockets into his clothes and tore out items from the Daily Breeze so his joke
s could reference current events. Unused sections of the newspaper were set aside for use in a torn-and-restored newspaper effect.
When Jonathan returned home at night, he and Claire sprawled on their foldout couch bed and separated the ones, fives, tens, and twenties from his hat and placed them inside envelopes marked FOOD, RENT, and BUSINESS EXPENSES. One month’s business expense was an ironing board so Jonathan could press his shirts and look formal at a moment’s notice, should a high-end gig surface. It doubled as their dinner table.
Some nights they stole away to a secluded spot on the beach and made love under the stars. Their undignified living conditions didn’t bother them; they considered it a paper-thin facade, temporary and flimsy as a theater set, a stopgap between her parents’ house in Modesto and their upcoming North American magic tour.
Jonathan’s favorite magician was Doug Henning, whose elaborate, traveling stage show—with a full menagerie, two tractor-trailers, and fifteen sets—he’d seen as a child. Jonathan wanted to follow in his hero’s footsteps, and he wanted his family with him.
Claire adored the idea, and adored her husband for suggesting it. The entire world would be their daughter’s classroom and play yard. What better gift could two parents bestow?
The Plan, once Eden was old enough to walk and talk, was to live on the road: a traveling utopia of three.
The Plan was for Eden and Claire to perform in Jonathan’s show.
The Plan fell apart in six weeks.
* * *
During Jonathan’s lengthy solo tours, Claire accepted her husband’s dalliances, what Daisy and Tom Buchanan called sprees, so long as they didn’t follow him home. After all, it was her fault she wasn’t beside him.
He called home twice a week and FedExed Claire a video of every show. As she’d done in the past, she critiqued his act and helped him strengthen it. She also researched his competition, both to avoid replication and to improve upon others’ work. Her notes and suggestions evolved into the backbone of Jonathan: Monarch of Magic, Coming to a City Near You.
She campaigned for his Club Deception presidency, and wrote his platform and election statements, molding and remolding his stances as she went along. She threw cocktail parties and hosted brunches for the WAGs. As king and queen of the club, with near-constant bookings in Beverly Hills, Vegas, Chicago, Miami, and New York, plus a beautiful, secluded house in Silver Lake, Jonathan and Claire had achieved what her father had long ago deemed impossible: a thriving, well-respected career in magic.
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