Presto-Change 2: Twenty Years Later free porn video

PRESTO CHANGO 2: Twenty Years Later By Brian [email protected] It's the sort of heat that makes it hard to breathe. The heat that makes sweat collect in one's underwear and causes everything to itch. Even now, well past midnight, the swelter lurks in the poor Las Vegas suburb, tamed by the night, but not cowed. It's waiting. Biding its tisme. It is not a neighborhood where you'd like to be out and about during the day. Windows are boarded up, graffiti tags many surfaces, garbage spills, uncollected, into the street. Now that night has long fallen, eyes stare out of the darkness. Hungry, yellowish, desperate eyes. Some of them belong to animals. There's movement. Something shifts in the shadows. Something furtive moves from streetlight to streetlight. It's human. A boy. About twelve or thirteen. Not really skinny, but slender. Not so short as petite. His hair isn't exactly long, but it is luxurious. His big brown eyes are open wide. Despite the heat, he's shivering. He walks quickly, but looks behind, rather in front of himself. A whipped puppy, scared and lost. "There you are, you little shit!" The newcomer is big, but with the sort of size that comes from one's voice, rather than one's physique. He's fortyish, balding, with small cruel eyes. The boy literally whimpers at the sound of his voice. "You God damn little punk!" The man is a snarling, ugly dog. An animal that growls and barks to assert its dominance. "Please..." whispers the boy. The night echoes with the sound of the man's fist against the kid's cheek. He goes down. Then he gets back up. It is not an act of bravery or defiance. There's something of a ritual in the way the boy stands up and faces his tormentor. Something inevitable. The fist flies again. The boy falls. Blood pours out of both nostrils. Again the boy stands. Again the man draws back his boney fist. It never lands. A hand snakes out from the darkness and grabs the man by the wrist, staying the punch. Both he and boy turn in shock. The newcomer lowers his hand. He stands somewhat in the shadows. Tall and vaguely formed, there's an air of menace about him. The fact that he only has one eye does not help. "Is there a problem?" asks the stranger, in a voice like air oozing out of a slashed tire. For a moment, the boy's tormentor is stunned into silence. He then regains his false bravado. "Fuck off." The one-eyed man takes a step forward. Just one. And the other man takes a step back. The stranger clears his throat. "I think you need to cool down. Take a walk. Clear your head." The bully of a man stands there, locked in indecision. He's not used to being challenged. Not used to being ordered about. But this new dog is not scared. He's not barking or showing his teeth. He's confident. A fighter. And likely, a winner. The man lets out a stream of profanity, directed both at the stranger, the boy, and the night in general. The boy seems to shrivel at each word, almost melting into the gutter. The other man just stands there, his one eye glinting in the dark. Eventually, the yapping dog storms off down the street, leaving them alone. The strange man turns to the boy, staring down at him in curiosity. He reaches out a hand. Trembling, the boy allows himself to be helped to his feet. He snorts, then coughs, spraying blood against his dirty shirt. The man passes him a handkerchief. It's a ridiculous, rainbow-patterned thing. As the boy presses it to his bleeding face, he chokes. Soon, he's crying silent tears. The stranger takes no notice. He waits until the sobs stop. "You want to grab some donuts, kid? I'm buying." * In the harsh light of the all-night diner, the stranger seems less mysterious. He doesn't look so much like a nighttime vigilante as someone you'd see selling used furniture on television. He's around forty, with graying black hair, a broken nose, and an almost cartoonishly prominent jaw. A patch covers his left eye. Behind it, a red scar zig zags from his hairline over his eyebrow, and then down across his cheek. He demolishes three bear claws and a large coffee. Across the booth, the boy watches him in awe and fear, a glazed donut and cup of hot chocolate untouched in front of him. His mysterious friend blows his nose in a napkin. "So what's your name, kid?" The boy pauses, as if he has to think about the question. "Matthew," he eventually murmurs. "Brian," replies the man. He fixes Matthew with his one good eye. "So what's up with your friend out there?" The boy lowers his head. "That's my father. He gets...upset with me sometimes. It's not his fault." Surprisingly, Brian doesn't argue. "I hear ya. My old man used to get on my case all the time. 'Brian, get a job!' 'Brian, clean up this room!' 'Brian, I thought I told you to mow the grass!'" He shakes his head, remembering. "One time he grounded me for a week--a whole week!