Arie and I had been sharing the wall since junior high, ever since Mr. Jansen collected enough materials to enclose half the porch to build his son a real bedroom. Boys, too, eventually needed privacy. Around that time, Morse code on “SOS” cards, from navy-themed bubble gum packs, had provided the two of us a creative way to chat on sleepless nights; we’d used taps for dots and sliding sounds for dashes. Although we rarely did this past our teens, the method was still ingrained.

Except this time, I had no desire to respond.

He continued regardless.

I WAS WORRIED. AND MEAN. IM SORRY.

I didn’t answer.

IM A HEEL

A strong reply in the affirmative was tempting, but so was subjecting him to silence.

AND CHUMP

I still held out.

AND NINCOMPOOP

That one lured my smile. I pushed it down. Determined to stay cross, I sent back:

YES

Several seconds passed before he added:

BUT

Then nothing. I braced myself. If he thought he was justified in the things he said, he was roundly mistaken. I insisted he finish.

BUT WHAT

BUT YOURE

I waited, hands balling.

STILL A BAD MAGICIAN

Thrown off course, I released a snip of laughter. I quickly sealed my lips, regretting he might have heard.

More of his taps followed.

FORGIVE ME?

At the mere question, a powerful combination of two simple words, the last of my resentment slipped from my grasp, elusive as silt through my fingers.

PLEASE

A meager yes would have sufficed. For anyone else who had said what he did, I wouldn’t have conceded even that much. But this was Arie.

I gave him my answer, begrudging though honest.

OF COURSE

***

To make full amends, Arie invited me on an outing. We were to meet after our work shifts the very next evening. He refused to disclose what “big surprise” he had in store, solid bait for any aspiring illusionist. How could I possibly resist a dangling of suspense?

In hindsight, mind you, I should have stopped to think. I should have identified the true root of our quarrel. I should have recognized where it could lead.

And I never should have gone.

Chapter 24

When Arie guided me out of the taxicab and up to the ticket window, his secrecy became confounding. The evening excursion was hardly a rarity. We’d patronized the small, aged cinema quite a lot, not just for the low fare but because it clung loyally to silent films despite talkies being all the rage.

Per the marquee, its current showing of The Invader neglected to give much insight. I enjoyed Buster Keaton for certain, but not any more than a slew of other stars.

Inside, only a handful of guests peppered the worn auditorium, typical this time of year. Lacking an air cooler, the place offered little relief from the stagnant heat and humidity.