One Last Trick

 The exhilaration under the red and white striped tent was almost unbearably thick. Each member of the audience leaned forward in an excited trance, their sweaty forwards glistening in the humid enclosure. Mr. Lewinsky was performing yet again, enchanting his viewers with his relentless magic. Stuart, Mr. Lewinsky’s son, stood patiently in the center of the stage, waiting for the last trick that always involved him. Children and elderly alike began to lean over the tarnished metal railing, their anticipatory senses spiraling as Mr. Lewinsky’s circus show came down to the last act. Drawing encouragement from the crowd, Mr. Lewinsky continued. A mischievous smile flashed across his face as he held up a perfectly visible coin, rotating to showcase the quarter to every section of the crowd. And then, with a flash of silver and the flick of a wrist, a once visible quarter vanished into thin air, leaving a throng of gasps in its wake. Suddenly the spotlight was on Stuart as his father asked the same question he always did. 

“Excuse me, child! Did you steal my coin?”

Stuart shook his head adamantly, smiling as the audience laughed.  Then, with an air of finality, Stuart’s father smiled at him and leaned down to his height, his hand extending toward his son’s ear. As the coin conjured itself from seemingly nowhere, the already wild crowd began to scream, their reaction so jolting that it shook him to the very bone. Stuart felt his heart swell with wondrous amazement at his father's work, his nine-year-old mind desperately trying to piece together how such a trick could be possible. As the crowd continued to chant, Mr. Lewinsky leaned closer to his son's ear, pulling him aside from the spotlight. “Would you like to know the secret behind magic?” Stuart nodded furiously, as he did every time his father asked him this question. 

“Love. Love is the secret to magic. Love magic and it will love you.” And then, as always, his father took a grand bow as the audience practically worshiped him. As he basked in the glow of the appraisal, Stuart simply took it all in, his mind filled with the childlike curiosity of watching his father-

“Last call for the 4:30 train to Boston.” With a jolt, Stuart stirred amid his memories, leaving the past to join the present. 

Taking his seat amongst the other passengers aboard the train, Stuart felt his heartbeat at an abnormally fast rhythm. His thoughts had felt too real to ignore, and yet too painful to dissect. 

‘Magic is not made of love’ He reminded himself promptly, extending his feet in the aisle. Allowing childhood ideologies to rule his adulthood was simply absurd, and he could not fall into the trap of believing his father's lies again. And yet even twenty years after his father’s passing, Stuart still struggled to see his father as a bad man. It was as if by acknowledging his father’s deceit, he was killing the child inside him that longed to share the stage with Mr. Lewinsky, the kid that saw no wrong within his family tree. 

Stuart absentmindedly moved and shuffled for incoming passengers as they took seats near the back of the train, too deep in his thoughts to truly indulge in the present. He simply watched as the conductor checked each passenger's ticket again, watched as the last of the luggage was tossed under the vehicle, and watched as the train took off to Boston, leaving the country behind. 

The train moved across the sodden landscape in a ghostly haze, the outside world blurring into an indecipherable canvas. Stuart took in his surroundings lazily as fatigue began to settle into his bones. With no will to fight against his own body, he sank into sleep, desperate to leave the monotonous view behind.

Stuart was dreaming. He was sure of it. It was the only explanation for the scene splayed before him. The hospital room was dank and dimly lit, its tiles worn down and its paint chipping off the walls. The steady beep of the monitor was repetitive enough to lull Stuart to sleep, but he was wide awake. For there, in the center of the room, was his mother, tired and weary. Although she had always been petite, Mrs. Lewinsky’s body was thin, too thin. She looked sickly, her ghastly face propped up weakly on a barely stuffed pillow.

As Stuart sat on the uncomfortable hospital chair, he found himself glancing at the doorway to the room, expectation filling his heart. He had imagined his father entering the room so many times that he could see it each moment he opened his eyes: his father’s wide smile, his mother’s relief, his own joy. But hours had passed into days, and those days had passed into weeks.

“You know he’s not coming.” Mrs. Lewinsky’s tone was flat and unexpecting. 

“But he has to Mom,” Stuart heard himself say, “He has to.” But of course he didn't have to. Mr. Lewinsky didn’t have to come back after the divorce, didn’t have to visit Stuart on the weekends, and he most certainly did not have to visit his ex-wife in the hospital as she passed from some unknown disease. Mr. Lewinsky was a man free of obligation, a man who no longer needed to pretend to fulfill his familial duties using mystical tricks and circus shows.

