Free The River King by Alice Hoffman Page B

game.
    Gus had lied to Carlin about his father; the elder Pierce was not a professor, but rather a high school teacher, who on weekends performed at children’s birthday parties. In spite of himself, Gus had learned quite a lot on those Sunday afternoons when he sullenly ate cake in honor of some stranger’s birthday. He knew that a coin digested one moment cannot reappear in the palm of your hand seconds later. A bird pierced with an arrow cannot shake itself and then fly away. And yet, he was well aware that certain knots could be slipped open with a single touch and that doves fit quite nicely into jars with false bottoms. He had sat at the kitchen table with his father for hours, watching the same trick repeated, time and again, until what had once been a clumsy attempt was transmuted into seamless ability. Throughout his life, Gus had been taught that for every illusion there was a practical explanation, and such an education can prove worthwhile. After an upbringing such as this, Gus was aware of possibilities someone else might have overlooked, or taken for granted, or simply ignored. This much he knew for certain: for every locked trunk, there was sure to be a key.

NEEDLES AND THREAD
    IN THE MONTH OF OCTOBER, WHEN the elms lost their leaves and the oaks became yellow all at once, the mice in the tall grass beyond the river came searching for shelter. Girls at St. Anne’s would often find them curled up in dresser drawers, or nesting in shoes left beneath the bed. Wasps, too, went looking for warmth, and passersby would hear them buzzing in tree stumps and fence posts. The woods were laced with an undergrowth of brambles that had previously been hidden by green leaves; rain, when it came, fell in buckets. It was the time of year when people found themselves in foul moods, plagued by headaches and bad fortune. On damp mornings, electrical appliances tended to mutiny. Cars wouldn’t start, vacuum cleaners spit up dirt, coffeepots sputtered and then shut down. In the very first week of the month, there were so many people lined up at Selena’s for coffees-to-go in the early, chilly A.M., and nerves were so frayed, it wasn’t unusual for a fight to break out between some ordinary resident waiting on line and some obnoxious hothead, like Teddy Humphrey, whose own wife, Nikki, had been smart enough never to talk to him before he’d had his morning coffee back when they were still married, especially in the dark days of October.
    One cold evening, when the swans on the river were paddling quickly to prevent ice from forming beneath them, Betsy went to dinner with Eric at the Haddan Inn. The evening was meant to be a special occasion; at last, some time alone. They’d ordered lamb and mashed potatoes, but halfway through the meal Betsy found she simply couldn’t eat; she excused herself and stepped outside for a bit of fresh air. Alone on the porch of the inn, she gazed at Main Street, the white houses turning lavender in the fading light. The evening was perfect; a mockingbird perched on a fence post and sang the most beautiful song, invented or stolen, it really didn’t matter, the melody was exquisite. Standing there, Betsy couldn’t help but wonder if that long-ago lightning storm that had chased people over meadows and field had managed to strike her even though she’d been safe at home. Certain emotions had been burned right out of her and she’d never even missed them. Surely she had all the ingredients for happiness. What more could she want than a man she could depend on, a steady job, a future that was assured? Why was it she felt so reluctant, as though she’d been backed into this life she’d begun to lead by fear, not desire?
    Thankfully, by the time Betsy returned to the table to order a raspberry trifle and cappuccino, her head had cleared. This inn was the place where she would marry next June; these were the dishes on which her wedding dinner would be