--because I broke curfew." Brian is making light of things, but Matthew gets the dig. What happened out on the street...that's not how a father is supposed to act. Brian fixes Matthew with his one eye. "Would you like me to call the police?" The boy shakes his head in abject terror. Clearly, he's been down that road before, and it's not his father who ends up paying. "Is there anywhere you can go tonight?" asks the man. "Does your mother live with you?" Matthew looks down at his donut. "I don't have a mother. Listen, mister..." "Call me Brian." "My father will calm down in a bit. I'll be okay." Matthew is not a convincing liar. Brian's foot begins to jiggle. He knows Matthew won't be safe at home, but where else can he go? Brian should do something, but he's not sure what. Eventually, he reaches across the table. With a snap of his fingers, a business card appears in his hand. Matthew would have sworn it wasn't there a moment ago. "Maybe it's none of my business, Matthew. But if you ever need to get out of the house, or if you decide things are just too rough, you give me a call. Or just stop by. I'm serious. My wife, she's a terrible cook. Just awful. We'd love to have you over for dinner sometime." He passes the card to the boy, who gives just a flicker of a smile. "Thanks, mister." "Call me Brian. Can I give you a ride somewhere?" Matthew shakes his head. Brian hesitates, starts to say something, then leaves. Matthew sits there for a long while. He needs to return home. Needs to face what's coming. What's always coming. But he reads and rereads the card. BRIAN AND RHEA HOWARD MAGIC, MYSTICISM, AND MIND-BOGGLING ILLUSIONS === The one-eyed man stares down at the woman on the slab with disinterest. She looks back up at him with abject terror. She's been strapped down, her wrists and ankles bound. Most of her clothing has been ripped off, she has nothing on but flimsy undergarments. The man draws a sword and points it at the woman's bare belly. She closes her eyes and looks away, knowing what's coming. With a rapid movement, the man plunges the sword repeatedly into his victim, twice in the belly and once in the chest. Her lifeless head lolls against her neck. Unmoved, the man drops the sword and picks up a crosscut saw. He places the teeth against her bare skin and begins to dismember her. "Honey?" "Huh?" "Brian, you're doing it out of order. You're supposed to cut my head off before you saw me in two, remember?" Brian looks at her for a moment, somewhat confused. "Oh. Yeah. Right." Distractedly, he drops the saw, flips on a light, and flops onto a bench. Now that the darkness has vanished, so has the illusion. The retractable sword blade is very obvious. The woman wriggles out of her bindings, pulls on a robe, and sits down next to the magician. She's middle aged, or close to it. Long, bright red hair cascades down her back. Her pretty face--indeed, most of her body--is almost solidly freckled. "What's the matter, sweetie? You've been distracted all day." "It's nothing." "Bullshit. What's wrong?" "Last night...I saw some prick kicking the snot out of his son. Really upset me." The woman tenses. "You didn't beat up the guy, did you?" Brian shakes his head. "No, he ran off." She lets out a sigh of relief. Clearly, things could have gone very badly for Matthew's father. Brian shakes his head. "Rhea, that kid was barely a teenager. It chaps my ass that pricks like that can have children and..." he trails off. Rhea momentarily lays a hand on her stomach. A sad fact of life. Much as some couples would make great parents, it's not always possible. Brian drapes his arm around his wife. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize how that had gotten to me. Let's talk about something else." She kisses his cheek. "We're opening at the Luxor in a couple of months." "Yeah, I know." "And I was thinking...maybe we could start interviewing some dancers." He removes his arm. "No." "There's a lot of girls with stage experience who'd work cheap. Just to help with a couple of the easier tricks." "No." "I'd still be your assistant. But if we hired a couple of college girls just to..." "No." "Brian! Listen to me. We've discussed this." He doesn't look at his wife. "And I said no. You're the only assistant I've ever had, and the only one I'll ever need." "Bullshit. You worked with Tracy for two years before we even met." "Well...yeah. But I've worked with you for the past twenty years. I don't know why you think I need someone else now." "That's my point! It's been twenty years." Rhea grabs Brian's chin and forces him to face her. "I'm not that young anymore. I'm forty-one years old and I feel kind of silly prancing around in a bikini." Brian doesn't smile. "You look just fine to me." Rhea rolled her eyes. When she and Brian had first met, she was still a gorgeous young teenager. And to Brian, she still was. He didn't notice that more and more of the red in her hair came from a bottle. That her once flat stomach now bulged outward. That her boobs, once so pert and sexy, were now...actually, they were still pretty amazing. "Brian, if we could just hire a couple of dancers to wear the skimpy costumes, I could dress a little more modestly. I'm starting to feel ridiculous. Will you think about it?" "Yeah." "Promise?" He shakes his head. "No. I'm sorry, but I take our marriage