Masters of Illusions (8 page)

At this stage, Martha had gotten to be a real friend to her parents, holding up her end of the conversation. She loved being
read to, and she was just learning to read herself. Now, Margie was reading the
Odyssey
to Martha, a chapter a night. She loved gore, as did her mother. Reading the poetry that they couldn’t understand geared
them up for all Homer’s gore, which they could.

Charlie agreed to let Martha sit off in a corner while the Master hypnotized Dixie. So Margie explained what hypnosis was
to her daughter beforehand. Margie told her it was
real
magic as opposed to make-believe magic like in the
Odyssey.
Martha said, “Make-believe?” And Margie had to backtrack and explain that there wasn’t any such thing as a giant with a big
eye in the middle of his forehead.

Martha said, “But I bet there are Sirens.”

Margie said, “Well, there are whirlpools, that’s for sure.”

Martha shivered. “I know. Right down the drain.” Then she did an imitation of a drain, though she looked more like a person
sucking up spaghetti.

Charlie warned Martha that the lady might say some really sad things about what she saw when the circus burned down.

Martha said, “About Mommy’s back getting burned?”

“Well, yes, she’ll talk about all kinds of people getting burned.”

“About the little girl that got burned that no one knows who she is?”

“That’s right.”

Martha’s eyes sparkled. She couldn’t wait. Neither could Margie. And neither could Charlie.

T
hey both wore capes except that the Master’s was black. After Dixie had made the introductions, and they’d shaken hands, the
Master of Illusion stooped down by Martha, reached out to her, and said, “Now what’s this in your hair?” And he pulled a tiny
paper butterfly out of one of her curls. Martha was agog and immediately felt in her hair for more. He said, “Just this one,”
and he put it into her hands. Margie said to him, “You really are a master of illusion.” He said, “Well, we all are, aren’t
we? It’s just that circus people can’t let themselves get carried away.”

The Master didn’t swing a watch on a chain. He hypnotized people with his voice. Martha was sitting next to Margie by the
tape recorder. Thirty seconds after he started hypnotizing Dixie, Margie noticed Martha swaying. She caught her and put her
to bed. Margie whispered to Charlie, “I hope I won’t have to spend another thousand in the morning getting the Master of Illusion
to wake this kid up.”

When she got back into the room Dixie was chatting away and Margie thought that they were waiting for her. Then she realized
that Dixie was talking to an invisible point in the air about a foot above the Master’s head. She was back in time, back at
the circus describing what she saw of the catastrophe as it was happening: “… and then the Wallendas went right to their wagons
except for Hermes; he’s the youngest. He stayed for a minute or two to pull a few kids over the chute. I’ll tell ya, the Wallendas
were strange birds. Kept to themselves. Couldn’t speak any English whatsoever. Don’t know what they spoke. Someone asked them
once if they were Hungarian and that bent them all out of shape. They’re Gypsies. ’Course I wasn’t born circus, so I never
could understand why Gypsies aren’t something besides Gypsies. I mean, it’s not like there’s a Gypsyland somewhere.”

The Master interrupted her with his serene voice. “And tell me what happened, Dixie, after the Wallendas had gone back to
their wagon.”

Dixie’s brow wrinkled. She said, “Well, the clowns’ faces were melting. Emmett was late for his act because he’d been trying
to keep his nose on. I’m not talking about the fire, now. This was before the fire. Y’see, once the temperature goes over
ninety degrees, makeup melts. Right from the start it was a damn, hot, sorry day. But anyway, Emmett is supposed to do his
all-alone act to divert the crowd while the cage comes down and while the Wallendas climb their ladder. First, the cats rouse
them, then Emmett mopes around making them feel real sorry for him, and then—boom—goosebumps; there’s the Wallendas in the
big spot at the tippity-top of the tent. Magic. And ya know what? When thousands of people say ‘oooooh’ all at the same time,
I get a shiver.

“But that day, Emmett was late because he couldn’t keep his nose on, so the crowd was watching the roustabouts dismantle the
cage. ’Course the audience is just supposed to see the magic. A lion is there in front of you, and then before you know it,
he’s gone, and there go five people, high in the sky, all piled up on top of one another riding a single bike on a steel cable
that the crowd thinks is a rope. Magic. That’s what the circus is.”

