My antennae began to twitch, and before I or anyone else could stop me the words had already escaped from my mouth: ‘If there’s anything we can do to help…’ David looked so unbearably sad, I wanted to get up out of my chair and hug him. ‘Really, I mean it.’
‘Take it from me,’ Ruth chimed in. ‘When Hannah’s curiosity is piqued, there’s no stopping her. It’s easier to take a mouse away from a cat.’
David managed a weak smile and nodded, although his response was perfunctory. ‘Thanks. I’ll be sure to let you know.’
NINE
‘[Houdini’s] most famous escapes, like being locked inside a giant-sized milk can or shoved upside-down into the tall, narrow aquarium of water he called the Chinese Water Torture Cell, were thrilling examples of showmanship… The audience seemed to sense that they were watching something extraordinary, and more than a few have commented on the odd sensation of being in the audience when – those in attendance suddenly remind themselves – something might go wrong.’
Jim Steinmeyer, Hiding the Elephant,
Da Capo, 2004, p. 9
Our dinnertime conversation with David had depressed me more than I could say, reminding me, as it did, of our own family’s journey through despair when our grandson, Timmy, disappeared.
When Ruth and I arrived at the Orpheus Theater, Georgina and Julie were already there. My heart did a little dance when I saw them. From where we stood, ranks of comfortable red plush velvet chairs were arranged in tiered semicircles facing an enormous stage, and Georgina had snagged premium seats in the second row.
‘Good job!’ I said as we eased into the row.
‘They even have little tables for our drinks!’ Julie chirped, setting her glass of something clear and bubbly – Sprite, I presumed – down on the small round table that separated her chair from mine.
A server appeared immediately, so we ordered drinks all around, and settled in.
In spite of what Pia had told me about the comedian, I was looking forward to the performance. I recognized his name from the Comedy Channel – Tony Malone – but with the exception of a short stint on Comic Relief, I’d never seen his act.
At the appointed hour, Malone exploded from the wings onto the stage, literally tackling the standing microphone as he passed.
‘A funny thing happened on my way to the theater…’ He paused, anticipating the groans of the audience, and we didn’t disappoint.
When we quieted down, he continued, ‘You’re not going to believe it, but two vultures got on board my plane, and each was carrying two dead raccoons. The stewardess looks at them and says, “I’m sorry, gentlemen, only one carrion allowed per passenger.”’
I had to laugh, but then, I’m a sucker for puns.
‘Last night I was told that some passengers complained because of my material. Too adult, they said, a little too blue. Holy cow, I said, didn’t they see my act on television? Who were they expecting, Mother Theresa?’ Shading his eyes with a hand, Malone squinted beyond the spotlights and into the audience. ‘So, any children out there tonight?’
Julie squirmed, making herself small in the chair as if hoping she’d not be singled out as a ‘child.’
When I looked around, about a dozen small hands were raised.
‘OK, OK,’ the comedian continued, ‘so this is for the kiddies. What do policemen eat for dessert?’ He paused for a few beats, then shouted, ‘Cop cakes!’
Encouraged by a smattering of pint-sized laughter, he forged on with additional ‘clean’ material. ‘A couple of years ago, I heard this knock at my front door. I open it, right, but nobody there. So I start to close the door, when I spot a snail on the doorstep. I pick up the snail and throw in it the trash. Two years later I hear another knock at the door. Again, nobody there except this damn snail. You know what he says? “So what was that all about?” ’
Beat. Beat. ‘Ba-da-bing!’
A few people laughed, but I suspected most of them didn’t get the joke.
Malone changed tactics. ‘The captain tells me that we have an international group of passengers aboard this cruise, practically a United Nations. Any Americans out there?’
We raised our hands, as did about half the audience.
‘Brits?’ he continued.
Maybe twenty hands shot up.
‘Canadians? Australians?’ He shaded his eyes and peered into the audience. ‘No Australians? Good, so did you hear about the Olympic gold medal winner from Australia? He loved his medal so much he had it bronzed!’
Malone launched into a series of one-liners – ‘How does Moses make his tea? Hebrews it!’ – like an old-fashioned baggy-pants comic.
I was rapidly losing the will to live.
Julie slouched in her chair. Even in the darkened theater, I could see she was pouting. ‘This is so lame,’ she said at last.
‘I quite agree,’ I whispered, ‘but I have it on good authority that the magician will be better.’
She jiggled the straw up and down in her Sprite, then drained the glass noisily. ‘As if.’
By that time, Malone had lost most of the audience. The noise level in the theater gradually rose as people began talking, or making their way to the bar, and Malone had to shout to be heard over them.
‘Did you hear about the dyslexic devil worshiper?’ he yelled. ‘He sold his soul to Santa!’
After ten excruciating minutes where I was wishing – no, praying – for a shepherd’s crook to extend from the wings, hook this clown by the neck and drag him off stage, it was finally over. The curtain rang down, the lights came up, and servers materialized from every corner of the room to take our drink orders.
‘I think I need a double,’ Ruth groaned.
Julie perched on the edge of her chair and turned to her mom. ‘Do I have to stay? They’re showing part two of Breaking Dawn in the outdoor theater tonight.’
‘Haven’t you seen Breaking Dawn numerous times already, Julie?’
‘Well, yeah, but I could look at Robert Pattinson all day… you know? Please, Mom!’
For some reason, Georgina looked at me. ‘Do you think I should let her go up on her own?’
Before I could weigh in with my two cents, Julie quietly erupted. ‘Mother,’ she moaned, ‘I am not a child!’
Georgina patted her daughter’s bare knee. ‘I know you aren’t, sweetheart. Are you sure you know where you’re going?’
Sensing victory, Julie was already on her feet. ‘Of course I do. I’ve been all over this ship.’
Georgina checked her watch. ‘OK, but be sure you’re back in the room by eleven-thirty. And Julie?’ She reached out and grabbed her daughter’s hand, dragging the girl backward. ‘Don’t make me come looking for you.’
Julie bent down and brushed her mother’s cheek lightly with her lips. ‘Thanks, Mom.’
With a casual flip of her apricot hair, she turned and bounced up the aisle.
Georgina melted back into the upholstery. ‘I think I’ll take that refill now.’
I moved into the seat that Julie had vacated and set my empty wine glass down next to Georgina’s. Waving my hand, I caught the attention of a server a couple of rows over. ‘Help is on the way.’
I was in the middle of telling Georgina about our dinner with David Warren when an officer I recognized from the Neptune Club reception strolled out onto the stage – Bradford Gould, the entertainment director. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is my extreme pleasure to present to you, all the way from Las Vegas, Nee-va-da, the ah-maze-zing Channing!’
From all corners of the theater, spotlights focused, blood red, on the curtain. The theme from Star Wars came blasting from the speakers; the curtain rose to reveal Thomas Channing, dressed in traditional tails, his lapels glittering with sequins.