Under the Egg

by Laura Marx Fitzgerald

  I looked down at the slip of paper Reverend Cecily had handed me. “Let’s say we go to this auction house. Worst case scenario: They call the cops. Best case scenario: They say it’s mine to keep and it’s worth millions.”

  “Medium case scenario: It’s stolen but there’s a reward for its safe return?” Bodhi ventured.

  “Pretty-good case scenario: It’s not stolen, it’s not by anyone famous, but it’s worth a few thousand, and I sell it.”

  “Slightly-better-than-terrible case scenario: It’s stolen, they haul us down to the precinct, but let us off with a stern warning.”

  “Highly embarrassing case scenario: It’s a Paint by Number kit, and they laugh at us.”

  “Pretty-unlikely-but-super-dramatic case scenario: They’re really vampires, but we fend them off with the Baby Jesus picture, casting them back to the tenth circle of hell.”

  “Actually, we’re already doomed to the tenth circle of hell.” I stood up and grabbed the suitcase again. “Because we’re about to ride the subway in July.”

  • • •

  It was late in the afternoon by the time we got off the subway ($384.00—$2.50 = $381.50) and found Cadwalader’s, the Madison Avenue auction house where Reverend Cecily’s friend worked. Antique furniture dotted the cavernous modern lobby, a sleek cube of golden marble floors, walls, and ceilings. On the other side of an ocean of Persian carpet sat a polished young man behind a paper-thin computer terminal.

  “Yes? May I help you?”

  I whispered, “We’re not in the Village anymore.”

  “Upper East Side, all the way,” Bodhi whispered back.

  “Yes, girls?” He seemed impatient because . . . he had so many other people to wait on? No. As Jack always said: the bigger the desk, the smaller the man.

  I strode boldly across the carpet, trailing Bodhi behind me.

  “Yes, we’re here to see,” I double-checked the slip from my pocket, “Augustus Garvey.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  I shook my head. “But I am here on,” I cleared my throat importantly, “business.”

  The guy blinked and then said smoothly, “Just a moment. Who may I say is visiting?”

  “Theodora Tenpenny.”

  “And Bodhi Ford.” Bodhi poked her head over my shoulder.

  “You can tell him just . . . friends of Reverend Cecily.”

  He blinked again. “Very good. Please have a seat.” He gestured to some spindly gilded chairs in the corner.

  We tried unsuccessfully to look nonchalant, perched on the edge of the brittle antiques. By the time we heard a sharp clicking sound from the hall, Bodhi had given up and slung her Converse sneakers over my armrest.

  We looked up to see a young woman with a long and well-kept mane teetering on stiletto heels. Her pinched face made me think of an ugly stepsister who regretted borrowing Cinderella’s glass slippers.

  “Are you the girls here to see Mr. Garvey?”

  We scrambled to our feet (which is tough going when your butt has fallen asleep).

  “Mr. Garvey has left for the day. I’m Gemma, his associate. Is there something I can help you with?” She hugged a folder to her chest.

  I couldn’t tell if she had a British accent or was just deliberately pretentious. “Oh, he’s not here?”

  “Yes, it’s Friday. Everyone leaves early on summer Fridays,” she said with a sniff. This policy did not seem to extend to junior associates.

  “Oh, okay. Maybe we should come back Monday—”

  “I’m sure Mr. Garvey would want me to,” Gemma smiled, “preview anything you’ve brought.”

  Bodhi and I exchanged a glance. Bodhi shrugged “why not?”

  As I opened the suitcase, I explained the strange discovery of the painting, conveniently leaving out Jack’s place of employment. Bodhi helped me prop the frame on a chair, where it looked no more at ease than we did.

  “The poem says—”

  “Yes, I know, I read Latin,” Gemma said shortly.

  We stood by silently as Gemma put her face up to the painting, stood back several paces, donned a pair of white cotton gloves she fished out of her blazer pocket, and then turned the frame around to inspect the back. She placed the frame neatly back against the chair and began pulling off the gloves, one finger at a time.

  “Well, girls, thank you for bringing it in. It is quite an interesting painting.” She offered up her pinched smile again.

