The Magician's Assistant

by Ann Patchett

In Los Angeles it had been hard not to take things personally: What reason did he have to lie to her? But in Nebraska, in this kitchen, it didn’t seem so much like lying. He had remade his life, and when he was finished it was the only life he knew. In Nebraska this seemed reasonable, smart, a wool coat with toggles.

Parsifal, her friend, her husband, had made himself a happy life like someone else would make a seaworthy boat, following step by careful step.

Nobody’s going to ask you to live in Nebraska. You have to be born in Nebraska to want to stay here, I know that. Half the time that doesn’t even do the trick.

It sounded like departure was part of the cycle, the yearly autumn in their relationship, after which she settled back in for the winter. Kitty looked neither convincing nor convinced when she spoke of staying away this time. There was only a note of wanting in her voice, a tired desire. Staying away was a wish, like wanting a new winter coat or an extra fifteen-minute break at work or a sewing room.

“When you’re young and you want to have a baby because babies are so cute and everybody else has one, nobody ever takes you aside and explains to you what happens when they grow up. Maybe they all think it’s obvious. I mean, if you know enough about biology to know where babies come from, then you should know that sooner or later they turn into teenagers, but somehow you just don’t ever think about it, then one day, bang, you’ve got these total strangers living with you, these children in adult bodies, and you don’t know who they are. It’s like they somehow ate up those children you had and you loved, and you keep loving these people because you know they’ve got your child locked up in there somewhere.”

“You love them so much and yet you keep wondering when they’re going to leave.”

Dot had wanted her house to herself but was so accustomed to disappointment that she took it all in graceful stride.