T h e A m az i n g Ha r ve y | 17 it out of a kid’s ear. It’s incredibly trite, though for some bizarre reason it’s amazed children for hundreds of years. Ah. Got it. I reached into my pocket and took out two foam-rubber rabbits, each about the size of a quarter. I had Ed squeeze the rabbits in his fist. After a few magic words, I told him to open his hand. Out popped the two rabbits plus ten little ones. The kids oohed. Ed said, “Good one!” When you’re older, you’ll have a whole different take on that trick, I thought. Max said, “Do another one.” “I gotta see Mom.” I took Lisa off Max’s head, put her on my shoulder, and walked through the living room, past the Wall of Photos. There was a large picture of me in the center, surrounded by twentyplus pictures of the foster kids who’d lived with Mom after Dad died. I hurried through the den, past a cluster of handmade clay planters that overflowed with strands of ivy. The planters were remnants of Mom’s pot-throwing era. Hanging on the wall was a tie-dyed piece of cloth, which was a remnant of Mom’s potsmoking era. Her current passion sat by the window—an easel with a half-fi nished painting. On a small table next to the easel were brushes on their heads in a jar of cloudy turpentine and, along with a wooden palette with multicolor splotches that smelled like oil paint. The painting showed a man walking on a country path with what was probably supposed to be his dog, though it looked more like a weasel. In the backyard, I saw Mom on her hands and knees, wearing jeans and a loose paisley blouse that was supposed to hide the thickness around her middle. Her long gray hair was tied in a ponytail that trailed over her spine, with rubber bands clipping
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