V:1 F:1 X:2 P:1 - V:2 L:2 - U:2 V:2 F:1 F:3 -
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F:2 L:2 F:2 - F:1 T:1 T:2 F:1 W:1 N:1. - I:2 P:1 Y:2 -
F:3 L:2 T:2 Y:1 - U:2 V:2 W:1 I:2 Y:1 U:2.
V:2 L:2 F:2 F:2 F:3
He hurried up to his room to dig out the pentomino code that he’d made for himself and Tommy before his friend left:
Back to “What Is It?”
Calder decoded the message. Worried, he went down to the kitchen to tell his parents the news. Everyone in the Pillay household felt bad. Moving to a new neighborhood was hard enough, but having the kid next door suddenly disappear seemed like a bad joke.
Tommy had never known his real father. During the past winter, his mom, Zelda, who worked in the university library, took a vacation with two other women. They went to Bermuda. She came back with a husband.
At first, Tommy was very quiet and didn’t want to talk about “Old Fred,” as he started calling him. Fred tried hard to be a dad. He played baseball with Tommy in the park. He came to school and met many of the teachers. He took Tommy and Calder to Fifty-third Street for hot fudge sundaes all the time, and let them get any size they wanted. After a while, it seemed like Tommy was starting to like him.
And then Old Fred announced, last July 4 — Calder remembered the date because it took the bang right out of the fireworks — that the family would need to move to New York. He had bought a house in the suburbs without even telling Tommy’s mom. “And of course not the kid,” Tommy had said when telling Calder.
And now this Frog business — what kind of a name was Frog, anyway?
Calder wrote Tommy right back.
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U:2 L:2 - U:2 L:2 T:2 T:2 F:3 - F:1 I:1 L:2 W:2 V:2 -
T:1 T:2 L:2 U:1. - F:2 F:1 F:3 I:1 P:1 - F:3 L:2 W:2 -
L:1 F:1 I:2 - U:2 L:2 Z:1 X:2 P:1 -
F:2 F:3 U:2 V:2 P:1 T:2 F:3 - F:1 I:2 N:1 -
I:1 P:1 - V:1 P:1 T:2 L:2. - I:1 P:1 -
L:1 F:1 T:2 P:1 T:1 W:2 Z:1. -
L:1 F:1 Z:1 N:1 P:1 T:2
Tommy had always liked spying; maybe this was an opportunity not to be a mediocre kid. Calder smiled, remembering their conversation in the kitchen when he had first gotten his pentominoes. He hoped his message would help.
After writing the letter and sealing the envelope, it occurred to Calder that maybe this was bad advice. What if something horrible really had happened to the kid next door? Whoever was responsible wouldn’t want another kid snooping around. Calder’s parents had told him that the chances of it being a real kidnapping were small. He hoped they were right.
When Ms. Hussey read the piece of writing aloud at the end of the week, there was a shuffling and a looking-around for who seemed embarrassed or who looked too pleased.
“A strange chair?”
“Modern art with things hanging from it?”
“Does the writer want to stay anonymous, or do you want to tell us what this is?” Ms. Hussey asked after several guesses had been made.
Silence.
Petra cleared her throat. “Well, it’s a special book.” Petra thought suddenly of the calm, intelligent woman in her dream, the woman in the yellow jacket. She probably never had to explain her writing. And suddenly Petra felt the woman was sort of keeping her company, whispering, It doesn’t matter what they say. I understand.
“A book?” snorted Denise. “Berries and smelly pants?”
Petra’s mouth closed in a tight line.
Ms. Hussey turned toward Denise. “Yes. Unexpected similes can carry the power of surprise. They’re refreshing, aren’t they?”
Denise looked as if she had smelled something bad.
Calder was impressed by Petra’s writing, and wished it were his own. An hour later, in the cafeteria, he spotted Petra in a corner by herself. He decided to join her. He wanted to tell her about the threesome outside his house yesterday, and how much he liked her description. He was imagining how surprised Petra would be to have his company.
It was then that Calder’s lunch box collided with the back of a chair and popped open. Petra heard the bang and watched his baloney sandwich, now airborne, cross the table with impressive speed.
By the time Calder retrieved his sandwich and sat down, she had begun to laugh.
