And yet, it wasn’t that much off base. We used to say stuff like that to each other all the time, in a jokey sort of way. We could be honest—sometimes really blunt—because we trusted each other enough to know our friendship was solid. Now, without the trust, my words just sounded cruel.
“But when the time comes,” I added, “he’ll definitely be my first choice.”
“You’re lucky to have him. As a friend, I mean.”
“That’s true,” I said.
We walked in silence after that, past redbrick town houses shaded by big old trees, their leaves still a fresh spring green; cute little cafés where people sat drinking coffee and talking on their phones; nannies pushing strollers; guys standing on the sidewalk, smoking.
When we got to West Fourth we stopped.
“Tomorrow?” Abby asked.
I felt a rush of relief. I hadn’t totally broken her spirit. In fact, Abby was proving to be a lot tougher than I’d ever suspected she could be—tough and totally determined to wear me down and win me back.
“Sure,” I said. “Same time, same place.”
After she left, I sped up. Being with Abby had distracted me. Now the bad feeling had returned, and I was all on fire to get home and make sure Sofie was all right.
Halfway down the block, a car pulled over. The rear window rolled down and a lady leaned out the window. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I’m afraid we’re lost.” She had a nice, plain face and friendly smile.
“Where are you trying to go?”
“The corner of Macdougal and Bleecker.”
“Oh, it’s that way.” I pointed in the opposite direction.
“We’ve been driving in circles,” she said, sighing. “Can you show me exactly?”
She stepped out of the car and held up her map. It had been folded to the right section. They weren’t that far off. I found Seventh Avenue with my finger and traced it down to Bleecker. “Here’s Macdougal—”
Then suddenly there was a hand over my face, covering my mouth and nose so it was hard to breathe. At the same time another arm was wrapped around my ribs and I was shoved inside the still-open back door.
Soon the car was moving. Only now the woman who’d asked directions was behind the wheel and another, really ugly lady was pulling a pillowcase over my head. Next she tied my hands and flipped me over so my head was pressed against the seat with my legs hanging down.
When I screamed and struggled the ugly lady slapped my arm hard. Then the radio went on. Classical music, really loud.
“Scream again and I’ll do more than slap you next time,” the ugly lady said, leaning down, hand gripping my shoulder hard, speaking directly into my right ear. But the voice was wrong. It was growly and low, like a man’s.
We drove for maybe twenty minutes. The way I was pinned down—twisted to the side, resting on my shoulder, with my head hanging down at a hard angle—got more and more painful with every bump or pothole in the road.
I would have given anything for a pillow or a rolled-up jacket—just something to raise my head to a somewhat normal angle. Even an elbow would have done it, if I could have moved my arm. But my wrists were tied with some kind of plastic rope, scratchy and hard. I could feel it scraping my skin every time I pulled or tugged.
In the end I just lay there like a twisted rag, trying not to think of suffocation, feeling the dampness of my own breath settling on my face, and fighting back rising panic. I started to cry, but it was more of a whimper. I didn’t have the energy for full-out sobs—and I didn’t want to get slapped again.
We drove up a ramp into a parking garage. I could tell by the hollow sound as the tire and motor noise bounced back from the low, hard ceiling. Then the engine and radio were turned off and I was manhandled out, still hooded, and marched up two flights of stairs.
I concentrated on the senses I had—mostly sounds and smells, though I could tell light from dark through the pillowcase and feel the cool of a concrete stairwell on my bare arms.
Our footsteps echoed against the walls. We turned, then climbed, turned, then climbed some more, then finally we stopped. I heard the hollow clunk of a metal door being opened, then I was pushed through the opening and it clanged shut behind us.
We were in a quieter place now, a long hall that smelled of moldy carpet.
The whole time I was there I didn’t hear the slightest sound of any other people—no cars, no footsteps, no voices. It was like we were alone in that building, and I couldn’t imagine why. Maybe it was brand-new or under construction and hadn’t opened yet. But no, I thought, that couldn’t be it. The place smelled old, felt old. More likely it was closed and soon to be torn down.
We stopped and I heard a key being fitted into a lock. Unlike our lock at home, this one opened right away. I was pushed inside and plopped down on a molded plastic chair. Behind me I heard a bolt turn.
Then, finally, the pillowcase came off.
I was in a small office with nothing in it but a scratched-up metal desk, some random chairs, and a fluorescent light overhead. There was a window, but the shade was down.
I turned to see the plain lady leaning against the door, arms crossed, standing guard in case I tried to escape. She smiled at me when our eyes met. And despite everything, she still struck me as kind of pleasant.
Meanwhile, the ugly lady with the deep man’s voice was pulling off a gray wig. By then I’d already figured it out. Yet somehow it was still a shock to see Lucius Doyle.
He took his time removing the oversize dress. Underneath he had on a T-shirt and rolled-up pants. Slowly he unrolled them, tried to brush out the wrinkles.
He looked entirely different from the man I’d seen in the antiques shop. There, he’d been dignified, quiet—elegant, even, in his three-piece suit and white shirt and tie. Here he was rumpled and ordinary, a man beginning to age and running to fat.