pretty seriously. And I'm not about to go running swords through some twenty- year-old just because she's younger. I haven't decapitated another woman since the nineties, and I'm not about to start now." Slowly, he gets up and walks off the stage. Rhea stares after him, filled with the same overwhelming sense of love and annoyance that's characterized their marriage. === "Rhea, have you seen my straitjacket?" "It's in your closet." "Not that one, the good one. The one with the crotch straps." "It's in the closet!" calls Rhea, from the other room. "In the iron maiden." "I'm looking in the iron maiden! I'm telling you, it's not here!" "Did you leave it with your chainsaw?" "Forget it! Just forget it." Unbelievable. Two decades of marriage and she still misplaces his stuff. And where the hell are his leg irons? Rhea knows they're going to a formal dinner tomorrow. The doorbell rings. "Brian, could you get that?" Mumbling under his breath, Brian stalks to the front door. Sometimes... He is shocked to see Matthew standing on the front porch. "My God..." The boy's face has been pummeled almost beyond recognition. Both his eyes are swelling shut. His lips are split. His nose is smashed nearly flat. "Help..." He then collapses. === Brian and Rhea have been sitting in the emergency room waiting area for several hours. They do not speak. People with sprained limbs, lacerated fingers, and profuse vomiting file past. Neither of them seem to notice. Eventually, Rhea breaks the silence. "There are one hundred eighty three words on that sign. I counted." Brian puts down a pamphlet on menopause. "What the hell is taking so long?" As if on cue, a doctor approaches them. Brian knows him. He knows all the doctors in the ER. For years, Brian's act featured escape tricks of the most dangerous sort. About once a month, he would end up here for stitches, splints or plaster. Two years ago, a slight miscalculation had cost Brian his eye (and very nearly his life). Since then, he'd toned down the dangerous side of the act, much to his wife's relief. "Mr. and Mrs. Howard? Please come with me." He leads them to a small examination room. Another man waits there. He wears the shabby suit and exhausted expression of a social worker. "You understand, I shouldn't be telling you this," says the doctor. "But that boy owes his life to you." "His father did this to him," spits Brian. "We know." "How's he doing?" asks Rhea. The doctor shrugs. "The nose should heal and we were able to save all his teeth." He gestures to an X-ray on the wall. "This has clearly been going on for years. If you hadn't taken an interest in his welfare..." Brian faces the corner, remembering how he had let Matthew return to his father the other day. He very nearly puts his fist through the wall, but the touch of his wife's hand on his shoulder restrains him. "So what happens now?" asks Rhea. The social worker clears his throat. "His mother is deceased and he has no relatives that he knows of. He'll go to the state home. Unless..." "We'll take him," say Brian and Rhea, in unison. === It takes nearly a month for the bureaucrats to approve Rhea and Brian as foster parents. Brian uses the time to remove the guillotine from their spare bedroom and repaint. Rhea goes into overdrive, cooking, cleaning, and making their home a welcoming place for the new arrival. Matthew arrives about four weeks after he'd first encountered Brian. Though his face is healing nicely, the fear in his eyes has increased. He stands on the doorstep next to the social worker, in clothes too large, looking ready to bolt. It's a sad fact, but it's a lot easier to damage a child than to repair one. Despite his foster parents' kindness, Matthew is still very much broken. Brian's attempts at manly camaraderie only scare him, and he doesn't know how to react to Rhea's pampering. Too often, they hear Matthew crying in his room. But little by little, he begins to come out of his shell. Matthew learns that the people he lives with are genuinely kind. They think of him as more than a guest. He doesn't need their permission to use the bathroom. He is allowed to take food out of the fridge whenever he wants. He doesn't have to walk with his back to the wall. For the first time in his young life, Matthew begins to lose that look of terror on his face. One evening, Rhea is baking cookies for a charity thing and Matthew shyly asks if he can help. "Now we need to add just a little nutmeg here. Or ginger, if you have it." Rhea looks at the recipe on the box. "It doesn't say anything about that." "Forget the recipe. I know what I'm doing." As Rhea gathers the ingredients, she glances at Matthew. He's strangely adorable, wearing her apron, with a smudge of flour on his cheek. She mentally curses the man who hurt him. "You're quite good at this, Matthew." "Thank you, Mrs. Howard." She sighs. "You know, you can call me Rhea." They'd gone back and forth on this, but Matthew still would only address them as Mr. and Mrs. Howard. "Okay, let's slip them in the oven. We'll check things in a few minutes." Rhea slips on an oven mitt. "So where did you learn