Free Sleight of Hand by Robin Hathaway Page A

diabetes or heart disease, Lolly also might have thyroid problems. I made a note to test her thyroid and give her a general physical examination in the near future.
    I sat down at the table and explained to her that she should eat more fruit and vegetables, and cut out the starches and sweets. She nodded agreeably, but I never saw any change in her weight. If only she’d had a mother who was in charge of the food shopping, but Lolly did all the shopping herself. And she bought only what she liked. I mentioned this to Max, but it went in one ear and out the other. He had enough to worry about.
    One day when I had finished with Max, Lolly accosted me in the hall and said, “Come upstairs.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    She smiled and tugged at my arm. I hesitated. I didn’t make a habit of snooping in my patients’ homes. For a split second, professional ethics battled with bald curiosity.
    â€œCome on!”
    â€œWell … just for a minute,” I said, deciding to humor her.
    She led me up the main staircase to the second floor, then to a small door at the end of a hallway. Behind this door was a flight of much narrower steps, which led up to the attic.
    â€œI don’t think we should …”
    She planted her right foot on the bottom step and began to heave
herself up to the next. The space was almost too narrow for her wide buttocks. Reluctantly, I followed. I was fearful that Max might find us—he was more mobile now—and I knew the fragile trust I had so painstakingly built between us could easily be destroyed.
    The attic was a clutter of discarded clothes, furniture, cartons, and trunks. Everything was covered with a thin layer of dust. Lolly headed straight for one of the trunks. She threw open the lid and grabbed up a skimpy scarlet costume. It glittered with spangles. I reached out to feel the material—soft and silky.
    Lolly burrowed like a bear through the rest of the contents, pulling out one thing after the other—a rumpled tuxedo shirt, a top hat, more brief silk costumes in different shades of pink, lavender, and green, all decorated with spangles or sequins. I admired everything, but my mind was racing like a NASCAR driver, trying to figure out what the contents of the trunk meant.
    Tiring of the trunk, Lolly trudged to the back of the attic and began tugging at a large piece of cardboard. Finally freeing it, she dragged it toward me and turned it around.
    I didn’t gasp, but it was hard not to. It was a poster. Filling the central space was the figure of a man in a tux and a top hat—a younger, more debonair Max. Behind him, more sketchily rendered, was a scantily clad woman. Beneath the two figures, in bold red type, flowed the words MAX THE AMAZING!
    I had barely taken this in when we heard Max himself call from below.
    â€œLolly?”
    For a split second, we were both paralyzed. Then I acted. “You go down,” I whispered. “I’ll hide back here.” I pointed to a bunch of old clothes that were hanging from the rafters.
    â€œComing, Daddy,” Lolly cried.
    â€œWhat are you doing up there? I’ve told you a hundred times not to go up there.”
    â€œI was looking for something.”

    â€œYou have no business …” Their voices grew fainter as they moved down the stairs to the first floor. I prayed he wouldn’t notice my motorcycle, which was still parked in the drive—and that Lolly, in her innocence, wouldn’t spill the beans.
    Ten minutes passed. Twenty. I could stand the tension no longer. I crept to the top of the stairs and strained to hear them. All I heard was the TV, which they left on all day, whether anyone was watching it or not. Lolly had such a short attention span, she could easily forget I was here. I decided to risk it. I had work to do and other patients to see.
    I tiptoed down the stairs. There was no sound on the second floor. The only occupant was Sapphire, snoozing on a