The Lightness of Hands

by Jeff Garvin

  It was ridiculous to be worried about some boy and whether he liked me; I had real problems. Problems that couldn’t be solved by a walk or a candy bar.

  “We’re fucked, Ripley. We’re so fucked.”

  “What? You’re the opposite of fucked. You just booked a five-figure gig on TV.”

  I covered my face with my free hand. “We’ll never get there. We have less than three hundred dollars left.”

  “We can work with that. You’re just going to have to run another diesel grift.”

  “It won’t matter. Even if we had the gas, Higgins wants five grand for the props. We don’t have it. We can’t get it. It’s impossible.”

  Ripley blew out a breath. “Five grand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mother effer.”

  I could almost hear the gears cranking in his head.

  “Ellie, are you sitting down right now?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Get up and move your body. Do it.”

  With a great effort, I hauled myself to my feet and started making a lap around the pond. Almost immediately, I felt a little better. “Thank you.”

  “Right. We need to focus. Priority one is getting to Las Vegas. That means a gig or a diesel grift.”

  I sighed. “A diesel grift is risky. And now that we have a chance at a real payday, we have more to lose if we get caught.”

  “Then a gig it is. Where have you played between Amarillo and Vegas?”

  I tried to think, but my brain seemed to be suspended in molasses.

  Ripley didn’t wait for my reply. “I’m going to start calling out towns. Albuquerque.”

  I blinked. There was a good theater in town, but no way we could fill it. “No.”

  “Roswell? Las Cruces? Flagstaff?”

  “We played Flagstaff once. But it was years ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Some casino. Big Arrow? Long Arrow? I can’t remember.”

  “Lone Arrow. Pulling up their calendar now.” I heard furious typing in the background. Naturally, Ripley had taken his laptop out on the roof. “Okay, the main auditorium is booked through Christmas. But both lounges have openings during the next three days. I’m sending you the booking contact now.”

  I put him on speaker and checked my email. “It’s Sharon. I know her. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.”

  “Nope. You’re emailing her now, before you lose steam.”

  I took a deep breath. My chest was impossibly heavy. “Ripley . . . even if we get a gig, it won’t be enough. We need five thousand dollars. There’s no way—”

  “One thing a time, Ellie. Book that gig.”

  I scrubbed at my eyes with the back of my hand. “Thank you, Ripley. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I know. I’m your personal ginger Jesus.”

  He stayed on with me until I sent the email. Then he made me swear I would call him at the first hint of “baddish feelings.” I promised—but I knew that if things got really bad, I wouldn’t want to call anyone. That’s just how it went.

  Immediately after I hung up, the loneliness descended again. My head buzzed, my hands tingled, and my limbs felt waterlogged and heavy. The conversation with Ripley hadn’t been a cure; it had been a Band-Aid—just enough to keep me from bleeding out. I needed more. I needed help. So I unlocked my phone again and called the Suicide Prevention Lifeline. They stayed on with me until almost two a.m.

  CHAPTER 12

  OVER OATMEAL AND COFFEE THE next morning, I told Dad about the potential gig in Flagstaff. I expected him to celebrate, or at least to show relief—but instead he acknowledged the news with only a grim nod. Probably he was still stung from our fight.

  We filled up at a TA truck stop, and then Dad piloted the RV west on US 40. I felt an impulse to apologize for what I’d said yesterday, but it was shunted aside by a swell of resentment. What would he have done if I hadn’t booked yet another gig? Just driven west until we ran out of gas? He had no plan; he’d just woken up and waited for me to fix our problems.

  I felt a sudden pressure squeezing my lungs. Was I in charge now? Was it was up to me to handle everything? What if Dad got sick or had another heart attack and couldn’t work—how would we get by then? He had to have realized what we were facing—yet he just drove on cluelessly westward, assuming the way would unfold before him. I wondered if he had been so ridiculously optimistic with Mom. I wondered if she’d ever wanted to strangle him like I did now.

  I forced myself to take a deep breath. We had six days to raise five grand, acquire one-of-a-kind props from a stingy recluse, and transport it all to LA. I needed to get to work.