to bake, Matthew?" "I've always been kind of good at it. My father...he didn't like me cooking. Said it was women's work." He doesn't notice the dark look that passes over Rheas face. "That's nonsense." "Well...I've always enjoyed being in the kitchen. I'd love to help. I mean, if you don't think that's weird." Rhea removes the mitt and places a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "Of course I don't think that." "And Mr. Howard?" he asks, nervously. "I think he's a little sick of my cooking. I was never very good at fixing meals." "Does he do the cooking?" "No, we eat out a lot." Matthew busies himself with cleaning things up. Rhea mentally debates whether she should talk to Matthew about his past, or just leave well enough alone. "Mrs. Howard? May I ask you a personal question?" "Of course." "How come you and Mr. Howard never had children?" Rhea smiles sadly. "We wanted to. We really did. But...I can't. It's just one of those things." Matthew looks like his heart is breaking. "Did you ever think about adoption?" Rhea takes out a rag and begins to wipe down the counter. "Yes. But...well, when you adopt, they really look at your entire life. Everything. And when I was younger...I mean, not much older than you...let's just say there are things in my past that scare off birth mothers." It's now Rhea who looks damaged. Slowly, Matthew approaches her. "That's too bad, Mrs. Howard. You two would have made great parents." And much to Rhea's surprise, he hugs her. === A week later, while Rhea is out grocery shopping, Matthew and Brian sit at the kitchen table. "Now was this your card?" Matthew's eyes open wide in amazement. "That's incredible! How did you do that?" "Easy. I wanted you to draw that card. You just thought you chose it yourself." Brian demonstrates how he forced Matthew to pick a card of his choosing. "Wow. You're very talented, Mr. Howard." "Brian." "How long have you done magic?" Brian leans back in his chair, absentmindedly shuffling the deck. "As long as I can remember. In elementary school, I used to practice 'sawing a lady in two' with my half sister." He's annoyed when Matthew doesn't laugh. "Has Mrs. Howard always been your assistant? I mean, since you started doing this professionally?" "No. I started the act with a girl named Tracy. We worked in a dump of a city called Dead Springs. This was about twenty, twenty-two years ago. At any rate, just when I get an offer to play Vegas for the first time, Tracy runs off and gets married to a guy from Australia. Back then I was doing a lot of escape acts, and I couldn't do that without someone who knew the routine inside and out. Well, Rhea was the only one who fit the bill. She was working backstage at the time. I kind of Shanghaied her into joining the act." "Was it love at first sight?" Matthew has such a whimsical, dreamy expression on his face, Brian has to stop himself from laughing. "No. Not even close. Rhea, she was only about nineteen at the time. She hadn't really grown into her looks yet. Pretty awkward, actually. And she thought I was a mentally unstable idiot. Neither of us was happy with the arrangement, but I needed help and she needed a job." "So when did you two...you know..." Brian is amused to see that Matthew is blushing slightly. "It's funny. After we started working together, we became good friends. But we still never went beyond that for almost a year. And then one day--bang! We realized what had been staring us in the face the whole time." His face breaks into a big, cheesy grin. "And you've been together ever since!" squeals Matthew. Brian stops smiling. "No, actually. We almost ended things right when they were just getting started. I think we both got a little scared of the future." He stares into space for a long moment. "Matthew, if you ever find someone like Rhea, don't let her go. You might not get a second chance." Matthew nods, but stays silent. After a moment, he points to the cards. "Show me another trick?" After Matthew has gone to bed, Rhea sits down next to Brian on the living room sofa. "You know, I was watching you with Matthew. For the record, I still think you're mentally unstable." Brian takes a swig of his beer. "And yet you married me. What's that say about you?" Rhea playfully punches his shoulder. "I think that's the first time I've ever heard you explain how you do a trick." "He was interested." "I know. I just never thought you'd reveal your secrets to anyone." Rhea's not exaggerating. Brian jealously guards his tricks from everyone except his wife. Even old routines like the linking rings or the zig zag girl, Brian keeps to himself. He seems uncomfortable. "That was the first time Matthew really talked to me. I think we can trust him." Rhea leans over and kisses her husband. "You can be awfully nice when you want to. But listen...when you were talking to Matthew about meeting girls...you know there's a pretty good chance there will never be a woman in his life. Do you catch my drift?" Brian takes another drink. "Yeah, I got that vibe too." "And if that's the case..." prods Rhea. Brian shakes his head. "If Matthew