“Time for the miracle,” Todd said. And then his voice changed and got all broadcasty-sounding. “Another in a series of miracles brought to you daily by Todd Reinman, Real-Illusionist extraordinaire.”
In the beginning, when she first moved in next door, Mariel thought Todd was funny, charming, roguish, full of himself, but nearly always right, so the arrogance was forgivable, if sometimes nearly intolerable. She could sit on her front step and laugh as he made the drivers of the passing cars see wild safari animals crossing Main Street right in their path. They might brake or scream a little, but they never cracked up, so Todd was okay in her book. She liked giraffes and elephants, besides.
Mariel let go of the curtain and rode the pull of Todd’s commands like a sleigh down an icy hillside. The bump at the end was the magic box with the head and feet-holes cut three sizes too big for her. She climbed up and closed her eyes and waited to hear the fake plastic locks clicking into place.
Todd hovered over her, sporting a cape of old newspapers unfolded all the way, crumpled together at the edges to lend them weight. He tapped her forehead with an old rusty spoon, because he didn’t have a wand.
“Saw you in half but not hurt you at all,” Todd said. “That is the miracle of our Belief Theatre. Come one, come all, and see the miracle.”
Mariel thought she heard voices. But that was silly — impossible. Todd might be able to illusion up a few jungle cats here or there, but he couldn’t make people. Nobody’s beliefs were that strong.
She heard the phony locks click. Wah wah wong — the blade wobbled closer. Mariel kept her eyes closed.
“This will not be an illusion,” Todd said, as if someone else were there to hear. “This will be real magic.”
Mumblings and restless shoes squeaking on the floor — that was what Mariel heard. But there could be no audience.
Wah wah wong.
She had to get out of there.
“Todd Reinman,” she said, “get me out of this contraption.”
“Ah, see how she struggles, but she cannot break from…”
“Get me out right now!”
The smartest thing, she knew, was to keep those peepers shut, not show her brain the lies her eyeballs might tell. If she saw just one woman with a string of pearls, one man with a properly-knotted tie… no, of course not. An audience was impossible.
The blade slid into its slot, dead center in the box.
“Todd Reinman, I’ll break your nose if you don’t pop me out of here right now.”
He leaned in close enough for her to whiff the peanuts and Kool-Aid he had called lunch.
“It’s this or the dungeon, my love,” he whispered, and the roguish charm was turned up to eleven on all her dials.
About Mark Joseph Kiewlak