  We all looked at each other. “And?” I probed.

  The smile disappeared. “And it is difficult to definitively determine the period, let alone the artist.”

  Bodhi hooked her thumb at me. “She thinks it’s a Raphael.”

  I was starting to wonder if Bodhi was a help or a liability.

  “A Raphael? Well, well, well, you’ve been doing your homework, I see. No, dear, I don’t think it’s a . . .” she stopped here to smirk, “Raphael. First of all, the complete oeuvre of Raphael is very well documented, and the likelihood that you just stumbled across an undiscovered work is, well, optimistic, don’t you think?”

  “I guess,” I conceded.

  Gemma was warming to her own expert opinion. “Look at the Christ Child, for example. Wan, thin, bearing no resemblance whatever to the warm, rounded hallmarks of a Raphael infant.

  “And even if it were a ‘Raphael,’” here Gemma used air quotes, a habit I decided now to despise forever, “it could still not be a Raphael. It could be Circle of Raphael, Follower of Raphael, Workshop of Raphael, School of Raphael, After Raphael . . .”

  Yep, I thought, deliberately pretentious.

  “I suppose it’s possible it’s a pastiche, a copy by a student or an admirer. Not necessarily a talented admirer,” Gemma tossed her golden locks behind her ear. “The panel and frame do look authentically old, certainly as early as seventeenth century, possibly cinquecento.”

  “So it could be a contemporary, a student?” I ventured. “Wouldn’t that be worth something?”

  Another smirk.

  “I think in this case, there’s another consideration. That it’s a fake. Getting an old but not terribly valuable canvas and painting over it—it’s an old trick forgers use to feign authenticity.”

  I stared at the surface, straining to see underneath this layer of paint to another lurking below.

  “Okay, so how do you establish really authentic authenticity?”

  “Here at Cadwalader’s, we have a wealth of tools at our disposal. There’s microscopic analysis of the craquelure—that is, the depth of the lines that develop in the dried paint. We analyze paint pigments to see if the minerals therein are contemporary with the artist in question. We can do carbon dating on the frame and canvas. We can even use infrared and X-ray technology to reveal the original drawings or painting underneath the top layers.”

  Bodhi’s eyes lit up. “X-ray? Yeah, let’s see what’s under there!”

  Gemma glanced at her watch. “Listen, this isn’t a children’s museum. We don’t undertake these costly experiments just to ‘see what’s under there.’” Again with the air quotes. “We would be inclined to investigate further if we thought there was reason to believe . . . But in this case,” Gemma’s eyes flicked over me from threadbare T-shirt to hip-hop sneakers.

  “Not to be blunt, but I take it your family has some . . . financial concerns? Isn’t it possible your grandfather created this painting with the intention of fooling a less-discerning auction house?”

  Another look at the watch. Probably trying to make an early train out to the Hamptons.

  “No,” I said, holding Gemma’s eye and raising my voice. “That is not possible. My grandfather was not that kind of man.” But as my voice echoed back to me in that lobby-mausoleum, I realized I didn’t know my grandfather any better than Gemma did. Just a month ago, I would have cal
led Jack the dictionary definition of integrity. But holes kept appearing in that façade, and an alternate story kept dribbling in.

  “Well, you are welcome to get a second opinion at another auction house. There’s always Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and a myriad of smaller houses. But I do thank you for bringing the painting in. It has provided a welcome Friday afternoon diversion.”

  And with just a few clicks, Gemma was gone.

  • • •

  “So that’s that?” grumbled Bodhi as we stood waiting for the 6 train (down to $379.00). The platform felt even hotter after the brittle chill of the Cadwalader’s lobby. I still don’t understand how my cellar stays dry and cool all summer, but the subway platforms manage to be even hotter and steamier than the sidewalk above.

  I peered down the tunnel, telepathically willing the train to arrive. “I guess so. But—”

  “I wanted to punch her. Reminded me of these assistants on set, with their stupid headsets and clipboards. Everyone hates them. I bet everyone hates Gemma.” Bodhi let the name drop out of her mouth like chewed gum.

  “But something she said makes no sense.”

