Yeah. Jim gets it. I think Faulkner would be pleased to know that these stories exist, answering his call to arms, or rather, pen.
THE RADIO MAGICIAN
In the evening Clarence sprawled on the ragged hook rug, facing the cathedral front of the burnished wood Edison, a pillow tucked beneath his chin, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and his useless legs encased in casts, sticking behind him. Eyes shut, he listened to KLZ, the Reynolds Radio Company, and then slowly rotated the dial through the other Denver stations. Sometimes late at night he’d pick up WDAF out of Kansas City or WAAF in Chicago. Everywhere he turned he found wavering voices, scratchy baseball games, foreign speech and strange music. News from overseas. Poland invaded. President Roosevelt. Big bands. The slightest twist of the wooden knob brought new sounds, all so far, far away from his tiny bedroom and the ragged hook rug. He wished he could crawl in among the glowing tubes with their tiny suns suspended in glass cages. They warmed his chilled hands. He’d listen as hard as he could so that he wouldn’t hear his own breathing, so he wouldn’t even think about his breathing. Did that breath hurt? What about the next one? Did the muscles in his chest tighten up just a little that time?
Mom had said, “You’re luckier than some, son. It’s only your legs.”
So far, thought Clarence. So far. No, he didn’t want to think about breathing.
So, he listened to The Shadow, Bobby Benson and the B-Bar-B Riders, The Tom Mix Ralston Straight Shooters, and he loved Charlie Chan stories from Five Star Theater, but mostly he listened for Professor Gilded’s Glorious Magical Extravaganza. On the table by the window, the clock ticked to the hour, just as the announcer said, “Now, for your listening pleasure, Denver’s very own radio magician.” Clarence shivered in delight, and waited impatiently through a Pepsodent commercial.
“We return today to disappearance and transference,” said Professor Gilded. “Last session, we talked of coins that moved from one hand to the next, from your hand to a pocket, from a pocket to a purse, or coins that vanished all together.”
Clarence scooted closer to the radio, holding his own coin tight, a gold quarter eagle that felt warm and smooth. Tonight he barely had a headache, so the show was more enjoyable.
“You see, I put a coin in my left hand. I show it to the audience. The coin is there, I assure you. Its edges press against my skin. Everyone has seen it go into my left hand. That is the secret. Everyone must see.”
Clarence pictured Professor Gilded on his tiny radio stage. Once The Denver Post had printed a picture of the professor’s broadcast. Beside him, his top hat rested on a spindly legged table. The audience of ten who were there by the luck of having their names drawn from letters they’d sent the show, leaned forward. Every week Clarence wrote Professor Gilded a letter, but his name had never been drawn.
Last week, Father had patted Clarence’s head. “How would we get you there, Clarence boy? You won’t be going on that journey while you are sick. But write your letters. It’s good your mind is so active.” Then Father drew a long breath through his pipe, and held it in his lungs before releasing a steady gray stream.
Professor Gilded continued, “The coin does not know the trick. That is the trick. The coin does not know. So when the magic happens, the coin has jumped from my left hand to wherever I want it to go.” He paused. A quiet drum rolled in the background as it did before the magic occurred. “Where do you think the coin has appeared this time? It is not in my left hand as you can see.” The audience oohed and then clapped. Clarence squirmed in contentment. He could see Professor Gilded’s empty hand. “Young lady with the fancy hat sitting in the back row. Yes, you. Would you check inside that beautiful red ribbon on the hat?”
A surprised squeal burst from the background. The audience buzzed with startled conversation.
The announcer said, “Ma’am could you describe what happened for our listeners?”
“The coin was inside my hat! Professor Gilded never moved from the stage!” She giggled suddenly. “I’m going to keep this forever.”
Clarence squeezed the quarter eagle, a birthday present. “A ten-year-old deserves real money,” Mother had said as she gave it to him. “It’s a lucky coin, minted the year your father and I were born.” She put her finger on the date, 1910. “You can’t spend it. It’s not legal money anymore.” She leaned close, like a conspirator. “We were supposed to turn all the gold over to the government in 1933, but I held this one for you.” The secret made the coin worth even more. Sometimes he thought of what the two and a half dollars could buy, and it made him feel rich.
Clarence pressed the small coin’s bumpy edges against his skin, clenched it in his fist, turned the hand over, willed the coin to vanish. He scrunched his forehead, focused, tried to believe the quarter eagle was no longer in his grasp. But it was no good, just like wishing he could move his legs was no good. Even getting around on crutches would be better than his plaster jail. New crutches rested against the closet door. Beneath them in a box waited leg braces with long metal bars, heavy leather straps and black buckles. Someday, his mother promised, he would walk in them. The casts, though, were too heavy, and he couldn’t swing his legs to keep himself moving forward. A week ago he’d tried, only to fall face first onto the hardwood floor.
Professor Gilded’s voice broke in. “We do not dabble in the supernatural here. Charlatans claim their magic is real. The coin’s disappearance is an illusion, a trick of perception only, but our perceptions make reality for us all. If you perceive you are cowardly, then illusion becomes the world. If you perceive you are ill, then illness becomes you.”
Clarence’s eyes popped open. He turned the sound up, his own attempts at the trick forgotten. Beneath his casts, his legs ached. He remembered running home down the long muddy lane beside the field, its corn already harvested, the broken stalks lying across each other. He’d run on the weeds beside the lane to keep his shoes dry. Then he stumbled. For a second, he thought he’d stepped in the mud, but he could see the shoe was clean. His right leg dragged again. He slowed to a heavy limp, massaging his thigh through his jeans. What was wrong with his leg? The house had never looked so far away. Too far to call for help. He leaned on the fence and felt his strength fading.
Just as he reached the gate an hour later, Mom came out on the porch to look for him. She ran to him as he fell, her face wet with fear. By morning, the left leg had gone weak too. How far would it stretch? As the doctor poked at him later that day, Clarence made a fist, then unmade it, over and over. Would the paralysis spread? Fist. No fist. Fist. No fist.
Professor Gilded said, “The world’s illusions cloud perceptions. Most fail to recognize reality before them. They believe they are poor, or ugly, or life’s horizons are short. If my assistant will allow me to demonstrate, observe the reality of my four-legged friend.”
The sound of clopping came from the speakers before the announcer said, “Professor Gilded’s beautiful assistant, Sonia, is leading a horse into the studio, a strawberry roan, courtesy of the Phipps Ranch. I have to tell you folks, livestock in a radio studio is not what you see every day.” Chairs scraped across a wooden floor. Someone said, “Give him a bit of room.”
The announcer whispered, “The studio is not large, my friends. Our audience has moved to the back wall. The horse, a gentle one, chosen especially for this demonstration, stands no more than five feet from them. Professor Gilded’s stage gives him a height advantage. He’s removing a large, blue blanket from the chest behind him.”