Born of Illusion by Teri Brown Page A

Houdini-proof tricks.
    My pencil flies as he goes through a repertoire of techniques—many of which my mother and I have utilized on countless occasions. The eating of burning coals, which in reality are merely cotton balls set in burning alcohol; the mysterious rapping, which is done with a cleverly designed mechanism in the heel of one of my shoes; and table levitation, which is merely the medium’s or her accomplice’s foot.
    My horror grows with every sentence he utters, every trick he exposes. Our livelihood is being destroyed—by the same man my mother tells me is my father.
    My legs twitch from wanting to run and hide. I put the notebook in my bag and clench the velveteen armrests. I came to meet Houdini and meet him I will.
    He concludes the show with some of his most beloved escapes. This is what people are clamoring for, and I occupy my mind by running through the steps to each trick as they occur. I note the dramatic inflection of his voice and his striking gestures as he works the crowd.
    At the final curtain, it’s announced that Houdini’s book, A Magician Among the Spirits , will be for sale in the atrium and that Houdini will be autographing them.
    This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, and I slip from my seat so I can beat the rush.
    No such luck. By the time I purchase the book, I’m stuck in a line that stretches almost out the front door. The mingled scent of body odor and perfume wrinkles my nose. Everyone wants to tell Houdini his or her story. He cocks his head and makes the right noises, but I know he’s barely paying attention. No doubt his quick mind has already jumped to the next scheduled event in his incredibly busy life.
    Then it’s my turn.
    I look into his face, holding my breath, waiting for something to happen. Perhaps a sense of confusion or unconscious recognition. But his expression is the same as it was for the person ahead of me—polite, pleasant, public.
    I wonder how his expression would change if he knew what I do for a living.
    The book feels lethal in my hands as I give it to him, as if the covers could swallow me whole.
    “Would you like me to inscribe it?”
    I avoid his eyes, as if he can read my guilt. “Yes, please.”
    He waits, impatience crossing his face. “The name?”
    I clear my throat. “Anna.”
    “Just Anna?”
    I nod. Words fail me.
    He signs it as I watch, Best wishes, Harry Houdini.
    Best wishes.
    Resentment and anger flare up inside as a small brunette woman moves to his side and whispers in his ear. His wife. He pats her hand and hands me the book with a distracted smile.
    I’m expected to move now, but I don’t. My feet remain firmly planted.
    He looks up at me, his brows raised. “Yes?”
    I hold up the book. “You should have titled the book What Not to Do .”
    Houdini cocks his head to one side. “And why is that?”
    “Because no medium will ever use these tricks again . . . but we both know they’ll just devise new ones, won’t they?” I give him a cold little smile and walk away.
    “Wait a moment,” he calls, but I keep moving and lose myself in the crowd heading for the door.
    Once outside, I pull in a couple of deep breaths of the frigid air.
    My father, a man I have only known through newsreels, movies, and clippings, is now all too real to me. And he’s my enemy.

Ten
     
    K eep moving. Keep moving.
    I hurry past my streetcar stop, clutching Houdini’s book in my hand.
    Knowing that he’d been working with the American Scientific Society to debunk mediums and writing long diatribes in the newspapers didn’t prepare me for this level of exposure.
    Everything my mother and I have worked so hard for is at risk because of Harry Houdini. While I hate doing the séances and yearn for a time we can stop, they’ve always been an important part of our survival. Sometimes a successful séance means the difference between having a roof over our heads or not, between going to bed with a full stomach or an empty