by Nora Roberts
Luke wasn’t the least bit concerned about Roxanne’s problems. “Does he keep in the card tricks?”
She patted the flower as she wandered back into Luke’s bedroom to study the result in the mirror. “Oh, he’ll make up other ones.”
Luke nodded and began to plan. He was getting pretty good at the tricks he’d wheedled Roxanne into showing him. And he’d been practicing at least an hour a day with the Cups and Balls. He just needed to show Max. He couldn’t bear it if they cut him out of the act now.
“Daddy gave me money for ice cream.” She poked her head back out the French doors. “You want to go get some?”
“No.” Luke was much too busy to be distracted by a treat and an eight-year-old’s company. “Take off, will you? I have to think.”
“More for me,” Roxanne shot back, barely controlling a pout.
The minute he was alone, Luke dug out his cards and began to practice. He’d hardly begun to set up Aces High when he was distracted again.
It was the voice. He’d never heard anything like it. He tried to brush it out of his mind, but it kept flowing back. A rich, heartbreaking alto that seemed to be singing just for him. Unable to resist, he walked back out on the balcony.
He spotted her instantly. A woman in a flowing flowered dress, a red turban over her head, her skin gleaming like ebony. She stood on the corner, a cardboard box at her feet as she sang swaying gospel a cappella.
He couldn’t turn away, the sound all but hypnotizing him. This was true beauty. Even as he realized it, it reached deep inside him to a place he didn’t know existed.
That voice rang out over the Quarter. It never paused or hesitated when she drew a small crowd. She never glanced down when coins thudded into the box.
It made his skin prickle and his throat ache.
On impulse he dashed back inside and dug out the bag he’d secreted under his pillow. From it he took a crumpled dollar. His heart was still soaring to the music as he raced out of the room and down the stairs.
He saw Roxanne in the hallway, sweeping up powdered sugar while LeClerc stood behind her, lecturing.
“You eat in the kitchen, not all over the house. You be sure you get all those crumbs, you hear?”
“I’m getting them.” She lifted her head to stick her tongue out at Luke.
His heart was so full of the music, his brain so dazzled by the idea that Roxanne was taking the blame for him, he missed the last step. On a muffled cry, he threw out a hand to save himself.
For Luke it happened in slow motion. He saw the vase, the faceted crystal alive with sunlight, filled with bloodred roses. In horror, he saw his own hand sweep at it, watched it teeter even as he scrambled for balance.
His fingers brushed it. He felt the cool glass on his skin and let out a groan of despair as it slipped away.
The sound of the vase shattering on the hardwood was like a volley of pistol shots. Luke stood frozen, the glistening shards at his feet, and the smell of roses heavy in the air.
LeClerc was swearing. Luke didn’t have to understand French to know the oaths were strong and furious. He didn’t move, didn’t bother to run. He was braced for a blow, had already taken that part of himself that felt pain and humiliation away. What stood there was a silent shell that would refuse to care.
“You run through my house like a wild Indian. Now you break the Waterford, you bruise the roses and you have water all over my floor. Imbécile! Look what you’ve done to my beauties.”
“Jean.” Max’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, but it cut through the old man’s tantrum.
“The Waterford, Max.” LeClerc crouched down to save his roses. “The boy was running like hounds of hell were after him. I tell you he needs to be—”
“Jean,” Max said again. “Enough. Look at his face.”
With roses dripping from his hands, LeClerc glanced up. The boy was ghost white, his eyes dark and glazed over with something too deep to be termed fear. With a sigh, he straightened. “I’ll get another vase,” he said quietly and walked away.
“Daddy.” Shaken, Roxanne gripped her father’s hand. “Why does he look that way?”
“It’s all right, Roxy. Run along.”
“But, Daddy—”
“Run along,” he repeated, and gave her a nudge.
She stepped back into the parlor, but she didn’t go far. For once her father was too intent on someone else to notice.
“You disappoint me, Luke,” Max said quietly.
Something flickered in Luke’s belly, and showed briefly in his eyes. An oath, a blow wouldn’t have touched him, but the simple sadness in Max’s voice cut deep.
“I’m sorry.” The words burned like acid in his icy throat. “I can pay for it. I have money.”
Don’t send me away, his heart begged. God, please don’t send me away.
“What are you sorry for?”
“I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m clumsy. Stupid.” And all the rest he’d been accused of during his twelve short years. “I’m sorry,” he said again, becoming more desperate as he waited for the blow. Or worse, so much worse, a shove out the door. “I was hurrying because I thought she might go away.”
“Who?”
“The woman. Singing on the corner. I wanted to . . .” Realizing the absurdity of it, Luke looked helplessly at the bill still crumpled in his hand.
“I see.” And because he did, Max’s heart all but broke. “She often sings there. You’ll hear her again.”
Fresh terror swam into his eyes as he looked back at Max. It was so much more frightening to hope. “I can—I can stay?”
