I shook off the vision of Miss Kuzkowski with psycho eyes and zombie arms and said, “Did you hear anything else?”
“Not really. Jojo seemed kind of upset, but he was keeping his voice way down, so I couldn't really tell. And then he recognized me, which sorta surprised me.”
“Me too. He's only ever seen you at the Faire, right?”
“Right. But anyway, he did, and it kind of blew everything.”
I kept one eye on the bag lady as she moseyed through the Bean Goddess toward the Vault. “So what were you and Jojo talking about?”
“You, mostly.”
“Me?”
“Uh-huh. He wanted to know if you were coming, too, and if you're always so brash.”
“Brash?”
“He said it in a nice way.” She grinned and pinched my cheek. “You plucky little tiger!”
“Oh, shut up.”
“So what are we doing here, anyway? I thought you wanted to show me something, not involve me in some spying mission.”
“I know. I do. Sorry about the sidetrack. Blame Grams, okay? She's the one obsessed with bringing down bad guys, not me.”
“Oh, right.”
“Seriously. This is all on account of her. I'm trying to stay out of it.”
“Obviously.”
I grab her by the arm. “Come on.”
When we're inside the Vault, I whisper, “There's Tess,” and nod over to where she's straightening one of her paintings.
“Ohmygod,” Marissa gasps. “They are just splots!”
“Told you.”
“She's charging eight thousand for those?”
“Yup.”
Marissa moves a little closer, muttering, “Unbelievable,” and that's when Tess notices her.
And me.
“You!” she says with a whole gust of air. “What are you doing back here?”
I almost said, “Just showing my friend what a splot'll cost ya,” but I bit my tongue.
She swoops down on us. “I asked you a question.”
I shrugged. “Just trying to figure things out.”
Her eyes squint into little slits, then kind of dart from side to side. “Figure what out?”
Now the way she said it was plenty scary, but it was weird because under all that vampire posturing was something unsure.
Something worried.
So right then and there I decide to play a little longer. “Look, this is a public place; there's no law saying I can't look around.”
She just glares at me, her pouty lips pulled tight like little pink worms. And she's trying to stare me down. To intimidate me. But I've had some intense intimidation training at William Rose Junior High, so I just stand my ground and stare back. And the whole time I'm thinking, You're a splotter, nothing but a snotty splotter…. You're a splotter, nothing but a snotty splotter….
Finally, whoosh, she turns her back on me. But before she can walk away I say, “Yup, there's no law saying I can't look around. In here, or say … down the alley?”
She slows down, then stops and turns to face me.
“It's amazing what you can witness, looking down alleys. Drug deals, knifings, briberies, payoffs …”
She gives me a seriously scary look. And I can see the wheels spinning in her head, but I can't really tell what direction they're spinning, if you know what I mean. Then, without a word, she turns on her heel and marches her scary face right over to the scary table.
Marissa whispers, “Why'd you do that?”
“Just trying to make her give something away.”
“God, Sammy. You're going to get yourself killed someday, you know that?”
“Nah. She's weak.”
Marissa scowls at me. “Ever heard of poison? Dynamite? Guns? You don't have to be strong to kill someone.”
I laugh. “I'm not worried.”
“So is that why we came here? To meet the Splotter and see her splots?”
I laugh again. “Nu-uh. We're here because I want to show you these.” I lead her over to Diane's wall and whisper, “What do you think?”
“Wow,” she says after a minute. Then she leans in and looks at the signature. “Diane Reijden? So these are the paintings that guy tried to steal?”
“Uh-huh.” I was staring at Whispers. At the girl's eyes, twinkling with excitement. At the way her hand was cupped near her mouth. At the moonlight across the room and the way it seemed to dust the background with light. The bookshelves. A birdcage. A rocking horse. All just barely there.
“Is that the one you like so much?”
Marissa's voice shook me out of the scene on the wall. “Huh? Oh. Oh, yeah.” She had her head cocked at it, so I asked, “What do you think?”
