The Illusionist by Dinitia Smith Page B

had replaced Dean’s magic tricks as the attention-getter.
    I was sitting at the end of the bar reading my book that night. “Terry know you got Bobby here?” I asked Dean. “It’s late.”
    â€œShe knows,” Dean said. He jiggled the boy on his knee, looked at him. “He loves me, don’tcha, guy?” he said.
    Bobby giggled, slid off Dean’s lap, scampered into the other room in his little denim overalls and his red sneakers, his curls bouncing.
    â€œHey you!” Dean cried. “Come back here to Daddy!”
    So, Bobby was calling Dean Daddy now.
    In the middle of the room, the child stopped and turned. He spotted Dean watching him and his face lit up. Back he ran—too fast, he was going to trip. “Daddy!” he shrieked. “Daddy!” And then, right in the middle of the room, he did trip, and he fell right down on the floor.
    Next thing, he was crying hard. His voice rose to a wail. The sound of a child weeping was incongruous in the bar, drowning out the noise from the TV and the jukebox. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and were staring at Dean and Bobby now.
    Dean lurched off the bar stool, ran to Bobby, picked him up, and held him. The boy was sobbing like his heart was broken now, his little chest heaving, rubbing his eyes with his fists.
    Dean pulled the boy’s snowsuit on, trying to soothe him, and hustled him out the door of the bar. As the door slammed behind them, you could still hear Bobby wailing from out in the parking lot.

C HAPTER 12
CHRISSIE
    The first snow came, falling silently and steadily on Washington Street, fresh and pure, announcing itself with a purpose. All day long, it kept on coming. Like a baptism. Below my apartment window, kids ran outside to play, shrieking, opening their mouths to the sky to swallow the flakes, sliding down the sidewalk on toboggans.
    Throughout the day, the snow built up on the sidewalk. It swirled across the street, drifted up the steps of buildings, blocking front doors in windswept motions.
    As evening came, the children came inside for dinner, and outside my window, the quiet deepened, the only sounds now were the scraping of metal shovels on the sidewalk. Nothing moved. There were no cars. The snowplow hadn’t come through yet. There were lights in the windows of the building across the way, but the street itself was empty.
    I put Mariah Carey on the tape deck.
    There was a knock on my door. The buzzer downstairs was broken. “Who’s there?”
    â€œMe,” he said through the door. He didn’t even have to say his name. He expected that everyone would recognize his voice, that he was at the center of everyone’s thoughts even when he was absent.
    I opened my front door and he stood there, snow melting onthe brim of his cowboy hat and the shoulders of his jacket. His cheeks were bright red from the cold, his green eyes shining, his gleaming teeth resting on his full red lip. “Mind if I come in?”
    But he already knew the answer, and he stepped right across my threshold.
    â€œWhat’re you doing here?” I asked.
    â€œNothing. Haven’t seen you in a while.” He threw his jacket and his hat on the floor, and the snow from them melted on the floorboards in little puddles.
    He sat down on the futon and pulled off his cowboy boots, his big socks steaming in the air.
    Then he stood up, walked over to the refrigerator, opened it as if this was his own house. He took out a can of Mountain Dew, and in one quick gesture popped the tab up with his thumb. I could never do that, but Dean had all those cool guy gestures down. Better than any guy.
    â€œGot anything sweet?” he asked.
    â€œNope. Your teeth are gonna fall out from all that sugar.”
    â€œMy teeth are fine,” he said, baring them to show me. His teeth were big and white.
    It was very warm in the apartment. The old boiler downstairs overheated us sometimes.
    â€œWhat’s