In the pocket of her pants, Molly carried a book of matches. They weren’t necessary, but a little showmanship tended to open the already loose hands on the boardwalk a little wider.
Picking a patron was an art. Younger men worked better than older ones, and a younger man who had only just begun flirting with a girl – or, even better, more than one – worked the best.
Selecting her prize, she sidled up, greeting the women first before turning to the man, saying “Light your cigarette for you, sir?” She held up a match, and before anyone could say a word, she tossed it away, snapped her fingers, and the tip of her ring finger erupted into flame. There was a jump of surprise and a little titter from the women. Then, they reached forward to examine her finger, gripping her by the wrist and passing their own hands over the fire. Molly let them do as they pleased, holding perfectly still until they were satisfied, and the man leaned forward to light his cigarette.
“A penny is customary for a tip,” she said. She always asked with eyes lowered, half-bent at the waist. Before, when she wasn’t as skilled at picking patrons, she had been kicked and laughed at by men too ungentlemanly to honor a contract, even if they hadn’t known they were entering one.
This man laughed but stuck a nickel into her outstretched hand. She straightened, grinned, and tipped her cap. As a final flourish – a gift for generosity – she opened her palm and lit a flame, extinguishing it by pulling in one finger after another.
As she dashed back into the crowd, she cried, “Come visit the Blue Sky theater for more.”
Her next few patrons only tipped pennies, but the final one gave her a dime, so it wasn’t bad for a couple hours work.
She returned to the shabby boarding house on the farthest edge of the shabby side of the island. It had burned down once and was rebuilt worse than before. The windows either wouldn’t open or wouldn’t shut and little puddles of water gathered on the uneven floors in the top rooms when it rained. The food was lousy but plentiful, and the rent was cheaper than anywhere else.
Alice and Annie were on the stairs as she dashed up them.
“Good day, Molly?” Alice asked.
“Yep,” she replied, grinning. “Don’t wait for me. I’ve got to collect Edward.”
Annie turned, but she couldn’t quite hide the look of distaste on her face. Molly did not let this bother her. She never did.
Edward was still in his room when she knocked.
“Ready?” she asked.
He put down the book he was reading. “I suppose,” he said, rising languidly to his feet.
She repositioned the cap on her head, her hair curling around its edges. It badly needed cutting again.
Years ago, she had determined that looking like an interesting boy was better than being an ugly girl and accordingly, purloined Edward’s castoffs, the pants and shirts he outgrew as he gained six inches on her.
She remained small and dark and slight, someone to forget unless she happened to be aflame. He grew tall and golden, which was highly fitting. In their world of cheap parlor tricks, he could do something wondrous.
As the older one, she had figured out her talent first, crying out “watch me” to anyone who would look and, eager and unafraid, set herself on fire. It had taken Edward longer, his talent undiscovered until after they had been plucked from the orphanage and sent to live in the country. When Edward had been unable to sleep, Molly would stroke his hair and tell him the tales she remembered from their father. Then, she got sick, and, to comfort her, he retold these stories, and they came alive, the little characters performing on a private stage meant only for her and Edward. But his gift was inconsistent and, for a long while, only worked in her presence. Once they started on the circuit, she would stand, silent and unseen, in the wings of theaters in his line of sight so that he could perform.
She didn’t have to stand in the wings anymore, but she still did.
He didn’t watch her perform at all.
The Blue Sky theater was a shade of blue so bright it hurt to look at, but despite this impairment, still boasted the best shows on the boardwalk though the owner paid only slightly more than the other theaters offering acts of lesser quality. The Blue Sky had been there longer than the amusement park that sat behind it, but it did well by siphoning off the park crowd.
Inside the theater, Molly left Edward backstage sitting with his eyes closed, head bent forward, hands clasped tightly around his knees. Molly crouched at the stage’s edge and watched Andres, the manager of their troupe, who created sculptures out of ice, Annie who levitated objects and her partner Alice who could disappear but only for around a minute, and Henri who grew plants from nothing.
