The Art of Secrets

by Jim Klise

  Well—not until it was returned.

  Talk to the detective. Multiple sources will corroborate my story: I was nowhere near school the weekend of the auction. I may have made one bad decision, but trust me, I’m going to be cleared of any wrongdoing. How have I profited from any of this? I still haven’t gotten my own work back! Granted, since I lied initially about my involvement, I understand why I’m getting these questions. But there’s absolutely nothing more I can tell you.

  Sir, we’re just trying to understand what happened to the artwork.

  I would love to know! I’m sick about it. Ask twenty members of the faculty, and you’ll get twenty different answers about what’s happened here and why. The only valuable thing this experience has helped me to understand is Darger’s own work. Some art scholars maintain that it is impossible to fully appreciate a piece of art unless you consider the artist’s childhood.

  Childhood? We’re not talking about anyone’s childhood. We’re talking about a serious crime.

  In Darger’s case, what’s the difference? Just hear me out for a second, folks. Darger was born in Chicago in 1892, the son of a disabled tailor. When Henry was a toddler, his mother died, and his father put Henry’s only sibling, a baby sister, up for adoption. Henry never saw the girl again. What do you make of that—a boy loses his baby sister and spends the rest of his life endlessly drawing pictures of these strong, heroic, beautiful little girls?

  Frankly it seems a little weird to me. Then again, I’m not an artist.

  When Henry was eight, his father became too ill to care for him. He sent Henry to a Catholic home for orphaned boys, but the nuns threw him out for fighting and odd behavior. Here’s where the story gets really dark: Against his will, Henry was moved to Lincoln, Illinois, several hours from Chicago, to an asylum for “feeble-minded” children. This was no school—it was a grueling work farm, where thousands of kids labored all day, under threats of violence.

  Sounds terrible, Jean. Gentlemen, I think we are finished here . . .

  Not long after Henry arrived, he got word that his father died. This left Henry an orphan, completely alone in the world—alone except for the long-lost baby sister. Or, the notion of her. The very possibility of her survival must have fed Henry’s private daydreams. As long as her adventure story continued, Henry would never be totally alone. Henry remained at that asylum for seven long years. He was fifteen before he could make his escape and return to Chicago. At seventeen, he found work at a hospital—janitor, dishwasher—menial jobs he kept for nearly six decades, until he was too old to work.

  And speaking of work, gentlemen . . .

  How can our hearts not be touched by this picture of a sensitive kid like Henry Darger, locked up in a horrendous children’s asylum? Can any of us understand the isolation, the helplessness that kid must have felt? Sometimes, when you lose your freedom, that’s when your fiercest dreams are born—dreams that can feed your imagination for the rest of your life.

  A fascinating art history lesson, Jean, but I’m sure everyone’s time is valuable. We need to be clear: You’re absolutely sure that the artwork was hidden in the annex when you left school that Friday?

  Positive. And by the time I returned the next morning, it was gone. I’ll swear to it under oath. I’ll take a polygraph test, or do whatever it takes to prove once and for all that I am telling the truth. Otherwise, I’m done answering your questions. Listen, my time is valuable, too. Ever since I discovered those Darger paintings, I’ve been in constant contact with art experts around the country. I’ve got a story to tell—a story people want to hear. I’ve had speaking and writing invitations that will allow me to give up teaching altogether, so I can spend more time creating my own pieces.

  The quilts, you mean, sir.

  My fiber art projects, yes. I was going to submit them for a show in Paris. It’s too late for that now, of course. All I know, Dr. Stickman, is that I’ll be leaving Highsmith at the end of the year. You’ll be getting my official letter of resignation soon.

  A bit later, at separate tables in the faculty lunchroom,

  Wendy Pinch & Ariel Ames

  lead similar conversations in different directions.

  WENDY:

  Naturally I wasn’t thrilled to hear my aunt had dropped dead, but I’m grateful for the opportunity she left me. I’m retiring at the end of the year. And that means no more grading, no more going over basic game rules with little turds who never want to move a muscle. No more driving the unreliable school vans to basketball tournaments in snowstorms.

