Pelayo rolled his eyes at Elisenda.  What did she know about it?  He told her as much.  He was driving their Dodge pickup along Interstate 80.  A curl of orange flame was emblazoned on both sides of their pale blue ride.  He cast a glance out of their rearview mirror at the sun as it set behind them.  For the moment he was forced to squint against the sand as it blew in from off the desert in both directions. 

“I know enough,” Elisenda responded, kind of pissed so not necessarily articulating it as well as she would like.  “That it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that handing out consolation prizes like some kind of cheap shell game trickster isn’t gonna earn you a whole lot of respect in these parts.”

She said “these parts” like they were actually in a place where the people were worth impressing.  Who wants to impress Nevadans? Pelayo thought.  Especially in the circles they traveled in.  Give him the Jesus and Mary and Joseph Smith freaks any day.  At least they had their hearts in the right place, most of them, most of the time.  “Fuck Nevada,” Pelayo said, knowing it wasn’t much of an answer.  But seriously, what did Elisenda know about working miracles?

Elisenda was of course aware that Pelayo’s game hadn’t been on for quite some time now.  It had been so long that she had begun to feel like maybe it hadn’t ever been right.  At times she wondered if it all wasn’t just an illusion Pelayo had managed to pull over her somehow.  That she was just another gullible country girl who had been seduced by his sleight of hand tricks and fallen for his con.  But as the road rattled on, both the veil and her proverbial patience were beginning to wear thin.  She examined the promise ring on her finger, curled her hand into a fist, and then turned it around to have a better look.  Oh well, she supposed there wasn’t much difference between hope and stupidity anyway.  And who really knows?  Maybe there was some fate mixed in with infatuation too?  All of those lovers being drawn out beyond themselves, if not always in the right direction.

Pelayo’s performance at the motel bar the night before had been pretty par for the course.  He would tell his audience one thing, but then something else would happen in its place.  For instance, he wanted to change one spectator’s water into wine, he even promised a fine Madeira substitute, but had simply drained the person’s glass of water instead.  He followed this disappointment by telling the crowd he would make the glass levitate, but had caused a clump of sand running wet with water to materialize in its place.  Those seated close by had to push their chairs back and grab at their napkins.  At the end of the show the crowd applauded because Pelayo obviously had some talent, but he was all over the place and most had seen better.  Elisenda had come to identify with the cynics, but she could see her youthful self reflected in the eyes of those who had never seen anything quite like it.  A real live magician performing real live magic right in front of their very eyes.  So what if he was a little erratic?

Overall the crowd had found Pelayo amusing enough, but they didn’t beam with that authentic glow.  Their reaction was more of a “huh, kind of neat” response than the true awe he sought to inspire.  Or maybe they were just more confused than anything else.  Stupid, droll, spit-flecked, dumb.  Like collectors lost in the collection, sifters of records in music shops, or bemused antiquarians of the arcane; fetishists drifting on skirts oblivious to their purpose as to the world around them.  Pelayo harrumphed.  They wouldn’t know a true miracle from a hole in their doughnut, or be able to discern a divine missive from an interesting anecdote.

Pelayo seemed to Elisenda like a talk-show host who had lost his direction, but who just went along with how bad it was getting.  Like he was in on the joke with everyone else, but the joke they were in on together was the fact that he was no longer funny.  So even with all appreciation due to the artist’s sober self-acknowledgement of the shortcomings of his craft, Elisenda still had to ask, what was the point?  He was like a celebrity reduced to palming merchandise to make a living.  Once great and renowned, beloved though perhaps always a little misunderstood, now a faded pawn shop owner inflexible to the slightest barter on the smallest dollar.  And how much is a joke worth anyway? Elisenda wondered.  At least a buck.  Perhaps as much as a song or a book?

Elisenda knows things aren’t right with Pelayo, but she doesn’t know how to talk about it with him.  So instead she just tears into him.  She hates their life on the run.  An itinerant stage hand, that’s what I feel like she tells him.  A fuckin’ carnie.  She can’t believe it.  Who would have thought?  She couldn’t stand the look the clerk gave them as they checked out of the Super 8 this morning, like he’d been disappointed by the show or something.  Elisenda didn’t say anything to Pelayo about this, but he could tell she was upset.  It wore on him a little, her dejection, her frustration.  But mainly he was caught up in his own disillusionment. 

One of these days, Pelayo tells her.  He keeps promising her he’ll get it right.  He’ll will it and it’ll happen.  He’ll shape clay into something that matters, break the iron links of necessity, pull back the sensible fabric and reveal the hidden world.  Until then though they both know he’ll just keep giving cautious parlor room conjurations that end with everyone leaving more or less unimpressed, still in search of the true great miracle. 

If someone else finds it before them, Pelayo and Elisenda will definitely go see the show.  And who knows, maybe it won’t be where they’re looking for it after all?  Or maybe they just won’t have the eyes to see it, and so will misrecognize it should the time ever come?  Wouldn’t that be the upshot of it all, Pelayo mused.  To be surprised by joy, to be caught up by it, or to be completely caught unawares besides?  It would have to be that way, he decided, if you really think about it.

But he didn’t say anything of this to Elisenda.  Instead he looked at her as she gazed out her window, then he put his hand on her lap.  She placed hers on top of his and left it there, her head still turned to the desert outside.  The affirmative yea, Pelayo thought as he brought his attention back to the road before them.  Necessary prologue to all sorts of consolation prizes.