He pulled a chair over and sat down directly in front of me. “Sorry to be so rough,” he said, leaning over and brushing at his pant legs again. “I didn’t think you’d come otherwise. If you promise to sit still and listen, I’ll untie your hands.”
I promised, and he set to work on the plastic rope. It took a while. The knot was really tight. When he’d finished, he tossed it on the tabletop.
“I just want to talk, that’s all. Then I’ll send you home. You want a Kleenex?”
My face was wet with tears, snot, and condensation. I took the tissue and wiped off as much as I could, thinking hard the whole time.
“If this is about the platter,” I said, tossing the Kleenex on the ratty table, next to the coil of yellow rope, “I still don’t want to sell it. It’s my special puzzle.”
He gave me a look, like he saw right through me. I guess I’m a terrible liar.
“Just to set the ground rules for our little conversation: I am not stupid. I’m also way ahead of you. Mrs. Berenson called me for advice on how best to repair your platter. I’m the go-to person in New York for antique Dutch porcelain, you see. And now all of a sudden Miss Sofie is walking around Central Park in the flesh. So we can skip all the lies and evasions you were considering just now and get straight to the truth.”
I nodded. It had felt like another slap.
“So, how did that happen, exactly? Did you make some kind of wish?”
“Yes. I wished the girl in the picture was my friend. Now she is.”
“Thank you for your honesty. No doubt Miss Sofie has been telling you some fantastical tales.”
I cleared my throat and sat up tall, trying my best to look him boldly in the eyes.
“Yes, Sofie has told me some things. And for the record, I’m not stupid either. I know who you are. I know you’ve been watching us. And I know what you did to her.”
“Well, well. That saves us some time. Now, I suspect that Miss Sofie is not exactly happy with her current situation.”
“Of course she’s not!”
“Just so. But what you may not know is that I also have a difficult
situation. That’s why I’ve brought you here: I have a proposition to make. I hope you’ll agree that it will solve both her problem and mine.”
“Actually, I do know about your situation. You made a bad wish and now you’re stuck with it.”
“Exactly. I propose we help each other.”
“And how would that work?”
“You sell the platter to me. I will then change that unfortunate wish. I’ll be free to marry”—he glanced over at the woman standing guard by the office door—“and live out my final years in peace. I will do no more harm to anyone. That is a promise. In exchange, I’ll release Miss Sofie. She will be just as she was before, back in her home with her family. And that will be the end of it. No more wishes, no more magic. What do you say?”
“I’d rather you released her first.”
“Then I couldn’t make my wish.” He opened his arms wide and shrugged.
I had to admit that was a problem. But I really didn’t like it.
“Why do I have to sell it to you? Couldn’t I just make the wish to . . .”
But I realized, halfway through my little speech, that I’d totally missed the point. It didn’t matter who owned the platter. Either way, Lucius Doyle had to go first. Because once Sofie was free, there’d be no more wishing. That left Sofie with no guarantee that he would keep his part of the bargain. He’d already have gotten what he wanted.
I rubbed my wrists where the rope had burned, trying hard to think. “I’ll have to discuss it with Sofie,” I said. “It’s up to her. She has friends who love her and will take care of her, and she might prefer—”
“You know that’s nonsense. She’s stuck, just as I am. You and your tall friend will live out your lives, grow old, and die, while Miss Sofie will always be a twelve-year-old freak. Trust me, she would not prefer to remain as she is.”
“I still have to ask.”
“Fair enough. Shall we meet again tomorrow? You know it’s the only solution. As you said, you’re not stupid.”
“I’ll need more time than that. Tomorrow is too soon.”
“You don’t trust me.”
I actually laughed. “Does that really come as a surprise?”
“Well, you’re certainly frank about sharing your feelings.”
“You asked.”
“All right then, two days. On Wednesday we will meet at Manny’s Pizza. Let’s say five thirty. Do you know where it is? On Hudson?”
“I can Google it.”
“It’s a public place. I assume that will be reassuring to you, though I doubt it will be very busy at that hour. Bring Miss Sofie and the platter. I’ll take a booth in the back. Just a few words and it’ll be done.”
“All right. I’ll be there. That’s all I can promise.”
“Good,” he said, getting to his feet. “Margo, my dear, it’s time we drove young Joplin home.”
18
What Happened Here?
I WENT STRAIGHT TO THE Martinellis’, where I found Sofie happily watching an old Clark Gable movie while Chloe bustled around in the kitchen. I thought I might faint from relief.
“I called and you didn’t answer,” I said. “I was really worried.”
“I didn’t think it would be for me. And I wasn’t sure how the phone worked.”
“That’s what I figured. Can you come down and have dinner with us? We need to go right now. I’m really late and Mom’ll be upset. Plus, I have something important to tell you.”
“Of course.” She got up but left the TV on. Probably didn’t know how to work the remote control.
“We’re leaving,” I shouted to Chloe.
“Have a blast,” Chloe shouted back.
Mom opened on the second knock. She must have been waiting in the kitchen.
“You’re late,” she said. And from the look of her, there was a big storm brewing. After what I’d just been through, I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I had a sort of meeting and it ran late.”
