Mrs. Houdini(4)

Dash met them first, swinging his stage jacket over his shoulder and cracking some joke about Harry primping like a girl. He picked Doll up by the waist and spun her in a quick circle, pressing his mouth against hers. “I was hoping you’d come,” he said.

“Oh, the act was wonderful,” she breathed. “We wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

He turned to Bess. “I’m Dash,” he said, pumping her hand. “My brother and I saw you in your show last weekend.” He nodded at Doll. “I stopped this one on her way out.”

Bess felt her cheeks burning. She hadn’t noticed them. “I usually don’t pay attention to faces,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry. I know that seems rude.”

Dash shrugged. “Nah.”

“Are you two really brothers?” she asked.

“We are.”

“You don’t look much alike.”

“We’re Hungarian,” he said, as if it were an explanation. Bess didn’t press him further, because the one Doll had called Harry had come outside and was striding over to them. His hair was newly brushed and he’d changed his shoes, but while Dash had switched shirts, Harry wore the same clothing she’d seen onstage. She couldn’t see any stains of perspiration on his shirt. She wondered if that, too, was a trick, whether he’d simply changed into an identical shirt to make it seem as if it had all been easy. If so, it had worked; she was impressed.

“Well, that was good fun,” he said, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Now who are these lovely women here?” He spoke with a slight European accent, enunciating each word carefully, as if he were being especially cautious not to give himself away. Bess wondered what he’d make of learning that her real name was heavily German.

She introduced herself as Bess. When she held out her hand, he turned it over and, boldly, kissed the middle of her palm. She snatched it away, surprised and a little scandalized.

“My mother always told me never to shake a woman’s hand,” he said. “It’s disrespectful.”

Doll laughed and reached for Dash’s arm. “You magicians are quite cheeky, aren’t you?”

Bess considered Harry’s bold gesture. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was taller than she was, which was easy considering she was still the height of a child, but he had an arrogance about him that unnerved her.

“Are we going to the beach?” Doll asked. “Let’s, please. It’s sweltering out here.”

The sun was going down behind them, but guests were still pouring onto the grounds, and the streetlamps blazed like the white eyes of ghosts. Bess recalled her mother’s shame when she’d left home, but it was worth it, wasn’t it, to be here in the summer lights in this jewel-encrusted palace, a place with more color and life than she’d ever known.

None of the performers spent much of their free time in the fairground, though. The Bowery was always crowded, the food was expensive, and they didn’t get any of it for free. But mostly, there was always the possibility that theatergoers might recognize or accost them. Even worse than that, although no one said it out loud, was the possibility that they would actually be mistaken for the theatergoers themselves, ordinary men and women who ate hot dogs or waited in line for a goat-cart ride or the Switchback dime railroad. And the idea of it—such tedious, immaculate ordinariness—was abhorrent. They had all come to Coney Island to forge extraordinary, resplendent lives under the lights. Perhaps her sister would be content to wait in line, but Bess would not be one of the onlookers anymore.

“To the beach,” Dash agreed and took Doll’s hand, and Harry fell in step behind them. Bess walked beside him, as she had nowhere else to go, but he didn’t speak to her again. She was unsettled by his silence, and slightly insulted. It seemed outside the bounds of common decency. He was young—almost as young as she—and she wondered if he had ever even been with a woman before. Doll—who was an expert in such matters—had explained to her that when men made a show of their confidence it was often to disguise some sexual insecurity.

Finally she gave in and spoke first. “Tell me something.” She lowered her voice so Dash and Doll wouldn’t hear. “You knew that man in the audience was going to challenge you tonight, didn’t you? You knew he’d never be able to get out of that trunk.”

Harry smiled. “Why would you think that?”

“Or maybe it was all made up, and you paid him to get stuck in there so you could look like a hero.” She surprised herself with this. She hadn’t meant to be so brash. But she was stewing in the insult of his silence, and it had brought out another, harsher side to her.

His smile faded. “I’ll tell you one thing—not a soul in the whole state of New York can get out of that trunk except Dash and me. And I certainly don’t need to pay anyone to try.”

“You don’t have to snap at me.” She paused. “I could get out of that trunk.”

He looked at her, amused. “Could you?”

Bess nodded. “You’re clearly very skilled with ropes—that’s the most difficult part. You had your hands untied behind your back before Dash even pulled the sack up over your head. But the rope tying the sack was tricked—I suspect you just had to pull on it from the inside for it to open the bag. Then there’s the trick panel on the rear of the trunk.”