They trotted out their wares and received their applause, and then Molly stepped on stage. She waited for all the lights to dim before going to work.
It started with the tip of one finger. She held the flame close to her face, before extinguishing it, sinking the room into darkness. She opened her palm and a flame rose from its center. This she tossed to her other hand before allowing it to spread up her bare arms. Eventually, all the flames slid back down and erupted from the ends of her fingers. She extinguished again and then, lighting one finger, began to write glowing messages in the dark. The audience laughed and applauded where they were intended to and, in some places, where they weren’t. By this time, the oil lamps had been set out, so she carefully lit each one, the stage glowing with their soft light, so much better than any of the new electric ones and a far better atmosphere for what came next.
Her applause arrived and went, and Edward stepped on stage. Whether the audience knew it or not, this was what they were waiting for. He smiled, that warm one that he only used for strangers, and said, “Please, will you come closer? The children can sit on the stage, but mind the lamps.”
When everyone was situated, he said, “I’d like to tell you a story. But what story will we have today?” He looked thoughtful and then said, “Let’s have a new one, yes? But what about?” He knelt on the stage beside a flock of children. “Does anyone have any ideas?”
There were always ideas, and today’s were a lion, named Harold, and a bear, named Bear, and a trip under the sea.
“Right,” Edward said. “Let’s begin.”
He spoke, voice honey-warm and sweet, and as he did, a tableau formed itself before him. There they were – the old, scraggly bear and the young, spirited lion and their ship with its many masts and crew of animals, bustling around, their movements as purposeful as Edward’s words. Soon, they dove beneath the waves and encountered wonders that would have been difficult to imagine, but there they were, shimmering in colors that seemed too bright to be real.
It was so still it seemed that the audience had been frozen, hardly moving to breathe as Edward created something fragile but tangible, something better than the gaudy ephemerality found next door at the amusement park.
Once the story was completed, the little ship with its bear captain and sword-wielding lion still remained on the stage, laying inert on the floor. From experience, Molly knew that, when held, this object would hum with the remembrance of the story.
Edward smiled and knelt down in front of a little girl whose mouth was still agape. “Here,” he said. “A souvenir for you.”
The child reached out slowly for it and, once she had it in her possession, cradled it against her stomach. Then, Edward stood, bowed, and left the stage. The applause was, as always, delayed, but when it came it was thunderous. Edward never came out for a second bow which Molly thought he should.
The audience scattered, and the stage was set for the next show. Molly removed each of the lamps with Alice and Annie while Andres and Henri swept the stage.
“I think,” Andres said to Molly, “that we should talk again about the double act.”
Henri shook his head. “He’s never going to let it go.”
“Just think of the spectacle,” Andres said. “Fire and ice.”
“Think of the mess,” Alice said. “Or would you be cleaning up the puddles of water between acts?”
“I was thinking it would be our close,” Andres said.
“Edward always closes,” Molly said.
“Well, he doesn’t have to,” Andres said which was a lie, for no one wanted to go on after Edward.
“I’ll think about it,” Molly said.
Andres nodded, knowing she wouldn’t.
Andres had never liked Edward. Not when they first joined the troupe, not when they started on the circuit, not when Edward became their headliner, and not now. Andres wanted to believe the worst of him. But he didn’t truly know Edward, the boy that she had cared for, who she promised never to abandon, and who had promised to never abandon her.
Edward always slipped outside between shows. He stood on the steps that led into the theater’s backdoor, his arms folded over the railing and his shoulders hunched forward.
Molly fell in beside him. “Light your cigarette for you, sir?” she asked.
“Molly,” he said. He didn’t smoke, and he wouldn’t let her near him with a fire.
“It went well I think,” she said, knowing that he needed the praise and eager to give it to him.
“Do you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “They were dazzled like they always are.”
