The Assistant(s)

 

There was a time before the voices intruded. Without warning, without a sign they arrived…
         
         Joanne Clark shuffled along on the wooden sidewalk toward the Uptown Theatre in New York City for a rehearsal. The year was 1915 and the illusionist Val Durham had finally succeeded in persuading a renowned theatre to book his magic act. As an intricate part of this great act, she was essential. Approaching the theatre, she glanced at the words “The Great Val Durham” all lit up on the sign. It should have made her smile, but it didn’t.
         You see, 26 year old Joanne Clark had always wanted to make it big as a magician’s assistant. She had seen a magic act several years ago and had watched in awe as the magician and his onstage assistant performed magical feats. She wanted to be a part of it and discover if the magic was real, as it appeared to be. Shortly thereafter, she was hired by a man named Wallace Drake, an up and coming magician. He was talented, a good performer, tall, dark-haired; a stereotypical magician. His stage name was Val Durham, hers became Adele Emerson, and with that name, everything changed.
         Adele Emerson was beautiful and performed magical feats alongside a handsome magician, onstage in front of hundreds of people. She was applauded and envied, but the problem was this: Adele was not Joanne. After the few fleeting moments of glory during a performance, Adele became Joanne again, a glorified prop-master, and Val Durham was simply Wallace Drake, a perfectionist with a terrible temper. There was no magic at all; it was all an illusion, created with little tricks and toys.
         Joanne knew as she approached the theatre that today would be worse than all the others. With a big performance coming up, the rehearsals (and Wallace’s temper) would be even worse than usual. These thoughts melted away as she opened the theatre door, entering another world... a world that was elaborately beautiful. The kind of place she had always dreamed of performing in. She wandered backstage to take a look around. The floor groaned and creaked with each step. Joanne studied the area, observing all the props, stage make-up, and costumes strewn about. Her panning eyes halted for a moment on an object she knew well: the water torture cell. It was part of a trick they performed regularly, and it was gaining attention.
         Here is how it went: first of all, she would handcuff Wallace and wrap chains around his body. Then he would be lowered into the “water torture cell”, a huge glass fish-tank looking device with a heavy lid that could be locked. She would then secure the lid down with a padlock. A curtain would lower around the box, and the next thing the audience knew was that Val Durham had magically escaped handcuffs and a padlocked water torture cell. However, the tricky non-magical thing about the escape was this: a small trap door existed in the lid of the cell. It was near the padlock, and could be opened from the inside by sliding out a small pin and lifting the little door. Wallace kept the key to the padlock in his teeth, and he would escape the handcuffs, slide the pin to open the door, and simply unlock the lid to get out.
         Joanne had done the trick so many times that it had become mindless, but the tank’s appearance still frightened her. She pulled her eyes away from it and wandered onstage, surveying the theatre. It was gorgeous and the ceiling seemed impossibly high. There was even a balcony…they had never performed in a theatre with a balcony before. The wood floor onstage was shiny and smelled of polish; she had a childlike urge to run and slide across it. The thought made her chuckle, and she decided to go backstage again before she gave in to it.
          Upon walking backstage, Joanne could hear Wallace yelling at someone. Great, he’s already angry, she thought to herself. He stormed around the corner, “You’re late,” he growled angrily. She simply nodded, knowing that excuses would only make him angrier.
         “You’ll never guess what this idiot who was transporting all of our props did,” Wallace shouted stormily.
         “What’d he do?” she asked nonchalantly, not really caring to know.
         “Somehow, during the move of the equipment, the pin on the trap door of the water torture cell was bent. Now it can’t be opened from the inside! Was he trying to get me killed? Thank God I examined it before we tried the trick. The guy didn’t even see the importance of it until I explained. I sure let him have it!”
         His red, quivering face and booming voice set a fire in her head. Something in her mind snapped. Exploded. Without warning, something shifted. That’s when the voices tiptoed in and began to argue in hushed tones. Wallace is an idiot. Stay calm. Don’t overreact to his temper. Stay calm. We’ve had enough of his temper. Stay calm. We can’t take it anymore.
         “Wallace! Now he knows how you do the trick! It’ll get out, and the act will be ruined!”
she practically screeched with panic. “You do this all time. Your temper gets out of control, and you mess everything up.”
         “Oh shut up! Just stay here and I’ll go take care of this,” Wallace demanded.
         Joanne obeyed, but inside she seethed. How could he be so stupid? When Wallace had taught her the trade he had explained that he was not a magician, but an illusionist. There was no real magic, just a trick, and you never let anyone find out how you do your trick. Joanne was enraged. Suddenly she realized how strangely she was behaving; it was out of character for her to be so angry. Snap out of it, Joanne. Fortunately, Wallace returned and had been able to pay the man enough money not to tell.
         Wallace was angry for the rest of the day. He fixed the pin in the water cell and they practiced the trick several times, even though it was flawless. Again and again, they practiced every trick. Hours later, Joanne, all of the stagehands, and Wallace, were exhausted. “Please Wallace, let’s be done. The act is perfect, and the performance isn’t for two days,” Joanne pleaded.
         “No, let’s do it all again,” he said, and everyone sighed with dismay. “It can always be better.”
         “Let’s practice again tomorrow. Everyone is tired, including you. What if we start making mistakes and something happens to you?” Joanne pointed out.
         “Joanne, I’m sick of your whining. The only reason I keep you around is because someone has to handle the props.”
