The Art of Disappearing, Ivy Pochoda [best android ereader TXT] 📗

sip of wine from white to red. Now it was Toby’s turn to smile, arching his thin lips upward with his eyebrows. “Any better?”

I took a sip. “Not really.” I took another sip, trying not to wince. “Miracles,” I said, letting the word melt on my tongue. “That’s something I haven’t seen in a while. But I’ve been waiting.”

Toby held me in his gaze. “Have you?” He laughed and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.

“Sure,” I replied. “For a civil man to send me a drink in a small-town saloon. That’s some sort of miracle.”

The magician blushed under his ivory skin. “I don’t know what your definition of miraculous is,” he said, suddenly shy. Then he passed his hand over my glass once more, refilling it from his palm. “Will this do for now?”

“It’s nearly water into wine,” I said.

Now Toby looked out the window and took a deep breath. “I’ve been waiting, too.”

“For?”

“In this restaurant now for three days. In this desert for several years, to see someone I felt comfortable buying a drink.”

I felt myself redden and quickly smoothed my hands across my face. In an instant, Toby’s surprisingly cool fingers covered mine. My cheeks burned. He withdrew his hand and looked away. A shrimp had appeared in my palm.

“I’m not going to ask how that got there,” I said.

“I was hoping for something more romantic. Things get a little disorganized.”

“Maybe it’s better that way.”

“Why?”

“A little disorder makes the order pleasant. It makes it bearable.”

The lines in Toby’s face smoothed out. “Everyone’s always told me the opposite.” He paused, hiding his eyes in the fading light outside the window. Toby pressed his fingers into the table. “Can I ask you something?” He didn’t wait for my response. “Does a little company make the loneliness more bearable?”

What loneliness? I almost asked. Even though it had stopped being true long ago, I wanted to tell the magician, I’m not lonely, I’m alone. There’s a difference. He, on the other hand, appeared always to have been lonely. But I didn’t explain. So we sat in silence for a moment, our eyes darting from the wooden wagon-wheel chandeliers to the window. In the streaky pane, I caught our reflection—the shaggy hair and stooped shoulders of the magician towering over my desert-dried blond ponytail. And for an instant, it seemed that all the other diners had faded away again, leaving us glowing a little too brightly against the Nevada night. I saw my green eyes flash in the glass while Toby’s gray irises slipped across the window like mercury. Before we could speak, we were disrupted by a clatter of falling coins.

I looked directly at the magician. He was shaking his cuffs. “Well, now,” he said. “Not a miracle, maybe, but a minor windfall.” He gathered up the coins and tied them into a polyester-blend gingham napkin. “Here.” He handed the bundle to me.

I shook my head.

“Keep them. You might get lucky on the one-armed bandits.”

“We’d have to split the money if that happened.”

“Magicians don’t gamble. Luck and magic don’t mix.”

I tucked the money into my bag. “For a rainy day, I guess.”

Toby pressed his lips together. I saw them tremble. And then he laughed a laugh so cool, it made me forget—if only for a second—the dinginess of the Old Stand Saloon. “Not much chance of that out here. Rain.”

“It wasn’t that funny,” I said.

Toby didn’t reply. But his mouth and eyebrows arched into a silent smile.

I replaced my glass on the table. “For the wine, thanks.” Sometimes I like to put the preposition first. I find it reassuring. Because I travel a lot, I like to give what I say a place and a purpose. While I’m on the road, I need an anchor, however temporary, before I’m swept along to my next small-town appointment. And now, in the company of this surprising stranger, I needed some ballast before the magician’s words swept me too far into the desert night.

“My pleasure. Tonopah’s not the sort of town you often find two strangers in. It’s worth some sort of celebration,” he said.

“To shrimp in a glass and wine from a box,” I said, holding up my glass. “Are you here often?”

“I did a few shows at one stage. I pretty much keep to high school auditoriums and state fairs. I’m not what you would call one of the more desirable magicians.”

“You seem like a pretty good magician to me.”

“I am a very good magician, but there are magicians who don’t think I should be allowed to perform in towns like this. Some people,” he continued, “some whole towns, and especially some magicians can’t handle the inexplicable, even if it’s just a simple trick.”

“Why don’t you go somewhere else?”

“I’ve been here so long.” Toby looked over my shoulder and out the window. Then he waved his fingers, dispensing his words into the vapors of overcooked roast beef. “Anyway, I’m still waiting for my big break. One day I’m going to play Vegas.” Now he fixed me with his glittering stare. “So, what draws you to a place like this?” he asked, leaning forward, making me worry about the cracks in my lips, the unripe olive tone of my skin—which was badly matched to my hair my mother always said—and the look in my eyes that may have betrayed my uncertainty about magic but not about the magician.

“I do a one-woman Penelope-and-Odysseus routine,” I said. “I’m a textile consultant for the hotel and restaurant industries. So I do both the weaving and the voyaging. Without the Sirens and the suitors,” I added. “Or the sorcery.” I caught his eye.

“Suitors and sorcery,” Toby echoed. I felt the silk slip of something between my fingers. I opened my hand and released a cascade of rose petals. “Perhaps that is about to change.” Toby looked down at the petals. “I was aiming for whole flowers,” he said, scattering the petals. “I’m distracted.”

I laughed, crushing some of the petals into my palms, hoping to absorb their scent. “A