“They’re easy to dazzle,” he said.
“What’s wrong with that?” she asked.
He shrugged. “You should go back in.”
She patted him on the shoulder and reached for the door. “Don’t be too long.” She let the door slam behind her.
As she knew he would be, Edward was late coming back in for the second show.
“Molly, your brother,” Andres said.
“Yes,” she said and headed outside.
Edward had moved down to the alley’s mouth where he was speaking to a handsomely-dressed man, much too handsomely-dressed to be on this side of the island. This had happened before. Wealthy men came and offered Edward what they believed would be attractive to him, and he always listened politely, and then Molly, seeing them for the exploiters that they were, turned them away. This, however, was the first time he had spoken to one of them without her.
Edward was the type to be taken in. When he was younger, he would spend what little money she was able to give him on cheap novels about virtuous boys who were plucked from the margins and gutters where they resided by well-meaning and kindly patrons who would make them respectable. He still believed, she was sure, in this fantasy.
“Edward,” she called, advancing toward him. “Who are you talking to?”
He turned to look at her and said, “I’ll only be a moment.”
“He has a show now,” Molly said to the other man. “You’re welcome to buy a ticket if you like”
“Thank you, but I’ve already seen it,” he said. He held out his hand for Edward to shake. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
“What did this one want?” Molly asked once the man had gone.
“Nothing of note,” Edward said, slipping in the stage door behind her.
She left him sitting in the dark of the wings, far from the light of the stage.
They didn’t perform on Monday or Tuesday. Not formally anyway.
All of them, Molly and Andres and Alice and Annie and Henri, had separate spaces that they occupied along the boardwalk, careful not to intrude into each other’s territories and not to stray too far down to the island’s other side where they would be run off by the wealthy hoteliers. Andres’s spot came right before hers, and she often saw children gripping slowly melting ice creatures as she darted around searching for her own patrons.
When the crowds thinned after supper, she headed back to the boarding house. From a block away, she could see a car waiting outside, a curious sight, and, even odder, Edward, dressed in his one fine suit that Molly had tailored to fit him, stepping into it.
“Edward, where are you going?” Molly called to him though there was only one place he could be headed.
He turned his head toward her. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”
Molly hurried to the car, laid claim to a car door handle, and would not give ground.
“We’re running late, sir,” the driver said.
Edward’s hands hovered over Molly’s, fingers stretched as if to pry her away. He curled his hands into tight fists and sighed.
“Come on then,” Edward said, and Molly slid into the car beside him.
The ride was a short one, only across to the island’s other side. Edward fidgeted with his cuffs and his tie and then took to straightening Molly’s collar and brushing off the shoulders of her shirt.
“Keep your head down and your cap on,” he said. “And don’t say anything.”
The car stopped outside a hotel lit brilliantly against the dark. She followed Edward from the car and into the entrance where a grandly dressed man waited, holding his arms out to greet them.
“Ah, Edward,” he said. “So pleased you decided to come.”
He turned, polite but curious, to Molly.
“This is my brother, Michael,” Edward said. “Michael, this is Mr. Wharton.”
Mr. Wharton smiled. “Ah, yes, I remember. From yesterday,” he said and held out his hand for Molly to shake. His hand was broad and warm and soft and his wrists were slim and elegant. She shoved her rough, brownish hands into her pockets and followed Mr. Wharton and Edward into a large, golden room filled with chairs and tables and elegant people engaged in soft, gentle conversation. There was a raised platform at the far edge of the room that Mr. Wharton alighted upon.
He clapped his hands together crisply and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I promised you a one-of-a-kind attraction this evening, and I believe you will not be disappointed. May I present Mr. Edward Borges.”
Edward stepped up onto the stage and bowed neatly to Mr. Wharton and then to the audience. He did not ask for any input from the audience, but instead took a deep breath and said, “I would like to tell you a story.”
