08 Illusion

by Frank Peretti

  Burt! He was trying to get out from under her hat, wiggling it around, making it crawl blindly around the table and bump into things. The hat was heading for the table edge!

  She dove for it, but too late. The hat hung over the edge and Burt dropped free, bouncing—Wow! What a bounce!—into a high arc over the room and dropping toward an older patron’s cup of coffee—a patron who wasn’t paying much attention, by the way. The crowd followed the arc of the ball with a unanimous “Whoooooaa!”

  Burt was dropping right on target when the old guy looked up just in time to see the ball plop into Eloise’s hand, inches above catastrophe.

  Whoops! Hollers!

  And broad, mock relief from the Hobett. She wiped her brow, plopped her hat back on, then tossed the ball over her shoulder, intending to bounce it off a kick of her heel.

  She did it. The ball went flying, arced over the heads of the patrons …

  And bounced off Mr. Calhoun’s head.

  Everybody in the place, as one, saw it happen, and everybody howled.

  The Hobett stood there horrified, hand over gaping mouth, while Burt came bouncing back and cowered behind her feet, peeking out, quivering with fear. Now the folks were shouting, some shrieking with laughter. Amazement, astonishment, and wonder filled the room. She had the crowd.

  But … did she have Mr. Calhoun? He was glaring at her, and whether he was acting or serious, he still pointed at the door. “Out!”

  Play it. She doffed her hat and bowed repeatedly, backing toward the door.

  Burt just sat where he was, undecided.

  The Hobett made it to the door, but missed Burt and started looking around for him.

  Mr. Calhoun advanced on the tennis ball, about to pick it up.

  The Hobett whistled, and Burt scurried to her, struck her big-booted toe, and bounced high over her head. As he came down, she doffed her hat just in time for him to land on her head and replaced the hat just in time to keep him there.

  One final bow to a wildly applauding crowd, and she was out the door.

  Eloise could still hear the cheers and applause from McCaffee’s as she hurried down the sidewalk, emotions in a blender. I blew it, I did great, they love me, he hates me, it was unprofessional, it was inspired… . Oh, dear God, can’t I do anything right?

  “Hello? Oh, miss! Could you hold on a minute?”

  Should she stop? Was it a cop?

  Her shoulders were sagging as she turned to face the music.

  It was Abby Calhoun, hurrying toward her, smiling, eyes sparkling. “I never caught your name.”

  Well, Abby was smiling. Maybe it was safe to tell her. “Eloise Kramer.”

  “Roger—Mr. Calhoun—told me to run after you.”

  “Is he mad?”

  She looked ready to laugh. “I think he is a little mad, yes.”

  She deflated, the air sighing out of her.

  “But he’d like to talk to you … about your proposal?”

  Eloise breathed in again and squared her shoulders.

  chapter

  * * *

  14

  SATURDAY NIGHT, 7–7:30 P.M.,

  enjoy …

  ELOISE “The Hobett” KRAMER

  Magician Extraordinaire

  Astounding.

  Astoundingly Funny.

  Bring the Family.

  It wasn’t her name up in lights, just colored marker pen on white copy paper with some of Roger Calhoun’s tacky artwork, taped to the front window of McCaffee’s. But that little poster struck Eloise as a page that could turn to a new chapter in her life, and she could feel it to the bones.

  Seven to seven-thirty. Half an hour. She could remember thinking, Only half an hour? Now, cooped up in the women’s restroom in the back of McCaffee’s, reddening her nose and dotting her face with black whiskers, mumbling to herself one final time the order of illusions she’d planned, all she could think was, Half an hour! How was she going to fill half an hour?

  “This isn’t my idea,” Mr. Calhoun had said. “It’s Abby’s idea and I’m going along with it, so okay, I’ll give you half an hour and it better be good.”

  She worked and worried and sweated away the hours in her room at Sally and Micah’s until she was ready to eat her pillow, trying to remember and rehearse illusions in the correct order and the right style to hold a coffeehouse crowd, and all she had to work with were two tennis balls—she drew smiley faces on them—a deck of cards, and a batch of quarters.