ever tries to bring a boy home to this house, I swear I will rude, embarrassing, and obnoxious. The same as if he brings a girl home." Rhea snuggles close to her husband. "That's my guy." === The lives of our three heroes settle down after about two months. Summer is ending, and there is talk of enrolling Matthew in school. He admits he isn't looking forward to starting the eighth grade, but it somehow seems less daunting now. Everything in Matthew's world is good. At least, as good as he can expect. Mr. and Mrs. Howard are great. For the first time in his life, he has a safe place to sleep, food to eat, and has lost that sense of dread that has plagued him for years. There is just one problem. And every day, that problem threatens to destroy everything Matthew has achieved. Every bit of happiness his foster parents have worked to give him. Matthew chooses to hide his inner struggle for as long as possible. It all comes to a head one evening in early August. Rhea and Brian are spending the weekend giving a show in Reno. Though they have invited Matthew to come along, he says he isn't feeling well and asks to stay home. Rhea insists that they cancel the appearance, but Brian takes Matthew's side. "The boy's a teenager. He can take care of himself for a couple of days. He'll call us if he needs something." After what seems like an hour of goodbyes and instructions from Rhea, she and Brian take off for their trip. And Matthew is alone in the house for the first time ever. For nearly half an hour, Matthew stands at the front door, just staring, making sure they are truly gone. He then tiptoes toward Brian and Rhea's room. Just before he touches the doorknob, he pauses, ashamed. Mr. and Mrs. Howard have been so incredibly kind to him. If they knew what he was about to do...it would all be over. They'd kick him out. He should try to be strong. He should call them and ask to go with them. He should... No...this is his one chance. He has to do it. Their room is tidy. Matthew has rarely been in here, but he's spied enough to know where things are. Mr. Howard keeps most of his clothes and things in a closet downstairs, in a spare bedroom. Mrs. Howard, Matthew knows, uses this bedroom's walk-in closet. He stands in front of the closet for a moment, his eyes shut, as if preparing himself. Then, like a diver leaping into a pool of cold water, he throws the doors open. He smiles. There it is. There it all is. Mrs. Howard's wardrobe. Not only her skirts and dresses and slacks for everyday wear. Her formal dresses and gowns. The outrageous costumes she wears for the act. For a moment, all Matthew can do is stare at this cornucopia of feminine clothes. Slowly, he walks the length of the closet, pausing to touch the sleeve of a blouse of to fondle the fabric of a dress. And then he disrobes. He removes all his clothes, saving only his threadbare briefs, one final holdover from the bad old days. Without pausing, he walks to a small dresser. It's where Rhea keeps her underthings, her lingerie, her bras. Matthew slowly, reverently, pulls out a pair of black hose and a matching bra. He returns to the bedroom and sits on the bed. Gently, carefully, he pulls on the hose. It is not a sexual act. It's comfortable. He's done this before. They're a little too long, Matthew is shorter than Rhea, but they fit, more or less. Without pausing, Matthew takes up the bra and wraps it around his scrawny chest. Looking unhappily at the limp and empty B cups, he retrieves a pair of Rhea's socks and stuffs them down the front. It's not a great fit, but it'll do. He returns to the closet and for ten minutes, closely examines each of Rhea's outfits. Finally, after much deliberation, he takes a pink blouse off a hanger, followed by a denim skirt. He's soon fully dressed in Rhea's things. He dips into her jewelry box and retrieves a pair of cheap, clip on earrings. Then, with a deep breath, he stands in front of the full length mirror. And smiles. He's still awkward, scrawny, and undeveloped. His eyes are too big, his carriage far too ungraceful. But with his longish hair, skirt, and blouse...he'd easily be taken for a girl. No one would look twice. If he had the courage to use Rhea's makeup, he could complete the illusion, but he couldn't risk her noticing he'd touched her things. Matthew stands in front of the mirror, trying pose after pose. Giggly. Sassy. Scared. Serious. The more he models, the more natural he looks. If he were to shave his legs, get his ears pierced, and do his nails, no one would ever suspect he was male. And then a low wolf whistle splits the air and Matthew realizes he's not alone. In nightmare-slow time, he turns his head, praying to see a burglar or serial killer. It's Mr. and Mrs. Howard, standing in the bedroom doorway. There's no telling how long they've been watching. "Nice outfit," says Mrs. Howard. "I don't know about those dark hose, though." Matthew doesn't wait to hear more. He rushes past them, down the hall, out the front door, and into the night. === Matthew has been walking for hours. He's not wearing shoes, and the bottoms have long