Molly recognized the tale. It was his first original one that he had told her when they were younger. She had its physical manifestation in her suitcase, wrapped carefully in clothes that she no longer wore.
On stage here, Edward was an entirely different creature than he was in the theater. This was not a kindly storyteller but a master composer, one who commanded the attention of everyone in the room which they gave willingly. They had moved their chairs closer and some were standing, craning their necks to better see the spectacle.
Molly could not see at all from her spot at the room’s edge though she didn’t need to. She had heard it before. Besides, she was more invested in watching Mr. Wharton who stood in the corner, watching Edward with shining eyes.
Edward’s story went on for over two hours. He kept giving more and more and more to those who would greedily take it. Molly could hear his voice growing rough with fatigue.
Abruptly, he stopped.
“I can’t go on,” he said, looking over to Mr. Wharton.
Mr. Wharton looked briefly piqued before his face cleared, and he hopped back up on to the platform. “Tomorrow then,” he said. “Yes, we will have our continuation tomorrow. But for now–” He began applauding. The audience followed, raising their eyes from the tableau up to its creator, their faces glowing and rapturous.
Molly edged closer to the stage to see the story in its suspended state. The two little figures – a girl and a boy, representations of herself and Edward – waited patiently in the middle of a street crowded with buildings and people. The girl was pointing at something in the unseeable distance, and the boy had shaded his eyes to look.
She skirted around the room’s edge and the patrons who had crowded around Edward, carving away even more of him than they had already taken. Mr. Wharton could not stop smiling, and his hand lay heavily on Edward’s shoulder as he guided Edward back outside.
He shook Edward’s hand and said, “Tomorrow. And then we’ll talk more about the rest of the season.”
“Of course,” Edward said.
Mr. Wharton disappeared back inside.
“Come on,” Edward said to Molly.
It was dark, so Molly opened her hand to create a small flame, holding it away from Edward as she knew he would flinch from it. When they were younger she had, in her excitement, accidentally burned Edward’s forearm. The scar was rarely visible as Edward almost never rolled up his sleeves even when it was devilishly hot, but when she saw it, she always felt an odd mixture of shame and pride. Mine, the scar said.
Molly pulled the flame closer to Edward. He widened the gap between them.
“What did he pay you?” Molly asked.
“Haven’t been paid yet,” he said.
“Well, what was your agreement?”
He shrugged. “Mr. Wharton doesn’t like to speak of money.”
“Edward,” she said and wasn’t this just like him to think of the art first and the payment second.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll get what I’m owed.”
“See that you do,” Molly said.
They had reached the edges of the boardwalk where the lamps were still lit. Molly doused her fire and watched Edward’s shoulders relax. She shoved her hands into her pockets and followed him back to the boarding house.
On Tuesday, it rained. Even when it let up in the afternoon, patrons were few, so Molly paced along the shoreline and watched the waves come in, considering the day a complete loss.
Back at the house, Edward still hadn’t emerged from his room. It was nearing dusk, and he would be late for his appointment at the hotel. Molly knocked on his door and heard no movement inside.
“Edward,” she called. “Are you quite all right?”
Alice clamored up the stairs. “Hiya,” she said. “Edward left a while ago. He said he left you a note.”
“Thanks,” Molly said, heading to her room.
“Stop by for an apple when you come back down,” Alice called after her. “I bought more than Annie and I can eat.”
“Sure,” Molly said.
In her room on the bed, still unmade from the morning, was a folded piece of paper. It read: “I went to the hotel. Don’t wait up. I will be back late.”
Molly popped her cap back on her head and went back downstairs. Alice was waiting for her.
“Here,” she said, putting one apple in Molly’s hand and shoving another into her pocket. “For when you find Edward.”
Molly kissed her on the forehead and was out the door. The apple was lovely and crisp, a burst of tartness on her tongue. Edward always did like fresh fruit when they could get it. This thought was all that kept her from consuming the apple in her pocket as well.