  “A lot of what she said made no sense. Pastiche. Cinquecento. Gemma. Ugh.”

  “No, listen.” I bit my thumbnail. “Why would you create a fake Old Master by painting over an old canvas, and then paint over it again?”

  “Beats me.” Bodhi kicked an empty soda can onto the subway tracks, sending a rat scampering.

  “Seriously. If my grandfather wanted to fake a painting and cash in on it, wouldn’t he just go out and try to sell it? Why would you fake a painting and then hide it for—what, forty, fifty years?”

  “That’s true,” nodded Bodhi.

  “And there’s something else I don’t understand. Why did that rubbing alcohol take off the top layer of paint, but not the bottom layer? That doesn’t make any sense. If it’s the same paint, why wouldn’t it have the same effect on both layers?”

  “Hmmm. That’s a good question, actually.” Bodhi perked up a little. “Does this mean that the mystery’s still on?”

  “You could say that.” I peeled my T-shirt away from my chest and flapped it back and forth. “But listen, I’m tired of these so-called experts. They don’t have the answers anymore than we do. That Gemma—”

  “Gemma,” Bodhi spat out.

  “She barely looked at the thing.”

  “And Reverend Cecily—well, she’s a nice lady and everything, but she had her own . . . prejudice, you know?”

  “Preconceived notions, you mean. And yeah, I know.”

  A hot wind blew at our ankles, signaling the 6 train.

  “Jack never did anything without a very good reason. And I want to know the reason behind,” I nudged the suitcase with my sneaker, “this. We need to become our own experts.” I fumbled suddenly. I still wasn’t convinced that this should be a group project. “I mean, I need to do more research. Read more, look at more paintings, learn more about how paint works, stuff like that. I think I’ll hit the library as soon as they open tomorrow morning.”

  “Cool! I’ll come over beforehand and help feed the chickens.”

  “Really?” Was it possible Bodhi really wanted to hang out with me? Or was she just looking for another “independent study project”? “I mean, okay. I guess.”

  “I need to get out of the house anyway,” Bodhi shouted over the rush of the barreling train. “People magazine is coming over to do a feature on my dad’s yoga room. I don’t want to spend the day watching him do the Flying Crow.”

  Chapter Six

  I hadn’t expected to chase Raphaels all afternoon. By the time I got home, it was clear the house was feeling neglected and was going to take it out on me—starting right with the front door, which dumped its heavy brass doorknob into my hand. The upstairs toilet swirled spitefully. My mother “helped out” by dumping her dirty laundry on the hallway floor.

  The garden was paying the heaviest price for my extracurricular activities: stems drooped, vegetables shriveled in the heat. Love your garden, and it will love you back, as Jack would say. Same goes for chickens. But today the chickens were peeved too, and Artemesia pecked my foot when I scattered some chopped beet greens as a guilt gift.

  I spent the next morning atoning, and by the time I stopped for breakfast, I had redrilled and replaced the stripped screws on the front door, accosted the upstairs toilet, cleaned out the chicken coops, and turned the compost heap.

  The timing of those last two items is not coincidental. The key to a good garden is, of course, good compost. What makes good compost? A secret ingredient: chicken poop. Trust me, when you bite into a juicy tomato or succulent squash, it’s chicken poop you have to thank.

  Anyway, those chores alone took me through a late breakfast. I had just brought up my mother’s tray (“What, no Irish Breakfast?”), when I heard a rap from the big brass knocker on the front door.

  “Hi!” shouted Bodhi, already sweating through her anti-paparazzi uniform. “Too early?”

  “Well, I’ve still got a lot to finish up around here. I was just about to start some pickling.” I looked skeptically at Bodhi. “Do you want to help?”

  Bodhi’s face shone. “Sure, sounds great! Like Little House on the Prairie.” She bounded her way into the parlor. “I did an independent study project on Laura Ingalls Wilder when I was eight, back when we were at the Collective Living Experience. A couple of the guys even helped me build a log cabin. But then they all got into some argument about privatized property, and we moved back to Malibu.”