“All right, all right,” Calder said.
“It’s just that I was reading about inexplicable loud noises and things falling from the sky, then there was this whop!, and then a flying —” She was gasping. “It’s not you — just so perfect —”
“What’re you reading?”
“The book I wrote about. I found it at Powell’s yesterday.”
Calder saw that it said Lo! on the spine. Weird title — no wonder she was trying to cover it up.
“It’s by this guy Charles Fort, who spent a lot of his life looking for newspaper articles about unexplained stuff,” Petra said. “You know, like weird lights in the sky, objects traveling through rooms without any visible explanation, ghosts, crazy things like that. He talks about how blind and idiotic he thinks a lot of our education is. And he’s funny. He doesn’t take anyone’s thinking too seriously, including his own.” She paused, surprised at herself for saying so much. “I love hearing about people who figure things out for themselves. Plus, I love to think about things that no one understands. Yet.”
“Mmm.” Calder’s mouth was full.
“Almost anywhere you look in here, there’s something amazing. Listen to this.” Petra flipped to the middle of the book.
“THERE HAVE BEEN MANY MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES OF HUMAN BEINGS….
CHICAGO TRIBUNE, JAN. 5, 1900 — ‘SHERMAN CHURCH, A YOUNG MAN EMPLOYED IN THE AUGUSTA MILLS (BATTLECREEK, MICH.) HAS DISAPPEARED. HE WAS SEATED IN THE COMPANY’S OFFICE, WHEN HE AROSE AND RAN INTO THE MILL. HE HAS NOT BEEN SEEN SINCE. THE MILL HAS BEEN ALMOST TAKEN TO PIECES BY THE SEARCHERS, AND THE RIVER, WOODS, AND COUNTRY HAVE BEEN SCOURED….
“And then:
‘… RECORDS OF SIX PERSONS, WHO BETWEEN JAN. 14, 1920, AND DEC. 9, 1923, WERE FOUND WANDERING IN OR NEAR THE SMALL TOWN OF ROMFORD, ESSEX, ENGLAND, UNABLE TO TELL HOW THEY GOT THERE, OR ANYTHING ELSE ABOUT THEMSELVES….’”
Calder had stopped chewing and was staring at her.
“Tommy knows a kid called Frog, a kid in New York, who just disappeared.”
“Frog?” Petra started to laugh again. “A flying frog!”
Calder kind of wanted to laugh, too, but the news wasn’t supposed to be funny. What was she talking about, anyway?
“Do you believe this guy Fort?” As soon as Calder said it, he wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t really what he meant. Petra’s face closed, and she looked disappointed.
“Well, part of what is so neat is that he worked from newspapers. I know most people would think this was completely stupid.” Abruptly, Petra started to gather her things, stuffing Lo! into her lunch bag.
This wasn’t going well. Calder did understand Petra’s excitement; it was just that he hadn’t wanted to look like an idiot again. Plus, the Frog connection had been such a weird coincidence. Before Petra could get up, he blurted, “Your writing was great, and also I saw Ms. Hussey, an old lady called Mrs. Sharpe, and Mr. Watch my boss from Powell’s, outside my house yesterday. They were all there together.”
Petra no longer looked unfriendly. “Mrs. who?”
“Sharpe. At least that’s what it sounded like.”
Petra pulled out her book again. She opened to the first page and turned it toward Calder. “Strange, huh?”
“‘Louise Coffin Sharpe,’” Calder read. “Do you think that’s her? I could find out,” he said as if there was nothing to it.
“Okay.” Petra beamed at him. “Thanks. I’d love to know — I didn’t think the first owner would still be alive.”
The next day was Saturday, and Calder arrived at Powell’s early. Mr. Watch was seated behind the front counter, frowning over what looked like a letter.
“Ah, yes, I need you to make a delive
ry.” Mr. Watch refolded the letter. “I’m sending you down the street with some books. The name is Sharpe.”
Calder grinned. Events were fitting together now with the precision of pentominoes. He ventured, “Would that be Louise Sharpe?”
Mr. Watch looked stern. “Yes, but not to you.” He handed Calder a paper bag filled with books.