The hotel seemed more formidable without Edward beside her. She crept around the outside walls until she came to the golden room. The doors to the portico had been left open to allow in the breeze from the ocean. Someone was playing a piano, and Edward was nowhere to be seen. She hovered in the shadows and watched the men smoke and the ladies talk and the children dance impatiently. Then, Mr. Wharton stepped on to the stage and the room hushed.
“May I once again present Edward Borges,” he said.
The audience did not clap but pressed closer to the stage. Edward was dressed in a fine suit that didn’t fit properly, the sleeves riding up over his wrists.
From her spot outside, she could hear his voice, strong and stalwart, continuing the narrative she knew well. But abruptly, the story changed. He was leaving her character behind, cast away on a foreign shore while his continued on. She considered this alteration and believed, after a moment of concern, that it must be a kindness. He would not give them something that belonged to her.
He spoke for one hour and then two, and in that time, no one moved. When he stopped, they sighed. It was still not completed – “to be finished tomorrow,” Mr. Wharton said – and Edward looked completely done in.
She waited in the shadows outside the light of the front entrance. Edward emerged, still in the suit, fiddling with its sleeves.
“You changed it,” Molly said, wanting to know if her supposition was correct.
He squinted to find her in the dark. She lit her palm, and he winced.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” he said. “Come on. It’s late.”
She stumbled after him, reaching in her pocket for the apple.
“Here,” she said, popping it into his hand. She waited until he had taken a bite before saying again, “You changed it.”
“Of course I did,” he said, and she thought, yes, it had been a kindness and felt a wave of affection for him.
“Why did you come at all?” he asked. “Didn’t you get my note?”
“Yes,” Molly said, “When will you be through?”
“Probably tomorrow,” he said. “I doubt this one can hold their attention for much longer. But I’ll probably go back. At least until the season’s over.”
“What about the Blue Sky?” she asked. “We have a contract.”
He shrugged. “I’ll do both. It’s nearly September anyway.”
“All right,” she said. “Where’d you get the new suit?” She playfully tugged at the sleeve. He pulled away from her and brushed off the lapels.
“Mr. Wharton said it would make me look more presentable.”
She supposed she could see if there was anything she could do about the sleeves and the trousers which were a hair too short.
“Next time, you shouldn’t follow me,” he said.
“I won’t,” she said. “So long as you turn up for our shows.”
“All right,” he said.
Molly nodded. She was good at keeping her promises. And making sure Edward kept his.
Routine settled in. After the final show each night, Edward was ferried over to the hotel carrying in his hands whatever food Molly could scrounge up. One night, watching him drive away from the Blue Sky, she saw him toss a perfectly good sandwich out the window where it was devoured by the always ravenous gulls. She stopped giving him food. He started coming back to the boarding house later and later until one night, he didn’t come back at all. Molly was ready to go looking for him when he appeared five minutes before the day’s first show.
When she asked where he had been, he said, “Ended rather late last night. Mr Wharton thought it would be best that I stay.”
Molly agreed that this was sound though, as she told him, she didn’t like not knowing where he was.
“I know,” he said.
Later that evening, when they were cleaning the stage after the last show, Andres said, “Won’t be long now.”
“Won’t be long before what?” she asked.
“Before he doesn’t come back at all,” he said.
She ignored this. He never did like Edward. Of course Edward would come back. He had promised her he would.
The final week of August was hot and unbearably sticky both inside and outside the theater. The only place anyone could find relief was close to the water. The audiences they had were paltry and their applause slow and limp. Their second to last day in the theater, Edward didn’t appear for the early show or the afternoon ones. Initially, Molly worried that he had made himself sick from exhaustion, but he wasn’t in bed at the boarding house.
When she got back to the theater, Andres said, “Left us entirely, then?”
Molly didn’t know how to respond.
“It was always going to happen,” he said. He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently.
The late show ended, and Molly headed out, walking swiftly up the boardwalk. She didn’t know Andres had followed her until he called out.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“The hotel,” she said.
