The Rules of Magic (36 page)

Before his appearance at Whitehall Street, Vincent called his sisters into the kitchen. “There's something I need to say in case anything happens to me.”

“It won't,” Jet assured him. “You'll be fine.”

“But if something
does
happen,” Vincent went on, “you should know about me and April.”

Franny furrowed her brow. “Did you have an argument? I didn't even know you were in touch with her.”

“No one can argue with April. She's always right.” He paused. “We're in touch on and off. We have to be.” When Franny gave him a look, he added, “Jet knows what I'm talking about.”

“Does she really?” Franny said, annoyed at having been left out. “She no longer has the sight, so you must have confided in her.”

“It was a long time ago,” Jet was quick to say.

“I didn't confide in her,” Vincent told Franny. “April did. It happened the summer we first went to Aunt Isabelle's. When I didn't know who I was or what I wanted. For a brief moment I thought I wanted April.”

“Seriously?” Franny shook her head. “That's hard to picture.”

“Well, picture that it ended up with Regina.”

Franny was stunned. “Really?” She looked over at Jet.

“Really,” Jet said.

“Well, I think that's wonderful,” Franny concluded. “That's a gift. I thought you were going to tell us something terrible, but this is actually good news. I dislike children, but I liked her. I still have her drawing.”

“Franny, I'm telling you about this now in case the worst
comes to pass. April and I decided that if we should both die early, we want Regina to be with you.”

Franny wouldn't hear of it. “That's a mistake. I wouldn't be a good influence. Neither of us would be, really.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jet said primly.

“There's no way out of it. April and I agreed on this some time ago. You're Regina's godmothers. You'll be her guardians.”

They sat at the table and he brought forth the legal papers he'd had the family lawyer, Jonas Hardy, draw up. He'd already sent the document to April for signing, and now the sisters signed as well.

“This is all very official,” Franny said. “I happen to have something official as well, thanks to Haylin.”

She handed Vincent a note that he then scanned.

“I have asthma?” he said.

Jet handed him the vial they had prepared for him. “You do now.”

He explained to William that he had to go alone, but William wouldn't hear of it. “I thought we were ruining our lives together.”

William hailed a taxi and they secretly held hands as they traveled downtown, and then on the corner of Whitehall Street, Vincent had the cabbie pull over. William was so honest and forthright, Vincent couldn't share with him the plan his sisters had come up with. It was somewhat dangerous, and he knew William would disapprove of him putting himself at risk, which made Vincent love him all the more.

“You're coming back,” William said, leaning in close. “I have the sight, too. I know we'll be together.”

Vincent walked the rest of the way to the induction center. He had brought along the official letter written on the stationery of the chief pulmonologist at St. Vincent's that stated that he had severe asthma and could not serve his country. The stationery was real, stolen from the chief's desk while he was at lunch, but the letter itself was forgery, written by a resident whose last radical act had been to chain himself to a rack in the cafeteria of his high school. Vincent was wired and jumpy; he could barely stay seated when brought into the spare office of the MD who would examine him. He was such a good liar, the best of the best, so why was it that his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth? Why, when the doctor walked into the room, did he fall silent?

Franny and Jet had decided to go to the induction center to wait outside for Vincent. They both were as nervous as birds. “Fuck Richard Nixon,” Jet said.

“Agreed,” Franny said.

“We're doing the right thing, aren't we?”

“Of course we are. He can't go. I've always seen his life would end too early. It's right there in the palm of his hand. We have to do everything we can to protect him.”

They'd given Vincent wolfsbane, grown in their tiny greenhouse. He'd been advised to consume it with great caution, for the herb was dangerous, and could affect the heart and lungs with lethal action, interfering with his breathing.
Just a pinch,
Franny had told him.
We don't want you to actually be dead.
Unfortunately, his emotional good-bye with William had caused him to forget the vial in the backseat of the taxi, something he didn't realize until he was already sitting in the doctor's office.

His lungs seemed fine when the MD had him breathe in and out. “Clear as a bell,” he was told. “How long have you had the asthma?”

“At least five years,” Vincent said. Having been in a rush he didn't bother to fully read the letter, which stated his asthma had begun at the age of ten.

“And what medications have you used?” the doctor asked.

“Various ones,” Vincent said. “Mostly organic.”

“But you don't know the names of any of them?”

“You know, my sister takes care of my health. She's the one who knows everything about my medications.”

“But your sister isn't here, is she?” the doctor said.

