Teri Brown: Born of Deception

I look around, wildly wondering if he followed me and if someone would help if he were to accost me.

He holds out his hand. “I thought you looked familiar when I saw you on the ship. I was going to say something but I didn’t get a chance and then you were busy with your friends. My name is Bronco Billy. I do rope tricks.”

I shake his hand uncertainly and blush, remembering my hasty retreat yesterday on deck. Then I frown. “You said I looked familiar? Have we met?”

He shook his head. “No, but I saw you and your mom perform once. Your levitation trick brought the house down.”

He went to that show?

I’d only performed the trick once, the night I stole the show away from my mother. A shiver crawls up my back, remembering the horrible experience that occurred afterward.

What are the odds that he would have been to that show? “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I told him. I swallow and try to think of something to say. Bronco Billy is probably the handsomest man I have ever met and as much time as I spent out west, I’ve never seen a cowboy like him before. His hair is the color of sunshine, which makes the unearthly blue of his eyes even more intense. His nose is straight, his chin and jaw are strong and manly, and his lips are full. He speaks with a light drawl that, when combined with the open friendliness of his face, makes him seem even more trustworthy. I sense nothing from him but sociable curiosity.

His eyes crinkle up at the corners and I stare, my heart skipping wildly in my chest. I swallow. My heart shouldn’t be behaving this way for anyone but Cole. Of course, any heart might be confused when faced with such male beauty.

“I did enjoy it,” he says. “You were pretty as a picture and twice as talented.”

“Talented as a picture?” I ask.

He laughs. “You know what I meant. How do you like London?”

My eyes narrow. “Hey! Where did your drawl go?”

He grins and his cheeks redden a bit. “I have a confession: I’m not really a cowboy. I only use the drawl during my act or when I’m nervous. I was actually raised in Philadelphia.”

Part of me wants to ask why he was nervous about sitting next to me, but I’m more curious about how he developed a cowboy act in Philadelphia. “How did you become a cowboy?” I ask.

“Like I said, I was raised in the city, but I used to devour all those penny books about the West. All I wanted in the world was to be a cowboy. I was the only kid in school who carried a lariat everywhere he went. Of course, by the time I was old enough to run away west, the need for cowboys was drastically reduced. I worked on a couple of ranches, but the pay was poor, the living conditions abysmal, and the work was boring, so I used to do rope and gun tricks to entertain the other fellows.”

I want to ask him more, but just then Louie, the show director, spots us and hurries over to where we’re sitting. “Billy, can you help the Woodruffs move some props backstage?”

With a tip of his cowboy hat, Billy ambles off, his boots scuffing along the floor.

Louie resembles a penguin with his short, stubby body and his short, stubby hands tucked into his lapels. An unlit cigar is attached permanently to his lips and he chews on it constantly. I’ve met him several times in New York, but I’ve never seen him actually light it—I wonder if it’s the same one or if he trades them out on occasion.

I stand, bracing myself, and he gives me an exuberant hug. Though I have a natural distrust of managers, it’s hard not to respond to Louie Larkin’s larger-than-life persona.

“How you doing, doll? You all right? You ready for the dummy runs?”

Louie speaks rapidly in a show-business lingo that would confuse a normal person. Luckily, with years of experience, I’m not a normal person and know he’s asking if I’m ready for a series of rehearsals before we begin playing in front of an audience.

Before I can answer, he continues. “I’m moving you up on the bill, Anna Banana. How do you like them apples? We’ve had a cancellation on the tour. Mama Belinsky of the Belinsky family acrobatic ensemble is having another baby. Who’d have thought it?” He asks the question as if genuinely outraged and then continues without waiting for an answer. “I’m putting you third from the top with only the Woodruffs and Jeanne above you. I’ve only seen your act once, but I have a feeling you’re gonna be a little moneymaker, a real show stealer.” He looks up. “Russell! Hold up.”

He pats my arm and leaves me blinking, having said his piece.

I’m being moved up on the bill already? I clasp my hands together tightly to keep from clapping and jumping up and down like a child. He must really think I have potential to move me up this quickly. He hasn’t even seen me perform in front of a live audience!

I sit back down as everyone prepares for the meeting, marveling at my good fortune. After being raised on the road and never knowing if we were going to be flush or broke at any given moment or if my mother was going to be taken to jail for our fake séances, this kind of success is hard to relate to.

Performing magic has always been my salvation. No matter what’s happening in my real life, the moment I step out onstage everything falls away except the connection between me and the audience. Even when I performed with my mother, I looked forward to the moment when I could entertain and awe the people watching me. There’s nothing like it on earth. Now that I have my own act, I’ll be able to stretch myself as a magician and performer, trying illusions my mother would never allow for fear of being upstaged.

Bronco Billy saunters back out from behind the curtain and resumes his seat next to me. Filled with happiness, I give him and everyone else a brilliant smile. He stares a moment and then smiles back.

The happiness stays with me all morning and by the time Cole comes to the hotel to collect me for our afternoon together, I’m downright giddy. The only fly in my ointment is our appointment to meet with the board members of the Society for Psychical Research for tea, but I’ve been firmly pushing that out of my mind all morning.

It’s overcast but not raining, so we decide to walk. The tickling in my toes almost sends me tap-dancing across the cobbled streets and sidewalks, but Cole’s steadying hand on my elbow keeps me to a ladylike pace, though my attempt at modesty is somewhat marred by the excited swivel of my head as we reach Shaftsbury Avenue and pass theater after theater.

If the troupe is a hit in other major European cities, I just might be performing my magic in one of these beautiful, ancient theaters. Theaters so old that they make anything we have to offer in the States look gauche.

Of course, the old theater we’re currently practicing in is a long way from Leicester Square and the Strand. Not so much in geography—we’ve only been walking for about twenty minutes—but in glitz and shine, it’s like comparing the great Houdini to his lesser known brother, the just-all-right Hardeen.

Or would that be my just-all-right uncle Hardeen? I reflect for a moment on my complex relationship with Harry Houdini, who is either my father or my mentor and the man who gave me this incredible opportunity. My mother says he’s my father, but I learned early to suspect every word that comes out of her exquisitely painted bow-shaped mouth. On the other hand, he’s taken a greater than normal interest in my career and if my instincts are right, the great Houdini is as much of a psychic as I am, which means I may have gotten my Sensitivity from him.

Unable to contain myself, I skip a bit as I walk: The thrill of having an entire ocean between my mother and me is liberating. Of course, when Mother sails to France next month with Jacques, she’ll only be a hop, skip, and a boat from me, but I have weeks before I have to worry about that.