Parlor Tricks

Chapter 13

Josie was quiet on the walk home. She still clung to Hank's side, but there was a distance between them. Hank attempted to convince himself that the evening's abrupt ending was the culprit, but struggled to believe honestly. Nearly all the players had thrown the trajectory of the evening so many times; Rosie, with her assertion; Peter, with his sudden illness, Elise, with her disinterest. Now it was Josie's turn to react, and her consequence was quiet. Hank had spent years reveling in the quietness of solitude, but now he longed for the song of her voice, the trill of her laugh, or even the pluck of her mandolin. All he could control was his coarse voice.

"Would you like to sit out tonight?" He mentally chided himself for his deep tone.

Josie let the question hang for longer than was comfortable. Hank lived on the feeling of her wrapped around his arm as he waited.

"Sure, Hank," her voice was tired. "I just need to get out of this costume." The tone was not one to breed excitement, but Hank felt it bubbling within him.

"Of course. Are you hungry? I could fix you a sandwich."

"No, I lost my appetite."

He wanted to pull her back to when she was the twirling star of the show, but he couldn't. She chose the shadows this evening, and he had to respect it even if he knew she didn't belong in the cool shade. It was a lonely, unfriendly place that was far too harsh for her.

They hardly passed over the threshold when she slipped her shoes off. With the faintest of smiles, she padded away from him. Instinctively, Hank reached out to her, but she was already gone. He tugged his coat off and started the kettle before checking the sitting room to confirm that his mother had already gone off to bed. The room felt larger when emptied of personalities. His mind replayed Josie's earlier twirl into the room, the feeling of his hand on the velvet warmed by her body. He knew he shouldn't get attached, that she'd move on soon, but he found himself pulled deeper into her snare with each moment. He tugged the afghan from the back of the loveseat and tucked it beneath his arm before heading back to relieve the whistling kettle. The steam danced on the cups again, twisting and twirling. Lost in thought, he hardly noticed Josie standing before him.

As they headed out to the swing, his eyes fell on her shoe-covered feet. He should have been happy that she heeded his warning from the previous night, but it felt like a slap. Josie no longer needed him; there would be no prodding for warmth from her tonight. He pulled on his coat with a sigh, but Josie either didn't hear it or didn't care as she just continued her way. He tucked the blanket beneath his arm again before picking up the mugs of tea.

Hank tried to focus on the stars above, but his eyes kept drifting to sullen Josie. She clutched her mug tightly and held it close to her lips, but did not sip. She just let it linger there. Hank shared a bond with the cup, so close to being of use but just shy of it as well. He knew he was ridiculous, that Josie would drink the tea in her own time. The blanket stayed folded between them; even as she shivered, she did not move to use it.

"You're trembling," he offered, to pull her back to him with his words.

Her vacant gaze fell to him with a hint of surprise, as though she had forgotten he was even there. He set his tea down on the swing frame's stable arm and unfurled the blanket for her. She gave a faint smile and allowed him to tuck the blanket around her. She looked tiny in the moonlight, like a child. The image recalled a faded memory deep in the back of his mind, but it was too worn to remember fully. She lifted the mug to her lips and took a long, slow sip. He watched her neck twitch as the tea melted down her.

She let out a heavy sigh as she finally allowed herself to fall to his side. Hank smiled to himself as he adjusted the blanket to cover her before settling an arm around her.

"Hank, have you ever met a ghost?" The question seemed silly, but her tone was serious.

"Not that I know of." His eyes filtered up to the stars again. Josie let out a sigh as though his answer did not progress her thoughts. "Have you?" He hoped to reclaim her attention.

"I think so. Hard to tell, though."

He tried to maneuver her riddles. "Wouldn't you know if you met a dead person?"

"Not all ghosts are dead, and not all dead are ghosts."

"Riddles."

"It's not dying if no one mourns you; it's just disappearing." Her words stuck to him like honey. He had always thought solitude was his strength, but it felt achingly lonely now, even with his arm around her.

In the moonlight's glimmer, Hank caught the flicker of a lone tear roll down her cheek. It fell to his chest, ripping through him like a bullet, mercilessly tearing flesh and breaking bones in its path to rest. She burrowed her head into his side, hiding her face. He wanted to help, to offer solace or strength, but he had nothing to offer her. Instead, shame filled him; his inadequacy limited any help he could pretend to offer.

Josie stirred after a long while. "I think I should head to bed." Her words were fragile, like a child on the verge of sleep.

He reluctantly let her pull from his side; the extrication felt like the final blow before he would tumble into rubble.

"Hank..." No more words came. He could feel her eyes on him expectantly, but he hadn't the strength to benefit her, so why should he have the privilege of looking at her. He felt a single fingertip flow down his cheek, leaving a burning in its wake. "I'm sorry," she murmured before she slipped away.

Hank sat in the moonlight, centering on the burn along his cheek. It bore deeper and deeper into him, providing shelter from the storm of emotions straining to erupt; the anger of being a collector of ghosts, exhausted from the care of the physical, and ashamed of the instrument he had allowed himself to become; all to be a gentleman, respectable, and good. It had gotten him so close to a life, but it was false, lacking even the truth of a mirror. He was in a window looking at things so close to him, but they remained undisturbed by his want or need. He could not make the connection. The words caught in his throat, a stutter of his hand at the touch. Over twenty years, and he just now realized he had lost, redemption is a fairy tale they tell children, but it's not attainable, not real.

Empty now, Hank rose. It was more comfortable; the realization lifted the burden of effort. Life was a series of motions that his body knew well—a knob's turn, hanging a hat. Even the lifting of his knees as he climbed the darkened stairs felt light. His eyes automatically adjusted to the darkness, and his fingers deftly undressed. The sheets provided no comfort, no warmth. It would take time for his body to warm them; he couldn't appeal to the inanimate for relief, just like others could no longer call on him. Hank fixated on the sheets, the radiance in the moonlight. He watched his knuckles strain as he clutched them. His mind slipped to Wendy, her hands clutching her satin sheets as they writhed. She had always known. He was just a blunt instrument, not one of delicacy or precision. He could not offer to improve anyone, especially not Josie King.