since worn out of Mrs. Howard's nylons. Rocks and bits of glass bite the soles of his feet. He has no idea where he's going. He only knows where he can never return. Why couldn't he keep a lid on his perversion? He'd had things so good with the Howards. All he had to do way deny the way he felt. And now he's blown it. Destroyed the happy family they'd been so desperate to create. They'll never take him back, now that they realize what he is. It's better this way. Matthew knows in his heart of hearts that people like him didn't deserve to be with good people like Brian and Rhea. Better he leaves now, before he really embarrasses them. So where to? Maybe back to children's services, to ask to be placed in another foster home. Or maybe he could live out here on the streets. Maybe he could just walk into the desert and never come out again. "Hey, sweetcheeks!" Matthew freezes in horror. In his misery, he hasn't realized he isn't alone. A group of four boys--college students by the looks of it--are watching him from a park bench. Matthew walks faster. Someone's following him. "Hey, come over here." Footsteps. He starts to run. And suddenly he's surrounded. Big, burly guys. Drunk. "Hey, c'mon, cutie. We just want to talk." Matthew tries to break free from the circle, but it's hopeless. One of them grabs his arm. "Hey, you wanna party?" Matthew isn't sure what they mean, but he's terrified beyond belief. Something bad is about to happen. Especially when these psychos discover his secret. A sickly roar fills the night. A car smokes into view, an ancient wreck held together with baling wire and the power of prayer. It screeches to a halt at the curb. The guys scatter and vanish into the night. A scowling, one-eyed face appears at the window. "Get in the car, Matthew. Now." === Matthew sits alone in his room. There are no tears left. Mr. Howard tried to talk to him in the car, but it was too much. He broke down sobbing and didn't stop for the whole awkward ride home. The second he was alone in his room, Matthew tore off his shameful attire and changed back into the appropriate (yet somehow wrong) clothes for his gender. He now knows that his foster parents would never throw him out. They are too good to do that. But this somehow makes things worse. How can he face them? They know what a disgusting weirdo he is. They'll never be able to forget what they've seen. Matthew's only hope is to apologize and never speak of this again. To promise to never weaken, never betray their trust. If they are merciful, they will allow him to forget what he's done. Maybe they'll even forgive him one day. There is a timid knock at the door. Knowing that he cannot put off this humiliating encounter, he whispers 'come in.' It's Mrs. Howard. She awkwardly balances a tray of hot chocolate and cookies in one hand and holds some sort of a book tucked under her other arm. "I thought you could use a snack." Matthew helps her set the tray on his desk. "Mrs. Howard...about what you saw earlier..." "Shhh." She joins him on the bed and lays a freckled hand on his arm. "Please. Don't talk. Just listen. There's something I want to show you." Relieved that he won't have to make his speech immediately, Matthew nods. Mrs. Howard lays the book on her lap. "I made this for Brian, for our twentieth anniversary. It's kind of a scrapbook of our time together. Look." Oddly, Rhea begins by opening the book to the very last page, revealing a recent photo of the magician and his assistant. They look like any other middle-aged couple, grinning for the camera. Somehow, the fact that Mrs. Howard is inside two different boxes isn't strange. Rhea begins to flip backward, showing Matthew newspaper clippings of recent shows and events. Despite his misery, the young man is intrigued. "When was this one taken?" "A couple of years ago. That was when Brian tried to catch that crossbow dart in his teeth." "Wow. Did it work?" Rhea's brow wrinkles. "Noticed that's the last picture of him without his eye patch?" Slowly, they work their way to the front of the book. The photos of Brian and Rhea show a younger and younger couple. Matthew lingers over each photo, wondering why Mrs. Howard is showing this to him now, but grateful for the reprieve. "This was on our honeymoon." Mr. and the new Mrs. Howard stand on a beach. Rhea is wearing a bikini that leaves little to the imagination. Mrs. Howard flips a few pages forward. "Here's my first time working with Brian on stage. I think he told you that he kind of forced me into the act when he lost his assistant. God, I can't believe how awkward I was!" Matthew doesn't bother to argue. While young Brian looks just as confident and handsome and arrogant as always, young Rhea...wow. Her hair is shorter, her limbs gangly, her curves nonexistent. The seductive assistant's costume she wears does little to hide how uncomfortable she is. She flips another page. It's a picture of Mr. Howard with an attractive platinum blonde. "This is Brian with his old assistant, Tracy. She ran off and married an Australian guy, which was why Brian was so desperate to get me on stage." They