On a long breath, Max bent down and picked up a piece of shattered crystal. “What do you see here?”
“It’s broken. I broke it. I never think about anyone else but myself, and I—”
“Stop it.”
The sharp order had Luke’s head snapping up. Somewhere inside he began to tremble as he realized he couldn’t hide from this. When Max hit him it wouldn’t just be the physical pain, it would shatter his hopes as completely as he’d shattered the vase.
“It’s broken,” Max said, struggling for calm. “And it’s quite true you broke it. Did you mean to?”
“No, but I—”
“Look at this.” He held the piece of glass toward Luke. “It’s a thing. An object. Something anyone with the price can own. Do you think you mean less to me than this?” When he tossed it aside, Luke couldn’t hold the trembling inside any longer. “Do you think so little of me that you believe I’d strike you for breaking a glass?”
“I don’t . . .” Luke’s breath began to hitch as the pressure in his chest spread like brushfire. He couldn’t stop the hot, hateful tears from spilling out. “Please. Don’t make me go.”
“My dear child, can you have been with me all these weeks and not know I’m different from them? Did they scar you that badly?”
Beyond words now, Luke only shook his head.
“I’ve been where you’ve been,” Max murmured, and took the next step by gathering Luke against him. The boy stiffened, the primitive fear running deep. Then even the fear crumbled as Max eased him down on the steps and rocked him. “No one can make you go back. You’re safe here.”
He knew he should be humiliated, blubbering like a baby against Max’s shirt. But the arms around him were strong, solid, real.
What kind of a boy is it, Max wondered, who can be so moved by a song that he would part with one of his precious dollars to pay for it? How deeply could such a boy be hurt by casual cruelty, and the lack of choice?
“Can you tell me what they did to you?”
Shame welled up, and the need—oh the need for someone to understand. “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t make it stop.”
“I know.”
The old angers simmered out even as the tears fell. “They beat me all the time. If I did something, if I didn’t do it. If they were drunk, if they were sober.” His fists clenched against Max’s shirt lik
e small balls of iron. “Sometimes they’d lock me up, and I’d beat on the closet door and beg them to let me out. I couldn’t get out. I could never get out.”
It was hideous to remember that, weeping hysterically in the dark coffin of the closet, with no hope, no help, no escape.
“The social workers would come, and if I didn’t say the right thing, he’d take after me with the belt. The last time, that last time before I left, I thought he was going to kill me. He wanted to. I know he wanted to—you can tell when it’s in their eyes, but I don’t know why. I don’t know why.”
“It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault.” Max stroked the boy’s head and fought back his own demons. “People tell their children there are no monsters in the world. They tell them that because they believe it, or they want the child to feel safe. But there are monsters, Luke, all the more frightening because they look like people.” He drew the boy back to study his wet, ravaged face. “You’re free of them now.”
“I hate him.”
“You’re entitled to that.”
There was more. He wasn’t certain he dared speak of it. The shame was black and oily. But with Max’s eyes so quiet and intense on his, Luke stumbled through it. “He—he brought a man one night. It was late and they were drunk. Al went out and locked the door. And the man—he tried—”
“It’s all right.” He tried to gather Luke close again, but the horror had the boy scrambling back.
“He put his fat hands on me, and his mouth.” Luke wiped his own with the back of his hand. “He said how he’d paid Al, and I was supposed to do things to him, and let him do them to me. And I was stupid, ’cause I didn’t know what he meant.”
There were no tears now, but a rage, burning dry. “I didn’t know until he got on top of me. I thought he was going to smother me until . . .” The sheer terror of it boomeranged back. The sweaty skin and the stink of gin, the greedy hands groping.
“Then I knew, all right. I knew.” His hands clenched and unclenched, leaving deep crescents in his palms. “I hit him, and I hit him, but he wouldn’t stop. So I bit and I scratched. I had his blood all over my hands, and he was holding his face and screaming. Then Al came in, and he beat me for a long time. And I don’t remember—I don’t know if . . .” That was the worst, the not knowing. It was a shame he couldn’t speak out loud. “That’s the night he wanted to kill me. That’s the night I left.”
Max was silent for a long time, so long Luke was afraid he’d said too much, much too much to ever be forgiven.
“You did everything right.” There was a heaviness in Max’s voice that had tears stinging Luke’s eyes again. “And I can promise you this. No one will ever touch you in that way again, while you’re with me. And I’ll teach you the way out of the closet.” Max’s eyes came back to Luke’s and held. “They may lock you in, but they won’t keep you there.”
Luke tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat before he forced them out. His life depended on the answer. “I can stay?”
“Until you want to go.”
His gratitude was so huge, he thought it might burst from him like light. Like love. “I’ll pay for the vase,” he managed. “I promise.”
“You already have. Now, run wash your face. We’d best clean this up before LeClerc has another tantrum.”