On the way over, Calder peeked into the bag. There were some novels in French and a new book about art by David Hockney. It looked like the kind of thing Ms. Hussey would read. There was also a small, beat-up book called An Experiment in Time. When Calder flipped to the table of contents, he saw that Chapter Two was called “The Puzzle.” Mrs. Sharpe must not be all bad.
If she recognized Calder, she didn’t let on. He decided not to remind her about the glass of water. Calder noticed that she had unusually green eyes — a sea-green surrounded by lots of wrinkles and bones. She asked him to wait in the living room while she got a check.
He looked around. He was standing on a huge Oriental carpet. Velvet cushions, naked sculpture, glass cabinets: The place was a museum. And in the corner, on a neatly organized desk, sat a large, fancy computer.
Then he saw it. Calder couldn’t believe his eyes. There, hanging over the sofa, was a big version of the painting on his box.
“Do you know what that is?” Her voice made him jump.
“I was going to ask you — you see, my grandma gave me a box with that guy, I mean that painting, on the cover, and I was going to try to find out who did it — and I just did some homework that describes it — that’s so strange, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Sharpe sniffed and handed Calder the check. “Well, not really. That’s a print of a Vermeer painting called The Geographer. There must be thousands of them around.”
“Oh! Who was Vermeer? I know I’ve heard his name, but — you know.” Calder, still surprised, was warming up to the situation.
“He was Dutch, and painted in the seventeenth century.” She paused, looking thoughtfully at Calder’s enthusiastic grin. “I’m sure you could find a book in your school library that told you something about him.”
“Wow — this is just so perfect.” Calder, in his excitement, was already headed for the front door. Then he remembered Petra’s book.
“Hey, Mrs. Sharpe — could I ask you a question? It’s about Lo!, a book a friend of mine, Petra Andalee, found at Powell’s, and — well, I think maybe it has your name in it.”
Mrs. Sharpe was dreadfully silent for a moment. What was she thinking?
When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Do you understand the book?”
Calder looked up. He couldn’t tell from her face whether this was a trick question. “Part of it, anyway,” he lied. “I mean, we both really like the stuff about weird things happening that nobody understands — like people who disappear. And it’s cool that he found all that in newspapers.”
“I didn’t think anybody read books like that anymore.” Mrs. Sharpe looked almost human now.
Encouraged, Calder blurted, “Oh yes, all the time.” Oh no — he’d gone too far.
“Come for tea one day after school. Bring your friend and we will talk about Charles Fort.” Mrs. Sharpe’s voice was now icy. “Four o’clock.” She turned to open the door, and Calder knew he was being dismissed.
“Okay, I will. Tha —” The door shut in his face. Calder walked back toward Powell’s in a daze. My friend Petra? He hoped she would become his friend, and fast. There was no way he’d go back to talk about that Lo! stuff on his own. How did he get himself into this?
Monday morning was blue and white, and everything was blowing: cumulus clouds, bare branches, scraps of rubbish.
Calder stepped out his front door and saw Petra chasing a piece of paper up the block toward the Castigliones. As he watched, the paper shot skyward in a graceful loop and headed over the roof of the Castiglione’s tree house and toward the train tracks.
Petra stopped. “Darn!” she said. “That letter was half-buried in your garden. I only got to read the beginning, but it said something about an old crime and art.” She shrugged. “Probably just some crazy advertisement, anyway — not a real letter at all.”
“I’ve been thinking about that Charles House book,” Calder began.
“Fort.” Petra tried not to smile.
“And something else.” Calder took a deep breath. “Mrs. Sharpe. That is her book. And she’s interested that we — I mean you — know about it. She wants to meet you.”
Petra had stopped walking. “Seriously?”
“She wants us to have tea with her one day. She just kind of announced it.” Calder looked at the tops of the trees as if they’d been invited, too. What would he do if Petra wouldn’t go? Mrs. Sharpe would soon realize he’d lied about reading Lo!
Petra was silent for a moment. “Wait. How did you talk to her?”
Calder explained about his job at Powell’s and the delivery yesterday. The rest of the walk to school they talked about coincidence, agreeing that it didn’t always seem to be accidental, and Petra shared some of Charles Fort’s ideas about looking carefully at things. Calder wanted to tell her about his box, and about the coincidence of seeing the Geographer on Mrs. Sharpe’s wall, but didn’t — Ms. Hussey hadn’t read Calder’s description aloud yet, and he was hoping Petra would like it.