  I couldn’t count on the Lone Arrow gig because I hadn’t heard back from Sharon yet. So with the help of strong coffee and constant text-message encouragement from Ripley, I managed to call a handful of other venues en route. Two were already booked. A third made me an offer, but the money wasn’t enough to justify the detour. The rest refused to hire Dad because of his reputation. We were out of luck and out of options; everything now hinged on this one casino gig.

  I put down the phone, tugged at my hair, and stared out the window at the desert. Maybe it was time to tell him—about Flynn & Kellar, about being out of meds, about everything. Sooner or later we needed to rehearse the Truck Drop, and we could’ve been spending our time on the road talking through it instead of giving each other the silent treatment. I bit my lip and glanced toward the front of the RV. I detected anger in the stiffness of Dad’s neck and the tilt of his head. I couldn’t tell him. Not yet. I would wait until the props were secure. Until I had the money figured out.

  Three hours into the drive, Grace Wu called, and I had to pretend it was a friend from school while I retreated into my shoebox to go over the paperwork for Flynn & Kellar’s Live Magic Retrospective. It was all boilerplate stuff, but seeing the dates and the amounts in print suddenly made everything real.

  PERFORMANCE DATE: OCTOBER 30, 4 P.M. CALL, 7 P.M. SHOW

  LOAD-IN, TECH REHEARSAL: OCTOBER 28, 2 P.M.–8 P.M.

  Jesus. We had to be in LA in four days. Time was moving impossibly fast.

  APPEARANCE FEE: $5,000

  BONUS UPON SUCCESSFUL PERFORMANCE: $10,000

  MAXIMUM PAYOUT: $15,000

  As I stared at the numbers, it occurred to me that if Higgins didn’t drop his price, the five-thousand-dollar appearance fee would be a wash. The publicity from another epic failure might generate some gigs, but not for long. Six months from now, we’d be back where we’d started.

  Which meant we actually had to pull off the Truck Drop.

  My brain couldn’t process the added stress of this realization. I wanted to sleep, but instead I finished the paperwork, sent it back, then logged into my school website, dreading what I was about to see.

  I had three new messages from teachers.

  The deadline for my King Lear essay had passed; I could submit it tomorrow for partial credit. Where was my Steinbeck report? Wouldn’t it be a shame to let my grade slip further? If I didn’t turn in my earth science summaries by midnight, I would receive a zero. Did I know I was in danger of failing?

  I put my head down on the table. In danger of failing. That’s precisely what I was.

  In search of distraction, I picked up my phone—and then, stupidly, opened my text messages. I thumbed through my conversation with Ripley first, smiling at his clever wordplay, but eventually the temptation grew too strong and I opened my text chain with Liam. I reread his last message over and over, obsessively trying to extract some deeper meaning from his vague comments:

  Really sorry. Crazy couple of days. Will try to call tomorrow.

  Well, tomorrow was here, and he hadn’t called. I told myself I should wait, that text messages couldn’t convey tone, that I was overreacting. If I pinged him now, I would seem desperate. I just had to be patient. Wait for him to call.

  I ignored my advice and started typing.

  Hey. Sorry you’ve had cr
azy days. I know what that’s like lol!

  Ugh. I deleted the lol. It made me sound like a twelve-year-old.

  I enjoyed our second “date.” I’ve always wanted to make out on a railroad tie.

  Was I really going to send this? Yes, I was. But first, I added:

  If everything works out, I’ll be in LA in four days. Are you still down for In-N-Out?

  Then, before I could chicken out, I clicked Send.

  I headed into the back to take a nap. If we booked the gig, I was going to be up late.

  I had just closed my eyes when my phone rang. The call was from a northern Arizona area code.

  “This is Ellie.”

  “Hi, it’s Sharon at Lone Arrow Casino. How are you?”

  My heart crawled into my throat.

  Six years ago on our way to Las Vegas we’d played one night at Lone Arrow. I had looked it up in Dad’s old gig log: They had paid us fifteen hundred dollars, and they’d comped a hotel room.

  “I’m good,” I said. “How are things up the mountain?”