  The doorknob rattled.

  “Just a minute!” she called.

  It was noisy out in the restaurant, so there was a crowd. Whether they were willing to become her crowd was one big question mark. Had any returned from yesterday? Had any word gotten around so there’d be new faces? Was there anybody out there who would, you know, like her in the first place?

  She was already sweating. She sniffed herself. Her deodorant was working.

  She leaned against the sink and bowed her head. “I’m going to do this. I might make a total fool of myself, but I won’t turn away. Here I am with whiskers on my face and tricks in my pockets and … and somebody needs to use the restroom. Well, You know what I would have said.”

  She assumed the Hobett’s personality, face, and body, double-checked her goofy smile in the mirror, and stepped out. With a tip of her hat to the lady waiting outside, she slipped past and flopped into one lone chair in the corner to await her cue. She caught the eyes of a couple sitting at the rearmost table and gave them a disarming, clownish smile. They smiled back. It helped.

  Her hand was trembling. She wouldn’t be able to hold her cards …

  “Okay, uh, here we go, then… .” Mr. Calhoun had stepped to the center of the floor. He and his crew had crowded the tables a touch toward the walls to allow Eloise a few additional square feet. Now Mr. Calhoun stood in that space looking terribly self-conscious. “For the next half hour we’re gonna have, uh, Elaine … what’d I say? Elaine? Eloise! Eloise Kramer. She goes by the name Hobett ’cause she’s a girl hobo, and, uh … okay. Here she is.”

  He wanted to get out of there in no small way, she could tell. He was clearing the floor, face set resolutely toward the safe zone behind the counter.

  He’d forgotten. Burt the Tennis Ball was right in his hand and he was walking off.

  Great start. Wonder if he’s going to count this one against me?

  She waved at him and he finally saw her. Unhappily, he turned around, went back to the center of the floor, dropped Burt, and cleared out. Now it was just Burt out there, bouncing all by himself with everybody watching.

  She leaned forward, eyes on Burt, touching him without touching him from back in the corner. Come on, Burt. Come on …

  His bounce had been decaying, but now, somehow, it gained energy and he kept bouncing, right there in that one spot, up and down, up and down, just as high every time. The people were catching on, starting to giggle to each other. Some of the guys at a front-row table were starting to bend down and search from side to side for wires, strings, the gimmick.

  Okay. We have ’em, for now. Got to time this right. Okay … now!

  She high-stepped out, moving past tables, bodies, faces, and started clapping her hands in time to Burt’s bounce. With some whimsical, clownlike persuasion she got the folks clapping along. It would have been so much better with music but there wasn’t time to set that up and Mr. Calhoun was at the limits of his niceness anyway.

  Get going, get going.

  She’d rehearsed this dance with Burt so many times. As she swooped in and let him roll up one arm and down the other, from left to right hand and around again, then let him bounce and weave through her legs in sync with her dancing, she went on pure faith that each move would pop up in her memory when she needed it, and at every crisis moment there it was: Kick Burt off your heel, catch him in your hat, swing your hat over your head and dump Burt out, let him bounce on top of your head, bounce from head to kicked heel and back again, elbow to elbow, keep tho
se legs shuffling, weave, baby, weave, let him bounce straight up and down from the floor, do your circle dance around him while you get his buddy, Baxter, from your pocket.

  Now the hard part. She got this to work a few times back at the halfway house, enough to take the chance here. She kept her eyes on Burt, her head nodding to follow his bounce, then held Baxter at just the right height for Burt to contact him at the top of his bounce. Bump! Baxter bounced upward, Burt bounced downward, Burt bounced off the floor at the same moment Baxter fell back from his bounce, they met halfway: bump! Now they were bouncing in a perfect column, Burt off the floor, Baxter off Burt, bump, bump, bump!

  She had the crowd. They were in that zone where they didn’t laugh or applaud, they gasped, marveled, bent, and craned, trying to figure out how in the world … !