They agreed that there was a great deal to be figured out in the world. Petra confided that she thought Ms. Hussey might be willing to let them collect strange data the way Fort did. That is, if kids like Denise didn’t wreck it for everyone.
“Maybe data about art — art and unexplained stuff!” Petra blurted.
“Petra, you’re amazing.” How could he ever have thought that wedge of hair was anything but brainy?
Petra’s mouth twisted strangely. “You’d better read that book before you agree with me. You might not be as crazy as I am.”
He laughed and stirred the pentominoes in his pocket happily. This year was getting better all the time.
Calder borrowed Petra’s copy of Lo! that afternoon. She was right: Fort was an extraordinary thinker. He looked fearlessly at occurrences that no one could explain. Even better, he looked everywhere for patterns. Calder understood the man’s fascination with connecting things that didn’t seem related, and he admired the way Fort challenged the experts. How could Mrs. Sharpe ever have gotten tired of such an exciting book?
Speaking of Mrs. Sharpe, he had some detective work to do.
The reproduction of The Geographer in his library book was clearer and brighter than the copy of the painting on his box. Behind the man was a framed map, and above that the signature I Ver Meer, and under that, MDCLXVIII. Calder counted: a thousand plus five hundred plus a hundred plus fifty plus ten plus five plus three —1668. The artist’s full name was Johannes Vermeer, also known as Jan Vermeer, and he was from the Netherlands, in northern Europe.
The book explained that no one knew for sure who the Geographer was, but that the area where Vermeer lived was a center for mapmakers. It talked about how people with money liked to hang maps on the walls of their houses to show that they were wealthy and that they thought about the world. Mapmaking was a respected profession, something between a science and an art.
Calder flipped back and forth in the book, looking at some of the other Vermeer paintings. Most of them showed people in front of a window; the Geographer’s rug appeared in many of the paintings, and the same yellow jacket turned up in a number of places. The pictures made you feel as though you were peeking in at someone else’s private moment. The light that came from outside made ordinary objects seem important: a quill pen, a pitcher with milk, an earring, the brass buttons that were part of a straight-backed chair. It occurred to Calder that there could be hidden information here — after all, codes involved repetition, and the same objects appeared again and again in Vermeer’s work. There was the obvious geometry of windowpanes and floor tiles, and then all the pearls, baskets, pitchers, and framed maps. There was
symmetry, both complete and carefully broken.
Calder read more. The book said that Vermeer died penniless when he was in his forties, and that almost nothing was known about his life. No one understood why such a fabulous painter had made only thirty-five works of art. No one knew who the people he painted were, or why he painted the things he did. No one knew how he became an artist.
Vermeer had left behind more questions than answers.
On the morning of Sunday, October 31, Petra overheard her dad telling her mom that he just wasn’t up for Halloween.
“Frank, think of the kids.” Her mom sounded tense.
Then Petra heard her dad’s rumble and parts of what he said: “Sorry, honey … letter in the mail this week … you’ll see … be over before we know it.” He’d given her mom a hug.
What letter? And what had happened to the one that was torn up? What would be over? Did their family need money? Would they have to move? Petra suddenly longed to tell Ms. Hussey what she’d just realized: Important letters couldn’t be talked about because they always held secrets. Ms. Hussey must never have gotten one or she’d know that.
Harper Avenue was in its element on Halloween. People came from miles around to walk down the block where Petra and Calder lived, and families took pride in becoming as frightening as possible. Graves sprang up in front yards, complete with scattered bones, headstones, and shovels. Tarantulas looped from gutters, and pumpkins flashed and growled. Corpses hanging from second-story windows swung gently in the darkness. Chocolate eyeballs rolled underfoot. A mesh of webs covered bushes and porches, and crackly voices and organ music came from flower beds. For the kids who lived on the block, costumes were a big deal.
At 4:00 that afternoon, Petra was struggling to tie ribbons in her hair. Bouncy and curly, it didn’t like the idea of being pulled back so tightly. Petra finally yanked out all of the ribbons and made a tight ponytail and a tidy bun. She then fastened the already-tied ribbons on with bobby pins.
Chasing Vermeer Page 4