The Master said, “When did you finally spot Emmett?”

“I saw him outside running to the tent while I was just getting ready for the last of ’em, Vickie and her babies. I saw Emmett,
and right then, I saw a little bit of fire on the side of the tent. Then the little fire ripped up the tent, and then I heard
Merle switch to the ‘Stars and Stripes.’ So then I had to concern myself getting Vickie out-she’d stopped at the ‘Stars and
Stripes.’ I said, ‘Vickie, you come on, honey’ When she came through she was frantic, but the babies were right behind her.
The canvas had started breaking up so they’d caught a few pieces. Had to cool them down.” Dixie paused. Her eyes darted around.
She pointed, “There he is now!” With that, Dixie leaped out of her chair and pointed at the window.

“Who?”

“Emmett! Praise Jesus. All the while I had this feeling that he’d run into the tent. That he’d never come out. And look at
that! He’s got a bucket! He’s gonna try to put out the fire. Oh, Emmett! But I’ve got to get to that Gargantua. Vickie’s okay,
she’s in her cage lickin her babies. They’re just fine. But Gargantua, what about him? He can’t take any commotion. He’s old
now. Emmett’s standing in the middle of the lot holding his bucket, but now he’s turning away—looking toward me. His nose
is gone. Everyone is turning away, same as Emmett. All of them, pouring out of the exits. But I got Gargantua now, and me
and him are together watching it all.

“That’s okay, big fella, that’s okay. The children will be just finc—soon’s those boys get them out. See, honey, they’re getting
all the children out right now.”

Dixie had tears coursing down her cheeks through the tan makeup, leaving jagged white tracks. The Master asked her, “And what
else is happening?”

“The whole tent is on fire. The whole tent. Those soldiers who passed the children are running. Hermes Wallenda is running
to his trailer. His spangles are smoking. They’re smoking! No, no, Gargantua, honey. See the children lying on the blankets?
Look at Emmett making them laugh.”

Then she stopped talking to the gorilla. She went back to the spot over the Master’s head. “There are sirens all around us,
but the fire trucks are here first and the ambulances can’t get in. So people are taking the burned children down the street.
Running with them. You can’t leave burned people lying in the sun—not this hot sun we got here today.”

The Master said, “Do you see a little baby girl that the soldiers got out of the fire?”

“Yes, sir! She’s wearin black shoes, and I’m wonderin’—now why the hell isn’t she wearing those itty-bitty white baby shoes?
’Course, the shoes are covered with soot, stupid me. Gargantua sees her, too. He’s makin’ those little cheeping sounds he
makes when he’s feeling bad. His worry for the child is calming him, though. I think maybe he’s singing to her. I’m telling
him not to worry, the baby’s going to be all right.”

And Margie imagined not herself, but Martha, lying in the field, her back burned, her white baby shoes turned black. Charlie
sensed what Margie must have been thinking, and he came over and took her out of her chair by her shoulders, sat down, and
cuddled her into his lap. She was shaking like a leaf.

Now the Master asked what Charlie had prompted him to ask, and Margie felt Charlie grow tense. “What do you see that stands
out most of all, Dixie?” And to Margie that question, for the first time, was so absurd. What that question really meant was:
In all this horror and chaos, did anything look normal?

Dixie said, “I just see commotion now. And I hear the band. My God, they’re still in the tent.
They’re still in the tent!
Why don’t they get out?” She started screaming, “Merle! Merle!” Then she shouted. “The pole! The pole is coming down.”

Like almost every witness, she remembered the sound of her own voice shouting, “The pole, the pole!” and that was when everyone
in the lot finally turned around to look for just a second, in time to see what was left of the tent collapse.

Dixie said, “Oh, mercy. Here they come! They’re out! Merle and the musicians are settin’ up over at the edge of the lot. They’re
all covered in soot. Their uniforms are supposed to be red, but they ain’t red now. They’re burned black. Their jackets have
holes in them. Merle’s jacket is smoking the way Hermes Wallenda’s spangles were doing. They’re playing ‘The Pennsylvania
Polka.’ Lordy, that’s always such a rouser.”

Margie wondered if her mother died listening to Merle Evans’s circus band playing their polka or maybe she was already dead
before they’d finished the “Stars and Stripes.”

“What do you see that is different from all the rest, Dixie?”

And calmly as could be, Dixie said, “Oh, just that kid who keeps watching the whole thing. Like me and the gorilla. He doesn’t
look the other way like everyone else. He just keeps watching. He steps back, but he doesn’t run away. Then, when the sirens
start, he’s gone.”

The Master said, “What else is different about him? There are lots of children running away.”

“But they’re all crying. Or screaming. For their mothers. They’re looking for mama. Not him. The boy runs away down the street.
None of the other children run away down the street. They’re staying there calling for their mothers. And now there are lots
and lots of children running
up
the street—children from the neighborhood, come to see the fire. The lot is filled with people—firemen and policemen and
people. Some of the children run to the policemen.”

Dixie had broken into a sweat. The same sweat she’d been in twenty years before. The Master looked to Charlie and Charlie
nodded.

The Master took Dixie out of her trance by clapping his hands with a loud smack. Dixie looked away from her spot in the air
and said to her friend, “This just ain’t workin’, is it sugar? But I tried.”

The Master said, “It worked. You’re all done.”

Dixie looked over at Margie. “Hey, now, is that true?”

Margie said, “Yes. It’s all right here on tape.”

“Well, then, I’ll be a red hen.” Now she looked close at Charlie and Margie. “You two certainly got all cozy,” and she saw
that Margie was quivering a little. “Aw, honey. I upset you there, didn’t I? I do apologize.”

Margie said, “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’m gonna want a copy of that tape. I hate the sound of my own voice—feel like I’m hearing my Ma—but the doc says I should
hear it. I called him yesterday, I was so nervous. The doc who fixed my shoulder. Says I got to fix my brain, too. So I’ll
play that tape soon’s I pick the right fella to cuddle me.” And Charlie snuggled Margie even closer, which was an expression
of sympathy for Dixie.

Later, that night, when Charlie and Margie were in bed, trying to fall asleep, they gave up and started talking and talking,
hashing out all Dixie had said like two little kids in on a big secret. Margie said, “Charlie, would a child really set such
a terrible fire?”

He said, “Happens every day. They don’t know, though, what their fires are capable of.” Charlie put out a lot of fires like
that. Set by kids.

“So maybe it was a kid playing with matches after all.”

“No. If a kid did it, he did it deliberately.”

“You set store by what she said, right?”

“Right.”

“But she didn’t see him set it. The boy.”

“No.”

“So we don’t know if a child set the fire.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Charlie, we don’t know anything, do we?”

Charlie said, “Lie down, Margie. We do know something. About bravery. It may not sound like much what Dixie did, hosing down
the leopards. But she was standing in a furnace.”

“I know that, sweetheart, but where does that get us?”

“The more we understand about what was going on, the more we’ll see.”

“But was that worth a thousand dollars?”

“It was, Margie. Because now I can ask everyone who’s been here—send out postcards—ask if they saw a little boy standing and
watching, not looking for his mother, and then running away. Maybe one of them will say, ‘Yeah. I knew him.’ Or, ‘Yeah. I
was that little boy’ And if that boy comes here to confess to us, I’ve done my job.”

Charlie pulled Margie down to him and smiled at her in the dark. Charlie’s smiles had never reflected happiness. He was a
driven man, and Margie came to know that he wouldn’t be happy until he got to where he was driving toward. So when he smiled
a smile of affection for Margie, she decided it was more a smile of relief—remembering how he had her in his life. When Martha
was being adorable, his smile was more like amazement—amazement that he also had someone as precious as his baby in his life,
too.

Margie said, “Charlie, will you be happy once you find out who set the fire?”

He said, “I’m happy now, Margie.” Then he said, “I want justice done. For your mother. For Dixie. And for these.” He ran his
hands over and across the ropes of scars covering Margie’s back. She shuddered.

W
hen Charlie was at work, and Martha at school, and Margie was home reading, or housecleaning, or chatting on the phone with
the mothers of Martha’s friends, sometimes she’d hear a siren. Once in a while that meant Charlie would come home from work
with black fingernails, the only physical evidence that he’d fought a fire. Firemen work hard to wash themselves and their
brains after a fire.