08 Illusion

by Frank Peretti

  The data were streaming in faster than he could study and analyze in real time, but it was easy to see the trends and appraise the situation. The readings from the coffeehouse were confirmatory and alarming.

  These readings were worse.

  The lights in the living room dimmed except for the multicolored lights on the Christmas tree and the glow from the fireplace. “And can you turn off that lamp?”

  Dane reached over and switched off the table lamp, then settled back on the couch.

  “Ta-daaa!”

  Eloise made her grand entrance into the living room, face glowing and eyes sparkling in the light of six candles atop a fancy chocolate cake. She didn’t just walk into the room, she made a procession of it, bearing the tea tray out in front of her as if conveying the crown jewels into the presence of the king. “Merry Christmas to you, and happy birthday to you …” When she came to his name in the song she sang it for several counts, grinning at the privilege, then set the tray with the cake, two plates, and two forks on the coffee table. She sat on the love seat opposite, elbows on her knees, chin propped on her knuckles, eyes giddy. “Make a wish!”

  All he could do was gaze at her while the candles burned. Make a wish?

  His birthday was on the sixteenth, but Christmas on Saturday was the ideal opportunity to celebrate both, and Eloise leaped at it. She prepared a dinner, Chicken Kiev, and baked the cake in his kitchen, accepting help from him only with questions that began with “Where do you keep the … ?” and “Do you have any more of … ?” She set the table in the dining room with his best silverware and dishes and brought some candles for the centerpiece in case he didn’t have any, which he didn’t. Dinner was at six o’clock, and at her request, he wore a jacket and tie. She made all the meal preparations wearing her jeans, blouse, and running shoes, but then, with a magical flair, she vanished into the guest bedroom and reappeared for dinner in a dress. It was black, cute, and tasteful, conforming to her waist and draping from her hips to a teasing hem above her knees. The diamond earrings twinkled just below her haircut, and the diamond necklace adorned her neck. She sat with her ankles crossed, and around her right ankle was another surprise: a silver anklet.

  The candles kept burning, and her eyes softened from giddy to serene. She eased back, folded her hands in her lap, and said nothing more about the wish. She just returned his gaze, then playfully shrugged a shoulder, her smile closing the distance between them, her hair a sunrise in the glow of the fireplace.

  What he thought, he couldn’t share: he was sitting across from a perky, take-on-the-world, blue-eyed kid, but in the eyes of this girl were the depth, the spirit of a woman—the woman he would make his own and share his life with for the next forty years—forty years ago.

  Oh, he could make a lot of wishes.

  “What?” she finally asked.

  All he could tell her was as much truth as his best wisdom would allow. “Ellie, I am compelled to say that you look absolutely lovely tonight, and you have made my Christmas a manifold and uncontainable blessing. Thank you so very much.”

  And without a wish, he blew out the candles.

  Eloise stared at the candle wicks as they smoked and smoldered down to a cold, black nothing. There was a dead space. No words.

  Oh, and she wasn’t smiling. She put her smile back on and gave a little clap. “Yay!” Then she stepped to the wall and eased the lights up about half.

  Was he happy? Was he having a good time? She hurried back to her seat and met his eyes, looking for … well, just the look he had a moment ago. It was sort of there, but now … well, the candles weren’t lighting up his face anymore, the lights were half on, the wishing was over.

  The cake was a little crooked, but it came out great otherwise; all he had to do was taste it. The Chicken Kiev could have been a little more crumbed and maybe a little lighter on the pepper, but he loved it, he really talked about it, he ate a bunch of it.

  She just had to know, “Are you having a good time?”

  “Very much. You’ve no idea.”

  She cut a slice of cake for him—he wanted only a little one—and one for herself, just a little smaller. “So, how does it feel being sixty? Is it … I mean, I can’t imagine being that old …” Her hand went over her mouth, and she laughed at the gaffe.

  But so did he. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance, Lord willing. I kind of like it. I get a big kick out of asking people where they were when they first heard Kennedy was shot. Used to be you could ask anybody and they’d know.”

  She took a bite of cake instead of telling him: seventh-grade music appreciation class with Mr. McFaden. “I guess you’ve lived through a lot of history.”

  “So will you. Someday you’ll be the only one who remembers where you were when you heard about 9/11.”

  “I … I suppose you remember the Beatles.”

  Big, oh-yes nod. “Grew my hair out long, bought all their records, got a lot of flak in church about it. I can remember standing in line outside the Paramount Theater in Seattle waiting to see A Hard Day’s Night.”

  She went with Joanie at the Wilma in Coeur d’Alene. She screamed because Joanie did.

  “I lived through Vietnam and Watergate. I remember Mandy and me sitting in a motel room in Elko, Nevada, watching the Watergate hearings on a black-and-white TV.” He laughed. “Oh, wow, that old Sam Ervin! You should have seen him. What a character!”

  Missed that one, too.

  “I remember Neil Armstrong first setting foot on the moon: ‘That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.’”

  With Walter Cronkite on CBS. Daddy and she had made popcorn. Right?

  She was such a liar … She had been there, but she was pretending she hadn’t because, come on, how would it sound to say, guess what, I remember that stuff, too?

