“We tried to drag her under, too. But when she married Jonathan, everything changed. He took her from us,” he added bitterly.
“How did Brandy die?”
“Overdose. It didn’t occur to me to be scared. In my wonderfully considerate state, I figured ‘the dumb bitch’ didn’t measure right. So I took everything that was left and spent the week after her funeral loaded to the gills, falling into bed with anyone who’d have me.”
Ah. “You stole their favorite toy.”
“I don’t know if I thought that was the fastest way to join her in the ground or what. When my supplies ran out, and I had to take a look at myself, I hated what I’d become. What I’d been becoming my whole life. The only way to fix it was to be someone better. And the only way to do that was to stay alive.”
“That was three years ago?”
“Almost to the day. And I didn’t just give up drug and alcohol. I gave up all forms of hedonism. Sex included.”
Something occurred to her and she covered her mouth.
“What?” he said.
“I ruined you.”
“No, not at all! It wasn’t permanent. I mean, no drinking is permanent. But the sex thing, that was always temporary.” He swallowed. “I was waiting for the right girl,” he said. “And here you are.”
She felt guilty, and strangely proud. “I’ve never ruined someone before.”
“Well, you are extremely naughty. But never have I been so thrilled to be ruined.” He wrapped his arm around her and she rested her head against his warm, strong shoulder. “I’ve been an arse since we got to Los Angeles. Can you forgive me?”
She nodded and snuggled closer.
She closed her eyes and drifted off as the waves carried them back to shore.
Claire
The night before the competition, Claire sat on the porch, smoking, a bundle of nerves and nausea. Felix was well prepared, unquestionably, but was that enough?
What if he flat-out choked the way Claire had so many years ago on the eve of her debut?
She’d sent him to spend the night at the Chateau Marmont so he’d get plenty of rest and pampering. To her surprise, she missed his company. He’d moved in almost immediately following Jonathan’s exit, and their constant work together had eased her through the transition from married to not.
I’ve grown accustomed to his face.
It amused her to think he was sleeping down the hall from Jonathan, who’d been sure to tell her his exorbitant new address. He’d also hinted she would need to find new quarters once Eden came home for Thanksgiving and they told her about their split.
Best-case scenario was sixty-five thousand dollars of prize money. It was good but it wasn’t great. In Los Angeles, 65K wouldn’t last long. And if Felix didn’t win, she’d need a new plan, fast. Perhaps something in consultancy? Her magician Rolodex stretched for miles—surely someone at the club could use an extra set of eyes, fresh patter, or a booking agent.
But who would vouch for her? And how could she possibly prove she’d been invaluable to Jonathan, when they’d both kept it a secret for so long? Anyone who tried to corroborate her claims with her soon-to-be-ex-husband would hear a very different story from him. She knew he’d go scorched earth on her.
Her cell phone buzzed and she smiled at the caller ID. “Hi, Felix. How’s the Marmont?”
“It’s dope. You should come see for yourself, help me test out the bed…”
She laughed. He never gave up. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to tire you out before the big day.”
“Oh, man, you’re killing me.”
“How are you doing? Nervous?”
“Not really,” he said. She could hear a baseball game on TV in the background. “The last rehearsal was perfect, I thought.”
“I did, too.”
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“Extremely.” She took a deep breath. “Not because of you,” she added quickly, which was a half-truth. “You’re going to be great. I just…get nervous.”
“Don’t be. You want to know why?”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because no matter what happens, we’re in this together.”
“We’re in this together,” she repeated numbly.
“I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
But she didn’t need someone to take care of her. She needed a partner, and Felix wasn’t up to the task. He was a strapping windup toy, preset to perform a series of actions in a certain order and in a certain way. He wasn’t capable of deviating from them, and if he did, he’d be doomed.