Max sat on the steps as Luke bounded up them. From her hiding place in the parlor, Roxanne heard her father sigh. And she wept.
6
Over the next few days, Luke felt his way carefully. He was unsure of LeClerc, and knew only that the Cajun was in charge of the house. Luke did his best to keep out of the way. He never made the mistake of dropping crumbs through the house again.
He went shopping with Lily, carrying boxes and bags for her up and down the steamy streets. He sat patiently in boutiques as she picked over new clothes, stood by while she oohed and aahed over trinkets in windows.
His love for her was deep enough to have him tolerating her choosing outfits for him. So deep that he hardly winced at the paisley shirts she bought him. If he had free time, he haunted the Quarter, content to explore, to listen to the street musicians, to watch the artists work around Jackson Square.
But the best time for Luke was when they rehearsed.
The Magic Door was a cramped, dim club that smelled of the whiskey fumes and smoke that had soaked into the walls for decades. On those hot afternoons, the shades would be drawn against the sun and the tourists. The air conditioner made grinding sounds that were more industrious than the resulting puff of tepid air it produced. The ceiling fan did a bit more, but with the stage lights lit, the club was like a small furnace.
The walls were papered in red and gold velvet, the wall behind the bar mirrored to give the illusion of space. It was like being a bug inside a decorated box, and the forgetful child who’d captured you had neglected to punch holes in the top.
Luke loved it.
Every afternoon, Lester Friedmont, the manager, would sit at the front table, nursing a beer and the short stub of a lit cigar. He was a tall man who carried all of his extra weight in his belly. Invariably he wore a white short-sleeved shirt, with a tie and matching suspenders. His black laced shoes were always shined. His thinning hair was slicked back and gleamed wetly under the lights. He looked at his world through the smudged lenses of heavy black glasses perched on the end of his angular nose.
A fat calico cat he called Fifi would prowl around his legs, waddle off to nibble from the dish set under the bar, then prowl back again.
Friedmont kept a phone on the table. He had the ability to watch the rehearsal and add his comments, harass whoever was cleaning the club and talk on the phone simultaneously.
It took Luke several afternoons to realize that Friedmont was a bookie.
No matter how often they would run through a bit, Lester would hoot and shake his head. “Jesus please us, that was a good one. You going to tell me how you did that one, Max?”
“Sorry, Lester. Trade secret.”
So Lester would go back to taking bets and scratching his belly.
Max planned to start off the act with sleight of hand, and some colored scarf tricks, similar to what he’d done in the carnival. Then he wanted to add his own version of the Floating Ball before bringing Roxanne out for his new Levitating Girl. He’d added a spin to sawing a woman in half by using a vertical box and cutting Lily into three parts. It was nearly perfected.
He was trying Luke out in bits and pieces. He had no doubts about the boy’s quick mind and quick hands. Now he was testing Luke’s heart. “Watch,” he said to Luke. “Learn.”
Standing center stage, Max pulled silks out of his pocket; color after vivid color poured out. Luke’s lips began to twitch. He didn’t understand that what he was seeing was pure timing. The longer the bit lasted, the longer the audience would laugh—and be misdirected.
“Hold out your arms,” Max ordered, then draped the scarves over Luke’s arms seemingly at random. “We’ll have music to go with this. Lily?”
She turned on the tape recorder. “The Blue Danube.”
“The waltz is slow, lovely,” Max said. “The gestures mirror it.” His hands flowed over the scarves, lifted, fell as he walked around Luke. “And, of course, if I’ve chosen a beautiful woman from the audience to stand in your place, this adds to the showmanship, and the beauty of the illusion. And her reaction will cue the audience to theirs.” A snap of the wrist and Max plucked the end of a scarf, as he whipped it back, the others followed, all neatly tied together, scarlet to yellow, yellow to sapphire, sapphire to emerald.
Luke’s eyes popped wide an instant before his grin spread.
“Excellent.” Max scooped up the scarves, balled them into a colorful orb as he spoke. “So you see, even in such a small trick, showmanship, stage presence, is every bit as important as dexterity. To do a trick well is never enough. But to do it with a flourish . . .” He tossed the ball into the air, the scarves, no longer joined, floated down.<
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Nearby Roxanne giggled and clapped her hands. “I like that one, Daddy.”
“My best audience.” He bent down to pick up the silks. “Show me.”
Roxanne rubbed her hands together, gnawed on her lip. “I can’t do as many yet.”
“What you can, then.”
Nerves and pride jangled together as she chose six of the scarves. Turning to the imaginary audience, she tugged each between her hands, then waving each in the air draped them on Luke’s arms. There was an undeniably feminine touch to her gestures that made Max smile as she turned her hands over and under the silks. Though she moved to the music as she executed a series of slow pirouettes around Luke, her concentration was total. There was no such thing as a small trick in Roxanne’s world. They were all huge.
