Sayer might have had the beginnings of what Joe had, and would surely have discovered more as he passed the five-foot mark, but for now he was too much of a kiddie. A little lamb. All he had was his dignity, which he tugged as tight about him as that star-spattered cloak. And that dignity was the one thing that we in the Hollow were scared to death to take away from him.
Thus, we dreaded that Tuesday morning knock.
Thus, we dreaded that chimney-pot hat.
We dreaded the hungry eyes of Sayer the Magnificent.
Maybe it seems cruel to you that I’m talking like this about a poor runt of a kid with his heart stitched onto the red-and-black satin handkerchief he tugged out of his sleeve—courtesy, again, of that Magic for Beginners tin box. I swear I’m not trying to be cruel. It’s the world that’s wild and woolly. The world that cursed a stutterer—who couldn’t holler “sunshine” or “salamander”—with a name like Sayer Sandifer.
You want to know I’m not cruel? Shall I prove it to you? Let’s make him a Milo. Milo’s a good name for a kid his age. Milo Sandifer. Easier with that “M”. At least for a little while. Until he grows out of it. We can do that much for the little guy, can’t we? The poor duckling?
When the time came, and we all knew it without really having to look, we went over as late as we possibly could. We being the women of the Hollow, me with my plate of gingersnaps. Just as the boy asked.
Lillian had set up the backyard with lawn chairs. An old red-striped beach umbrella in the northeast corner, just past the rhododendrons. Card tables covered with plastic cups and lemonade for the parents. Nothing is quite so apologetic as home-made lemonade in these circumstances.
“Thanks for coming, Minnie,” Lillian whispered as I laid down a plateful of gingersnaps like the boy asked.
“It’s nothing worth mentioning,” I told her. “I need me some magic today, you hear? Must be he’s got a sense for these kind of things after all.” I let her smile at that. “It’s a good day for it too.”
“Some kind of good day,” Cheryl Felder muttered. She scowled at the top of her chimney-pot hat poking out from behind the stage and curtains that Joe constructed special. Poor Milo. He never quite figured out that of all the women in the Hollow, Cheryl was the one you didn’t want to mess with. Most kids know this sort of thing; they can sense a real witch with a bee in her bonnet if you catch my drift. Or maybe he was just bolder than we gave him credit for.
The other women were coming in then. They laid out liquorice strands and tuna fish sandwiches with trimmed corners, whatever the boy asked for. Lillian didn’t meet our eyes at first, but then she all of a moment did and, you know what?—give her credit, her eyes were just blazing with pride for little Milo. That buttered us up some. You could see it changing people. Missus Felder’s face, well, her face was the kind of face you might associate with sucking lemons, but even it got a little bit of sugar into it.
And the rest of us? Well, I’d always liked the boy. He had a proper kind of respect and reverence, and if there’s two things a magician ought to fluff his hat with, it’s respect and reverence, magic being no easy business, magic being a thing that ought to be done carefully. Not that I ever suspected poor Milo could mend a cut rope or pull the secret card, but there you have it. He would try, and we, the ladies of the Hollow, we kept company mostly by Hoovers and the Watchtower babble and crap society; we would smile those husband-stealing smiles of ours come Hell or high water.
And so the show began.
“And now for the Lost Suh-suh-suh…”
Milo’s face screwed up with concentration so hard you could see a flush of red on his neck. Lillian was saying the word alongside him in the audience, but he wouldn’t look at her. Missus Felder shifted in her chair.
“And now for the…”
His hands palsied and twitched as he shuffled the oversized Bicycle deck, patterned blue flashing in front of our eyes. But no one was watching the cards. We were all watching his mouth. We were all clenching the edges of the Sandifers’ lawn chairs.
“For the Lost Suh–s–s…”
He paused again. That moment stretched on and on like putty. Just when we thought it was about to snap. Just when we thought he was about to snap—you could see Missus Felder leaning forward now, she might’ve said something, none of us would’ve dared, we knew you didn’t speak for a stutterer, not ever, but she would’ve, she had the word on her lips and she was going to give it to him—that was when Milo swallowed, pushed up the brim of the chimney-pot hat with his wrist.
“Beg pardon, ladies,” he murmured ruefully, but it was out and the words were solid. “And now for the Lost…Sisters.”
The applause was bigger than it had been for any of the other tricks. Milo took it as his due.
“For this I need a volunteer. Anyone?”
No one budged. We couldn’t, not yet. We weren’t ready for it.
“Anyone? Ladies, please. Ah, good. You there. The…missus is the blue dress.”
It was Ellie Hawley from across the street in the blue cotton frock with the raglan sleeves her husband brought back from Boston. We were all a bit thankful. She was a good sort. The type who knew to bring liquorice strands to a boy’s magic show.
“I’m hard of hearing, boy,” Missus Felder said. “Which was that?”
God, we were thinking together, do not make him say it again.
It was no good though. She was smiling. Her words were sweetness and light, and she was smiling like she was some sort of old biddy about to offer him tea and biscuits. You couldn’t trust a smile like that. Oh, boy, not ever.
“I, uh, suh-suh–s–sorry, folks.” The hat tilted forward again. Milo pushed it up, and licked his lips. “I meant…” He paused. Why was he pausing? Don’t pause here, boy, we were thinking. Stick with Ellie Hawley. She’s already getting up. She’s halfway to the stage now, boy. Stick with her.
But we could see the look coming over his face. It was a proud look…and something else, something I couldn’t quite tell yet. A look older than he was. He knew that Ellie was the easy choice. He knew it the same way we knew it. He knew this was a trap, but there was something in him that wouldn’t let it go. We were watching. We were waiting. Milo was fighting with this thing, and we let him do it.
“…You there, in the front. Missus Felder. Puh-puh-please. Come on up here. Ma’am.”
No, we were thinking together, do not ask for her. Do not do it, boy. Do not call on her, boy. Can’t you see the Devil has come to your garden party? Can’t you see the Devil has gotten into Missus Felder, and there ain’t no way to cheat the Devil if you let her up on stage with you?
Missus Felder, she just smiled.
She took her time getting there, walked almost like an old woman even though she didn’t look forty yet. Passed Ellie Hawley along the way, just swished past her blue dress with the raglan sleeves.
“Well, boy,” said Missus Felder.
“Thank you, Missus Felder,” Milo said like he meant it. He shuffled the cards again, each of those big, blue Bicycles. Missus Felder watched primly, patiently, hips swaying slightly as she shifted her weight from side to side. As he was shuffling, you could see Milo starting to look for the words, starting to line them up in his mind like bowling pins so they’d fall down easily once he got going.
Just as he opened his mouth to start the patter, Missus Felder piped up: