The Understory (8 page)

Though Hans never talked all that much, when people would ask him what his college major had been, he would answer, “I majored in wood,” because it invariably conjured up inappropriate images of horny undergrads lusting their way through four years of school, and it always ended conversations he didn’t want to have about why he wasn’t living up to his potential. Hans was an artist, formally trained, with an MFA in woodworking, but with bills to pay, he gave up creating art to feed his soul, and became a handyman to fill his belly. That’s why he’d been at the Payne house, to fix Claire’s front door, and maybe, in doing so, help fix Claire, just a little.

Hans knew the difference between bloodwood and coast redwood. He also knew if a piece of wood was ring-porous or diffuse-porous. And he could tell, by looking at the inside layers of a tree, how it had become damaged—reddish brown streaks indicated injury by bird, and black specks suggested insect damage. But what Hans Turner could not do was apply this knowledge of trees and wood to the human realm, and therefore he could not tell, when meeting someone, whether or not he could fix her. So he gave up guessing and attempted to fix everyone. And when he felt he could not fix someone, his hands were the first to know—they ached.

But recently his hands ached the most when he tried to create true art, as he used to. The lively wooden sculptures he once carved held a story in each engraved curve, but now, if he tried to do anything more than fix damaged wood in a utilitarian fashion, or forge original creations for someone else’s made-to-order vision, his hands throbbed. So Hans decided he’d focus his life on mending flaws rather than creating beauty.

So while Story scooted out of the Payne house and back to her own, Hans finished fixing the Paynes’ front door and, in his mind, fixing Claire Payne. While talking—no, listening—to her to her on the phone, she’d sounded as off-kilter as that door of hers that would not stay latched. Hans did not know the reason for the frustration in her voice, but as he re-hung the door, pounding the doorframe with his carpenter’s hammer and shaving off little pieces of the door with his planer, he did what he could to restore balance to door and owner alike.

Pound
. A little stronger.

Pound
.
Pound
. A little more solid.

Pound
.
Pound
.
Pound
. . . balanced. And ready to withstand any shitty day. Lots of shitty days, perhaps, if he did his job.

Finally, when the planked, Hacienda-style door closed with ease and stayed closed, Hans let his hands glide over the recycled Douglas-fir, touching it with tenderness, as one would caress a delicate flower, or a lost love. After repairing Claire’s door, Hans made a quick change of clothes, and left for his next appointment: not another handyman job this time, but an appointment for his
other
job.

When he wasn’t fixing broken people’s broken things, Hans made small rabbits and credit cards disappear. He locked rings together. He drew cards out of nowhere. A leftover childhood fascination, magic to him meant that some small corners of the world might still be enchanted.

Though quieter than other magicians, who liked loud
Presto-Chango
declarations and gaudy show voices, Hans won his crowds over without speaking. Ever. His mime-style became so popular in the children’s party circuit, he had to give himself a name. He painted
Sleight of Hans
in a mysterious, whimsical font on a removable decal, and when he traveled to a magic gig, he used the decal to cover up his truck’s permanent sign,
Fix-It-And-Forget-It Man
.

Today’s magic gig was twelve-year-old Sarah Hartsinger’s birthday party, which Hans thought would be like the others—Mylar balloons, bad sheet cakes, and a few beautiful but predictable moments of wonderment when he made things disappear. But when he showed up at the Hartsinger residence, he realized this was not to be.

The solid-oak front door opened and a petite, pony-tailed girl wearing a baby-blue hoodie greeted Hans. “Hey, hey, hey,” she stammered, looking at Hans’s retro tuxedo and his big, gun-metal gray tool box which held his magic tricks. In a frenzied flutter out of nowhere, her eyebrows danced up and down as she cracked her fingers and let out bullet-like utterings, seemingly uncontrollable, that sounded more like bodily functions than words.
KEECH
.
HOOL
.
URP
. And then she yelled, “Hey. Hey. Magician fuck-fuck-fucker!” which ended in an odd crescendo.

Strangely charmed, Hans gently shook her hand and wondered what the hell was wrong with her. His hands, acting as surveyors, throbbed in response.

The girl’s face softened, and she gave him a warm, confident smile. “I’m Sarah. It’s my party,” she said, and then, laughing, sang, “
And I’ll cry if I want to
” in a beautiful, angelic voice. After an embarrassed sigh, she added, “My mom likes that stupid song.”

Hans smiled, still standing in the doorway, waiting to come in.

“Oh, sorry,” she said sweetly, opening the door more and leading him into the foyer. “You really don’t talk much, huh?” But then without warning, her eyebrows danced again, her fingers cracked, and the bullet-words returned. “Asshole. Bitch. Tit-tit-titties!”

A woman raced over to where Hans and Sarah stood, and after wiping her hands on a mini-apron tied to her waist, extended her hand. “Oh, geez,” she grimaced. “I should’ve warned you. Sarah suffers from Tourette’s Syndrome. She can’t help what she says,” she said in a kind, motherly voice. “Words that she wishes she never knew flow out of her mouth like a fountain of filth!” She threw up her hands with an awkward giggle.

Like an explosive sneeze, Sarah then screeched, “Dick penis!” but this redundancy came out in a sad, innocent, and sorry tone, as if she were unfamiliar with both words, and just trying them out the way most kids experiment with new vocabulary. Then she made eye contact with Hans. “Please don’t leave,” she said. “People always leave.” And then, in a whisper, she added, “It’s always worse when I get excited.” Sarah smoothed her hair back and stood up straight. “Or when I’m trying really hard to be normal.” Her eyes blinked in slow succession, and each time they opened, they revealed a different emotion. At first, embarrassment dominated, but then her gaze lightened, and shame evolved into wonderment, as if she knew a secret about Hans that he himself had yet to discover.

Hans closed his eyes for a moment, not sure if he should laugh or cry.
Jesus
, he thought,
there’s got to be some way to fix this poor kid. Drugs? Therapy? Muzzle?

Sarah and her mother led Hans down a hallway and into a large living room with a big banner on the wall that read
Feel the Magic—Sarah’s Turning Twelve!
Sarah rolled her eyes and softly admitted, “I wanted an iPad instead of this party—magic is for babies.” She smiled at Hans. “No offense.”

Hans smiled back and shrugged at the same time, and thought, in a world where everything that can go wrong often does, babies needed magic the least. Broken people were everywhere: right there in the suburbs, with vaulted ceilings, oak doors, and nice mothers; in high rises; in crappy apartments; in grand estates, speaking different languages, loving other, different, broken people, all fighting the same urge to let their defining moment consume them.

And then Hans saw the motley crew awaiting him in the living room.
Whoa. We need some magic here
, he thought. He was greeted by six kids sitting on two poofy upholstered couches, and four others sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor. One boy in overalls picked his nose without apology, another boy made ape noises and pretended to pick cooties out of another boy’s wild black hair, and a chubby girl in a wheelchair was, for some reason, dressed in a too-tight spandex Wonder Woman outfit, while repeating in a slurred, spittle-laden voice, “Can you see me? I’m in my invisible jet! Can you see me? I’m in my invisible jet!”

As Hans set up his magic gear on a small card table in front of the room, Sarah brought her mouth up to Hans’s ear, and he tried not to flinch at what she might say. “They’re in my resource class at school,” she whispered. “Mom said it’s rude not to invite them,” and then sat down on the floor, creating a front-row seat.

Hans nodded in acknowledgement, draped a large white linen cloth over the table, and began his first trick. After he made a shiny quarter disappear, the audience erupted with oohs and ahhs and overstretched smiles. Several kids clapped in a spastic, fast-forward motion, but Sarah’s clap was polite, appropriate, and kind. At varied points in his act, Hans made eye contact with all the children, each with their own personal histories, but of all the stories in the room, Sarah’s was the saddest. When she got excited, she showed visible restraint, trying not to speak. Once, she even covered her mouth, for fear another vulgar phrase would escape. But Hans saw her focus on his hands. Every move they made. Every conjure. Every summon. And with every new gesture, she sat forward a little more.

After thirty-five minutes of cards up sleeves, never-ending rainbow scarves, and hidden eggs, Hans prepared for his finale—pulling a white bunny from his black top hat—but Sarah raised her hand and interrupted.

When she spoke, her voice resonated both hope and desperation. “Can you make
me
disappear?” she said, blinking resignedly.

Hans stalled, not sure how to respond. The audience needed magic, and Sarah Hartsinger needed to not scream
cock and balls
at church.

After Hans motioned for Sarah to come up, he held a purple curtain hanging from a rod in front of her, hiding her from the audience. He then spoke quietly, turning to her so only she could hear. “I’m not going to use any fancy magic words here—”

“Words are overrated,” she assured him.

With no real instruction, Hans began to count with his fingers, so the audience could see.

One
.

Sarah’s eyes widened when she whispered, “What am I supposed to do?”

Two
, Hans indicated with his fingers.

Sarah’s panicked eyebrows danced. “Gism whore!” came out as a mean whisper, as she looked to Hans for some direction.

Three!

And when the audience watched Hans fling the curtain in the air to reveal what was behind it, they began to cheer. One boy said, “She’s gone!” and Wonder Woman cried, “She’s invisible!” spraying saliva on the girl next to her.

Hiding underneath the tableclothed card table where Hans had, in the split-second before the reveal, sequestered her, Sarah looked up, disappointed. “I’m still here.”

Hans thought about telling her,
Magic can’t save everyone, but isn’t it great how we made the kids in the audience believe in something enchanted?
But Sarah Hartsinger didn’t need any more words.

Once the crowd dispersed, Sarah snuck out from her hiding place, and as the others mingled, she slyly made her way over to Hans, who was busy not eating bad sheet cake.

She stared at his calloused hands. “How’d they get like that?”

“Fixing things,” Hans said, thinking of the difference between things that can be fixed, and things that can only be mended.

She nodded, and then smiled. “You’re a bad magician.”

“You’re a bad
disappearer
,” he said with a smirk. And for a moment, she disappeared into the wallpaper. “But you’re an amazing singer,” Hans said, delivering the words with his strong, flawed hands.

With that, Sarah Hartsinger took shape and came to life. “Once upon a time,” she said, her soft voice employing mystery instead of vulgarity, “there was a girl who
almost
thought magic was
sorta
cool.” She glanced behind her at the roomful of guests, making sure no one but Hans heard her confession.

Hans let his plastic fork fall onto the paper plate. Through a smile and a sigh, Hans said, “A story? I thought you said words were overrated.”

He could tell Sarah wondered what he had against stories. And in that split second, he actually realized what it was. They’re fixed. Stuck. Once they’re written, they can’t be changed. Fixed sorrow on the page. Closed books of despair.

Sarah did not deny what she’d said—instead, she displayed the same knowing look Hans had seen earlier. She then closed her eyes, placed her hands on her forehead in true psychic form, and said, giggling, “You’re going to meet someone who makes you like stories again.”

“Is that right?” he laughed, placing his plate on the table. “And how do you know that?”

She laughed back. “Magic, of course.”

“So it’s not just
for babies
.”

Her smile was still there, but it softened, and when she raised her eyebrows, she became serious. “Keep your eyes open, Magic Man.” But as she studied him, watching a smile subconsciously take over his face, Sarah knew Hans had already met that someone, even if he didn’t know it yet.

“Yes ma’am,” Hans said, grateful Sarah’s instructive words had not devolved into an evil, semantic cluster of inappropriate body parts and fluids.

And as Hans Turner walked away, trying hard to keep his eyes wide open, the bright Arizona sunshine forced him to squint. For a moment, he switched his focus from the harsh, blinding beams to warmer, caressing rays, and he thought of a slightly broken woman living in her own slightly flawed tale. He thought of the artful curves of soft, cupid’s-bow lips reciting other people’s words, and wondered if she was living happily ever after.