‘The Amazing M.’

Artist Keunhoo Park

The Amazing M.

The children were all staring at him. 

He had arrived late, or actually not early, but right at the time the magic show was supposed to start, which he supposed was in a way technically late, since he should have been early. For all his tricks, the Amazing M had not anticipated how long it would take to find the particular duplex, which was an obvious mistake once he exited the interstate.

He had rolled in with his birdcage and his suitcase on wheels, containing all his props, to a crowd of silent third graders. The duplex was shabby, or at least it had been deluxe two decades before, but in the time since everything had aged and deteriorated, the cabinet doors not quite closing and hanging unevenly, the linoleum floor peeling in places by doorjambs, gaudy wallpaper in the bathrooms. This type of place usually evaded M’s attention. It was so typical a place for him to perform his magic act—he could have sworn he had performed in more than a dozen of these types of units, which were scattered in grey, identical clumps all around the west end of town, lines and lines of them stretching in great big bends and S curves, developments at the edge of the city that arose during a boom and sandwiched people in to maximize profit. Their addresses were supposed to be on the garage doors, and probably had at one point, but the numbers—spelling the address in a looping script font—had fallen off or been ripped off. They were the epicenter of his clients, of home magic shows, of elementary kid birthday parties of mostly white parents who couldn’t or didn’t want to afford some blowout at the big indoor trampoline park near the mall.

If he didn’t particularly take in their details, M did have a measure of empathy for these places: he had grown up in one himself. And he had grown up loving magicians, really obsessing over magicians, discovering how they did their tricks and reading every legerdemain book he could check out from the library, until one day much to his astonishment he realized he made something disappear he didn’t mean to, just straight disappeared it out of thin air, and he discovered that everything he had learned about magicians and magic had been totally wrong—or, he liked to think, at least part of the deeper truth. This incredible ability he had mostly kept to himself, mostly for commercial reasons, seeing as the only skill he would be able to monetize. Besides his brother, the only other person who had known was his mother, but she had died with that secret being kept.

The birthday boy was in a wheelchair, a fact his mother had not explained to M beforehand, and that surprised him at first, only because the boy reminded him so much of his brother. They looked alike, and held their bodies in the same inward-turning manner. He wondered if this boy had the same disability. Nevertheless, it was not like he was going to change his planned performance because of the boy’s disability, really it had no relevance whatsoever, but it made M think back to the last time he had visited his brother. This blip of memory caused a slight awkward hesitation as he greeted them.

You don’t look like a magician, the boy said to M, his expression hostile, during the pause.

That’s part of the act, M said. He held his hands out. The Amazing M. He could tell the boy was looking at his shabby suit—lapels fraying, button missing, and the oil stain near the collar he always tried to cover up—and finding him more wanting by the second.

Meanwhile, the other kids had stopped staring at him, returning to their pellmell of activity. 

M distracted the boy from examining the birdcage by taking out a coin from his pocket and showing it to him, placing it on the edge of a tray that had been affixed to the front of his wheelchair. He placed his hand over it, fingers extended. When he lifted his hand, the coin was gone.

I’ve seen that one before, the boy said. He was stolid.

Have you? M asked. 

Lewis is really into magic, a woman said, approaching them. She introduced herself as Caroline, his mother. M recognized her voice from the phone call setting up the show. Santa brought him a magic kit last Christmas, she said, and he has learned how to do all the tricks in the book. 

The boy rolled his eyes at the mention of Santa.

Even if he can’t, well, you know…

I can do most of them, the boy interjected. He held up his hands. They were part of his disability, M could see, as his fingers bent inward and shook slightly. My hands work fine, he said, noticing M’s gaze.

How to you think I did the trick just now? M asked. 

Palming, Lewis said. 

But my fingers were spread out, he said. He mimicked the gesture again. 

You palmed it before you put it on the tray, he said.

M smiled. You’re pretty clever. 

My mom said you were better than the other magicians, Lewis said. 

So I’ve read online, at least, his mother chimed in. She was still young, younger than one would expect for the mother of a boy that old. Her shoulders and arms and frame were strong, like a gymnast. It was another reminder to M how strong his upper body wasn’t.

His skill was, in a way, nothing more than what any other magician who worked children’s parties could do. Which was ironic. What he was doing was a process that had never been fully and physically understood. While M could make things disappear easily enough, reappearing was more problematic—that only rarely happened, and he could never quite figure out why. It was all a bit to him like playing the piano, back when he had played. At a certain time, his fingers themselves, it seemed, knew what to do, and he wasn’t consciously thinking of making the quarter disappear, but letting his fingers make the right movement—a turning of the wrist, sliding his index and middle fingers over the object—and it would be gone. He would do it, sometimes, without even intending to disappear the object. He’d lost his last ex-girlfriend’s necklace this way, and that one he wasn’t able to manifest back. (She was convinced he’d pawned it.)