“To do what?” he asked.
She didn’t have an answer.
“Come back,” he said. “There’s no reason to go to that place now.”
It was late, and she was tired, and she didn’t know what she would say to Edward even if she did happen to find him because she didn’t fully understand what had happened or why Edward had gone. She trailed Andres back to the house. Her sleep was restless, and she woke angry and discontented. It took her a moment to remember why.
Edward was not at the theater the next day either, though Molly hadn’t really expected him to be. At the boarding house, some of his things were gone from his room. The rejected objects – patched clothing, worn shoes – sat in a neat pile on the bed beside a letter with Molly’s name scrawled on the front.
“That’s it then?” Andres asked from the doorway.
“Suppose so,” she said.
“No matter,” he said. “Come on. Let’s have a drink.”
Henri had gotten wine to celebrate the end of the season. Molly had one glass and then another. She drank too fast, and an ache bloomed at the back of her head. She left the others reveling downstairs and went up to her room to sleep. The night grew deeper and quieter. She rose and dressed, not in her brother’s castoffs but in the one decent blouse and skirt she had kept and slipped out of her room.
The boardwalk lights had long since been put out. The moon seemed hazy rather than bright. Insects chirped, and she hummed a little to herself, a song her father had sung, a song she had once taught her brother. He likely did not remember it.
The hotel loomed dark in the distance, its pitched roof a blacker black than the sky. Approaching it, she felt a flare of fury. She turned away from it to the broad expanse of the beach, sand lit white by the moon. A man stood beside the water, and she walked down toward him.
“Edward?” she asked.
He glanced over at her. “I was going to come to see you before I left.”
“Were you?” she asked.
“I did leave a note,” he said.
“I saw it,” she said.
“Mr. Wharton has some connections with people in Europe,” he said.
“You’re going,” Molly said.
“It’s a good opportunity,” he said. “I will write.”
“Will you?” she asked.
“I’ll try,” he said.
“Well,” she said. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “I was going to come to see you before I left.”
“That’s kind,” she said.
“Molly,” he said.
“Come here,” she said, reaching for him.
He embraced her, a weak, half-hearted thing, his body already elsewhere. She drew him closer, and he fell reluctantly toward her.
She had cradled him like this when he had been a child, his curly head nestled under her chin. How she had loved him, that small, affectionate, frightened boy. She had cared for him, indulged him as much as she could. She could still see that boy even now, the one she had promised to stay with forever.
Heat was building in her hands. Edward tried to pull away from her, said, “Molly, Molly, that hurts, Molly, please,” his panicked voice rising in pitch and volume. Still, she held him fast, held him as tightly as she had when he was little, and then, her hands, glowing a pleasant red, burned their likeness into his back. He cried out, and she released him, watching as he dropped into the sand and crawled toward the sea.
She only turned away once he had reached the water.
Edward’s stories were stacked on her bed where she had left them. She carted them down to the beach. They were not heavy. They hardly weighed anything at all. She gathered driftwood and lit a fire, and then she tenderly placed each story on it. They burned beautifully, curling under the blooms of flame. They were gone by the time the sun came up. She doused the fire with sea water, scooped up the ashes and threw them into the sea.
It started raining. She walked back to the boarding house. Edward would be gone soon, taking one boat and then another, traveling further than he ever had. Still, he could never truly leave her. Some things were permanent.
She stripped down to her skin and crawled into bed. Water dripped into the bucket in the corner of the room. When she woke up, she would pack her things, head downstairs, and talk to Andres about the double act.
It would be okay. She could see it now. It would be good.
She counted the raindrops as they hit the window pane and fell asleep.
Laine Perez works at the University of Arkansas and received her Ph.D. in English from the University of Texas at Austin. Her work has appeared in Aphelion Webzine, Luna Station Quarterly, and Beneath Ceaseless Skies.