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  Every time Jeremiah took something, he felt a twinge of guilt, but he didn’t quite know what to do about it. He had no other way to obtain the tricks, and he knew he absolutely had to have them. He needed them as much as he needed food. Sometimes more.

  The magic tricks were stored under his bed, where his mom wouldn’t find them. He wondered sometimes if that would actually matter, because every once in a while, she’d walk into his bedroom and find him practicing a new routine, but she never asked where he got the illusions. It was like she assumed they were old toys from Christmases past or some other appropriate venue.

  He shared his bedroom with his brother, Scott. Scott was three years younger, ten to Jeremiah’s thirteen, the age when Jeremiah had decided to become a magician, his whole life spreading forward from that one episode of The Phil Donahue Show. So far, Scott had no such calling. He’d just play with his Legos and action figures.

  Today, he was playing with a 500-piece jigsaw puzzle of a map of the United States, with each state a different color than the ones touching it.

  “You’ll never finish that,” said Jeremiah.

  Scott shrugged and then said, “I will if I want to.”

  “But you won’t want to. You never do.”

  Scott reached over and turned up the radio. It was already loud but this was his way of telling his brother to shut up because he wasn’t listening to him.

  Whitney Houston belted out her new song, “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” Jeremiah hated that song and wanted to hammer the radio to rat shit to shut it up.

  Their bedroom was on the second floor of a small house in the seamier part of Cleveland. Even at thirteen, Jeremiah knew that nobody would live in this neighborhood if they could afford to live somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  “Do you have to do that right there?”

  Scott had the box of puzzle pieces beside him, blocking the doorway. He’d fished out as many of the edges as he could find, and they were scattered all around.

  “Hello? Are you going to answer me?”

  Jeremiah stared at his little brother. Sometimes the brat just drove him batshit crazy.

  Scott glanced up and smiled, then stared back down and tried to shove two blue pieces together. They didn’t fit.

  Jeremiah felt a familiar feeling. He clenched his teeth and wanted to hit something. There were times when he had no control over his temper, and Scott’s dismissive glance had brought him to one of those points, anger flooding him like a tsunami. He pushed his brother aside and grabbed the box of puzzle pieces, took the whole mess out of their bedroom, and threw them down the stairs. Most landed with a clump at the bottom, but the middle and lower steps were sprinkled with puzzle pieces, as if they were confetti.

  That wasn’t enough.

  The anger still welled up inside Jeremiah and demanded action.

  Scott’s one and only serious hobby was his collection of model cars. He had built models of a half-dozen classic cars, all lined up on a bookshelf on his side of the room.

  He worked meticulously on every one, gluing the tiny parts together and painting each car before attaching the appropriate decals. A car could take him a month to build, sometimes more.

  Jeremiah grabbed the cars in turn and threw them as hard as he could to the bottom of the stairs. When each landed, it splintered into pieces, the model glue not nearly strong enough to hold together after being smashed onto the linoleum at the bottom.

  It was only when the last car (a red ’66 Ford Mustang that had taken Scott a full three months to painstakingly assemble) fell to pieces that the sudden onset of anger dissipated, and Jeremiah stared down at the carnage he had created.

  “Oh, no . . .”

  Scott hadn’t said a word, his mouth hanging open, tears falling down his cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” Jeremiah said. “I—I’m so sorry.”

  The radio was blasting away to the next song, Los Lobos singing “La Bamba.” Scott crawled onto his bed and buried his head into his pillow.

  Jeremiah felt like shit. He wanted to hide, and that’s what he did. He knew nothing he could say would make Scott feel better, but he had to try. He said, “I’m sorry,” again, and then left. He had no other words.

  Jeremiah was careful not to step on any of the pieces on his way down the steps. Then he ran out the front door and kept running until, panting, he stopped sometime later. He looked around and didn’t know where he was or what route he’d taken to get there. All he had thought about was the look of bitter betrayal on his little brother’s face.

  * * *

  It wasn’t the first time Jeremiah Moore had lost his temper in a split second. It had often happened while playing baseball with friends, almost always resulting in him coming home with a black eye, a puffy cheek, a loose tooth, or some other surface damage. He wasn’t the biggest or strongest kid in the neighborhood, but his temper seemed to think he was. Almost all the other kids he played with had no trouble cleaning his clock when he came up to them, fists pounding.

  It had been early afternoon when he’d destroyed his brother’s models. Part of him wanted to stay away from home forever, rather than face his parents (and more, face Scott). It was getting dark, though, and he did finally angle his way back.

  When he walked into the house, the area at the bottom of the stairs was empty, all the little plastic automobile parts gone, along with all the puzzle pieces.

  His father came out and stared at him.

  “That was quite a mess,” he said. His voice didn’t sound angry . . . more frustrated. He’d seen the results of Jeremiah’s temper tantrums before.

  “I know.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “Come here.”

  Jeremiah sat beside his father on the lower steps. He didn’t know what to expect, but it sure wasn’t what his dad finally said.

