45

Eleven Years Old

“You know how magicians make their magic, don’t you?”

It’s the winter Salem decides to try bangs. Rather than looking like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, which had been her goal, she resembles a poodle at Westminster. Bel tells her she looks fine—fluffy—and subsequently talks Salem out of dropping out of sixth grade.

Salem’s dad’s shop is insulated, and he is working on a simple TV stand. She doesn’t understand why he’s wasting his time on something so basic—a cube of wood with two drawers in the front, big enough to support a twenty-three-inch before the US got rid of the fat-backed cathode ray TVs. You could pick up a table just like it at Sears.

“I suppose,” Salem says, though she’s never really given it thought before, “that they get you to look one way and do their trick another.”

Daniel slaps his knee. “Exactly!”

Salem feels the warm drops of his pride speckle her skin, just like she always feels when she works with her dad. She points at the ugly lump he’s working on. “Is that what you’re doing here? Is there a prettier piece of furniture inside?”

Daniel laughs. He’s never been mad at Salem, not that she can remember.

“If there’s ever been a smarter child, I don’t want to meet her. No, this plain piece of furniture is all there is to it. Unless,” he says, holding up a finger, his eyes twinkling, “you try to open the drawers.”

Intrigued, Salem reaches for the round knob holding the top drawer. It doesn’t budge. She tries the bottom drawer. Same.

Vida dances out to the workshop to inform them dinner is ready, bringing in the solid cold of winter. Her cheeks are flushed. She’s happy because her parents are visiting, and she’s made all their favorite foods—a chicken, walnut, and pomegranate stew aromatic with saffron and cinnamon, rice and fava beans flecked with fresh dill, lamb kebabs flavored with lemon and salt. Their house has smelled succulent all day. Vida kisses Daniel on the cheek, and he slips his hand around her waist and dips her for a full kiss. Salem looks away. She’s embarrassed and proud that her parents love each other so much.

Vida giggles and pushes away from Daniel.

“Mom,” Salem says, “Dad made a TV stand with drawers that don’t work.”

Her parents exchange a glance. Daniel speaks. “Think of the magicians, Salem. Move your focus away from what you see.”

Salem works at it for ten minutes, but the drawers are solid, no trip switches on any of them. Vida murmurs something to him. Daniel’s smile drops. He leans forward, grips the top edges of the stand, and turns the whole rectangle 45 degrees counterclockwise. Underneath lies an unfinished piece of wood. Next, Daniel pulls out both drawer knobs exactly as if they are the handles on cigarette vending machines. Finally, he places a hand flat on each side of the stand and presses gently. The front of the unit pops open, not two drawers as the design suggests but one.

“But it’s just a drawer, exactly as it appears!” Salem exclaims. “Why would you make it so difficult to open?”

Daniel’s smile has returned. “The best place to hide something is always in plain sight.”

This is one of Salem’s earliest exposures to the furniture equivalent of steganography. In a year, she will use the same principal to craft a balsa box etched with an om for her mother.