  “Getting colder,” she said. “I got your message. It’s not exactly high season here, but I’m sure we can do something. When are you coming through?”

  I bit my lip. “Tonight, actually.”

  “Oh, jeez. I didn’t realize.”

  I heard her flipping pages. My stomach turned over.

  “I could bump the DJ and put you in the lounge. But it’s a Wednesday, and it’ll be mostly kids from NAU. I’m not sure if that’s your crowd.”

  A Wednesday wouldn’t pay for the props, but it might get us to Vegas. Plus I could get back on Wi-Fi and try to catch up on school. Take a real shower. Raid the maid’s cart for soap and conditioner.

  “That’s perfect,” I said. “We’ve done colleges.” One college, actually: a private school in northern Ohio, and it had been a disaster.

  “Okay, great.”

  I closed my eyes and pumped my fist. “So, fifteen hundred plus a room. I’ll email you the contract.”

  “Oh,” she said, and my stomach flipped again. “I could do maybe a thousand on a Friday. But on a Wednesday same-day booking, the best I can do is a room and five hundred.”

  I felt myself deflate.

  Sharon seemed to sense what was happening on my end. “I can comp dinner and breakfast. That’s my best offer.”

  At the Flying J in Albuquerque, I bought coffee and two turkey-on-wheats. When we pulled back onto I-40 west, I texted Ripley: Gig booked. NOW WHAT?

  He didn’t reply, and I was left to thrash around in my own thoughts. We were still forty-five hundred dollars short. There were no more gigs to be had this close to Vegas—and unless we upgraded to grand larceny and actually raided a cash register, a grift wasn’t going to cut it.

  Earn and steal were out. That left borrow and beg.

  The problem was, Dad’s friends had evaporated after the incident, and none of mine were rich. Except Liam—but I didn’t think I could ask him, even if he did call me back. So it was down to beg. I would have to wait until we got to Las Vegas, and then I would throw myself on the mercy of Jif Higgins.

  Maybe in a few hours, Dad and I would start speaking to each other again, even if only about the gig. Maybe when I told him about Flynn & Kellar, he wouldn’t be angry but relieved that money was coming. I decided I would do it tonight, while he was still in the afterglow of performance.

  I turned on my laptop, opened my earth science book, and started typing summaries. My focus was so erratic, the text might as well have been in Cyrillic. It was becoming clear: I was going to fail this semester. I stared at the screen until my eyes slipped out of focus. I tried to tell myself it was only a setback, but the math said different. A 3.0 was out of reach. I would have to go for my GED, then community college, then nursing school—but it would add two years to the timeline. Two years I didn’t have.

  Feeling powerless and lost, I slammed my laptop shut and moved to the front to stare at the road. Dad barely acknowledged my arrival. I looked over and noticed he was blinking rapidly.

  “Dad. You’re exhausted.”

  “The coffee will kick in.” They were the first words he’d said to me all day, and I felt a rush of relief when he spoke them.

  “Come on, Dad. You drank the dregs an hour ago. If you don’t get some rest, you’ll be no good for the show tonight. Go in the back. Put on some Brahms. Take a damn nap.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. Of course.”

  We pulled over at the Route 66 Rest Stop. Dad went into the back, and I took the wheel.

  Operating a forty-foot RV with a trailer is less like driving a car and more like piloting a sailboat. When the wind hits the side, it’s like the sails are up, and every bump in the road is a ten-foot swell. It is not relaxing. You cannot put on a playlist and zone out. You white-knuckle the wheel and grit your teeth and swear at every pothole.

  It was four forty-five p.m., and the sun was a blinding orange torch in the western sky when a shrill bleat issued from the front of the RV, making me jump in my seat. I shielded my eyes and glanced down at the dashboard. A warning light there burned red with the words:

  WATER IN DIESEL

  CLEAR FILTER AT ONCE

  There was a button marked “RESET” on the dash. I pressed it, and the bleating stopped. I let out a heavy breath. It had to have been a false alarm; we’d filled up hundreds of miles ago at a reputable station, and Dad was always careful.