Baseball had come easily to him, she could tell; he’d probably assumed this would, too. But magic wasn’t a job or a calling, it was an art. Despite their marathon practice sessions, he simply hadn’t had enough time to grow, organically, as a performer. There were no guarantees he wouldn’t crash and burn tomorrow.
Unlike his previous career, where a bad game could be swept aside and relegated to the stats book to make room for twenty new games, this was his sole chance to perfectly perform Schrödinger’s Cat. He’d essentially gone from batboy to starting lineup at the World Series, and everything hinged on a single inning.
After she hung up the phone, her head swam, her guts roiled, and she raced to the bathroom to be sick.
* * *
The next afternoon, having ingested nothing but saltines and Vitaminwater, Claire struggled to maintain focus during her drive to Club Deception. She hovered in the board members’ back room as the sun went down, emerging right before the show began. She sat in the last row of the theater and managed to stay upright in her seat even though every instinct she possessed told her to curl into a ball on the floor and close her eyes until the show was over.
It was common courtesy at the club for seasoned professionals to sit in the back row, so the bug-eyed newcomers and their even more bug-eyed guests had the chance to sit closer and experience magic the way it was intended, for laypeople.
When Jonathan first started out as a magician, Claire could scarcely bear to watch him. She knew his punch lines and applause cues by heart, knew the reactions his routine ought to elicit, and at which points he’d be rewarded by gasps, catcalls, or even stunned silence (the best sound in the world).
But that didn’t mean the audience always cooperated. She’d considered them the enemy for a long time, unworthy and unpredictable.
What if someone noticed he’d transferred a card from his pocket, swapped it for a lemon behind his briefcase, or distracted an audience member into closing his or her hand around a coin that was in fact already gone? What if he dropped something? Since the manipulation and misdirection were obvious to her, she always feared they might be obvious to others.
Worse, if someone did notice, would they snicker, point it out to a seatmate, or, God forbid, yell about it? I saw you. I saw that. What if there was a drunken grabber in the audience who destroyed a delicate prop? A disobedient volunteer, a spoiler?
How could Jonny stand to go up there, night after night, and open himself to abuse or ridicule? How could any of them?
As the years passed, she stopped watching Jonathan altogether. Instead, she watched the people in the seats. How they squinted, leaned forward, covered their mouths in shock, or turned to one another in delight.
Unlike Claire, they weren’t privy to the secrets. They probably hadn’t been to a magic show in years, didn’t realize magicians had grown up just as they had, that magic could be sophisticated entertainment, not just kid stuff.
They didn’t know that the card-to-lemon trick was fairly standard; to them, it was baffling. Unique. Creative. Magical. Watching the audience became her entertainment, her own private show.
Tonight, however, she kept her eyes glued to her estranged husband.
For the first time in twenty years, she had no idea what he was going to do.
* * *
At intermission, Claire ordered a Perrier and brought it upstairs with her to the balcony. The C
lassics were done; Original acts were up next. Most of the audience mingled down below and it felt nice to retreat from the chaos.
Jonathan waited for her in the shadows.
“What did you think?” he asked.
When he’d appeared onstage in an authentic 1920s suit, pale makeup, and a slicked-down, retro hairstyle, with his light-blond hair dyed dark brown, she almost hadn’t recognized him. He’d been transformed into P. T. Selbit (real name Tibbles, spelled backward, minus a b), whose 1921 act he duplicated word for word.
She’d suggested, as an insult during their last argument about Schrödinger’s Cat, that he perform in the Classics competition. He’d done a fine job emulating the other man, but it was a step down for him. Reproduced Classics were considered the appetizer for the main course of Original work.
Apparently, though, he hadn’t had time to come up with a fresh act without Claire. It was flattering in a way. Less flattering was the fact that Becca, the bimbo he’d slept with in Claire’s bed, was his assistant. Her role was large. P. T. Selbit’s biggest contribution to magic was the concept of sawing a woman in half.