  ARIEL:

  The week after the auction, the only laugh I had was when I read an essay from one of my students on The Great Gatsby. Kendra Spoon did a creative comparison of Jay Gatsby and Harold from Harold and the Purple Crayon—her two “favorite” visionary dreamers. She made connections between Harold’s pies and Gatsby’s lovely shirts, between Harold’s apples that will never turn red, because they’re drawn in purple, and the unreachable green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. Brilliant! Seriously, love that girl.

  WENDY:

  Only problem is, I hate to leave under what only can be described as a dark cloud. People are still looking at me funny, even though I didn’t profit from this Harvey Dooley business in any way. All I got was a stain on the gym floor where that guy’s mess got dumped. My souvenir, I guess.

  ARIEL:

  I’m furious about what happened. Kendra and her brother worked so hard to organize that event. We all pitched in. For the first time, I felt proud to be part of the Highsmith team. And while the universe seemed to reward this effort by giving us a big-ticket item like the Darger album, someone else decided to intervene and ruin everything. It all seems so mean, so personal.

  WENDY:

  Tell you the truth, my heart broke a little bit when I saw the kids at the auction—Saba Khan coming with her family, the Spoon kids standing with their proud mama—and knowing how this cuckoo crime would affect all of them.

  ARIEL:

  The weirdest part was the quiet, didn’t you think? The week after the auction? The kids were in shock. It was like the entire community had suffered this punch in the stomach. Before break, some kid even spray-painted the school seal in the central corridor! I mean, that isn’t normal behavior.

  WENDY:

  My gut tells me this was motivated by race. This was a hate crime, see? It’s the only way I can figure it. Someone hated the thought of the Khans getting rich just because some jackass torched their apartment. It didn’t seem fair that these relative newcomers could be so lucky. Why else would a person steal the art, rip it to shreds, then burn it? That kind of anger is a little scary, don’t you think?

  ARIEL:

  The poor Spoons! Someone resented those kids so much, they didn’t want to see this auction succeed. I’ve seen it happen before. When someone does something particularly well, or thinks outside the box, or goes the extra mile, it can make other people feel bad about themselves. It’s true.

  WENDY:

  I’m not talking about ordinary jealousy. We pretend to be this diverse nation of tolerance, the great Melting Pot. But deep down, a lot of people mistrust a neighbor who doesn’t “fit in” or look the same. It’s not a melting pot so much as a scummy hotel Jacuzzi, where no one wants to get too close to the other guy, because who knows where the heck he’s been? You know what I’m saying.

  ARIEL:

  Can I be honest? When I first got here, I was so excited. My brain was spinning with ideas, like a tornado. But every time I made a suggestion at an English team meeting, I got shot down. Over and over, they said, “We can’t do that.” Or, “That won’t work here.” Big discovery: Nobody likes it when someone new offers fresh ideas for improving the system. That’s what happened to the Spoons. The “new kids” had the idea, so the idea could not succeed. It might have been different if it was a legacy family that led the effort—the grandson or granddaughter of one of those grim, dumb faces hanging on the wall in the main lo
bby.

  WENDY:

  You think Saba Khan has it easy here at Highsmith? She’s this friendly, good-looking, intelligent girl. A real ace on the tennis court, too. Saba makes an honest effort to connect with people. But when I see her—standing at her locker, or moving through the cafeteria line—usually she’s alone. She comes alive at tennis matches, but I never see the girl at extracurricular events. Not at dances or basketball games, nothing.

  ARIEL:

  By any standard, what the Spoons accomplished is incredible. They helped to draw our attention to a family tragedy right in our community. They united the whole school and got the attention of the press. They brought out the best in all of us. And it all started in my classroom.

