Again, but with Magic

It was their first gig together, a weekend in Georgia at the Carrot Festival. The stage was set inside an old barn, its refurbished double-wide doors rolled back like curtains. Outside, haystack risers edged with carrot string lights conjured a rustic amphitheater from the fairground dust.

They'd made the trek down from upstate New York for a pair of sold-out shows - Friday and Saturday night. Cash in hand, plus a bonus for every repeat guest.

The drive was long - at least for Lance. Once the trailer was hitched to the truck, he insisted on driving. Tasha slept. There wasn't much else to do on her side of the cab except listen to him talk - and Lance liked to talk. Any time he gave her a sliver of space, she said, "I know what you mean," and kept a silent tally of this trained refrain.

After eleven repetitions in two hours, she passed out. His laugh woke her somewhere in Pennsylvania.

"What’s so funny?" Tasha asked.

"Oh, sorry," Lance said, lowering the radio. "It's this talk show. Some guy’s mad his doctor won't recommend a book on healing. And I'm like...can’t? Or won’t? Maybe knowing would kill the magic. If we understood it, we might stop believing. And they need us to believe. I mean, we'll drop a quarter million for a week in the ICU - that's how much we value medicine."

"I know what you mean," Tasha said.

"But don’t ask us to give two bucks at the grocery store checkout." He reached into the backseat for another Mountain Dew, kissed his thumb, and pressed it to her forehead.

"Sorry," he said. "Go back to sleep."

Lance was married to Tasha's cousin Janet, who was pregnant and couldn't travel as his assistant. Tasha had just graduated from high school, was a gymnast, and was available. Plus, Janet felt safe - Tasha didn't threaten her, not like another woman might have.

When Tasha met Lance at a family get-together, he shyly avoided the adults, performing sleight-of-hand tricks to the kids. Every movement was polished to perfection and hard to miss. With long blonde hair, a big smile, and blue eyes, it was clear how a stage, a top hat, and an audience could transform him into an archetype.

Something in her instantly recognized the performer in him - she didn’t even wait to see the show before saying yes.

It worked for all of them. Each got what they needed – an assistant, a husband, and an old barn on the Carrot Festival grounds. Janet taught Tasha how to put makeup on, dress, stand, smile, and meet Lance’s expectations. "Use your gymnastics," she said. "People love an acrobat." She trained Tasha all afternoon in their kitchen while Lance loaded the trailer - pine cases full of illusions, a black box of tricks, speakers, a sound system, three traveling carriers full of doves, and promotional postcards to autograph. After dinner, they drove through the night to save money on hotels.

Lance was a success - it was earned and unmistakably his. When he sold a show, he sold himself. They bought time in his presence, and in return, he commanded every audience, owned every performance. That’s how he kept getting rehired.

Tasha was a good girl - steady, reliable, and quietly competent. She did her job well, excelled as a gymnast, and kept good grades. She was so good that she flew under the radar, good enough to almost disappear.

Their Friday night show on the old barn stage was textbook perfect - until the end. Lance closed with a rope routine so mesmerizing the audience hesitated to clap. He bowed, removed his top hat, then pulled a purple handkerchief from his pocket and held it up. According to Janet, the hanky was just a placemat for his hat while he mingled post-show. Sometimes people tossed money in. Just a gimmick. But that night, Lance held up the handkerchief for a beat too long, as if he'd forgotten what came next. He turned to Tasha, searching for something she didn't have. The pause stretched, long and awkward. Tasha smiled, lifted her brows, and gently nudged him toward their final bow.

She was a natural.

Later, while packing the trailer, Tasha asked, "What was that all about?”

"It's about carrots," Lance said. "The more we show them, the more they want to love what they see."

"I know what you mean," she said.

"We’re at their mercy," he shrugged. "But they'll be back tomorrow - they’ll want to know, did I mess up, did you mess up, or did–”

"Did I?"

"No, not at all. But tomorrow, right after the ropes, when they expect the same ending, we hit 'em with the sword illusion. They need it. For what they're paying? They want a thrill. That’s the job."