  “I had the same problem when I was a teenager. No control at all. I know the incredible rush that takes over your body.”

  He put one arm around his son and continued. “I was pretty mad when I saw the mess, but I’m not sure I have the right moral compass on this one, because you inherited your temper from me.”

  “But you don’t get mad like that.”

  “Not now, but I did for a long time.”

  “Really?

  “Yes.”

  “What stopped it?”

  “Your mother. I realized I was going to lose her if I didn’t find a way to control myself. So I just decided one day that I would never ever lose my temper again. And I haven’t.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes. Something like that only works when you have enough motivation. One day you’ll find the right motivation. Until then, you have to do your best, but maybe it helps to know that I understand.”

  Jeremiah couldn’t help but start to cry. It’d been a long time since he’d cried. He sobbed and then rubbed his eyes with his fists.

  “What’s Scott doing?”

  “He’s fine. I told him I’d buy him new cars to replace the ones you broke. He’s looking forward to going shopping to do that.” Then Dad smiled. “He’ll have fun building them again.”

  * * *

  The motivation Jeremiah needed to control his temper did not come quickly or easily, but after the talk with his father, he became more acutely aware of how he was different from the other boys.

  None of them started fist fights, and even though Jeremiah started to notice that more directly, it didn’t stop him from taking a shot at one of the kids at school at least once a week. It mattered not a whit that some of them were three grades above him and had thirty pounds that he didn’t. When his temper flared, it made no difference.

  His mother dutifully tended to his wounds and never commented on them. She knew he seemed to have little control, and maybe when she prayed at night, she added a little verse to ask God to help him.

  Jeremiah loved to wander through the city. When he was younger, he’d often been scolded by his mom for leaving home t
o explore an area he hadn’t seen yet or re-visit some favorite place, often the bank of the Cuyahoga River, about four blocks from his house. There was a bend there caused by eons of erosion, making the river look like a snake as it coiled through town.

  He’d discovered a special spot on the river bank, by a big old oak tree with crazy roots crawling out of the ground. There was a flat spot between two roots where he could sit and watch the river flow by. It was quiet, and although he never felt lonely, he never saw anybody else.

  Jeremiah called the place his “fort,” even though there was no structure other than the tree. He didn’t care. The tree was wrapped around behind him protectively, and he felt like the king of the world there.

  Sometimes he’d almost be hypnotized by the lazy swirl of the water. On this particular day, his eyes were droopy and his brain empty, like he was drifting along with the current.

  Then, out of nowhere, a cat jumped down from a branch above his head.

  Jeremiah felt like a monster had jumped onto him, a big, black, rabid dog or a werewolf right from the Saturday afternoon Thriller Chiller Theater on Channel 6.

  He jumped and screamed, and his mind reeled. He saw the animal and grabbed it. He wanted to fucking kill the thing before it could kill him. He grabbed the cat by the head and swung it, smashing it against the side of the tree.

  The terror had turned into anger, wanting revenge for the cat scaring him. He threw the animal into the water.

  Within seconds, the fear and anger had both left, and he watched as the cat, barely conscious, tried to paddle to the bank. A steady stream of blood drifted in the current behind it, and it was only a minute or so before Jeremiah lost sight of it.

  He stared at where he last saw the cat.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  Of course, he knew it wasn’t.

  He stared at his hands, as if they were responsible for him losing his temper.

  He’d never hurt a defenseless animal, and he lowered his head in shame. After a moment he looked around, and for the first time he saw another person in his secret spot. His brother, Scott, was staring at him, mouth open.

  “I didn’t mean to . . . ,” Jeremiah said.

  Scott knew better, though. He’d been on the receiving end of Jeremiah’s anger attacks too many times. He turned and ran.

  “Scott! Wait!”

  Jeremiah thought of chasing his brother, but he knew that would just scare Scott more. He sat on the ground in his fort and wanted to cry, but he couldn’t.

  He did shut his eyes and for the first time in his life, he prayed to a God he didn’t really believe in.

  After that day, Jeremiah taught himself control. He knew he’d crossed a line and never wanted to cross it again. For the most part, for a long time, he succeeded.

  Chapter 6

  1994

  Jeremiah continued to focus his energies on learning magic. The more he learned, the more he loved it. He loved magic the way some kids loved baseball. He knew he was destined for the big leagues.

  As a teenager, he worked on the basics. He became an expert palmist, and he mastered every card trick he could find. He pored over every magic book in the public library in detail. The books mostly taught card tricks and shell games, and although the kits he stole from the Toy and Game Emporium were a little more sophisticated, he knew there were many more complicated tricks he needed to learn.

  He wanted to know everything.

  All the while he was learning his craft, he also studied subjects at school that might possibly help him. He wasn’t always sure how the different fields might help, but he had a sense that math was going to be important. Some of the books he read hinted at building boxes or other contraptions, and he would need to be able to figure out the precise sizes of each component. Carpentry wasn’t taught in his school, but he took a general trades course that covered the basics, so he could cut wood without taking his finger off, and he learned how to sand and polish his projects to hide any secret joints.