  “You okay?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, great. I’m just checking out this cake. How is it?”

  “It’s great. It’s perfect.”

  That was one stabilizing influence: the birthday cake.

  Sixty. The Big Six, the Big Oh. The numbers embedded in the top of the cake were curly, festive, oversize, loud, obvious, made of sugar, but, in Dane’s thinking, cast in concrete: inflexible, unflinching, altogether true, the only thing in the room right now that smacked of reality. They poked and prodded him with it, waking him up with every glimpse.

  “Sorry it was a little lopsided.”

  “Ellie, it was beautiful. The whole evening’s been beautiful. Thank you so much.”

  “I like being called Ellie.” Oh, that was dumb! “Eloise is … it’s kind of formal between friends.”

  “So is Mr. Collins.”

  Maybe she shouldn’t have worn this dress. Maybe it was saying too much. Her anklet was showing.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “Umm … I’m thinking … this is all about that day in October, out on the sidewalk in Coeur d’Alene. The Gypsy meets the big guy in the cowboy hat and her life changes, maybe forever.”

  “I’ve thought of that day often.”

  You have? “It was a God thing. Don’t you think it was a God thing?”

  Six and zero.

  “I think … I think it sure seemed like it. Of course, when you trust God with your life, most everything is a God thing, so, sure. It was a God thing.”

  Oh, she really loved that answer. “And then, how we met again at McCaffee’s!”

  And how you became an inescapable, inseparable part of my life; how you ruled my thoughts; how I didn’t want to see you again because I wanted to so badly. “Well, we’re both magicians. It was bound to happen.”

  True. But where was the magic in an answer like that? “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. For everything.”

  “Thank you.”

  He took his last bite of cake.

  She shoved her last bite around the plate with her fork.

  The fireplace cast a warm glow on the whole room, and the only sound wa
s the lilting, jazzy ballad coming from the entertainment system.

  “Did your wife ever dance?”

  He didn’t seem to mind the question; he even smiled faintly and far away at the memory. “A lot like you. Graceful, elegant, very natural. She was born to dance.”

  “Did you ever dance with her?”

  Wow. She could see him watching the memory, and it must have been a great one. “Boy, did I. She didn’t want to dance onstage by herself and look like a typical magician’s female assistant—you know, just adding pizzazz, filler, misdirection—so we danced together to set up the illusions. It was very classy, a lot of fun.”

  “What style?”

  That made him laugh. “Whatever Mandy was into at that particular second. Actually, we based everything on West Coast Swing because it was showy, it was fun to watch, and it gave Mandy so much freedom to improvise. I guess you’d call it West Coast Swing for a Family Show.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “Show you … ?”

  “I’ve never danced with anybody, not like that.”

  “Have you ever done any swing dancing?”

  She stood and offered him her hand. “Show me.”

  And she couldn’t believe it: he stood up, took her hand, and led her to the warmly lit floor space in front of the fire.

  Speaking of God things, maybe this was another one. It was one of the wishes he didn’t think he could wish and didn’t wish and now here it came true anyway. So to speak. Teaching her to dance was a safe and practical way to have his wish but not really, and in any case it would serve her professional interests and widen her creativity.

  She was facing him, still holding his hand, filling his vision and his mind, pushing aside the thoughts he was trying to have. “Well, getting really basic here, it’s slotted.”

  “Uh-huh.” She seemed to know what he meant. She was scoping out the floor.

  “So we could run the slot this way, parallel to the fireplace.”

  “Okay.” She repositioned herself so they stood facing each other, parallel to the fireplace.

  “The show and the dancing shifted all over the stage so we were constantly moving the slot around, but we always knew where it was. So, uh …” Now he had to touch her. He slipped his right hand under her left arm and cupped her shoulder blade. “We start with a swing closed position.” She placed her left hand on his right biceps. “Yeah, yeah, that’s it. Now your right hand rests in my left hand, my palm up, yours down—our hands are lower, down here, swing position. Good! Tone in the body, tone in the arms, good frame, good connection.”

  She smiled up at him and he could see admiration. “Hey,” he said, “don’t be too impressed. Mandy was the real teacher.” She laughed. It eased him a bit. “So first we move in the slot, six count, I start with my left, you start with your right, I step back …”

  Step forward, step forward, tap, two steps backward and a triple step …

  Spinning into open position, connection, and counterbalance …

  Before long they were moving with the music and she was following his lead, stepping, styling, syncopating in the slot. His lead was subtle, experienced, on time every time so she knew just what to do on which count and where she would arrive after each variation.

  And that’s what turned on the ideas. They began to fire like sparks in her mind and body, which brought her joy, which brought her more ideas, and she could imagine how it must have felt to be Mandy Collins dancing onstage with her man. Safe. Free to create, take a chance, tease a little, feel the joy, then snap right back into the shelter of his arms, his touch, her creativity always secure.

  Imagining the feeling became the feeling. She squealed with delight and did a spin on her way out of the slot, and right out of the spin, there was his hand to take hers and draw her back. Safe. Home. She was lost in the dance, moving, alive.