         “The only reason I stick around is because of the money,” she retorted.
         “You know what? You can just go home. We’ll work on the rest of the act without you.” Wallace shouted.
         Joanne was perfectly happy to go home. The conversation had gone just as she’d wanted. She knew what made Wallace angry. Sometimes she would drop props during a rehearsal just to get a rise out of him. The voices interrupted again. I hate him. This is wrong. We don’t care.
         As she lay in bed that night, Joanne pondered the day. She thought about how Wallace was so different on stage. He wasn’t as he seemed at all; nor was she. Honestly, she wasn’t even Joanne Clark anymore. Her thoughts were confused and muffled. What is happening to me? As petite and sweet as she appeared, something inside her scared her. That bent pin in the water tank kept coming to mind. So tiny. So powerful. So harmless. So deadly. She thought about what would happen if it stayed bent. Wallace wouldn’t be able to get out. The curtain would drop, and Wallace would stay behind it. The death of “The Great Val Durham”. A pleasant idea.
         The whole next day and all through rehearsal, Joanne’s thoughts were occupied with that pin in the water torture cell. She couldn’t pay attention and dropped a prop twice. Don’t obsess. I like Wallace. I must not obsess. I need Wallace. Don’t obsess. Wallace reprimanded her for it, and each time, her eyes drifted to the tank. She tuned him out as he yelled and found pleasure in the thought that she had the power to end his life. I must not obsess. Kill Wallace. She didn’t want to listen to that voice…but it had the most tantalizing ideas. A sick, rumpled smile spread across her face
         “Joanne, pay attention. What is wrong with you today?” Wallace questioned. “You’ve never been this distracted.”
         “I’m sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she finally responded. Does it hurt to drown?
         “Hey, at least you’re responding to me now. I don’t know what your problem is, but the biggest performance of our lives is tomorrow, and I’d like you to be awake for it,” he sternly replied.
         At last, the day of the performance arrived. Everything seemed rushed and last minute, in spite of all their rehearsing. The time for practicing was over; this was it. Wallace and Joanne quickly changed into costumes and became “The Great Val Durham, and His Lovely Assistant, Adele Emerson”. The curtains rose, and Wallace went onstage. Joanne did not have to enter for several minutes. Staring in the mirror, she began to think.Such a pale face…such empty eyes.
         Again, Joanne glanced at the water tank. She had to act quickly if she was going to do it. Did she really want to kill him? Kill Wallace. I can’t kill Wallace. I won’t. No, how could she? She was distraught and troubled, but the image in the mirror was smiling. Beckoning. Enticing. Along came the sweet voices. Break him. It’s too simple! The vivacious mirror face was persuading, pleading with her. She couldn’t resist it.
         Her heart pounded in her chest; the rhythm filled her ears. She had a feeling deep inside that what she was about to do was a mistake. It’s evil. It’s a necessary evil. Joanne walked resolutely toward the tank. The time for her to go onstage was approaching. She picked up the ax, and opened the tank lid. Quickly, with the dull part of the ax, she bent the pin. It was so easy! Satisfying. Simple. Perfect. She grinned with twisted glee. Then she heard the cue line. The ax was set lightly on the floor and she closed the lid, rushing onstage with her face beaming.
         They performed their “magic” tricks as the audience applauded. The minutes ticked by slowly. Finally, it was time. The stagehands rolled the water torture cell onto the stage. She had done this hundreds of times but tonight she was nervous. This is a mistake. We have to do this. Joanne locked Wallace’s hands in handcuffs. She wrapped him in chains. She kissed him, thereby putting the key to the padlock in his mouth. He looked at her with confidence. She watched as he was hauled up by the rope and hook, high above the stage. Her heart pounded harder. Time stood still. He plunged into the tank.  Mechanically, Joanne snapped the lid shut, locked the padlock, and went offstage. I am guilty. Suddenly, she didn’t want to do it anymore. That look of confidence he had… He trusts me. He needs me. He had given her the dream of becoming part of a magic act. It wasn’t his fault if she hadn’t liked it. But now it didn’t matter. The trick was in progress.
         Her mind was muddled, swarming in voices that were not her own. Anxiously, Joanne looked about her for the ax. It wasn’t where they normally kept it. Oh God, where is the ax? Her thoughts screamed to drown the voices. Finally the answer came. Yes, that’s where the ax is! I must rectify this. We can’t rectify this. She looked frantically by where they had kept the tank. There it was. She grabbed it and ran onstage. The audience gasped. The curtain was drawn back by the panicking stagehands. The tank was in view. Wallace was struggling, fear and churning water distorting his face. She swung the ax into the side of the tank. The glass cracked. She hit it again, and again. Adrenaline and desperation culminated, breaking it at last. Water and thick glass rushed onto the stage. And there was Wallace.
         Hurriedly, she turned him over. The stagehands rushed to his side. Joanne sobbed as she shook him. The sweet voices turned menacing. We killed him. We are guilty. We are evil. His skin was deathly pale and cold. He wouldn’t cough! With trembling hands she shook him again. She slapped his face. I loved him. Breathe! Dead eerie silence. He never breathed. Dread fell over the room like icy rain. The Great Val Durham had died during the biggest performance of his life, and Joanne didn’t want to believe it. You aren’t dead. “Wallace, you can’t die!” she screeched. It echoed. That was the first time any audience had heard his real name, and it was the last time Joanne Clark would ever say it. Never again did she speak that name. But she heard it always. The voices jeered, unceasingly repeating the name of Wallace Drake. Wallace Drake. You killed him. Wallace Drake.

         Four years later, there was a bridge and a leap. The voices were forever silenced. What a merciful day it was.