The Girl in the Glass (2 page)

"Not a bad idea," said Schell, coaxing the butterfly off his glass with a gentle nudge of his pinky.

"I hate being dead people," said Antony.

"You're a natural," I said.

"Watch it, junior," said the big man.

We waited a long while for Schell to jump back in the conversation, but he didn't. Instead he merely sighed, took one more sip of his drink, and set his glass on the table. "Gentlemen, I'm through," he said and stood up. "Nice work this evening." He stepped around to where I sat and shook my hand. This had been the protocol since I was a child; never a hug at bedtime, only hand shaking. He then moved on to Antony and did the same. "Remember, no smoking in here, Mr. Cleopatra," he said.

"Whatever you say, Boss," said Antony.

We watched Schell leave the room, moving wearily, as though carrying some invisible burden. A few minutes later, the muffled sound of Mozart's
Requiem
came to us from down the hall and through the closed door.

Hearing the sad music in the distance, Antony poured another drink for himself and said, "Funeral time."

"What's wrong with him these days?" I asked, holding out my glass for a refill.

"No more booze for you tonight," he said.

"Come on."

"When you're eighteen."

"Okay," I said, knowing not to test his patience. "But what about the boss?"

"The boss?" he said, taking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his shirt pocket. "His feelings are on unemployment."

"Well put," I said.

"You better believe it," said Antony, lighting the cigarette he'd placed between his lips.

"Why, though?" I asked. "We could be out there scrounging for a crust of bread, but business has never been better."

"This shit can get to you after a while. Bilking people, scamming old ladies." He leaned back and blew a big smoke ring. A beautiful blue morpho flew right through the center, dispersing it.

"That's what he does, though, and he's the best at it," I said.

"He's a fucking artist, for sure, but it's not really right."

"The widow looked pretty pleased to see her husband again tonight," I said. "How much do you think that was worth to her?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know the arguments, but I'm telling you, he's caught the funk from it," he said, standing to lean across the table and grab Schell's glass. As he sat back down, he flicked his ash into the remaining champagne, and it fizzed.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Back when I worked the carnivals, wrestling palookas and bending iron bars with my teeth, I saw all manner of shills. These guys, some of them were champs, you know, made a healthy living at it. Some of them would con their old ladies for a quarter if they could, but some a them actually had a conscience, and after a while, even if they never thought about it up front, underneath, the unhonestness of it ate them away."

"Schell…a conscience?" I asked.

"If not, why'd he take you in? I told him back when first he brought you home, I said, 'Boss, the last thing you need's some spic brat running around your life.' He said, 'Too late, Antony, he's ours and we have to raise him.'"

"And then you grew to love me," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "But, the boss, he's caught between a shit and a sweat." I shook my head, unable to conceive of Thomas Schell ever being confused about anything. The revelation disturbed me, and Antony must have seen this in my expression.

"Don't worry, we'll think of something," he said, dropping the spent butt into the champagne glass. He stood up. "I'm hitting the sack." He pointed to the glass with the butt in it. "Do me a favor and get rid a this crap so I don't get in trouble."

"Okay," I whispered, still deep in thought.

Antony walked around behind me and put his palm on top of my head, his long fingers encompassing my crown like a normal size hand holding an apple. He shook me gently back and forth. "Schell's gonna be fine," he said. "You're a good kid, Diego. You're a helluva swami." He let go and lumbered toward the door, a small swarm of pine whites following in his wake.

"Good night, Antony," I said.

"Sleep tight, babe," he called back and then slipped out of the room as quickly as he could to keep the butterflies in.

I sat quietly, surveying the veritable jungle of plants and potted trees surrounding the table and chairs. The blossoms were as varied in color and shape as the insects. Up above, I could see the stars through the glass skylight. In his room, Schell had exchanged the platter on his Victrola for some equally melancholic piece, and the serenity of the scene made me ponder this turning point in my life. I'm sure the moment comes to most earlier, but few have had a "father" as extraordinary as mine. In my conversation with Antony, it had struck me for the first time that Schell was merely mortal. The thought of him troubled, confused, made the world seem instantly more sinister.