Vincent waited in his underwear while the doctor went to confer. When he returned nearly half an hour later, a soldier in uniform accompanied him. The pulmonary specialist at St. Vincent's Hospital had been phoned. He'd never heard of a Vincent Owens and the files at the hospital had no information about such a patient. Did Mr. Owens wish to recant his story? Or perhaps he'd prefer prison? Actually, Vincent said, he'd prefer a psychiatrist.

“Are you saying you're mentally ill?” the doctor asked.

“That's for others to decide,” Vincent responded, sick at heart but not seeing any other choice. He was desperate to get out of his service.

By now, hours had passed and Jet and Franny were freezing on the sidewalk. Men who had walked into Whitehall at the
same time as Vincent had already left. They had no idea that their brother was being interviewed in the psychiatry department, where he explained that he was a homosexual, and that he couldn't serve because he was also a wizard and he would do no harm to anyone if they tried to send him overseas.

Franny finally went inside at six that evening. Her footfalls echoed, for the building had emptied. It was a place of fate and the scent in the hall was that of fear and sorrow and courage. Outside, the sky was dark blue, threaded through with clouds. There was a chill in every breath you took. Jet stayed out on the street shivering. On this day she wished she still had the sight. She had developed a fear of crowds and stayed away from public spaces.

At the front desk, Franny was told there was no information. Her brother was no longer in the building and they were closing for the night.

“That's not possible,” she declared. “I've been right outside waiting for him all day. If he had left I would have seen him.”

“Back entrance,” she was told, “used for expedited departures.”

The sisters and William were worried sick. It was as if Vincent had disappeared from the face of the earth. Franny went to the Jester to search for him, while William checked Washington Square and Jet stayed at home in case he should call.

“Maybe we should phone the police,” Jet said when they had all failed to find him.

William phoned his father, then came back with his report. “No police,” he said. “We just wait.”

The following week, an official letter finally arrived. The three sat around the kitchen table that had been in the family's home, the one that had been tilted ever since Franny and Vincent first experimented with their powers. Jet was the one who finally opened the letter, and she read it aloud in a small voice that shook with emotion. Vincent had been examined and found to be psychotic and delusional. He had been admitted to Pilgrim State Hospital. There was no need to hear more. They needed a lawyer, and Franny called the only one she knew, Jonas Hardy in Boston, who had always handled the Owens family business. He would do the best he could, but once he acquired the hospital admission documents he conceded that getting Vincent released would be a problematic and lengthy process. Their brother had incriminated himself, signing a document that stated he was a homosexual and a wizard who had planned to defraud the U.S. government and avoid military service.

“First things first,” William said. “They won't allow me to see him because I'm not family.” He turned to Franny. “You go. They'll let you in.”

“Me?” Franny said.

“You're straightforward and honest,” William insisted. “And you won't burst into tears.”

“You're right,” Jet agreed. “It has to be Franny.”

“When you come back, we'll sit down with my father and put together a plan,” William said. “We'll get him out.”

Franny took a cab to Long Island that same day. Before leaving she'd had to lock the dog in the bedroom and make sure the windows were shut, so Harry couldn't leap out and search for Vincent. He'd been distressed ever since Vincent's disappearance,
pacing and whining and refusing to eat. “I'm going to find him,” Franny told the dog. “You just stay.”

It was a misty day, and the hospital was shrouded in fog. It was a dreadful looming place, built between two highways, made of brick, with the bleak look of an old factory. There was a great deal of fencing, and bars over the windows. The lights flickered and the hallways were painted a foreboding shade of green. Franny felt intimidated standing in the waiting room. She tasted metal, for this was a place that was dangerous, made of metal that diluted her power. There was no way anyone could make use of the sight here.

At last a social worker came to speak to her. She was a well-meaning woman, but there wasn't much she could do. Vincent was in the wing the army used and no visitors were allowed.

“Why would that be?” Franny asked. “I only want to see my brother. What harm is there in doing so?”

“Only army or medical personnel,” the social worker said. She had a heart and patted Franny's shaking hands. “Trust me, it would be too upsetting for you to see him.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

It meant he was no longer in a straitjacket, no longer fighting or banging his head against the wired-shut window, but viewing the effect of the drugs could be disturbing. He had been too uncontrollable to be in the dormitory with the other patients and had been taken to a single room. He was disheveled and hardly alert, suffering from confusion, trembling whenever there was a loud noise. There would be a report at the end of the month.

“You mean weeks?”

“Unfortunately, yes. We're dealing with a bureaucracy here. Things take time. Sometimes months.”