She nodded. “It's great. They're all great.”
Now, there are lots of ways of saying great. And depending on the way you say it, it can mean a lot of different things. And since the way she said it was sort of ho-hum, I was about to ask her, That's it? Just great? but then she says, “Wow, check these out!” and moves over to Austin Zuni's wall.
I follow her over, not quite believing what I'm hearing. “These are so cool! Look at those eyes! Whoa!” She moves from side to side, saying, “How do they do that? Wow.” She grabs me by the arm and says, “You've got to try this. Stand right here. Now move like this …” She takes me by the shoulders and moves me to one side, then the other. “Intense, isn't it?”
I shake her off and turn to face her. “Are you telling me you like these better than those?”
She blinks, then shrugs. “I didn't say that. I just think these are, you know, cool.”
So I was feeling a little confused. I mean, I didn't like the Indian eye paintings at all, but Marissa thought they were way better than Diane's—I could tell. And there across the room were big splots of paint that Miss Kuzkowski thought were amazing. How could anybody think they were amazing? How could anybody want Indian eyes staring at them from their wall? How could anyone not think Whispers was great? I mean really great.
So while Marissa danced around Austin Zuni's paintings, I wandered back to Diane's side of the room. And before I knew it, I was in front of Whispers again, staring at the girl, lost in the scene.
And I was just feeling like I was there, in the painting, when behind me I hear, “It is lovely, isn't it?”
I jumped. And it wasn't just because I'd been startled. It was also because I felt like I'd just been yanked from inside the painting, back to the Vault. I felt disoriented. Out of sorts. Like I'd just been woken from a dream. And when I whip around, who's there smiling at me?
The bag lady.
“Oh, hi,” I tell her, and then nod. “It is. I like it a lot.”
We look at it together a minute, and then she says, “The security guard tells me you were talking with Mr. Lorenzo earlier. Do you happen to know where he might have gone?”
“Uh …,” I look over my shoulder, “no.” Then I see Tess behind the scary table and say, “But that woman over there probably knows.”
“Hrmph!” she says, just like my grams might have.
I grin at her. “I take it she's been friendly to you, too?”
She eyes Tess across the room. “She's like that to anyone who dares call her a fraud.”
Now this bag lady may have whiskers growing on her lip and a few poking out of her chin besides, but the more we talk, the more I like her. So before I can stop myself I whisper, “I call her the Splotter.”
Her eyes light up. “Hee-hee-hee. Oh, that's rich!” And when we're done sharing a laugh, she sighs and says, “Well, he can't avoid me forever. And you can tell him so, if you see him.”
“But … who are you?”
“Mrs. Weiss. I'm the landlady.”
“The …” I blink at her. “You mean you own the Vault?”
“Oh no, honey. The Vault is Joseph's business. I own the building.”
“You mean this part of the building, or …,” I wave toward the Bean Goddess, “out there, too?”
>
The hairs on her lip move up. The ones on her chin poke forward, and some of her wrinkles compress on her cheeks as she shows me her crooked teeth. And as she's smiling at me, she waves out toward the Bean Goddess like I just had and says, “Out there,” she waves past Tess's wall, “and down there, too.”
“What do you mean?”
She levels a look at me. “Honey, I own this whole block of buildings.”
“The whole …” I just stood there with my jaw dangling. And maybe it was rude, but you have to understand—this was my first millionaire bag lady.
Finally, I manage a real intelligent, “Oh.” Then I ask her, “Does Jojo owe you rent or something?”
She nods. “And I can't wait any longer for his big break. With my property taxes coming due, I'm afraid I can't continue to float him.”
“But I'm sure he'll pay it….”
“Well, I'm not,” she says, then asks, “What about his brother? Has he been around today?”
“His … brother?” I rack my brains for who that could possibly be, but just can't picture Jojo with a brother.