  For this one moment when Burt and Baxter were doing most of the work, she could look at the faces. The college guys were back and had brought girls. Mia was there, along with Rhea, Darci, and the Durhams. They were marveling, too, but so happy, so proud.

  Enough of bouncing Burt and Baxter. She plucked Baxter from the air, then Burt, then struck a pose, a ball in each hand. Now the applause came, wild and excited.

  Time for the spinning quarters. Megan brought out a small round table, and Eloise went to work, materializing two quarters between her spread fingers and giving them a spin on the table. The quarters danced together, spinning around the table like a pair of figure skaters. It looked great, but …

  Ehhh … only the closest tables could really appreciate the trick. The people seated farther back were having to stand, crane, try to see what was going on.

  Bummer! Too small. The energy from the crowd was sinking like a bad air mattress. She was going to die up there.

  This better be good.

  Come on, come on, spread it out. Make it big. She got amid the tables, reached behind a lady’s ear, and brought back a quarter—she rolled her eyes a little: Riiight, as if you’ve never seen that one before. She set the quarter on the lady’s table, flicked it to get it spinning, then let it spin onto her fingertip and held it up for all to see.

  Ah, they were amazed again.

  Keep it close, right before their eyes… .

  She went to the other side of the room and picked out a cute, buzz-cut ten-year-old. With clownish gestures she had him hold out both hands palm up, then place one hand atop the other, palm to palm. She mimed, Now lift your top hand away! He lifted his top hand away, and there was a quarter in his other hand. She got it spinning, perched it on the end of his finger, and now he was feeling great, a magician himself.

  She pointed to the shirt pocket of one of the college guys. He checked, and there was a quarter. She perched it spinning on his fingertip, and he and his buddy immediately began studying it inches from their noses. They passed their hands around it, feeling for wires or strings; the buddy got out a pocketknife and held it close to feel for magnetism. Nothing there. They looked at her and she just shrugged a showy shrug: Beats me.

  A fourth quarter came from the shoe of an older lady three tables back. The lady had long fingernails, but the quarter managed to stay on the end of one without slipping off. Now those folks back there had something to watch.

  She pulled a quarter from her nose and milked the gag, wiping it on her coat sleeve and trying to get it to quit hanging and dragging from her fingers by an invisible “string.” Everybody was laughing so hard it made her crack up. Finally she got it spinning on a table. One of the college girls sitting there was brave enough, and Eloise passed the spinning quarter to her upraised index finger. That got a response; the girl held her hand high to show everyone. She and her friends were totally enchanted.

  Following Eloise’s lead, they all held their spinning quarters high like the Statue of Liberty and then gave them a little uptoss and caught them in their hands.

  The tip can. Good idea.

  She grabbed her can labeled TIPS from the counter and passed it around to collect the quarters, blowing kisses as everyone applauded. Hopefully they’d get the hint for later.

  Okay, these nice folks were still hers.

  She brought out the deck of cards—and her heart sank. She’d learned a lesson from the quarters routine, which was a heck of a time to learn it: the card tricks, like the quarter routine, would have worked fine for one table, just a few people at a time, but what about all the other folks in the room? Boy, they didn’t call it close-up magic for nothing.

  She smiled, fiddled with the cards, fanned them, shuffled them… .

  She did a waterfall, cascading the cards from one hand to the other, then switched hands and did it the other way.

  She kept raising her feeder hand higher so the cards would drop farther to her other hand. It was getting very sporty.

  The folks were still watching, still with her but only because they were expecting something.

  She held her hands higher and waterfalled the cards in front of her eyes, one hand to the other, that hand to the other, over and over, her hands wider apart each time.

  Could she do it? Would the cards do it?

  Even though the cards had to be a blur to everyone else, as they flew past her nose she could see each card in perfect detail. She could touch the card’s edges without touching them, sense its weight, feel the air swirling around it, hear the little slap as it landed on its fellows in her lower hand. Was all this just part of being crazy? She had no time to think about it. The folks were waiting and she needed something.