  WENDY:

  I’ll give you that. Saba may stay home by her own choice. But imagine it from her view. Saba’s been in this country her whole life, but is she included? Every day at school, by their distance and their polite silences, her peers tell her: Welcome to America, honey. You may never truly fit in here. I heard a rumor last month that Saba was hanging out with Steve Davinski. Impossible! First, Saba is traditional. Her parents are on the job, see? No way is Saba stepping out with a boy. But second, a couple like Saba and Steve Davinski could never exist at Highsmith. The division lines separating the social groups are darn near impossible to cross.

  ARIEL:

  Jean Delacroix. Yeah, that was unfortunate. And sure, I have regrets about it. I wish things had gone differently. I made a point to go and apologize. It was important to me to clear the air . . . Not right away, no. My schedule was crazy, and I was swamped with essays to read. Plus, Jean and I have different lunch schedules, and we never see each other ordinarily. In retrospect, I did commit a bit of a faux pas by waiting until there was another snowstorm, a real terror of a blizzard. I realized it would take me forever to get home on the bus when there was heavy, drifting snow like that.

  That same day, during his study hall—his last study hall—

  Javier Conejera, sophomore,

  writes to his friend Jennifer in Oklahoma. He deliberately uses the computer workstation reserved for catalog searches.

  Hola Jen,

  For two weeks, I waited with dread for this day to arrive. Every day, I think my host parents will receive the angry telephone call from the principal, informing them of my foolish crime. Informing them of my punishment. This telephone call never came. Maybe the principal was on a holiday too.

  Moreover, this morning before school, I went to my locker and discovered a surprise: The sacred seal is clean again! The floor surrounding the H shines under the hallway lights. There is no evidence of my mistake. For several seconds, I wondered if my action was only a wishful fantasy, a vivid daydream.

  Then I opened my locker. The can of white aerosol paint was not where I put it. At the same time, a loud announcement in the hallway ordered me to the office of the principal.

  I did not walk slowly. I felt no anxiety. At last, I was ready.

  The principal met me in the reception area and led me back into her office. As soon as I sat in a big chair, I observed on her desk the aerosol paint. Of course.

  The principal said, “Javier, during the break, we found this paint in your locker. I must ask you, did you put the paint on the floor?”

  I said yes. Well, I am not a liar.

  She looked at me, as if waiting for me to say more. I had nothing more to say. The principal leaned the body forward in the chair: “And why did you do this?”

  The truth, Jen, I do not have the words to explain. How do I express the emotions that inspired me to do something so foolish? My action was not rational. It was personal. All I know, on that day I felt the anger. I felt the frustration. I felt no hope in this place.

  The principal continued, “Javier, you covered up the school seal. This symbol is respected by every student in this school. We were required to hire professionals to come and clean the floor. This costs money. Do you have anything to say?” (No.) “Nothing?” I looked at her. Nothing. I had nothing to tell her, nothing she will understand.

  Jen, do you remember in my village, the church tower? The bell rings for various reasons. Many tourists who visit the village hear the bell and believe it is marking a new hour, or calling them to Mass. But the locals know the padre sometimes rings the bell for no reason. The old man is completely senile. Sometimes a bell rings because a man wants to ring the bell.

  The principal sat waiting for an answer, the same as the entire community of Highsmith waits, all the people waiting for the same thing. For answers that may never come.

  She said, “Very well. This is a serious offense, which merits a severe punishment. You will have a detention every day after school between now and spring break. On Saturdays, you will work with our custodians to clean the building.”

  There is a big calendar on her desk, the same as the calendar in the kitchen of my host family. I watch as the principal writes my name, over and over, on all the Saturdays. She wants me to see this—to make sure I understand what I have done and what I will do.

  Of course, I prepared for this moment. I expected this. From my pocket, I take the money that I had been saving to come see you. $300. I put it on the desk, in the middle of the calendar. “To help pay for the extra cleaning,” I say. This is the only thing I say. I do not argue about the detentions or the Saturdays with the custodians, because—well, why? I get up and leave her office without giving another word.

