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Instead, he met her eyes with a flat, unflinching gaze that he hoped she read as:
How could you betray Dad like this? How could you betray all of us? With Bruce Fishbaum of all people?
    â€œI still see the red tail of the handkerchief,” Maisie announced as she marched into the room.
    Felix sighed. He pulled the handkerchief out of the fake thumb and started over, flapping it open with a dramatic flourish.
    Maisie walked over to the window and peered out. From this room, you could see part of the driveway. The part where Bruce Fishbaum’s car would appear at any minute.
    â€œDon’t look,” Felix said gently. “It’ll only make it worse.”
    â€œNote that he’s already ten minutes late,” Maisie said without turning her attention from the driveway below.
    â€œWho?” Felix said casually.
    Even though he couldn’t see his sister’s face, he could picture her rolling her eyes.
    â€œMaybe he won’t come,” Maisie said. “Maybe he’ll stand her up.” Then she added under her breath, “Serves her right.”
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” Felix said to the bull’s head on the wall. “Here I have an ordinary silk handkerchief—”
    â€œAn
ordinary
silk handkerchief?” Maisie snorted.
    â€œAs you can see, I have nothing in my hands—”
    Maisie spun around to face him. “How can you be practicing magic tricks at a time like this?” Her nostrils flared and her eyebrows furrowed, not unlike the bull’s head.
    â€œIf I’m concentrating on this,” he said, waving the handkerchief, “then I don’t have to think about—”
    As if on cue came the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
    Despite his determination to avoid anything about this date of their mother’s, Felix ran to the window, too. He stood beside his sister and watched as Bruce Fishbaum emerged from his shiny silver BMW.
    Maybe Bruce Fishbaum was once considered handsome, Maisie conceded. But now his hair was salt-and-pepper bristles cut short around a big bald head. He had on a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt and a tie that no doubt had a nautical theme. Blue jeans. The gut hanging over the belt.
    â€œUgh,” Maisie said. “Look at him.”
    Felix did, his heart doing funny flips the whole time.
    â€œHe’s fat,” Maisie said.
    Felix watched the top of Bruce Fishbaum’s head, his bald, tanned scalp, disappear. He swallowed hard.
    â€œHe’s—” he began.
    â€œBald,” Maisie finished for him.
    â€œHe’s—”
    â€œConceited? Full of himself?”
    Felix swallowed hard again.
    â€œHe struts!” Maisie said. “Like a rooster!”
    His sister’s face grew blurry through Felix’s tears.
    He shook his head.
    â€œHe’s not Dad,” Felix finally managed to say.

    â€œI’ve been thinking,” Maisie said later that night as she and Felix lay in wait in the Library for their mother’s return.
    They had eaten two bags of microwave popcorn, the extra buttery kind; the funny-shaped lemon cookies that Cook had made earlier; the ends of three different kinds of ice cream; a sleeve of saltines and a bag of stale miniature marshmallows. And still their mother was not home.
    Felix’s eyes threatened to droop shut, but as soon as his lids began to close he saw an image of his mother kissing Bruce Fishbaum, like a scene in a movie, and he bolted wide awake again.
    â€œAre you listening?” Maisie demanded.
    â€œYes,” Felix said through a yawn.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about Great-Uncle Thorne.”
    â€œWas that a car?” Felix said, getting to his feet quickly.
    He waited.
    Nothing.
    Disappointed, he plopped back down on the red leather sofa.
    â€œWhere has he been all this time?” Maisie said.
    When Felix didn’t answer her, she poked him.
    â€œHuh?” she said.