Parlor Tricks

Chapter 3

It was late enough that Hank knew his mother would be asleep. He meandered down the tidy streets until the decorative street lights with ornate lamps emitting a yellowish glow broke way to clean orbs emitting white light from the tops of their posts. As he neared his destination, the lamps changed a last time to industrial lights intended for little more than function. Willie didn't mark his bar to separate it from the dilapidated company it kept. It would be easy to pass by with nothing but a hint of smoke and stale drinks. Still, people always found their way to a seat. No one was ever there to celebrate; it was a place to hide, to revel in the momentary blindness a crease bar could provide.

There were no surprises inside, just Willie himself behind the bar every open minute. He was not the congenial barkeep of movies; he was the overworked, struggling-to-survive barkeep of reality. Willie slid a Jack and Coke into Hank's clutches without a word and moved on to the next stool. The highball glass sweat beneath Hank's grip as he lifted it for a first sip, letting the thick taste coat his tongue.

But, "are you Hank Carroll?" cut through his mouthful. He swallowed too fast, causing a moment of sputter before he regained himself. The words came with a drawl but lacking the Southern, as though she passed through the South and plucked the parts that pleased her.

Hank mustered a stubborn lift of his gaze to his new company. She was a petite creature with creamy skin that flowed over the sharp features of her face. Her eyes were a mosaic of moss green, ocean blue, and maple tree brown, like all of nature had concentrated into two small irises. Hank couldn't shake the feeling he was staring down into the eyes of an apparition. His glance twitched around the bar, looking for someone else to validate the existence of the pixie before him.

"Is that you?" She pressed again before she leaned in and added, "are you a mute?" Her words flowed like the song of a wood thrush, even when harsh.

"Yes." Hank's lips moved, and he felt the vibration of his voice, but once the words passed his lips, the ether of the room obscured them.

"You're Hank or a mute? No mind; I suppose even a yes cancels the mute." With barely a breath, she continued, "I have this car, my mother's. A real junker. The car, not my mother. My mum's dead, the car's the only thing I have left of her, and it's damn near dead itself." The words were wove together as one and somehow cut through the blare of the room to land safely in Hank's ears. "I hear you are handy with old cars. This one's a '62 Consul. You know it?"

Hank mustered a nod without too much delay.

"Great. I'll be by tomorrow. Willie over there already gave me your address. He's a chatterbox like you." With a final wink and swish of a patched-up prairie dress, she vanished.

Hank returned his eyes to his highball. The sweat from the glass rolled over his thick fingers. He watched as the moisture collected on the bar before lifting the glass to his lips once more. The rest of his drink was uninterrupted, but his mind was already splintering down alleys of thought at this unwelcome creature that disrupted his solitude.

Hank's mind remained distracted as he traced his steps home, except he did not end up at the Carroll mansion. His finger was pushing the bell before he snapped to reality. He stared at the thick oak door, feeling his pulse quicken for the briefest of moments before it jerked open. In the late hour, a maid didn't meet him; Wendy stood before him as though she were expecting him.

"Well, come in before anyone sees you. I have enough scandal." Wendy's voice came in a harsh whisper.

Hank scuffed his feet over the mat before bowing his head and entering the foyer, pulling his hat from his head as he passed. A quiet voice within him wondered if anyone got a warm welcome anymore.

Wendy tucked her glossy silk robe around her thin frame and beckoned him to follow her with nothing more than her retreat. He trailed her up the stairs, entranced by her silhouette floating before him. It startled him when he found himself in her bedroom. She collapsed in a chair by the snarling fireplace. Hank shifted in search of comfort in the unpleasant force of the room. His eyes watched his hat twirl in his hands.

"Henry sit; you're making me uneasy."

He complied as she knew he would, tossing his hat on a side table as he sat. The golden blond locks of her hair that once danced in the breezes of their youth knotted in a messy bundle at the nape of her neck. Her creamy skin had grown ashen, with sleepless bruises circling her now dull green eyes. She looked so withered with age that Hank longed for her to rest her head on his shoulder and away suck his own life to revive his memory of her.

"I expected you would come when you heard." She picked up a dwindling glass of scotch, giving it a swirl as she spoke. Once the words passed her lips, she down the end of the drink.

"I'm sorry," he offered, but his words felt trivial and shallow.

"You should be," her words came out like the spitting fire between them. "If it hadn't been for your father, this whole life would be..." Her voice trailed off, but the implication lingered, another shadow of what should have been.

She stood before him now. First, her robe slipped from her shoulders with a soft patter on the floor. Her beauty remained unblemished; Hank's breath faltered as her nightgown flowed to the ground with a second flutter.

The mystery of women had long escaped Hank, but at the moment, he knew the role he was to play and resigned himself to do as he was told. He longed to offer any solace he could, but this was not comforting. Her silky lips never passed his own, nor did he get to feel the pulse of her delicate blue veins dance at his touch once again. Romance is a luxury that is not for lost souls. As he laid there hypnotized by the wave of her hips across his, he allowed a brief indulgence of imagining her as his own. Imagine a life with a beautiful wife and children asleep down the hall. The cold bite of the Fall air was soon a harsh reminder that dreams fed by memories were even more foolish than dreams nourished by hope.