  All the moves came back and he fell into the routine with no need for thought or plan, leading Ellie as he’d led Mandy for thousands of shows, connecting, protecting, and turning her loose to light up like a sparkler. He was onstage again, and Mandy was there in Ellie’s eyes, in her rapture, her playful tease, her every fluid step. Ellie was Mandy. She …

  He drew her in, she slid past, and an idea sprang from the last one, starting on the and before the one count.

  But he dropped his hand from hers. She went into a spin but it fell behind the count; a triple step died beneath her; what may have been her next idea turned to blowing sand; she sank to the earth, heels and toes on the floor.

  He looked at the fire, the cake on the coffee table, even at the ceiling, but not at her. “Anyway,” he said, “that’s how we did it.”

  Her heart was falling out of orbit. She forced a smile, a little laugh. “That was great. I’ve never had so much fun.” She even squeezed his arm, her cheek touching his biceps.

  But he wasn’t there.

  “Guess it’s time we tackled those dishes,” he said.

  chapter

  * * *

  29

  She kissed him on the cheek as she went out the door, stepping carefully on the icy walkway to her Bug. She wore her hooded parka over her dress, her winter boots over her pantyhose. It made a great picture, sort of like Big Bird in black, just goofy enough to end the evening on the right note. They had a great time.

  Dane carried his notebook computer into the living room. The lights were still low, the fire was down to glowing embers, the tree was the same cheerful clarion of joy. He sank into the couch, flipped the computer open, and waited for words to come.

  Tremendous Christmas, spent in the company of …

  His fingers hung over the keys, drummed in space, then went to the delete key and held it down. He folded his arms, stared at the tree, watched the glowing embers in the fireplace, and finally tapped:

  I suppose I should have found a church by now and some friends closer to my own age.

  Better talk to Arnie, get him up here, let him see the show, and get her working.

  Maybe on a cruise line far, far away.

  He closed the computer and went to bed.

  He couldn’t sleep.

  She would have kissed him. She really would have. If he’d turned his head just a little bit she would have gone for it, honest to God.

  Ohhh, and that would have been so terrible. That would have ruined everything. He would have banned her from the ranch and never let her anywhere near him ever again.

  She rolled over, fluffed her pillow for the umpteenth time, and buried half her face in it, not sleeping, not sleeping.

  What time was it? Almost midnight.

  She would think about tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. What were they doing tomorrow? Blocking out the second half of the show. They had almost an hour’s worth, the best of the Wallace show, the McCaffee’s show, and anything else that plays big. Those doves were really getting the hang of it. She’d have to warm them up in the morning, refresh them on release and return. She’d have to make sure they had enough greens …

  Ohhh, the way he looked at her. Did she really see what she thought she saw—

  No, no way, that was ridiculous. It was all in her head. He was an old man, a Daddy. Sixty. The big Six Zero.

  She would think about curtains. Right. Curtains for the stage. Well, it was best not to need them, to find other transitions. She never knew where she’d have to perform.

  But wow. His wife’s name was Mandy! Now, what kind of God thing was that?

  “Mandy—I mean, Eloise, it’s nothing!”

  But that had to be cool being his wife, dancing with him in every show, going home with him every night. Kissing him … being in his arms …

  A thrill coursed through her and made her wriggle.

  Oh, Lord, I’m terrible, I’m terrible!

  She smelled something burning.

  And I think it’s love …

  Oh, cut it out!

  Something was burning.

  She sat up and sniffed. The room was d
ark but didn’t seem smoky. She saw no haze in the amber streetlight coming through the windows.

  But the windows were wavering like heat waves, shifting sideways.

  Oh! She felt something that startled her, then made her wriggle again. Her right hand was resting in his hand—not here, not now, but somewhere and soon. She could feel the warmth of his palm, his embrace upon the small of her back. Another thrill coursed through her, feelings like colors, a trembling, and she reached as she sat in the bed, knowing she’d find his shoulder. She closed her eyes …

  And saw herself, far away, circling, floating through the dimensions, the layers, the walls, windows, lights and sounds of several worlds passing by each other right in her apartment. She was gliding and turning like a princess, every sequin of a beautiful blue gown flinging jewels of light about the room.

  Sitting on the bed, she could feel the floor under her, the air moving through her hair, the flight of her soul as music bore her aloft. She lifted the sheets aside …

  Her feet alighted on the apartment floor and she danced through the dream, touching notes and rests with heel, with toe. She opened her eyes. All around her, the apartment was a carousel of colors, sounds, times, and places.

  And she was the dancer wearing the gown, the center of a galaxy, dancing through dimensions, floating above worlds, embraced by strength, safety, and …

  She was wandering carefree, lost in wonder, heart flooding with …

  A song played inside her, a song that had waited for this time, this now, a song of …

  Everywhere rushed inward, becoming here and now within her, drawn from afar by …

  She knew herself, knit into one by …

  The floor pressed evenly, steadily against her feet. She came to rest while multirealities swirled around her, and let herself think the word.

  Love.

  At home within her, gathered from her scattered worlds and now her very own, so new and still so known. She closed her eyes to seal it in, folded her arms about herself to hold it close like warmth inside a blanket.