one.
Harry Houdini is out to expose mediums, but I wonder what he would say if he met a real one. Someone who had really communicated with the dead or saw the future in terrifying visions or felt the emotions of others coming off them in waves.
Someone like me.
I bump into somebody on the busy sidewalk and cut across the street to avoid the crowd. I don’t need to feel anyone else’s emotions right now. My own thoughts are racing, one after another, each more alarming than the one before. My mother and I are so close to putting our nomadic life behind us. I shudder, wondering how many zealous skeptics this latest attack is going to inspire. What if they go after our show? Part of me wants to toss the book in the gutter, but I can’t. I need to see what tricks he’s ruined for us. I slip it into my bag and keep walking down one dimly lit street after another.
“Excuse me, miss, can you spare an old man some change?”
Startled, I glance up at the wizened beggar in front of me. The filthy rags he wears attests to his circumstances, and I automatically reach for my purse. I press a bill into his hand and ignore his muttered thank-you as I glance around, frowning.
Nothing looks familiar.
Did I walk east or west? I’m no longer in the theater district, that’s for sure. Gone are the beckoning restaurants and busy shops. The buildings here are rough, ramshackle. Families taking leisurely Sunday strolls have been replaced by coarse men slipping into unmarked buildings. A few of them give me sidelong, curious looks and I realize how out of place I look in my blue woolen surplice coat and black Mary Janes. The few women on the street are wearing shabby, shapeless dresses that reach their ankles and heavy shawls that are their only protection against the weather.
I hurry for the nearest corner to see if the street name will give me some clue as to which direction I should go. The salty, tar-drenched stink of the river is stronger here and the streets are narrower. I must be near the docks. Chewing on my lip, I clutch my purse closer and try to look more confident than I feel.
As I pass a dilapidated building with blacked-out windows, the front door opens. Music and light fill the street, and a burly man, holding another man by his suit jacket, steps outside.
“And don’t come back unless you have the money, ya piker!” he says, tossing the man into the gutter.
I freeze, my heart beating in my ears.
The man stares at me. “You coming inside?”
I shake my head. Shrugging, he steps back and slams the door.
The man in the gutter moans and I’m half tempted to help him, but fear paralyzes me. For the first time it dawns on me that I’m in very real danger. Giving him wide berth, I quicken my step. The few street lights flicker on and I see a corner ahead. I hurry toward it, trying not to run. I’m at West End Avenue and Fiftieth Street. We live on West Seventy-Fourth. I rack my brain trying to remember how New York is laid out.
I start walking again, hoping I’m going in the right direction. There are fewer people on the street now and the wind picks up, scattering trash across the cracked sidewalk. I hear something behind me. Heart in my throat, I slow, and the sound stops. I begin walking and the noise resumes. Footfalls. My breath quickens as I struggle not to run. Kam Lee, an acrobat from San Francisco, once told me that criminals are attracted by fear and repelled by confidence. He refused to teach me kung fu, as it wasn’t proper for girls, but he did teach me how to walk aggressively.
I stretch myself taller and square my shoulders. Lengthening my strides, I change my gait from uncertain to arrogant.
Casually, I glance behind me. Is it my imagination or did something just disappear into the shadows? Am I being followed?
I speed up and the footfalls behind me resume. Swallowing, I feel for the fan knife I’ve kept in my purse ever since my mother and I were mugged in Kansas City several years
Harry Houdini is out to expose mediums, but I wonder what he would say if he met a real one. Someone who had really communicated with the dead or saw the future in terrifying visions or felt the emotions of others coming off them in waves.
Someone like me.
I bump into somebody on the busy sidewalk and cut across the street to avoid the crowd. I don’t need to feel anyone else’s emotions right now. My own thoughts are racing, one after another, each more alarming than the one before. My mother and I are so close to putting our nomadic life behind us. I shudder, wondering how many zealous skeptics this latest attack is going to inspire. What if they go after our show? Part of me wants to toss the book in the gutter, but I can’t. I need to see what tricks he’s ruined for us. I slip it into my bag and keep walking down one dimly lit street after another.
“Excuse me, miss, can you spare an old man some change?”
Startled, I glance up at the wizened beggar in front of me. The filthy rags he wears attests to his circumstances, and I automatically reach for my purse. I press a bill into his hand and ignore his muttered thank-you as I glance around, frowning.
Nothing looks familiar.
Did I walk east or west? I’m no longer in the theater district, that’s for sure. Gone are the beckoning restaurants and busy shops. The buildings here are rough, ramshackle. Families taking leisurely Sunday strolls have been replaced by coarse men slipping into unmarked buildings. A few of them give me sidelong, curious looks and I realize how out of place I look in my blue woolen surplice coat and black Mary Janes. The few women on the street are wearing shabby, shapeless dresses that reach their ankles and heavy shawls that are their only protection against the weather.
I hurry for the nearest corner to see if the street name will give me some clue as to which direction I should go. The salty, tar-drenched stink of the river is stronger here and the streets are narrower. I must be near the docks. Chewing on my lip, I clutch my purse closer and try to look more confident than I feel.
As I pass a dilapidated building with blacked-out windows, the front door opens. Music and light fill the street, and a burly man, holding another man by his suit jacket, steps outside.
“And don’t come back unless you have the money, ya piker!” he says, tossing the man into the gutter.
I freeze, my heart beating in my ears.
The man stares at me. “You coming inside?”
I shake my head. Shrugging, he steps back and slams the door.
The man in the gutter moans and I’m half tempted to help him, but fear paralyzes me. For the first time it dawns on me that I’m in very real danger. Giving him wide berth, I quicken my step. The few street lights flicker on and I see a corner ahead. I hurry toward it, trying not to run. I’m at West End Avenue and Fiftieth Street. We live on West Seventy-Fourth. I rack my brain trying to remember how New York is laid out.
I start walking again, hoping I’m going in the right direction. There are fewer people on the street now and the wind picks up, scattering trash across the cracked sidewalk. I hear something behind me. Heart in my throat, I slow, and the sound stops. I begin walking and the noise resumes. Footfalls. My breath quickens as I struggle not to run. Kam Lee, an acrobat from San Francisco, once told me that criminals are attracted by fear and repelled by confidence. He refused to teach me kung fu, as it wasn’t proper for girls, but he did teach me how to walk aggressively.
I stretch myself taller and square my shoulders. Lengthening my strides, I change my gait from uncertain to arrogant.
Casually, I glance behind me. Is it my imagination or did something just disappear into the shadows? Am I being followed?
I speed up and the footfalls behind me resume. Swallowing, I feel for the fan knife I’ve kept in my purse ever since my mother and I were mugged in Kansas City several years
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