are now almost at the front of the book. This page is a large color spread from some sort of magazine: IDIOT MAGICAN NEARLY DROWNS IN UNDERWATER ESCAPE ATTEMPT Matthew gasps at the photo. It was taken beside some sort of hotel swimming pool. A prone figure lays sprawled on the deck. He's obviously unconscious and appears to be bound in a straitjacket. Two medics lean over him, performing CPR. Tracy hovers behind them, looking horrified. Matthew is about to ask about the accident when he pauses and looks at the picture again. There's a skinny, redheaded man standing behind Tracy, his hand clasping her arm. He'd obviously been assisting with the escape, as he's wearing nothing but swim trunks. His scrawny, freckled torso stands out clearly. But his face...it was uncanny. Matthew knew it was impossible, but he bore such a striking resemblance to the photo of young Rhea on the previous page. They could have been siblings. "Mrs. Howard?" She only smiles enigmatically and opens the album to the very front page. "This was when I first joined Brian and Tracy." It's a publicity photo for Brian's act, back when he was just starting out. Brian and Tracy stand in the middle, surrounded by a half dozen stagehands and assistants. There's the redheaded guy again. His face is much clearer in this shot, and there is no denying how closely he resembled young Rhea...and older Rhea. The shape of the nose, the pointy chin, the eyes...identical. A handwritten caption lists the guy as 'Ray.' Matthew looks at his foster mother, a question in his face. "No, I don't have a twin brother." Rhea closes the book. "Matthew, I'm about to tell you something that very few people besides Brian and I know." She smiles, faintly. Matthew is almost afraid to breathe. "The reason it was such a crazy idea for me to be Brian's assistant...the reason it took us so long to hook up...the reason we haven't been able to have children..." She pauses, chewing on her lip. "Matthew, until I was nearly twenty years old, I was a man. A guy named Ray." Matthew realizes his mouth is hanging open, but he doesn't care. Mrs. Howard? No, it was impossible. She was so beautiful and feminine and perfect. But looking back and forth between the awkward freckled face in the picture and Mrs. Howard's smiling face, there was no denying, this was the same person. "How?" Rhea laughs. "Tracy was all in love and ready to move to Australia, right when Brian got his first big change to play Vegas. He couldn't do his escapes without someone who knew the act perfectly. And male magicians never have men for assistants. So Tracy suggested I take over her role." "But...you look so..." "Tracy was an excellent coach. But it still took a lot of padding and tucking, there at first." "But...why? I mean..." Matthew suddenly feels his secrets trying to rush forward out of his mouth. He quickly contains them. "Did you like being Rhea?" "At first, no. But I was so desperate for the money, I was willing to do anything. But after a month or two...I sort of kind of started to like dressing pretty. And being confident and attractive and assertive. I was an unhappy man, but I kind of grew into my life as a woman. It fit better. It felt more natural. "The longer I was Rhea, the more my life as Ray seemed awkward and inappropriate. I wouldn't admit that to myself, of course, but I stopped fighting it. Especially when my therapist prescribed me estrogen injections. And when I had my breasts done...well, I could hardly say that was just for the act." Matthew's head is swimming. The most beautiful, feminine person he knows spent almost half her life as a guy! Rhea keeps telling her story. "Even after a year, I wasn't willing to admit how much happier I was. I actually told Brian I was going to go back to being Ray when our contract was up. Obviously things didn't work out that way. So I had another operation. And I Brian and I haven't been apart since." It's too much for Matthew. He stands, walks to the other side of the room and leans his head on the wall. Mrs. Howard follows. "Matthew, I'm sorry we barged in on you earlier. Tonight's show was cancelled unexpectedly. Now you don't have to talk about what happened if you don't feel like it. But know this: you're in a safe place. And if there's anything you'd like to tell me, I think you know that I would probably understand." Matthew freezes. He knows what he's about to say cannot be taken back. He could easily tell Mrs. Howard that wore her clothes out of curiosity or was just playing around or something. She wouldn't push it. But something told him that an opportunity like this only happens once in a lifetime. "Mrs. Howard..." he turns and faces the woman who has been so kind to him. "I'm...I'm a girl. Female. I've known it all my life. My father...my biological father always suspected. That's why he hated me so much. I've tried to hide it. I've tried to be a boy, but it just gets harder and harder. I'm sorry I went into your closet, but...everything was just so pretty. It felt natural. Does that make sense?" Rhea is grinning. "You poor thing. I wish we'd met you ten years