M took another coin out of his pocket. He set it on the tray again, and he asked the boy to put his hand over it. He did, reluctantly, thinking about what he was doing first. M put his hand over the boy’s for a second and closed his eyes.

Lift your hand up, he said.

The coin was gone. (There went twenty-five cents.)

Did I palm that one? He asked. 

Lewis just looked at him.

His mother, obviously impressed, asked M how much longer he would need to get ready. He took a few minutes to unpack his suitcase, while the children continued to stare at him and murmur. The boy’s mother hurriedly passed out bowls of popcorn and M&Ms to distract the children. Lewis was still staring at the spot the coin had been.

For his act, M didn’t just make things disappear—he had learned that one has to vary the set, otherwise even the most baffling disappearances, if after several others, will garner yawns. Plus, he could not afford to replace all of his props each show. So he had learned a few card tricks, mostly run-of-the-mill stuff, and when he did those, he saw Lewis giving him a withering expression, which almost made M crack up. Fortunately, during the other tricks, where he made a small bird completely disappear, Lewis leaned in more closely to figure it out, using a deeper scowl to mask his amazement.

The bird was an exception—something he could make reappear, or at least make it seem that he was making it reappear. With a slight hesitancy, he pulled a second bird, identical to the first, out of the back of the cage. The shoddy mechanism on the back had caught, for a split second. Lewis leaned in even further, until he could go no farther. M saw the smallest smile.

Fortunately, the rest of the show went as expected. M didn’t flub any of the card tricks, and he sent some colored handkerchiefs, plastic juggling balls, and his own hat into wherever it was those things went when he made them disappear. This awed the kids. He guessed that the things didn’t cease to exist, necessarily, but that they were simply moved—perhaps to another part of space, or another dimension. He had taken to calling this The Void.

Lewis opened the presents and they all started eating cake, while M made balloon animals—another surrender to the clichés of this profession—and tried not to stare at his mother. M had realized, about halfway through the show, that she was pretty in a way that at least hadn’t been obvious to him, but was captivating. Least he let that distract him into fumbling one of his tricks, he made it a point not to look in her direction the rest of the performance. But after the performance ended, and he had made all the balloon elephants and cats and dogs and giraffes anyone ever wanted, she approached him and he could not politely look away.

Lewis is kind of obsessed, she said, with finding out how the tricks are done. I’m sorry—I should have mentioned this before. I know you could tell he was really watching you, but not in a fun way. 

It’s fine, M said. Based on her flat tone, he detected falseness in the way the mother apologized. Do you think he figured out the bird trick?

I think we all saw you pull it out of the back of the cage, she replied. But that coin trick with my son—I can’t figure out.

I’ll never tell, M said. He didn’t mean it to be flirtatious, but instantly it was.

She smiled for a second, but then the smile quickly faded, as if she caught herself doing something she had promised not to do. That’s probably for the best, she said, bringing another smile to her face, although controlled and performative. I can’t keep a secret. If I knew, then he’d know. 

Isn’t that what he wants?

He thinks he wants that, she said. But once he learns the secret, it’s not so magical, and he ends up disappointed and depressed. Then he throws away his kits and props. I don’t know how many decks of cards I’ve had to buy. Kids are supposed to enjoy being able to know the secret when others don’t, right? But he doesn’t. 

M couldn’t help himself, and he regretted the next words out of his mouth: What if there is no secret? What if it is magic?

Her eyes widened for a second. What do you mean? 

M straightened up. Only joking, he said quickly. 

She didn’t directly respond, and after a moment’s hesitation asked him to confirm the amount they had agreed upon. He did, and she handed him the cash, short a few dollars. When she noticed that he noticed, she apologized and offered him beer to bridge the gap. Here, she said, make this disappear.

A few of the other parents arrived, ready to pick up their kids, and so she was distracted by greeting them and arranging for the kids to take goodie bags—small wands, packs of cards, and an interlocking ring puzzle—home with them. While some parents had left, others were staying and drinking cans of beer, letting their kids chase one another or try to figure out the puzzle. Caroline was walking around handing out more drinks.

