the board.
“There’s no space for secrets, Ellie,” he said. “Not now.”
I stared at the damask-patterned carpet. “What if we’re not ready? We’ve had no rehearsal. What if—”
He stroked my hair with one of his big hands. “I was doing escapes twenty years before you were born. And you’re even readier than I am.”
I looked at his face. He radiated confidence. I wished I could feel it.
The theater was only two blocks from our hotel, but they sent a car anyway—a limo. After spending the last year riding around in a torn-up RV and the back seats of big rigs, it felt strange and luxurious to slide around on a leather seat.
Grace met us at the stage door and ushered us into the wings, where a tall man in a black turtleneck greeted us.
“Frankie Clemente,” he said, shaking Dad’s hand. “I’m the stage manager. Big fan.”
“You’re too kind,” Dad said.
“Your equipment is onstage. This isn’t a dress rehearsal; we’ll be stopping and starting. We want to run through all the big tech moments to make sure everything’s working.”
Dad nodded, and Clemente turned to me.
“You must be Ellie. Would you like to watch your dad from the wings?”
That’s when I became aware of the cameraman standing six feet away. His lens was pointed at us.
“Actually,” Dad said, putting a hand on my shoulder, “she’s in the act.”
The cameraman smiled and took a step closer to capture the warm, fuzzy father-daughter moment. It would probably make for good television, but it made me feel sick.
The tank had been placed center stage, and a hose roughly the diameter of a telephone pole was filling it with water at an alarming rate. Downstage stood the 1947 Cape Maroon Chevrolet pickup, stage lights gleaming on the polished hood like little suns. While Dad went over the suspension setup with Clemente, I gravitated toward the prop lever.
It was like something out of a steampunk novel: a tarnished bronze-painted shaft jutting up from a pair of brass sprockets the size of hubcaps. I grasped the handle—and even though I knew it was a prop, part of me expected to feel cold, smooth metal against my skin. Instead, my palm rustled against the hollow fiberglass bulb, finding a jagged seam where the mold had come together. I pulled the lever—but instead of hearing the satisfying metallic click that would project through the PA tomorrow night, I heard only a clumsy, plastic scrape. This was how magic felt when I was low: like a cheap lie, like a toy sword with no edge. My disappointment was ludicrous and vivid.
I practiced with the handle a few times, willing my muscles to simulate the resistance of real gears so it would play for the audience. It was a joyless effort; I was going through the motions but feeling no excitement, no anticipation. Feeling not much of anything, really.
When the truck was hooked up to the suspension rig, Dad called me over. He handed me a hank of cotton rope and held up his wrists. Ignoring the hovering cameraman, I bound Dad’s hands with a clunky, amateurish knot; unless Dad picked a sailor from the audience by mistake, that’s what he’d be facing on show night. I yanked hard on the ends of the rope—Dad would insist his volunteer do the same.
“Oof,” he said, laughing. “You’re cutting off my circulation, Cora.”
At the sound of my mother’s name, my hands seized up. It was as if my chest had been plunged into icy water; I felt heaviness seeping into my body like an injection of mercury.
The last time Dad had rehearsed this illusion, it had been my mother binding his wrists.
Without being willed to, my hands went back to work, tying his ankles. When I had finished, Dad tested his bonds and smiled.
“Perfect,” he said. If he had noticed his flub or my reaction, he didn’t show it.
I opened the door to the old Chevy and helped him climb in. Once he was settled behind the wheel, I closed the door and stepped back.
Clemente looked up at the catwalk. “Go!”
With a jolt, the truck lurched into the air.
“Easy, there,” Dad called out to Clemente.
“My bad,” shouted one of the stagehands on the catwalk. The truck paused in its ascent, techs muttered over the walkie-talkies, and then Dad was lowered back down.
“Let’s try that again,” Clemente said.
The stagehand activated the winch. This time, the truck rose gracefully off the stage. I imagined the spotlight shooting down from the back of the house, painting Dad’s face