Read Online The Understory by Elizabeth Leiknes - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Leiknes
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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
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
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