Sipping his beer and watching Lewis move around the tight quarters of the duplex, nearly always running into someone, or a chair, being stuck and unable to move for crowded kids, M thought back to his own brother. There was one part of their duplex, between the garage and the kitchen, that his brother’s wheelchair could not quite pivot in without getting stuck. There were folding closet doors that masked the washer and dryer, and if someone had left them open, and his brother zoomed over there, his brother would find that he did not have enough space to turn around. M became so tired of his yelling, his groaning, of having to fish him out.

M had packed up his things and was walking to the door when he heard the whir of Lewis’s wheelchair behind him.

Can you make Bartleby disappear? The boy asked. 

Who’s Bartleby?

He pointed to a hamster cage. All that was visible from across the room was a color wheel. 

I don’t think that’s a good idea, M said. 

Why not?

M thought to Caroline’s reaction again. Because the show is over. I’ve finished. 

You already got your money, then, Lewis said.

M furrowed his brow. He didn’t say that he had been shorted.

Please! The boy said. Changing his tone, soundly placative, he said it again. You can just make him reappear like you did the bird. Except maybe this time you won’t screw it up. 

Another trick for the parents! One of the dads boomed out of nowhere, beer in hand. He seemed like a sort of ringleader.

Yes, we didn’t get to see any magic, another parent said. 

Lewis moved even closer, his wheelchair whirring. I know how you did all of those card tricks. The first one was a force. The second one you had a trick card, a double-sided one, I bet. I can’t believe you even did that one. 

Lew, his mother said, irritation creeping into her voice. Please be nice. If he doesn’t want to—

And the bird, Lewis continued, we all saw that one. A compartment in the back of the cage. Stupid.

Lewis, his mother said again. She strode over and took one limp wrist in her hand. Apologize, please. 

Lewis looked furious. I thought you said you were going to get a real magician! He was now yelling, and slurring his words as a result, and she responded in kind.

Stop! Apologize!

M wasn’t sure if she had tightened her grip on his wrist, or even if she was perhaps hurting him by doing it. Lewis twisted in his wheelchair. The other parents were trying to look away.

One afternoon, many years ago, when his brother again became stuck in between the closet doors, M pretended not to hear. He was supposed to be watching him while their mother was on her second shift, which was double-paid holiday time. M had been tasked with taking care of him many times before, and these times his brother apparently considered his opportunity to be as much of a jerk as possible. M had ignored him before, but usually only for a few moments, only to make him appreciate it. This time, he turned up his music and refused completely to help his brother get unstuck. He went up to his room and turned his stereo.

After a few more twists, Lewis sighed. I’m sorry, he murmured. Even the ringleader dad pretended not to notice. M drained the rest of his beer.

There was a limit to M’s power, he had found out. At a certain point, something was too big for him to make disappear—and that line was somewhere around the size of a rabbit—except in extraordinary circumstances, including the first time. For his act, and for obvious reasons, it would have been ideal if he could have reliably done a rabbit. Instead, he was stuck with disappearing those poor birds. Maybe there was a nice aviary in The Void.

This hamster, which Lew had obtained from the other room, was large, but certainly not as big as a rabbit. M walked over to the cage and took the creature out. Bartleby, he said, examining it. He looked back to the boy, who was scowling at him, and his mother, whose face was inscrutable. Did Lewis really deserve this? No, he probably didn’t deserve it. Would his ruin this duplex career of his? Perhaps, at least once word got out, and this woman seemed like the type to get the word out. But now he was holding the hamster with everyone at the party looking at him, and Lewis scowling.

All it would take was a few simple movements of his hands. 

Eventually, he turned off his stereo, and he listened for his brother’s curses or complaints. When he heard nothing, he went downstairs. He found him tipped over, the wheelchair on top of him. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t responding to M’s voice. It was at that moment, while he was trying to figure out if his brother was still breathing, that his mother came home from work; and it was at that same moment, inexplicably, that the wheelchair disappeared. 

Well, Lewis said, are you going to do it? The boy was impatient to a degree that M thought bizarre until, finally, a thought occurred to him. It had all been there, right in front of him, obvious like a bad magic trick. The boy wasn’t just seeking to see a trick, and he may not even want to see his hamster reappear. Maybe he wanted to send it to The Void. Maybe he was pushing the trick to find out something else entirely. To find out if M was who he thought he was. Somebody…just like him? Well, then—if so, that made all the difference.

M slipped the hamster behind his back.

Abracadabra, he said, holding up his hands.

Greg Walklin’s work has appeared in Arts and Letters, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Emrys Journal, Palooka, and Pulp Literature, among other publications.