The divorce had been swift: one argument led to papers thrown across the dinner table, signed and ready to be taken to court. His father had been involved in an affair of all things, an affair that left his family in shambles, an affair that broke something beyond repair. In just one week, Stuart had been ripped away from the circus he loved, the magic leaving his body as his mom drove the both of them to his grandparent’s house. For a while, Stuart defended his father and his precious lies, hung onto his father’s words like they were some religious holy scripture. Magic is love, magic is love, magic is love. He needed it to be so. If not, the magic that had one uplifted him would turn sour and curdle into something bitter. But how could there be love within what his father had done?  

As he continued to hear about his father’s evergrowing circus on the paper, he thought one thing and one thing only: there is no love within magic. There is only selfishness, disappointment, and grief. 

As he sat at his mother's side for the next three days, he felt drawn to pull out a wand and heal his mother, a special magic trick just for her, one final stultifying act to redeem his mother’s life. But even as he pulled coins from behind his mother’s ears, as he showed her the card she had chosen without looking, as he procured colorful ribbons from his sleeve, Stuart could feel his mother slipping away. It was then he knew that this would be his last time believing in something as flaccid and useless as magic. 

It was then he knew that the same tricks his father had taught him before the divorce were utterly useless against death, against disease. He heard something die with an ugly shriek within him. His childhood departed from him at that moment, never to be seen again-

“Sir?”

Stuart woke with a jolt. 

“Sir?”

It was only when he felt the bumpy railing beneath the train that he came to himself, reality forcing itself down his throat.

Turning his head to see who had pulled him out of his sleep, Stuart’s eyes fell on a short, middle-aged woman with a toddler to her right. Her face seemed both tired and youthful, a contradiction that intrigued Stuart. He sat up taller as the final strings of his dream left his mind, leaning toward the woman with slight annoyance. To his utter confusion, the woman gasped as she took in his face, a glowing excitement that reached from her eyes to her uplifted smile. 

“So it is you,” the lady breathed out. “You’re Stuart Lewinsky, the magician’s son?” She phrased it as a fact rather than a question, her smile faltering while her eyebrow lifted into a quizzical arc. 

As he always did when somebody associated Stuart with his father, disappointment filled his heart. “Yes,” he replied, his voice a mixture of hurt and confusion, “Yes I am.”

Upon hearing his confirmation, the woman pointed to the squirming toddler next to her. “Jacob was Mr. Lewinsky’s biggest fan. We watch his old shows on Youtube. I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

Stuart, in no mood to revisit the past a third time, said a quick thank you and turned to face the front of the train once again.

However, to his disdain, the lady continued on her rant. “Actually, we’re headed to Boston to see the circus where it all started. There’s a tribute to Mr. Lewinsky being held this Saturday and I just had to take Jacob to see it.”

She paused, caught her breath. And then she leaned in, her voice coming in whispers. “This will be Jacob’s first weekend spent out of the hospital.” She looked at her son with a prideful demeanor, her smile returning once again. 

At the mention of the hospital, Stuart sat straighter in his seat, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Hospital?” he inquired, inviting the woman to expand on her previous statement.

“Stage four Leukemia,” she replied, “He’s been struggling since he was four. But it's over now, it's all over. He beat the darn thing and it's never coming back."  

Stuart didn’t miss the slight desperation on the word never. Glancing at the child again, he smiled genuinely and extended his hands for a high five. As the child reached out to meet his hand, his mother resumed her speech. 

“I'm sorry but if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a favor.” Stuart looked back at the woman, his eyebrows raised in expectation.

“The trick where Mr. Lewinsky pulls a coin from someone’s ear- do you happen to know how to do it? It's Jacob’s favorite and I’d love for him to see it from the only son of Mr. Lewinsky.”

Stuart felt himself hesitate. He had promised, after all, to never perform magic ever again, for it was useless in the grand scheme of things. It had only left him disappointed and dejected. 

“I’m sorry but I can’t. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how.” Stuart said, giving the lady a sad smile. 

Jacob’s mother spoke up once again, her tone taking on a pleading edge. “Sir, I truly hate to burden you, but this is truly all Jacob could ever want. Your father’s magic was the only thing that got him through treatment. To see it live would be a dream, sir, a dream.” The woman stopped for air, ruffling into her purse. Her hand emerged with a dime. 

“Please, sir.”

In his conflict, Stuart thought of his mother: dying in the hospital bed surrounded by no one but her son. He thought of her face as he performed his father's tricks for him, hopeful and delighted.

 And then, with great resignation, he took the coin from the woman’s hand and focused his attention on Jacob.

“Do you see this coin?” Stuart asked, flashing the silver disc in quick twirls.

Jacob nodded, his eyes flashing with innocent curiosity. 