  She held her hands close together, palms up, deck of cards in her right hand. Eyes locked on the cards, she flexed the deck, building the tension.

  She let them riffle loose, they sprang into the air in a stream and flew in a little arc to her other hand. Fffffflipppp! And that quick, it was over.

  She made them arc again, from left to right, right to left, left to right, back and forth, then started spreading her hands, widening the arc. When her hands were two feet apart she started getting gasps and oohs from her audience.

  She extended her hands out past her shoulders, and the cards sailed higher in a fluttering arc. Her eyes, her mind, every nerve ending in her body were locked on the cards, feeling, knowing, energizing. Flipflipflipflipflip the cards riffled out of one hand; plaplaplaplaplaplap they landed in the other.

  When her arms were spread wide and the cards were soaring through an arc high above her head, over and back, over and back, she held the pose and the ta-da moment came. The audience applauded, cheered, whistled. They loved it.

  She riffled off the last card, it sailed through the air after its fellows like the caboose on a train and landed in her other hand—plap! Her fingers, quivering a little, wrapped tightly around the deck as she wilted with relief. She made it clowny, but she wasn’t kidding.

  While the folks were still shaking their heads, cheering and clapping, she caught a quick glimpse of Mr. Calhoun. He wasn’t smiling, but only because he was too dumbfounded.

  She was trembling, but it wasn’t nervousness as much as raw adrenaline coursing through her, the power, the energy, the pure psych of being in this place in this moment, and now she wanted more.

  The coin toss routine was next, mixed in with some cool surprises. Just remember, Eloise, reach out, make it big, draw them in.

  She produced a quarter and zeroed in on a grandfatherly-looking gentleman at a front row table… .

  She sat on her bed in her room at the Durhams’, dazed with exhaustion, too excited to sleep. It was going on ten o’clock. She was still in her Hobett outfit, her hair was matted from sweating under her hat, she hadn’t even washed off the whiskers, and now many of the little black dots were smeared.

  She’d emptied the contents of her tip jar on the bed and counted out the money: $312.75. Now she was the astonished one. Of course, she told herself more than once, you won’t do this well every night.

  But making $312.75 in a half hour was quite affirming, to say the least, and she couldn’t stop replay
ing the evening in her head.

  She could have kept going, but wrapped up her show right around 7:28 P.M. with a big finish and a final bow. Having nowhere to go to get “offstage,” she let Hobett talk in a goofy, bummish voice she borrowed from Red Skelton—one of her favorite TV shows only weeks ago—and visited with people. They loved her show, loved her, shook her hand, raved up one side and down the other, and—happy, happy, happy—they dumped tips into her tip jar hand after hand, the coins clinking, the bills … well, all that quiet was nice to watch for sure.

  “Do you do birthday parties?” a mom asked.

  Was the pope Catholic? “Sure!”

  They found an available date—for Eloise that was easy enough.

  “Oh, and what do you charge?”

  She scrambled around her brain for a figure and blurted out, “Fifty dollars.”

  Sold. It was a date.

  And then she thought—what was she going to do for a bunch of little kids? And how was she going to get there? She didn’t have a car or even a driver’s license.

  Roger—he said she could call him that—finally got a few minutes with her after most of her public had gone out the door. “That was good,” he said. “Gooder—better than good.” He was still a little dazed and having to adjust. “What are you doing next weekend?”

  He offered her half an hour on Saturday and half an hour on Sunday. She took it.

  And she could walk to McCaffee’s. It only took about twenty minutes from the halfway house.

  Mia, Darci, Rhea, Micah, and Sally gathered around her at the house and had a little celebration with apple juice and Oreo cookies. They were all blown away and just couldn’t believe what they’d seen, and all of them voiced the same sentiment: Eloise Kramer would not be a “hobo” for long.

  Of course, the question came up as it always did, and probably should if she was doing things well: “How did you do that?” And she just shrugged teasingly and said it was a trick.