“That Zuni character?” She points at the wild-eyed Indian wall. “He's co-leasing.”
Now I know I should've just nodded or shrugged or done something, you know, nonchalant. I mean, she probably would've kept on talking. Or at least asking questions. But shell-shocked me had to go bug out my eyes, and say, “Austin Zuni is Jojo's brother?”
“Never mind,” she says with a frown. “I'm not here to spread gossip. I just want my rent.”
So I'm feeling really stupid, really lame, but then as she turns to leave, she throws me a wink over her shoulder. “Splotter,” she says. “Hee-hee-hee, that's rich.”
And as I watch her walk away, it hits me that inside this world of art are shades of gray that I'm just beginning to see. Shades where people hide. And scheme.
And try hard to deceive.
THIRTEEN
Marissa had had enough of art. She was tired of doing the eyeball boogie with Indian chiefs and sure didn't want to spend any more time looking at anything else. But on our way out, I noticed that there were already three people sitting at the Disciples table and more were moving toward it. And there was Tess, at the head of the table, nodding and smiling and acting, well, like the biggest ant on the hill.
So I really wanted to hang around and catch a little of the meeting, just to see what it was like, but Marissa said, “Sammy, no!”
So I tried, “But I think Miss Kuzkowski's going to be here.”
“And that makes you want to stay?”
I shrugged. “Don't you think it would be kinda interesting? Seeing a teacher as a student?”
“No! I like to forget about teachers when I'm away from school. Besides, she'll know you're here, so she'll either be embarrassed or show off.” Then she adds, “Or worse, be an embarrassing show-off.”
“But—”
“Why am I even having this argument with you? You can hang around if you want to, but I'm out of here.”
Well, I didn't want to stay by myself. That would've felt awkward. So I was about to say, “Nah. Come on, let's go,” but then the strangest thing happened. A man walked through the Bean Goddess door. A tall man. With white hair. And cowboy boots.
Green cowboy boots.
And my brain should've just said, Hey, wow. There's Hudson. But sometimes when you see somebody you know really well in a place you don't expect them, the part of your brain that's in charge of putting pieces together doesn't seem to work right. It holds the pieces right near each other, but takes forever to move them in for the big click.
So I didn't call out to him. I just stared. And as he's moving through the Bean Goddess straight for the Vault, Marissa's the one who finally says, “Hey, isn't that Hudson?”
Hudson didn't hear us. Didn't see us. He just beelined through the arch and disappeared into the Vault.
No one had to tell me where he was going. I could tell from the look on his face. And all of a sudden, more than anything, I wanted to talk to him about it, wanted to understand what it was that was making us come back. I mean, seeing Whispers a second time had only made me like it more, and already I wanted to go back and look at it again.
What was it about that painting?
I knew that if anyone could explain it to me, it'd be Hudson Graham. So I turned to Marissa and said, “Do you mind if I stick around and talk to Hudson for a bit?”
“No … unless you're gonna make me stay, too.”
“No, that's okay. Sorry for dragging you all the way out here.”
“Hey, it's fine. Those Indians were cool.”
So she took off, and I slipped back into the Vault.
It wasn't Whispers Hudson was standing in front of. It was Resurrection—the one with autumn leaves swirling through the air. And I stood beside him for the longest time, but he didn't seem to know I was there. Finally I said, “So why do you like this one so much?”
His body jolted a little. Like he'd just stepped off a curb in a dream. Then he looked at me and asked, “Sammy?” like his brain was having trouble clicking pieces together.
“In the flesh,” I said, then laughed. “I did the same thing when I saw you walk in.” He was still sort of staring, so I asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes. I'm fine.” He looked around a little. “Is your grandmother with you?”
“No. I came here straight from school.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.”
He was back to looking at the painting, so I said, “Hudson, I hope I'm not, you know, disturbing you because … well, I'm really glad you're here.”
“You are?” He smiled at me, and this time he was all there.