  Then the bleating cut the air again, and I flinched, jerking the wheel. The right front tire made contact with the rumble strip on the edge of the pavement, and an angry, low-pitched buzz harmonized with the squealing dashboard alarm. I nudged the RV back into the lane, then reached up to reset the indicator a second time.

  That’s when the engine went dead.

  The RV drifted right, picking up the rumble strip again, vibrating the chassis like a jaw under a dental saw. I tightened my grip to correct course, but the power steering didn’t respond. The front tire went off the edge of the asphalt and onto the soft shoulder. I stomped on the brake pedal—but the power brakes had failed, too. The wheel tugged at my grip; I resisted. The front bumper clipped a creosote bush. Then another. I was driving on dirt now, parallel to the highway but breaking away fast. We were headed straight for a third bush, and I couldn’t turn the wheel. The bush went under the RV with a horrendous scraping sound.

  I needed to get the power steering back online. I reached beneath the column and turned the ignition key. Nothing.

  Shit.

  The RV ran over more low scrub. The squeal of wood on metal was earsplitting. I turned the key again; nothing. I bounced in my seat as the left front tire ran over a skull-sized rock. The trailer tugged at the back end.

  I tried the key a third time, and now the engine roared to life. I cranked the wheel, applied the brake. There was a sound of buckling metal, and then a tremendous SNAP, and my breath caught. The RV ground to a stop.

  I sat there shaking, my heart thudding in my throat. Then I set the parking brake, unfastened my seat belt, and started toward the back.

  “Dad?” I called out. “Dad!”

  “Ellie!”

  The accordion door opened, and Dad stood on the threshold looking pale and disoriented.

  “Oh God. Dad, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “What about you? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m all right,” I said, and saw a thin stream of blood trickle down from his scalp. “You’re bleeding!”

  He reached up to touch the spot. “That damn cabinet came open, and I hit my head on the corner of the door.” He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to the spot.

  “You should sit,” I said.

  He waved a hand, dismissing my concern. “What happened?”

  My calm seemed to crack all at once, and I collapsed into him, shaking. “There was an alarm—water in the fuel or something. The engine died, the steering locked up, and I couldn’t
turn. I tried, but . . . it just ran off the road!”

  “It’s all right,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “It’s all right. You’re alive, I’m alive.”

  I pushed away, took a deep breath, looked around. My laptop was on the floor, along with Dad’s journal and my empty thermos. The pantry door had slipped its bungee cord, spilling cans and boxes everywhere. A package of pasta had burst, scattering spirals across the aisle.

  “We can clean up later,” Dad said. “Let’s go check out the damage while it’s still light.”

  CHAPTER 13

  THE TRAILER LAY ON ITS side in the dirt. The struts that had connected it to the hitch were twisted as if they had been wrung out by a giant. Dad retrieved his key ring and opened the padlock. We had to pry the door open.

  The sub trunk lay in splinters on the trailer’s side, which was now its floor, and Dad’s trap case had come apart at the hinges. Coins and playing cards were strewn about like shrapnel. Miraculously, the dove cage had survived, and the twelve birds inside cooed indignantly.

  I looked at Dad. His eyes didn’t seem to be calculating damage, but rather, counting the dead.

  “Dad,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  I wanted his arm around me. I wanted him to tell me it was all right.

  “See what you can you salvage,” he said. “I need to check the bus.”

  My hands shook as I dug through the detritus, sorting out what could be saved and what was lost. I replayed the crash over and over. The dash lights going dead. The steering locking up. I should have braked sooner. I should have tried the ignition first.

  Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh . . .

  I began to pile the usable props on a tarp next to the bus; the hopeless remains I left in a heap inside the broken trailer. All the big stuff was wrecked: the guillotine, the sub trunk, the spike box. Thousands of dollars, hundreds of shows, all gone in a moment. The fishbowl Dad used for his mock truck drop had shattered. I grabbed the red toy truck, looked down at it in revulsion, and hurled it out into the desert, where it cracked and rolled to a stop in the dust. Then I turned back to the trailer. The close-up props and some of the smaller items—the lockbox, the collapsing chest—had survived the crash intact. Grand illusion wouldn’t be in the program anymore, but we would still be able to put on a show.