Originally, magicians cut a boy in half. But in January 1921, on the London stage in Finsbury Park, P. T. Selbit shocked and titillated his audience by using a gasping, gimlet-eyed ingénue instead, and suddenly there was an outlet for all the rage men were feeling over women’s suffrage.
The infuriating result of which was the century-long standard of all-powerful male magicians dominating over glamorous, nonspeaking, disposable females. Nonspeaking unless you counted screams, of course.
Jonathan’s act included a custom-made wooden box, similar to a coffin, and a large handsaw, both of which would have been used at the time. Later versions introduced buzz saws.
Even in 2016, the symbolism hit close to home.
“I’m surprised you didn’t make her pretend her name was Claire,” she remarked.
“I was going to, but Becca does her best work when she’s not unduly taxed with words.”
“I thought I recognized her. It was hard to tell since she was wearing clothes.”
“But what did you think?” he repeated.
She shrugged. “It seemed accurate. Your accent could’ve been better.”
“But what did you think of it?” He was almost pleading. “Claire.”
“It was good.”
The way his shoulders fell told her he read her loud and clear. “But not Stage Magician of the Year good.”
“What do you want me to say? Besides, it doesn’t matter what I think. Not anymore.”
“You know what’s funny? After all these years, I don’t even know if you like my magic. If you ever did.”
“If all you wanted was to be adored, you have your groupies for that.”
“I wanted to be adored by you.” He rubbed his eyes.
“When do I get to see Doctor Faustus?” she asked.
“He’s living with my nephew in Manhattan Beach. Is that all you have to say to me?” Jonathan asked.
“You took him just so I couldn’t have him. That’s…wow.”
They stood on the balcony, overlooking the crowds and the stage. Unbeknownst to anyone below, it was their last appearance together as king and queen of the club, surveying their subjects.
“Did you ever love me?” he asked.
“Of course I did.”
“But there’s no chance of reconciliation.”
She swallowed. “Do you really want there to be?”
He shook his head.
“Do you remember the Easter egg hunt at Candyland, when Eden was six?” she asked.
He seemed thrown by the question. “I’m not sure.”
“She corralled a group of preschoolers into doing all the work for her. She knew from experience they’d been learning the Clean Up song in class—‘Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere; Clean up, clean up, everybody does their share’—so she sang it to them while holding out her Easter basket. They didn’t understand the concept of an Easter egg hunt. They thought they were cleaning up the park. They scurried around gathering the eggs, bringing them to Eden, and putting them in her basket.”
A smile graced Jonathan’s lips. “Diabolical.”
“She won first prize by a landslide. I’d never been more proud. Or more appalled. I kept thinking, She’s ours. We made her, this extraordinary creature. We made her. She’s ours. And no one can take that from us.”
“I was faithful for a long time after Indiana,” he said. “Years. But it was never enough for you. It was never enough.”
“It didn’t make us any happier,” she offered. “It didn’t fix what we’d done.”
* * *
With five minutes left of intermission before the second wave of shows, Claire went back downstairs to ditch her drink.
Felix would be up next.
Her near-empty stomach clenched. How to distract herself?
Ahh.
There was Jessica, dripping off Cal’s arm in her new dress, which perfectly underscored her slim, lithe body. Her caramel-colored hair was pulled into a loose, wrap-around French braid that ended in a ponytail. Cal drank her in with his eyes as though she contained all the alcohol he could ever need.
In short, the Clarkes looked stupidly happy, which set Claire’s teeth on edge. Why had Cal been allowed to move on without a scratch from Brandy, while Claire’s personal life lay in ruins?
Neither of the lovebirds had seen her yet, so she waited until Cal was pulled into a conversation with one of the judges before winding her way through the crowd toward Jessica.
“I can see why he’s so enamored with you,” Claire remarked. It wasn’t a lie. Jessica was as wholesome-trashy-mischievous-sweet as ever. It was incredibly appealing, and incredibly unfair.
Jessica blushed. “You’re the one who bought me the dress.”