  After, on the door of my locker, I find a face drawn with a black Sharpie—a face with eyes that are angry—the glare of a student who knows I put the paint on the sacred H. Or one who still believes I destroyed the paintings by Henry Darger. Or both. For many weeks, this crime prevented me from finding my place here. And now I am responsible too.

  Jen, this is the last email I will send from Chicago. Tonight I will fill my suitcases again. On Wednesday I will go back to O’Hare Airport so that I may return to my country before the school term begins there. When I called my mother to tell her, she argued with me. She did not want to change the ticket, because of the expense. She said it is normal to be homesick. Then she heard the tears in my voice and she understood. She said, “Come home.”

  One feels sadness when a dream dies, and also relief.

  Today is the day for quitting. At lunch, I saw my friend Kendra sitting at a table with her many friends. Although Kendra has been a student at Highsmith for the same time as me, she is accepted now, even popular. I waited for friendships to come to me, but she did not wait. She worked with strength and made intelligent choices to reach this goal.

  I wanted to say good-bye. We stepped away from the table so we could talk in private. I told her my plan to go, and she nodded without speaking, not with surprise, not with disappointment, as if she understood.

  I told her I would not be able to provide the tutoring in Spanish as I promised before the auction. “Don’t worry,” she said. She frowned and rubbed the forehead, as if embarrassed. “The weird thing was, no one bid on it.”

  “No one?” I said, and then smiled very fast to show this news does not hurt my feelings. Not too much.

  “So I bid on it!” she said, her voice cheerful again. “I mean, I was excited to buy it. I need the help.”

  “I am very sorry, then,” I said, and this was true. “At least, I can promise to give you the tutoring when you come to visit me in España someday.”

  “Definitely,” she said, as she hugged me good-bye.

  Kendra and I never went to the tapas café, even though she said we would do that, too. “Definitely.” Maybe we would have gone if I remained in Chicago for a full second term. It was friendly to say we would go.

  On Saturday, when I informed my host family that I will be returning to España so soon, they pretended the disappointment. Mrs. Davinski said, “But, Savior, you’re going to miss so much. Baseball season hasn’t even started. Wrigley Field!”

  I will miss some things. I will miss the adventure of
living in a strange city. I will miss the pride I found in surviving each day, the satisfaction of getting from one place to another place without getting lost, and the exhilaration of using a foreign language to communicate. I will miss Kendra, who always offered to help, and quiet Nancy who shared her cigarettes and never judged me. I will even miss my host family. They have given me a lifetime of excellent stories to tell. So then, no regrets.

  Except one! Amiga, I am not able to visit you over the Spring Break now. This disappoints me too. But I know you understand. And I will make it there someday—definitely.

  With love from your friend, who is going home at last.

  On the evenings between JANUARY 10 and JANUARY 14,

  Saba Khan, sophomore,

  adds what she can to her own written chronicle of these turns of events.

  This high-rise still doesn’t feel like home. The whole year can pass by + this temporary condo will always feel foreign to me: sleeping in someone else’s bed, brushing my teeth in front of some other girl’s mirror.

  I seek out signs that things will be normal again: My hair finally has grown back to the length it was before the Fenwick match. The weird, pitying hellos from strangers have dwindled off. + today at lunch, when I offered to treat for nachos, the girls sat back with their arms folded + they let me pay. “Extra peppers!” Beti called. I wanted to hug her.

  For a few weeks after the auction, my family adopted a strategy: Do nothing. “For now, babies, we put this drama out of our minds,” Ammi said. At her urging, we began playing games again, the ordinary kind with cards + dice, the ones that clearly determine a winner. The check from the auctioneer sat on the dining room table until after New Year’s, tucked in a silver napkin holder that came with this place. At some point, the check disappeared—deposited into the bank account, more money than the account has ever seen.

  This past weekend, Ammi filled the teakettle + fried some bread with brown sugar. With these treats, she lured us all into the living room, where we piled onto the sofa, a family pile—even Salman, who usually is too hyper to relax. He picked up the remote control + pointed it at the TV. Suddenly the gas logs in the fireplace burst with flickering orange flames.