THE EXTENT OF SUSCEPTIBILITY

T
he next day, Schell and I took off in the Cord to stake out a new mark. There was a very wealthy gentleman over in Oyster Bay whose bank account required lightening. It was our practice to meet with perspective patrons first before performing a séance in order to case the room where the event would take place and judge what effects would be possible. It was also an opportunity to pick up clues that we could spin into prescient revelations. The boss focused on artwork, the type of furniture, jewelry, repetitions of words and phrases the mark might use, hand gestures, pets. Not an errant nose hair escaped his attention, and he'd extract from these crumbs of information secrets of the bereaved as if he were Conan Doyle's detective.

The thing he most concentrated on, though, was the apparent degree of the mark's grief, for as he always reminded me, "The depth of loss is directly equivalent to the extent of susceptibility." In other words, the more one longed for contact from the other side, the more readily one would embrace the illusion. Occasionally, we would run into a snake, some self-professed debunker, whose intent was merely to out us as frauds, but Schell could spot this within the first five minutes of an interview.

"Watch the nose, Diego," he would say. "The nostrils flare slightly when one is lying. The pupils dilate an iota. In a thinner person, you can detect treachery by the pulse in the neck." For a man who trafficked in the spiritual, he was ever focused on the physical.

"And how are your studies going?" Schell asked me as we sped along.

"I'm reading Darwin,
The Origin of Species
," I said.

"My hero," he said, laughing. "What do you make of it?"

"We're apes," I said, adjusting my turban.

"Too true," he said.

"God's a fart in a windstorm. It's only Nature that rigs the deck."

"It isn't a perfect being that's brought all of this about," he said, lifting his right hand off the wheel and gracefully describing a circle in the air. "It's all chance and tiny mistakes that give an advantage, which are compounded over time. Think of the intricate, checkered patterning of the spanish festoon [a butterfly we'd had a specimen of some time back]; all a result of some infinitesimal, advantageous mistake in the makeup of a single caterpillar."

"Mistakes are at the heart of everything," I said.

He nodded. "That's the beauty."

"But you never make mistakes," I said.

"When it comes to work, I try not to. But, believe me, I've made mistakes—great yawning gaffes."

"Such as?"

He was silent for a time. "I let my past dictate my future," he said.

"I can't think of you employed in any other career," I said.

"Perhaps," he said, "but I can certainly conceive of
you
doing something else. You don't want to remain Ondoo for the rest of your days now do you? This repatriation business will blow over eventually. The economy will rebound. By the time you're nineteen, I'd like to see you in college."

"As far as my records are concerned, I don't exist. I have no past. I'm illegal." My education, although superior to any that could be obtained at a public school, was all garnered through a series of quality tutors that Schell had paid a small fortune for.

"You leave the records to me," he said. "Arrangements can be made."

"What if I want to stay in the séance business with you and Antony?" He shook his head but said nothing. We drove on for a few more minutes, and then he turned off the road onto a private drive. The path wound, eel-like, for almost a mile before coming to a guarded gate. A man in a uniform approached the car. Schell rolled down the window and gave his name. "We're here to see Mr. Parks," he said. The guard nodded, and we continued on toward an enormous house that had turrets like a castle.

We parked in the circular drive, and before exiting the car, Schell touched my shoulder and said, "Time to be mystical." We walked slowly, single file, to the entrance. As we ascended a long flight of marble steps, the front door opened and a man in a butler's uniform greeted us.

I'd grown used to the opulence of the residences we frequented on our jobs, but, as they went, the Parks estate was impressive. Antony and I had done the legwork on him and found he'd had money left to him by his father, who'd invested in railroads and trucking and increased it during the Great War by selling munitions to both sides. Parks's wife had died recently at a sanatorium from TB. We met the man, himself—portly, with thinning sandy hair—in a parlor at the rear of the mansion. The large window that took up much of the back wall offered, at a distance, a view of the Long Island Sound. He sat, dressed in a white suit, in an overstuffed chair that resembled a throne, smoking a cigarette attached to an exceedingly long holder. I doubt he was much older than Schell, somewhere in his forties.

