Free The Confabulist by Steven Galloway Page A

something about Clara that made her almost untouchable to me. Her faith in me hadput her in the same camp as my mother. But she wasn’t my mother, she was a twenty-three-year-old woman.
    “Don’t worry, Martin,” Will said. “You’ll figure it out.”
    Clara and Evelyn returned, making a response unnecessary. Will became engaged in a conversation with Evelyn, and I took a few steps away from them, pulling Clara with me.
    “Let’s not go to the Pig and Whistle after,” I whispered. “Let’s go somewhere quiet, just us.”
    The lights in the lobby flickered on and off, on and off. The intermission was over.
    Clara’s lips lightly scuffed my ear. “Let’s go somewhere now.” I’d never seen her look at me the way she was, or maybe she had and I hadn’t noticed.
    “Are you coming?” Evelyn asked. “The show’s going to start again.”
    “Go on ahead, we’ll be right there,” I said. Will was about to argue with me but changed his mind. I took Clara’s hand and we went through the lobby to a side door that led up a narrow stairway. Off to the side was a coatroom. The door wasn’t locked and the light was off. No one saw us as we snuck inside.
    “Lock the door,” Clara whispered.
    I clicked the lock into place and reached for her. The room was windowless; the only light came through the crack under the door. We kissed, and it wasn’t the same as any kiss we’d shared before. It was desperate and ambitious.
    Clara’s hands were at my belt. I lifted her skirt. She smothered a sigh as we surged against the wall. I was aware of how awkward we were, but it didn’t matter.
    She guided me into her, laughing as we knocked over what Ithink must have been a coat rack. She was the softest thing that had ever lived, and I felt for a moment like I might be invincible. The entirety of my life distilled itself to a girl and a coatroom.
    I’m not sure how long we were there together. It seemed like a long time, and it seemed like it was over in the blink of an eye. As we pulled our clothes back into place, neither of us spoke, but when we kissed for the last time before opening the door I knew that everything had changed.
    There was a smile on Clara’s face as we stole down the hallway, but by the time we were downstairs in the lobby it was gone.
    “Are you all right?” I asked.
    She didn’t say anything, just gave me a small nod. We found our seats in the dark, as the show had begun again.
    The third act of Houdini’s show was a lecture on spiritualism. I hadn’t much thought about it, though it was something people were very interested in. At that point in my life I had no inclination to consider life after death, whether it was real, whether those who were dead could be communicated with. Death had never touched me in a way that made it necessary to think about such things. For a great many others, however, particularly those who had been through the war and lost people, it was an unavoidable question. And the spiritualists claimed to have the answer.
    “There is an adage that truth is stranger than fiction, but some of the miraculous things attributed to the spirits would not be told, could not be told, by even the most famous writers of wild fiction. The conglomerated things you are asked to accept in good faith are almost inconceivable, but under the projecting mantle of spiritualism these vivid tales are believed by millions.”
    Houdini had changed back into evening clothes, and the stagewas empty save for a table and chair. He paced back and forth with purpose, his voice loud and zealous.
    “We read in the newspapers of some payroll bandit who steals thousands of dollars, or of burglars entering homes and stores and breaking open safes and taking valuable loot, but these cases we read of are nothing in comparison to news of mediums who have earned millions of dollars, blood money made at the cost of torture to the souls of their victims. Folks who hear voices and see forms should see their