 It had been two decades since Stuart had performed such a trick, and yet it came to him like breathing. Stuart stretched his hand out to show him the coin more clearly and then concealed it in a blur. As Jacob's eyes grew wide, Stuart feigned confusion. 

“Where did it go?” He asked the child. Jacob shrugged and leaned forward in his seat, his apprehension almost palpable. 

“Did you steal my coin?” Stuart inquired, false accusation filling his tone. The boy shook his head and erupted in giggles, wiggling in his seat as he laughed. 

“I don't believe you. I think that you stole it. Hm, perhaps the coin is… here!” And with that Stuart reached behind Jacob's ear and drew back, coin in hand. 

“I didn’t steal your coin!” He exclaimed, shaking his head from side to side. Stuart simply smiled and plopped the dime into the boy's hand. Jacob’s laughter filled the train and Stuart felt his heart swell from the charming display of youthful innocence.

Suddenly Jacob resembled a younger Stuart, his eyes wide and all-seeing, eagerly trying to understand how the trick he’d just witnessed was possible. The child looked just as wonderfully awestruck as Stuart had once felt standing by his father at the end of every show. 

As the boy’s laughter thinned out into a wholesome silence, Jacob’s mother offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she mouthed as her child sank into a tired slump. He was asleep within minutes, the dime loosely grasped in his palms.

“I lied to you earlier.” The woman’s voice pierced through the short period of tranquility. 

“Lied?” Stuart questioned, his skepticism audible. 

“He-,” the woman paused, staring at her child, ensuring that he was truly sleeping. “He didn’t beat it. Cancer.”

Dumbfounded, all Stuart could muster was a quiet “What?”

“His treatment was doomed from the beginning. The doctors told me right away that his chances were low, nearly nonexistent.” She fiddled with her purse as she continued. 

 “But I wanted him to live. He was practically raised in the hospital all because I couldn't let him go when was destined to. I couldn’t let him go, no sane mother could.” Her tears were visible even in the dim light of the train, glistening solemnly as they made their way across her face.

There was a pause before she continued. “Mr. Lewinsky was the only thing that brought him joy, the only thing. And to see you perform that trick for him- oh sir you have no clue what you’ve done for him. He has never looked happier. You’ve made his day- hell his life- and you didn’t even know it.”

“Stuart took in the information with growing grief. “When you say he didn’t beat cancer...” He trailed off, waiting for the woman to clarify. 

“I listened to the nurses and took him off his treatment. We agreed, the nurses and I, to lie about it, to let Jacob think that he beat it because-” Her shoulders were shaking. “He was strong for so long. He was so strong, so much stronger than I was. “I just couldn’t do it anymore, I couldn’t let him suffer. I couldn’t watch the life be sucked out of him. He fought so hard and I just want him to rest. I want him to live the last few weeks with no fear, no sadness. I wanted him to feel victorious for once.” 

For a moment, Stuart sat in silence with his newfound devastation, wondering what could be done about such a terrible thing. 

And then, slowly, meticulously, he began to speak. 

One of the oldest rules of magic was to never reveal its secret. And yet right then and there, his mouth began spewing out secrets no magician should vocalize. For the next two hours, He told the woman every trick he ever knew, told her exactly how to perform each one, and told her how to create an illusion from nothing.

He spoke desperately, urging the woman to remember what he said. “Perform these for him every day. Please, for me.”

“Oh, but sir-” Stuart cut her off.

“My father used to say that the secret to magic was love. And you- well you’re full of it, you’re every move is done in its name. You needn’t be perfect at these tricks. Love covers a multitude of imperfections.” 

And then they were both undone, both in tears, both too emotional to speak. 

Stuart had thought for so long that magic had left him when he was separated from his father. But if that was the case, why did he feel such a mystical stirring within himself? Why did he suddenly feel that magic was nothing less than beautiful?

When does the beauty of magic reveal itself? As it’s being performed? Surely not. For the most wondrous feature of magic is not its offer of immediate gratification, but rather its refusal to undo itself, its refusal to be understood. 

Perhaps what Stuart was feeling was just that: magic from his childhood refusing to be undone, denying him a life without its presence, staying relentlessly in his heart despite his father’s misuse of it. 

He could feel it in his chest, that magic had returned to Stuart to bestow its blessing upon his heart once again. This young boy and his hopeful mother had restored everything that Stuart had lost. 

As the train rolled to a stop some hours later, Stuart could not understand why he suddenly felt like the child he once was. But perhaps the true beauty of magic is not that it is received with clear comprehension, but rather that it creates a wonderfully exciting curiosity within its viewers. So what if his father had not been so kind as to perform his tricks with the careful love that they deserved? 

For Stuart, magic was, and always would be intricately, irreversibly enchanting.