“You look beautiful. Truly.”
“So do you,” Jessica said quickly. Her lips were wobbly-shiny with gloss.
“I’m sorry for how we left things—”
“I never should have—”
They smiled shyly at each other.
“Do you think I could get a third chance?” Claire asked. “Last time, cross my heart.”
Jessica beamed. “Yeah, okay.”
“Thank you. I won’t squander it.”
Claire tucked a loose strand of Jessica’s hair behind her ear and let her fingers fall down the side of Jessica’s neck. Jessica swallowed, and her pupils widened.
“You have a little…” Claire motioned to her mouth.
“What?” said Jessica, sounding alarmed.
“Oh, it’s nothing, just a little too much, you know—” She touched a finger to her own lip to indicate there was extra gloss there.
“Shit.” Jessica looked around. “I don’t have a napkin or anything to dab it.” She raised the back of her hand to smear it off but Claire stopped her.
“Here.”
She leaned down and kissed Jessica on the mouth. It was a soft, swift kiss, could barely be categorized as a peck, but Jessica closed her eyes to receive it and she seemed on the verge of going in for more when Claire pulled away. She stared at Claire, breathing hard.
Claire used her middle finger to spread the transferred lip gloss across her own bottom lip. “Better. Though I might have to start calling you Peaches.”
“It’s my favorite…”
“I remember.”
“I’m just going to…I think I better…” Jessica motioned to the bathroom. She blushed furiously. It was fetching, and painfully indicative of her state of mind. Claire could practically feel the heat pouring off her.
Claire watched her go and pressed her lips together to even out the color.
A low, accusatory voice rumbled in her ear. “What. The hell. Was that?”
She turned, amused. “What, with me and Peaches?”
Cal walked around the table so they were facing each other. “Buying her that dress, kissing her just now?
I saw you.”
“It was a peck.”
“She has a crush on you,” he divulged, running a tense hand through his hair. “I’m trying to discourage it.”
“Why? Could be fun.”
“No, Claire.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Why not? Jonathan and I are separated.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No you’re not.”
“But Jessica and I are monogamous.”
Claire ignored him. “She’s a real pleaser, your wife. She practically quivered with the need for my approval when we went shopping. And at lunch she opened right up. Mama was a drinker, Papa was a rollin’ stone…”
“She admires you. Don’t take advantage of her. I mean it.”
“I bet she’s a crier, too. Does she cry when you make love to her, Callie?”
“You know who you sound like, and it’s not a compliment,” he said darkly.
“Maybe she could act out all her mommy and daddy fantasies with us. It’d be good for her, like therapy.” She made her eyes go wide, like something had just occurred to her. “I know, we could videotape it.”
He tensed.
“How could you let her watch it? How could you?” she hissed.
“I didn’t! I—I didn’t even know—I didn’t—I wasn’t—” He shut his eyes, pained.
“You’re stuttering,” she deadpanned.
His brown eyes searched hers desperately. “I’ll talk to her. She shouldn’t have done that. I had no idea. But, please, don’t mess with her head.”
“The way you and Brandy messed with mine?”
His hand clenched around his bottle of club soda. “I know I have no right to ask, but I’m asking anyway.”
Claire rounded the table and stepped close to him. “That’s true. You have no right to ask.”
“How can I turn this around, make things right?”
“You can’t,” she whispered. “Because you know what I think? I think, if you crawled over to her right now and pulled her thong off with your teeth, it would practically smell like me. Enjoy the rest of the show.”
Felix
The well-dressed, sixty-something master of ceremonies took to the stage and read from a notecard. “Welcome to part two of tonight’s competition for Stage Magician of the Year. Our next category is, of course, Original Magic Act. Our first performer promises to astonish you with his feats of…” He squinted at the notecard and broke out into a smile. “…alchemy and time travel. How about that? Please welcome newcomer Felix ‘El Gato’ Vicario.”
Club Deception Page 23