ago. Matthew, you've done nothing to be ashamed of." Matthew ducks his head. "I feel like such a freak." Rhea lays an arm on his shoulder. "If you're a freak, then so am I. And if you are female inside, then maybe it's time you stop living like a male on the outside." Matthew's eyes go wide in shock. "You mean you wouldn't mind if..." He can't finish. "We don't have to decide anything tonight. But it seems to me that at thirteen, a young lady should start acting like one." The tears are coming now. Never in all his dreams did Matthew believe he could share this horrible secret with someone and they'd understand. "What about Mr. Howard? Will he be okay with this?" Rhea laughs. "Brian turned a guy named Ray into his wife. I don't think he'll be bothered if you start wearing skirts." Matthew wipes an eye on his sleeve. "You mean I could borrow your things again?" His foster mother tussles his hair. "No. I think maybe tomorrow we'll go out and get you some things of your own. Would you like that?" All Matthew can do is nod. Rhea looks at the clock. "Goodness, it's nearly three in the morning. I think it's time we turn in." She touches Matthew's cheek. "It's going to be okay, honey. You don't have to put on an act anymore. From now on, you can be who you really are." Matthew is full on sobbing now. Rhea holds him until he calms down. "I think I'm going to be okay." "Just call me if you need me. Good night, Matthew...hmm. In light of things, that name doesn't seem appropriate. Have you given any thought to--" "Martha," he answers, with no hesitation. "Martha. That's a sweet name. Good night, Martha." "Thank you, Mrs. Howard." She's reaching for the door, but stops. "I've asked you repeatedly to call me Rhea. Why won't you?" A sniffle. "I can't do that. But would you might if I called you..." "Yes?" "I mean...if you don't want me to, I understand, but could I call you...Mom?" This time, it's Rhea who's crying. All she can do is nod. And hug Martha. === Outside in the hall, a shadowy figure moves away from the door where he's been eavesdropping. It's time for him to leave. Maybe he only has one functioning eye. But both his tear ducts sure as hell work. === TWO YEARS LATER Brian emerges from the flaming pile of debris in the center of the stage. Fire and ash seem to fall away from him as if he weren't of this world. "Now is this your card?" The audience cheers wildly. He bows, drinking in their adoration. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to the newest member of our magic family...Martha!" As Martha sashays out on stage, Brian grimaces. He has repeatedly asked her to wear a more modest outfit. This costume, with the tight hose, the short skirt, and the midriff-baring top leaves little to the imagination, and Brian doesn't like it. Especially since her therapist started prescribing those injections. Martha is developing curves, which Brian doesn't think should be on display. Rhea says he's just being prudish. The audience applauds the attractive young woman. From the back of the house, several shrill voices scream "Martha! We love you!" This is another irritant. Since Martha started high school, Brian's home has been overrun by teenage girls who hog the TV, raid the fridge and blast that godawful boy band music at all hours. At least she was making friends. Martha winks at Brian and his annoyance falls away. He helps her into a large box, then takes out a saw. === When the act is over, Brian returns backstage to congratulate his new assistant. With Martha helping out, this will give Rhea more time to relax, and will finally allow her to retire from her role as the sexy young assistant. Not that she won't still help out on stage. Brian was old fashioned, and wasn't going to drive swords through another woman. Not after twenty years of marriage. "Martha, great..." he trails off. She's sitting on a box of props. And she's not alone. Carlos, the teenage stagehand, is sitting next to her. Very close to her. "I don't just play football, you know," he says with aggressive modesty. "I run track, too. I'm also on the debate team." Martha just looks at him with a smile. "Carlos!" barks Brian. "I thought I told you to clean out the storage room!" Carlos leaps to his feet. "I...I did, sir. This morning." "Well...do it again!" Before Carlos can scuttle off, Martha slides off her box. "I'll help you." As they leave, Brian can't help but notice Martha take the boy's hand. He's still standing there fuming, when a pair of freckled arms wrap around his neck from behind. "You know you can't stop it," says Rhea. "The hell I can't. Where's my shotgun?" She grinds her chin into his neck. "C'mon, Brian. You remember what it was like to be a teenager." "Of course I remember! Why do you think I'm so worried?" Rhea spins her husband around and looks him in the eye. "Because you're a father. That's what dads do. They worry." A burst of teenage laughter echoes from the nearby storeroom. Brian frowns, then sighs. "She's my daughter. I can't help it." Rhea smiles. "And that's why you make such a great dad." She silences any further protests with a deep kiss.