Free Sleight of Hand by Robin Hathaway Page B

windowsill. The first floor seemed deserted, too. When I reached the side door, I had a moment of panic. How could I disguise the sound of my motorcycle when I left? Wait, I thought. If Max was in the den, I could roll it down the drive and along the road a bit before I started the motor.
    I ducked out the back door and loped over to my bike. I was struck, as I often was, by the emptiness of the landscape—and the silence. There were times in Bayfield when I had the feeling I was the last person on earth. I released the brake—another one of those things you do automatically with your right hand—and began to roll it down the drive. If only Max doesn’t come out, I prayed.
    â€œI thought you’d gone.”
    I jumped. Turning, I saw him standing in the doorway of the barn. My mind went blank. I could think of nothing to say. He began walking toward me. I swallowed and took a deep breath. There was no point in lying. The only way I could save our fragile relationship was to tell him the truth. When he was a few yards away, I said, “Lolly wanted to show me something …”
    He waited.
    â€œIn the attic.”
    He blinked, which was my only clue that he understood.

    â€œI’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone up there,” I said.
    â€œWhy not? Is it that dirty?” His laugh was sarcastic.
    I said nothing.
    He moved closer. He was only a few feet away when he said, “So, now you know. I had two careers. So what? It’s a growing trend, I hear. Would you like me to show you a few tricks?” His voice took on the high-pitched treble of the practiced performer. “Max the Amazing will now disappear in a puff of smoke!”
    In a crowded theater, it might have sounded exciting, but in the midst of empty fields and sky, it sounded eerie. My gaze fell on his bandaged hand. He had rolled the sleeve of his plaid work shirt above his elbow to make room for the bandage. The skin of his exposed upper arm looked pale and vulnerable. I wanted to cry.
    â€œDon’t worry.” He read my mind. “I won’t be going back to the stage. Sleight of hand is a thing of the past for me.” He paused. Then he said, “Do you have a minute?”
    I didn’t. “Sure,” I said.
    He turned toward the house.
    I rolled my bike back up the drive and parked it. Max held the door for me with his left hand. I could hear Lolly singing some childish nursery song—“I had a little nut tree,/Nothing would it bear”—as she went about her chores in the kitchen. He ushered me into his inner sanctum—the den. The last thing I saw before he flicked off the TV was Oprah laughing.

CHAPTER 19
    Max settled onto the sofa and began his story.
    â€œI grew up in a small town in western Pennsylvania—very much like Bayfield. It was quiet and pretty and there was absolutely nothing to do. I was a smart kid and I was bored out of my mind. On the main street, there was a movie theater and a hobby shop. I spent my spare time running back and forth between the two. I loved the glamorous musicals of the forties and fifties— An American in Paris, The Red Shoes, Singin’ in the Rain— and sometimes they would bring these back and show them. And I loved the dark, musty atmosphere of the hobby shop.
    â€œOne day I was browsing in the shop and I came on a book about magic. It told how to do simple tricks. I bought it for a quarter, took it home, and that was it. I was hooked. I suppose if I’d stumbled on a book about atomic energy, I would have become an atomic scientist.”
    I laughed.
    â€œI learned every trick in that book. I tried them out on my family and friends. Then I saved my money and got more sophisticated books by mail order. I performed these tricks at school, kids’ parties, and the local Lions club. But I soon got bored with the tricks in the
books and began to invent some of my own. I was especially fascinated with mirrors and