  With Jack around, the morning chores had felt like a well-oiled machine, and now without him, a clanky one running on fumes. But something about Bodhi’s enthusiasm made the whole operation feel . . . well, fun. “Got any music?” she asked, so I found a Benny Goodman record for the parlor phonograph, cranked it up, and led Bodhi down the stairs to the kitchen, where I’d already lined up Mason jars, canning racks, and tongs. Beets and a few cucumbers stood at the ready, washed in colanders in the big farmhouse sink, while every soup pot, stockpot, and lobster pot had been rounded up, filled with boiling water on the stove.

  I showed Bodhi how to fill the jars with the veggies, vinegar, and spices and was surprised by how easily she jumped in, dancing around to “Sing Sing Sing (With a Swing)” as she worked. Most of the girls from school would balk at something so domestic—even dorky—on a summer morning. But a couple of hours later, the jars were cooling, and we’d moved on to the garden, pulling weeds and slapping mosquitoes with our beet-stained fingers.

  “It’s funny,” said Bodhi as she tossed a dandelion she’d pulled to the chickens. “They all have their own personalities, don’t they? Like this one.” Bodhi rubbed the side of a silkie bantam with the toe of her sneaker. “She’s a little softy. Just wants a cuddle.”

  I put down the basket of eggs I’d collected and picked up Adelaide, who was nuzzling my shoe.

  “That’s Frida. Her sister, Adelaide, here is the same way. You can pick her up if you want. Just support her feet, like this.” I gave her head a little scratch and Adelaide clucked appreciatively. “But look out for Artemesia, that frizzy one over there. She’ll go at you if you get too close.” Artemesia flapped her wings theatrically, and Bodhi pelted her with a dandelion.

  “What’s with the funny names?” asked Bodhi.

  “All famous artists. All women. A little joke I had with my grandfather.”

  Bodhi knelt down to stroke the hen who’d been diligently working on a hole next to the coop. “Who’s this little digger?”

  “Theodora,” I mumbled.

  “Theodora? What artist is that? Or—wait, you named the chicken after yourself?”

  It had been last summer, the day Jack brought out two new chicks he’d gotten from his breeder in Bed-Stuy. The chicks were now big enough to join the flock, and one—quickly named Arte
mesia—asserted her claim on the feed right away. Some of the older, wiser chickens squawked and flapped at her, schooling her on the pecking order, but Artemesia squawked back, and soon we had a real feather-flier on our hands. It took us ten minutes to get everyone back to their corners.

  But when the feathers settled, we looked down and saw that most of the feed was gone. Nearby, the other new chick had her head down and kept scratch, scratch, scratching, determined to find more food.

  “Ha! See that one? She let the others flap and fight and fuss at each other, while she kept her eye on the prize. Smart girl, just like you,” Jack had said. “Let’s name her Theodora.”

  “Gee, thanks. Why not Angelika? Or how about Little Jackie? That has a nice ring to it.”

  “Well, she’s not a rooster, so Jackie doesn’t make sense.” Jack pulled a lock of my hair. “And Angelika—well, your mom’s a songbird at heart. She just keeps flying overhead, circling and circling and never landing on anything.”

  On that particular day, I had had to decline a rare birthday party invitation from a girl in my class whose mother had insisted she invite everyone. We couldn’t afford the cost of the train out to her weekend house, let alone an appropriate gift.

  “Who ever said I wanted to be a chicken?” I groused. “Maybe I’d like to be a songbird. Maybe I’d like to fly away somewhere for once.”

  There was a very long pause, and when I looked up at my grandfather, I was surprised to see that his hands were in his pockets and his eyes were glassy.

  “Why do you think we’ve hung on to this house?” he asked, his voice low. “Don’t you know I could cash out and give it over to the yuppies who would polish it up like a Fabergé egg? The reason we stay—the reason my father stayed, and his father stayed, and his father stayed—is that this house is ours. This city is ours. Never let anyone tell you any different. Because, if you don’t dig in, trust me—they’ll dig you out.”

  Jack picked up Theodora the Younger and stroked the top of her head.

  “One day I’ll pass on—and don’t get any ideas, sister, the doctor says I’ve got the body of a man twenty years younger.”