The Art of Disappearing by Ivy Pochoda (top non fiction books of all time TXT) 📗

I turned my head and saw the scattered T-shirt rack.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen worse,” she assured me. “This town takes its toll. You’ve got to be prepared.” She touched her hat and began to wrap the glasses in tissue paper. “You’ll want to be careful before you do something serious. There’s a whole lot of trouble out there, just waiting to be had.”

Trying to avoid eye contact, trying to hide the panicked light that I knew was flashing in my eyes, I counted out my money. “There you go,” I said to the display of posters behind the cashier’s head.

“Well, I see you’ve already found yourself a little problem. Doesn’t take long.”

“I’m okay,” I replied, reaching for the bag.

The cashier wouldn’t relinquish her grip. “Now, listen to me. I know the way things work around here. You look like a smart girl, but I can tell this heat’s doing you no good. Once you cool off, you’ll find a way out of whatever it is that you’ve gotten into.” She let go of the bag so quickly, I almost let it drop onto the counter.

“Thanks,” I said, hiding my dislike of advice from strangers. “But I’ll never get used to the heat.”

“Don’t like the heat?” The cashier chuckled as I turned to leave. “Of all things.”

Outside the store, I unwrapped the glasses and held them up to the bright sky. Their smoked glass diffused and distorted the harsh sun. I put them away before my hands began to sweat and destroy their finish. Then I walked back to the motel over the steaming asphalt. The last tremors of my panic were still making my arms shake and stinging my fingers. I looked at my watch. I had been gone for nearly an hour. That would have given the magician enough time to pack his things and slip out into the surrounding sand. I closed my eyes and listened to the lazy traffic inching up the Strip and the slow tick of the climbing heat. What did my magician’s voice sound like? I remembered something of its static, but nothing of its lilt. I remembered his gnarled hands with their square depressions, but could not picture the arms that connected them to his elbows or shoulders.

And the face I remembered was that of the performer—the one coated with a sheen of stage light and fairy dust. It was a completely incomplete picture, one from which the subject could easily disentangle himself and vanish before I snared him in my net of details. Perhaps what had attracted me to Toby the day before had been an illusion. Or perhaps my first impression would last forever. I paused at the door of the room and realized I did not know what to listen for, what rhythm of breathing or dreaming should be coming from behind the wall. And just before I turned the handle, I wondered if the magician was waiting, hoping for the girl he’d banished from his stage years ago to step through that door.

Inside the poorly air-conditioned room, Toby was sitting up in bed. As I closed the door, I thought I saw a glimmer of panic wash off his face. His shoulders relaxed. “You’re back,” he said.

I leaned against the door, twisting my fingers through the plastic bag, and watched as the magician continued to smile. His genuine pleasure seemed at odds with the artifice of his craft. With sleep creased on his face and his hair wild, the magician looked handsomer than I’d remembered. It caught me off guard how striking Toby was, how naturally his face lit up without stage lights or magic.

To my surprise, his thin body was muscular and smooth. I closed my eyes, trying to recall what it had felt like to hold him the night before. My mind went back to all my empty mornings in remote motel rooms, and I wished that I had stayed in bed. I looked again at the magician, and despite what he had told me, and despite the loneliness I’d seen hugging his shoulders, I wondered if I wasn’t part of his game.

“I thought you’d left. I didn’t even hear you get up.”

“I tried not to wake you.”

“I told you, I’m uneasy with people. And when I wake up, you’re gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought I’d sent you away.”

“But my stuff is still here,” I said, looking toward my suitcase.

“I guess that’s right.” Toby didn’t seem convinced.

“You don’t know me very well if you think I’d go anywhere and leave that behind.”

“I hardly know you at all.” With one elegant hand, he patted the bed next to him.

I wondered if it was an invitation to join him, and I hesitated. Before I stepped forward, Toby withdrew his hand from the pillow and gathered the sheet around him.

I turned my back and busied myself with my suitcase, glancing in the mirror as he got out of bed. It seemed strange that we had slept curled around each other, and now it was difficult to make eye contact and to form full sentences. The magician slipped into the bathroom. Soon I heard the clatter of water hitting the plastic shower cabin.

I began to dig through my suitcase for something better to wear. I had on yesterday’s clothes. They smelled of smoke from the Treasure Island, where we’d had our first drink as a couple. When I’d decided on a yellow sundress with bright red flowers, Toby emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

“Shower?” he asked.

I nodded. On my way to the bathroom, our bodies touched. “Sorry,” I said, trying to slip past him.

“Oh, sorry,” Toby echoed, moving to the bed.

I stood under the shower, letting the water run cold, then hot, then cold, as I prepared again for the heat of the day. I examined the ends of my hair, wondering how much lighter it would become under the Vegas sun. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent the night in a hotel room—or in any