Tasha had only seen the illusion from inside the box, rehearsing a few times with Janet. To her, it was obvious - even without knowing how it worked, she knew it was a trick, and that ruined the magic. A girl in black steps into a box. Lance twirls a dozen thin poles, then stabs them through from the outside. He says the magic words, and when he pulls them out, they've become swords. The girl steps out in a sparkly new outfit.

Ta-da!

"I know what you’re thinking," Lance said. "But they don’t know the trick. Most of them don't even think to look. They're just here to be entertained."

"Okay," Tasha said.

He handed her a crinkled grocery bag. "Your second outfit for the illusion."

She pulled out an emerald, velveteen beret and an orange, sequined bandeau top.

“It's about carrots," she said.

"You’ll look stunning," said Lance. "They’ll think we’re in love. They’ll want us to be. It’s part of the show. Did you see how quiet when I looked at you? With the handkerchief?"

"Yeah," she said. "What was that about?"

"It was planned. I balked, made them think I slipped, then looked at you - and they saw it. The connection. Trust me, it’s part of the magic. They'll be back tomorrow.”

Saturday night, they set up fast and had an hour to kill. Lance went searching for kettle corn. Tasha went where the wind blew. Dust swirled around dozens of flip-flopped feet until she ended up behind the old barn, at a makeshift stall draped in fabric and strung with crystals.

A woman with a sparkly hairpin shooting straight out of her curls waved her in. "Magician’s assistant!" she said, her banged wrist catching the light. “Want your cards read?"

"Why not?" Tasha said, stepping inside.

They sat at a tiny table tucked inside the barn's back entrance. Tasha peeked past a hanging tapestry at the empty stage.

"Forty," Celeste said, holding out her palm. She tucked two bills into her ankle boot beneath a loose wrap of tied fabric. Decorative stitches curled along the sides over a row of small, tarnished metal studded heels. "Think of a question. The cards only show you one thread - past to future - amplified. But you choose what to do with it."

Tasha nodded as she shuffled the deck, soft-edged and worn thin.

"Pick ten," Celeste said. Then, holding Tasha's cards in her teeth, she scooped up the rest of the deck, spread an orange cloth on the table, and laid Tasha's cards.

"Are you coming to the show tonight?" Tasha asked.

"Is that your question?" Celeste smiled.

She flipped each card face up, slow and deliberate, then looked up. "You're held together by swords," she said. "That's your suit. You live in tension. The only peace you'll find is when you step away and turn inward."

Tasha's eyes welled before she knew why.

"You have something to heal," Celeste said. "We all do. I don’t need the cards. They just give shape to what I already see. They're not magic - they're a mirror."

"I know what you mean," Tasha said.

"It's you," said Celeste. "You are the magic."

The festival swarmed alive. Crashing music, flashing lights, and electricity pulsed through the space between. The barnyard arena was packed. Tasha slipped backstage to double-check Lance’s gear. Jacket, black prop box. Ropes twisted just right, scissors on the left. A folded newspaper wedged beside the nesting dolls. Mouth coils and thread in his left coat pocket. Clown mask rolled and set on top of the giant playing cards, next to the matches and dry erase markers. A tube of Gorilla Glue. Juggling clubs. Stacked hatchets.

"They're all here tonight," Lance said, stuffing his coat full of doves.

"Well played," said Tasha. "Let’s give them what they want."

Their performance was flawless. She twirled, leapt, and cartwheeled across the stage as he worked the crowd to gasps and applause. When she stepped out of the illusion box in orange sequins and the green beret, the audience was on its feet - clapping, whistling, begging for more.

Lance reached for Tasha's hand to bow, but she jumped into his arms instead. The haystack arena erupted as she kissed his cheek and tossed her beret to the ground. They entered the crowd, buzzing with an energy settled deep in her bones. They lined up for her autograph. Seizing the chance to be someone new, she signed her name in a way she had never before.

Voilà!