“Yeah. Because everyone else I talk to confuses me.”
“Everyone else you talk to about what?”
“Art!”
“Oh.” He chuckles a little, then says, “Subjective topics usually render subjective comments.”
“But you like these,” I said, pointing to Diane's paintings. “You like them the way I do, I can tell.”
He eyes me, but doesn't say a thing.
“Okay. Well tell me this—do they make you feel all jumbled up? You know—happy and peaceful one minute, then sort of tortured the next? Like any minute you're going to cry?”
Hudson just stands there studying me like I'm some odd painting. First his head cocks to one side, then to the other. But slowly a smile grows on his face. Not a ha-haha smile or a patronizing smile. It's a gentle smile.
A grateful smile.
So I say, “And it's not just Whispers that does that to me. They're all a little that way. And I don't get how they can do that. I mean, they're just paintings.”
Hudson nods, then turns back to the wall. “After reading the scathing review in yesterday's paper, I just had to come here and see again for myself.”
“Wait a minute. What scathing review?”
“In our illustrious local rag. That's why the phone was ringing off the hook at Ms. Reijden's house. It's … it's libelous.”
“But—”
“And it made me start doubting myself. So I came here to see whether what I was remembering was something I had simply projected onto the canvas. But here I am, completely mesmerized by these paintings again. Even more so than before.” He starts walking along the Reijden wall, saying, “The reviewer called them ‘conspicuously out of touch,' but I find them to be very much in touch. Compelling. They're serious, but uplifting. They each have a sense of hope—deep, steady hope. They touch upon fragility without apologizing for strength.”
As stupid as this sounds, at that moment I wanted to crush Hudson in a hug, wanted to tell him how glad I was that he could put things into words in a way I couldn't and how relieved I was that someone else felt the way I did. Instead, what came out of my mouth was, “I can't believe she'd sell them.”
He nods. “But she's an artist, and this is how she makes a living.”
“Well if I'd made them, I
wouldn't sell them.” I point to the one with the gusting leaves. “Okay, maybe I'd sell that one to you, but only to you, and only because you like it so much. No way I'd sell Whispers.”
“But if you'd painted them, you could make others.” He looks at Whispers and says, “I hadn't noticed the bookcase before. Or the rocking horse.”
“Neither had I. And the more I look at it, the more there seems to be to it.”
He nods and murmurs, “The deeper it goes.”
“I think that's the same rocking horse we saw in Diane's house, don't you?”
“I didn't notice it,” he says absently.
“It was by the fireplace. See the star on the forehead? It had one, too.” We both look at it a minute, and finally I ask, “So who do you think that girl is? At first I thought it might be Diane, remembering her own childhood, but the girl in the picture has brown eyes. Do you know if Diane has children? Grandchildren?”
He shakes his head. “I have no idea. But I do think she's right that not knowing the specifics is better. Project your own story into the painting. It'll have its own meaning for you that way. It'll become more personal to you.”
We looked at the paintings a little while longer and finally I whispered, “Thanks, Hudson.”
He grinned down at me. “Thank you, Sammy.”
So I was feeling pretty good, but then as we were heading out of the Vault Hudson sighed and said, “I'm afraid I'm in rather a bad spot with your grandmother.”
Now the way he said it was sort of heavy. Like just the thought of Grams was making his feet slow down, even stop. And that's when it hit me—he needed to talk. For the first time since I'd met him, Hudson was asking me to help him.
So I jingled around in my pocket, asking, “Can I get you an iced tea? Some cocoa?”
He laughed. “Only if you let me buy.”
Good thing, too, with the seventy-four cents I managed to scare up.
So while he got us iced teas, I settled in at a table behind a big, plastic palmy plant and checked out the Disciple table. Miss Kuzkowski was there, all right, and even though she looked my way once, she didn't seem to recognize me. She just turned and smiled at a guy with a short curly ponytail who brought her coffee and a muffin.