She let that pass. It was something else. I could practically feel it thrumming in the air. She’d been sitting there all this time, for maybe a couple of hours, waiting for me to come home so she could dump it on me.
“Want me to help with dinner?” I said, hoping to shift the focus a little. There was no sign of any preparation.
She didn’t even bother to respond. “Come with me,” she said. “I have something to ask you. Sofie, I’m sorry, but will you please excuse us for a moment?” Then she grabbed me by the arm, in the very same spot where Lucius Doyle had previously gripped me with his big old hand, and led me to my bedroom.
She placed me in front of the platter. Then she released my arm.
“What happened here?” she said.
I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me that someone might notice the picture had changed. I guess I’d been too distracted by other things.
“Where’s Jen?” I asked.
“With Leonard. And stop changing the subject. Can you explain this to me?”
“Um,” I said.
“Because it appears . . . Joplin, I looked at that platter very closely. There was a girl standing right there, by the pond. I could describe every detail to you. And I know it wasn’t just some decal that was stuck on and could have peeled off.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“And is it just my imagination, or does Sofie look remarkably like the girl who’s missing from the picture?”
“Yes. I mean, no, it’s not your imagination.”
“And what about this?” She reached down and picked up the blue-and-white jumble of clothes that were lying on my bed: Sofie’s dress, her apron, and her cap. I’d rolled them into a ball and hidden them deep in the back of my closet, behind my winter boots. Had my mother searched my room?
I sighed. All I wanted was to lie down and weep. But Mom continued to stand there holding Sofie’s clothes, her eyes a little wild. “You want to tell me about this, Joplin?”
“Apparently I have to,” I said. But I wondered where I’d find the strength to do it.
“Shall we stay in here?” She lowered her voice and made a little sideways nod in the direction of the front of the apartment, where Sofie was waiting.
“No,” I said. “It’s her story. She needs to help me tell it. And I’m sorry, Mom, but I really have to sit down.”
“Last Thursday,” I began, when the three of us were settled in the living room, “the night before I had to go back to school, I was lying there in bed feeling sorry for myself. Because, you know, it felt like everybody hated me. And at some point I looked at the platter, and the girl in the picture seemed to be smiling at me. She seemed like someone who would be really nice, and maybe she was lonely too, like me. I wished she could be my friend.”
Once I’d started, it just flowed out of me. I tried to tell things in order, the way Sofie did, and make them sound logical—as much as was possible under the circumstances. The fact that the girl was missing from the picture definitely helped. So did Sofie’s Dutch outfit and the bit about Lucius Doyle. My mom had witnessed these things herself. Yet the whole time I was talking, I knew deep down she wasn’t believing a word.
When I got to the background part, the things that had happened to Sofie back in Holland, I turned it over to her. She folded her hands in her lap and sat up straight the way she did when she had something important to say, and launched into her story.
“I come from Holland, a small village near Delft,” she said, just as she had in Central Park, but she looked directly at my mother the whole time, her expression very grave. She had a soft, sweet voice. You might call it musical, very pleasant to hear. And somehow it seemed more believable coming from her.
Mom listened without making comments or asking any questions. Maybe she was just being polite, but the scowl was off her face for a change.
When we got to the bit about Lucius Doyle and how he was really Hans van der Brock, we told it tag-team fashion. Finally we laid
out Sofie’s dilemma in all its terrible complexity—and that’s where we stopped. I wasn’t yet ready to bring up Lucius Doyle’s proposal.
For a while Mom just sat there, speechless, shifting her eyes from me to Sofie and back again.
Finally she summoned up a few words. “You realize how that sounds?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Of course,” I said. “I absolutely do know how it sounds. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
There was more silence after that. Mom seemed on the ragged edge of something—exhaustion, despair, her sanity. “I don’t know what to make of this. I really don’t.”
“The girl is missing from the platter,” I said.
“I’m aware of that, Joplin. I pointed it out myself.”
“And Sofie is here. You noticed the resemblance. You saw her clothes. The little Dutch cap, handmade by her mother.”
She shook her head. “It’s just too much.”
“Sofie?” I said. “Would it be ethical for me to use a wish in this situation? A well-meant wish, very small?”
“You are always free to wish.”
“I know that! I’m asking you if it’s okay. Will it do more good than harm?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think it would help very much right now.”
“Good. Mom, I totally understand how you feel. It was hard for me to accept too. But it’s real. And if this will make it easier for you to believe—I really wish Jen would call and say she’s coming home early after all. Um . . . Leonard just remembered some work he needs to finish by tomorrow. And . . . should she bring some takeout from Vin’s?”
“Okay,” Mom said. Her voice was flat.
We waited. And waited.
It was only a couple of minutes, but it felt like an age. Finally Mom’s cell phone rang. Without saying a word she reached over and fished it out of her purse. Her voice was very cautious. “Hello?”
A brief silence, then, “Oh. Hi.” Pause. “That’s too bad. Yeah, I know.” Pause. “That would be great. I haven’t actually gotten around to thinking about dinner. Sofie’s here too, so get enough for four. Thanks, Jen. Bye.”
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