by David Khalaf
CHAPTER TWO
THREE SHOWERS LATER, Harry Houdini was still picking sand out of his ears. It was late, well past midnight, but it was good to be back in their Harlem brownstone after three weeks on the road.
“Mr. Houdini, come to bed,” Bess said from the bedroom.
Houdini stuck a corner of an old handkerchief up his nose, and it felt as if he were sanding the inside of his nostrils. He was reminded of the day, decades ago, when he had met Bess backstage after an unsuccessful show performing card tricks on Coney Island. She had finished her song-and-dance number to only slightly better reception. No one had the patience for vaudeville on a sweltering summer afternoon.
They had walked along the beach afterward, she in her leotard and he in his heavy black suit. It was too hot to stay out for long, but something about her clung to him, like the sand that remained in his pant cuffs for days. From that moment on, grains of Bess remained firmly lodged in his soul, and they were married just weeks later.
Houdini considered one more shower, but before he could reach for the handle, Bess called to him again.
“You’re going to run the Hudson River dry, dear.”
Houdini ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair one last time and left the bathroom. He’d shower again in the morning.
“No more sand,” Bess said. “It’s too unpredictable.”
He slipped into bed and closed his eyes. She was right, of course, but now that the stunt was over, it didn’t feel so dangerous.
“A minor hiccup,” he said. “We learned, and we’ll inspect the sand ourselves next time.”
“No, there won’t be a next time,” she said. She kissed him on the cheek. “Think about our son. Do you want Samuel to grow up fatherless?”
The name squeezed his insides like a handcuff clamping around his heart.
“Our son will be off to college soon,” Houdini said. “He’s practically an adult. He won’t need Harry Houdini.”
“But what about me?” Bess said. “I need Harry Houdini.”
The magician gently placed his hand on top of hers. In his mind’s eye he could see her, scowling with worry. She dropped a telegram on his lap, the one that had arrived at their hotel room in Baltimore, where they were doing a show.
“I want you to take that job in Hollywood, whatever the silly movie is.”
Houdini took the telegram. MGM Studio Head Louis B. Mayer wanted to meet, urgently, for a project of some sort.
“I don’t do movies anymore,” he said. “They cheapen the craft.”
He sat up and looked at her. She didn’t seem swayed.
“Mrs. Houdini, we are only as good as our latest act. We can’t get stuck on water escapes or the audience will bore of us. I would skip straight to molten lava, but I haven’t quite worked out the details.”
“You nearly died,” she said. “Honest to goodness died this time. The fact is, you’re getting too old to take such dangerous risks.”
So there it was. The truth, laid naked in front of them, like an illusion exposed.
“We must take risks,” Houdini said. “For the legacy of the magic.”
Bess tore her hand out of his.
“But is it worth risking your life?” she demanded. “Some silly Thursday night show that you won’t even be able to recall two weeks from now? You tell me: What’s really worth dying for? You figure that out and then let me know.”
She turned out her light and pulled the sheet over her head. Houdini focused his mind and followed the glowing threads of potential discussions into the shadowy future. Every avenue of conversation ended with Bess being angry at him.
Know when to cut your losses.
“Very well, my dear,” he said. “Sleep tight.”
He got out of bed.
“I’ll go tuck in Samuel.”
“There is no Samuel,” she said.
Houdini’s shoulders dropped. Having an imaginary child was a double-edged sword.
The magician went downstairs; he needed some time alone to think. He found his smoking jacket in the parlor, a plush room with dark wood, burgundy drapes and a cabriole-style couch upholstered with purple velvet.
After lighting a candle, he slipped through a small passageway in the corner of the parlor hidden from view by a bookshelf. Inside was a narrow room not much larger than a closet, wedged between their brownstone and the one next door. It had been created, Houdini guessed, from a design flaw when the building had been constructed. This was his Reflection Room.
He set down the candlestick on a small shelf he had built and opened a box of Turkish cigarettes someone had gifted him after a show. Houdini almost never smoked—not when so much of his career depended on holding his breath—but occasionally he allowed himself one to think.
One cigarette, one decision.
He lit the cigarette and opened the tiny vent he had made by chiseling out two bricks in the wall. It was not much larger than a deck of cards, and he had framed it with an iron peephole that opened by way of a little hinged door. From there the room got a warm breeze from the street out front. He inhaled his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke out through the vent.
In just a few weeks, Houdini would turn fifty. When he focused inward on himself, he could sense his bones becoming more brittle, feel his muscles losing the tautness they once had. For an escape artist like Houdini, who relied on nimble fingers and supple limbs, every day older was a day closer to forced retirement.
There were a hundred other magicians waiting to take his place as the king of illusion, and although they didn’t have his unique talent, they were half his age and twice as hungry.
He leaned against the wall, counting the grains of sand left in his ears. There were twenty-seven in the left and fourteen in the right.
Press on, or step off?
Maybe Bess deserved a quiet, stable life in some nice suburban home. Maybe she deserved something normal: a detached home, a yard, a group of lady friends to form a knitting club. The thought made him laugh out loud. Bess wouldn’t last a week in the suburbs.
Things might be different if they had children. Some things just weren’t in the cards. As great a magician as he was, it was the one trick he hadn’t been able to pull off. And although she never said as much, he couldn’t escape the feeling that he had let his wife down by denying her a family.
If he pressed on, he would disappoint her even more. The Sand Coffin wasn’t his most dangerous new feat. Far from it. There was another stunt he was working on that he hadn’t yet told Bess about: the Hangman’s Death. If he tried it and succeeded, he would reign another year as the world’s greatest magician. If he tried and failed…well, he’d find himself in a coffin permanently.
What is worth dying for?
If Houdini had to make the choice between magic and the magician, he couldn’t. They were one and the same. It was his gift to the world; the legacy that would remain long after he was gone.
A knock at the front door startled him from his rumination. It was late, and no one but Houdini’s closest friends had his address. He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned toward the vent. If he put his face up against it and looked sharply to the right, he was able to see onto his doorstep.
The knock came again, and Houdini pressed his face hard against the vent to see who would be visiting at such an hour.
The problem was, no one was there.