  He took acting classes and joined the debate team, figuring that the lessons he learned there would help when he was on stage and needed to keep an audience’s attention.

  Jeremiah soaked everything in. He was also careful not to screw up any of the other school subjects. History and geography might not fit into his future, but failing them would cause trouble with his parents, so he worked hard enough to end up with at least a B- in anything like that. For his core subjects, he demanded an A of himself.

  As time went on, his parents started to realize the plan that Jeremiah was building for himself. At first they figured that this was just a phase and that by the time he graduated high school, their son would come to his senses and find a real career. So, they tolerated things. They never did know about the thefts, but they saw him reading dozens of books from the library, and he spent at least a couple of hours every night practicing.

  Sometimes Jeremiah would arrange a private show for them, and he loved the look of amazement on their faces when he did something that should be impossible.

  Jeremiah’s favorite was a simple shell game. He’d have three shells on a table in front of him, with a little plastic pea beneath one. He’d move the shells around faster and faster, and ask his father where the pea was.

  They must have done the same trick at least a hundred times over the course of a few years, sometimes several times in a row. His dad never once picked the right shell.

  Of course, while Dad was watching the shells’ movements, Jeremiah was watching his father’s eyes. It was easy to see when he blinked or otherwise lost his concentration for just a split second, and that was when he would pull the switch and shift where the pea was.

  “I still can’t figure out how you do it,” his father once said after three failed attempts in a row. “I’ve stopped following the damned thing and just guess now, and I still can’t get it.”

  Jeremiah shrugged. “It’s magic, Dad.”

  His dad smiled. “Not sure I buy that.”

  “What else could it be? Surely you’d end up picking the right choice by dumb luck once in a while, right?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  Luck only played a small part in Jeremiah’s success. It was all in the eyes. If his dad was paying attention, Jeremiah waited for the right split second to switch the pea. Sometimes, though, his dad did glaze over and wait to pick a shell at random. In that case, Jeremiah would try to predict where he was going to guess. His dad sometimes would pick the same shell two times in a row but never three, so if the middle shell was picked twice, he knew it was safe to have the pea end up there on the next attempt. Other psychological tricks helped him guess what his dad would choose. And he never let him go on too long. Four times in a row was plenty, and only if most of those were honest (but hopeless) attempts to actually follow the pea.

  Random choice was Jeremiah’s least favorite game, so he’d cut off soon if he realized Dad was playing that way.

  * * *

  “Ready?”

  Jeremiah peeked at the audience from behind the curtain.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be,” he answered. “Right?”

  He turned and looked at Suzette, his assistant.

  “You’re gonna kill them,” she said.

  “Looks like about six hundred people.”

  Jeremiah took a deep breath. They’d done a full dress rehearsal earlier that day, but they really had no idea how the show would go over in front of a real audience. At the rehearsal, they’d had about thirty people, mostly the people who worked at the theater and their friends.

  This is it. My real life starts today, at age twenty.

  He wanted to look out again, but that wouldn’t settle his nerves.

  “Everyone’s set, right?” He knew that his voice sounded like he was pleading.

  Suzette laughed and gave him a hug.

  “Just think. This is what you’ve wanted your entire life. All those people paid twenty bucks to watch you do your sh
ow. They’re going to love it.”

  He nodded and glanced around. He could see the other two helpers, girls like Suzette, hired three weeks ago after Jeremiah had walked to the local unemployment office. They looked bored.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Suzette said after seeing where he was looking. “They’re just window dressing.”

  He nodded. Suzette and the other girls wore sparkly red skirts and tops. On their backs was a stylized letter J with a white dove launching from the top.

  Jeremiah knew that Suzette wanted long-term employment and was doing everything she could to make that happen. That’s why she ended up being his assistant while the others were more or less window dressing.

  She’d also hit on him once, but he politely deflected it. She was pretty enough, but not really what he was looking for. One day, he knew he’d find the girl of his dreams. For now, magic was his mistress.

  The stage manager called, “Two minutes! Places everyone!” He was a frumpy, middle-aged man who had only a tiny role tonight; he got Jeremiah on stage, and then at the end of the night, he got him off.

  There was a lighting guy, a music guy, and even a guy who took care of the curtains. There were ushers and ticket sellers, and at the front of the theater was a bar stocked with a healthy supply of beer and wine. Jeremiah was grateful about that, figuring that a well-lubricated audience would be an appreciative one.

  After a cheesy local comedian had spent twenty minutes warming up the audience, Jeremiah took his mark in the wings.

  Clouded by the curtains, he heard the words he’d wanted to hear for the past ten years.

  Please welcome the master magician, Jeremiah Moore!

  The curtain raised and Jeremiah felt a rush of excitement course through him. The audience was cheering . . . and it was for him.

  He showed his broad smile, the smile he’d been practicing since he was a little kid, and he walked to center stage.