"Mr. Schell," he said upon seeing us, and rose to shake hands with the boss. He turned to me and nodded but didn't offer his hand.

"This," said Schell, waving at me, "is my assistant, Ondoo, a native of India. He has a remarkable facility with the mystical. Since working with him, I've found that the channels through which the departed travel from the other side are clearer in his presence."

Parks nodded and took his seat.

"There are spirits present now," I said as I sat in one of the chairs facing him.

"Preliminary ethereal sensations have led me to believe you seek contact with a woman who has passed over," said Schell.

Parks's eyes widened, and he gave a smile devoid of joy. "Remarkable," he said.

"You must miss her very much," said Schell.

Parks stubbed out his cigarette in a large, sterling silver ashtray in the shape of a sleeping cat. He nodded, and tears came instantly to his eyes. "Yes," he said, his voice having shrunk to a peep.

"Your wife…," Schell said, but at the same moment, Parks said, "My mother…" Before Parks could register the slip, Schell continued, "As I was saying, your wife, of course, is sorely missed, but I knew it must be your mother to whom you wish to speak."

"I won't lie, Mr. Schell," he said. "You're right again. I miss my mother. When she was alive, I would sit with her for an hour every day and confer with her on business, the news, the drama of the household. Though she's been gone for ten years, I still find myself thinking, after making some astounding transaction, 'I can't wait to tell Mother.'"

"I understand," said Schell.

"The mother is the milk of the universe," I added, wondering what kind of relationship he'd had with his wife.

"Perhaps pathetic in a man of my age," he said. "But I can't help my feelings." He broke down at this point, lowering his head and lifting a hand to cover his face.

I looked over at Schell, who shifted his gaze to direct mine to the wall. There were three paintings in the room—one was a Madonna and child, one was of a child standing alone by the seashore, and the last was of a train. Beyond this, I noticed that the room was painted and decorated in primary colors. My analysis of Parks's surroundings was leading me to a psychological revelation, but just then a young woman, no older than me, walked into the room. She was carrying a tray holding a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses with ice. "Will you have the drinks now, Mr. Parks?" she asked. He dried his eyes. "Yes, Isabel," he said.

I looked at her again and somehow knew instantly that she was Mexican. At the same moment, she took me in, and in the subtle heave of her chest and signs of a suppressed smile at the corners of her lips, I knew she had made me. I looked at Schell, and he at me. He ran his index finger along the thin line of his mustache, our signal that I should remain calm.

Isabel poured Parks a glass of lemonade and handed it to him. Then she did the same for Schell. When she handed me mine, she nonchalantly turned her back to her employer, leaned in close to me and whispered, "Me encanta tu sombrero," glancing at my turban. I wanted to smile at her because she was pretty with a long woven braid of black hair and large brown eyes. At the same time I wanted to cringe in embarrassment. Instead I held fast to my Oriental role and never flinched. As she backed away, she winked at me.

IMAGINE THAT

I
magine that," said Schell as we passed the guard at the gate and traveled back down the winding driveway, "a captain of industry, a financial powerhouse, and what he wants most in life is his mother. I'd be touched if I went in for such things, but on a purely analytical level, it's instructive. Two points: there's little comfort in wealth, and one's childhood tags along through life like a shadow." He gazed out the windshield as if trying to reconcile these ideas.

"But we're not going to take the job," I said.

"Certainly we are," he said. "We'll do a world of good for Mr. Parks."

"But the girl, Isabel, made me in a second," I said. "She whispered to me, 'I love your sombrero.'"

"I think she liked you," said Schell and smiled.

"She'll rat me out to Parks."

He shook his head. "No she won't."

"Why not?"

"She's obviously a bright girl. You could see it in her eyes. And the phrase she spoke to you indicates wit, which indicates intelligence. She's too smart to interfere with her employer's business. I daresay she either finds him pathetic—his word—or she feels bad for him. Parks, for his part, wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a Hindu wise man and a Hottentot. I'm afraid, for him, you are a permanent resident of the kingdom, Other, phylum, Rabble. The fact that you might be useful in gaining him what he wants is, in his mind, your sole purpose in life. I'm sure he feels the same about the young lady. No, Parks is oblivious on this score."