The Art of Secrets

by Jim Klise

  “Hey, we have already seen this program!” Papa said. This has become a dependable joke. “OK, let us talk about the future.”

  We cuddled on the sofa, watching the fire + we made a plan. “Only a dummy quits a good job,” Papa said. Of course he’ll keep working at the factory. The money from the auction will remain in the bank, minus a contribution for the poor.

  At the end of this year, we’ll use the auction money as a down payment on a condo. Nothing too big. Nothing with marble in the bathrooms or million-dollar views. Nothing we can’t afford. We want to be back in the old neighborhood—closer to the Pakistani shops + our mosque.

  I asked, “If there’s any left, can we at least get . . . a new car?”

  Papa said, “Do not think about what might be, or what might have been. Yes, we might have been rich—so what? It’s done.”

  “We might still be rich,” I said under my breath, thinking about insurance money.

  Papa’s voice was gentle but persuasive: “Time to forget about that. We are rich in a different way. + besides, those questions will drive us mad. Only God knows why someone took the art + destroyed it. Only God knows why the school administration did not keep it somewhere safe.”

  I wanted to say, No—not only God knows. Someone else knows these things. That’s what makes the situation so infuriating.

  We are victims here. Why isn’t he angry about that? Me, I’m getting used to the role. 1 week I’m hanging out with the most popular boy in school, feeling like Cinderella at the ball + the next week, old Prince Charmless turns back into an ordinary giant. Drops me without any reason, except that he’s . . . “too busy”? His attitude took me by such extreme surprise that I literally didn’t know what to say or how to feel. It’s been 3 weeks + I still don’t. It was beyond messed up. Now I wonder if “the creeping vine” + I ever had anything real at all . . .

  My girls tell me to take it in stride. Kendra especially. She says: “You’re Steve Davinski’s ex. Saba stock is through the roof!”

  Maybe that’s true. I appreciate Kendra for trying to make me smile. But it doesn’t change the way my heart feels.

  Today I left an obscenely huge chocolate bar in Kendra’s locker. My note said, “Here’s a big sweet reward for being you.”

  She’ll never suspect, but it was an apology. For too long, I was annoyed at Kendra + her brother. I actually felt angry that they were helping. That wasn’t fair. Without the Spoons, my family might be living in a shelter right now. True, helping might have come easily for them, but the Spoons made everything happen for us. Almost as if they understood how hard it is to come to your own aid. How overwhelming it feels when everything goes wrong. It can paralyze a person!

  The funny thing is, Kendra + I are total opposites. I’m an introvert, she can talk to anyone. We come from completely different backgrounds. Still, we have this weird bond. Kendra seemed to see it first. From the very beginning of the tennis season, she latched on to me, even off the court. Since she was new, I figured she only needed a friend, any friend. But then, after the fire, Kendra was the 1st person who stepped up to say she would help. The girl changed my life.

  Despite all that’s happened, I feel hopeful. Because when the Spoons get a check from the insurance company, they will give us that money. They were willing to donate the art, so why wouldn’t they donate the money?

  $500,000. All those zeroes, like tiny windows into our future. I peer into them and see: Now we will stay in this tricked-out condo with this huge bedroom + the view of the park + tennis courts + it will be ours. We’ll get a new car, with smooth leather seats + dependable heat. College costs, completely paid for, for both Salman + me. We’ll take a trip to Pakistan to meet family I’ve only heard about in stories, like characters in a book.

  + when we step off the airplane in Islamabad + the cousins surround us, they will know right away, by the way we dress + our heavy bags filled with expensive gifts, that we truly are an American success story.

  On the evening of TUESDAY, JANUARY 15, at a rented townhouse filled with boxes,

  Kevin Spoon, senior,

  opens the door and finds the insurance investigator, who carries a file of papers.

  Oh hey. My mom’s still at work, but she’ll be home in . . . twenty minutes? If you want to stick around so you can go over those papers with her, that’s cool with me. I know she’s been waiting for them.

  Yeah, sit anywhere. Move that stuff to make space, if you need to.

  Tell you the truth, I was never sure what exactly insurance was until we had to buy some. I guess you guys come in after the fact and save the day, huh? That’s got to be an excellent feeling.

  Isn’t it weird how people are defined by the way they make money? By their jobs? Put it this way: My mom works in sales, and that’s who she is. You work in insurance, and that’s who you are. My teachers work in education, and it might as well be written on their tombstones someday. Like, “Here Lies Edith Jones, Beloved AP Human Geography Teacher.” They should do that, right? It would make cemeteries more interesting. “Here Lies Benjamin Smith, Gifted Orthodontist.” “R.I.P. Bill Green, Who Sold Toyotas Throughout the Greater Chicagoland Area.”

  My sister Kendra wants to be a baby photographer. She’s obsessed with babies. She wants to have a cool loft studio filled with fancy equipment and enough toys to keep all the hipster babies giggling. Or she wants to be a nurse on a cancer ward. I can just picture her, awake in the middle of the night, fighting back tears as she valiantly rubs Lubriderm onto the foot of a sleeping patient.

  When she was little, she wanted to be the person whose job it was to polish the crown jewels for some rich European nation. She saw herself wearing a little black apron, buffing up the crowns, scepters and rings, and reporting: “Your Majesty, the jewels are sparkling and ready for wear.”

  My sister’s full of ideas—but me? No clue. Obviously, based on this past winter, I do not suck at fundraising. I could work for a charity.

  Unlike Kendra, when I try to picture my life after college, all I see is a blank screen. My mom says, “You start by collecting your props.” She tells me to picture my hands: What will I be holding in my hands someday?

  Maybe a paintbrush. Those are my art supplies over there. I’d take over the whole house if Mom let me. No matter where we’ve lived, I’ve always painted. I do think about making art in the future, but not so much about how I’ll pay bills. Kendra tells me I need to think practically—that I need a plan—which is annoying. She’s like my mom. She could always sell air.

  Speaking of which, yeah, pardon all the boxes everywhere. Actually my mom got another job offer. Atlanta. I guess Atlanta rush-hour traffic is awful, which means long commutes, which means more time in cars, which means more expensive radio advertising. So now we’ll be moving again.

  Honestly, it’s frustrating. Especially for Kendra. We killed ourselves last fall to become part of this community, working like crazy to make friends and to stand out in a positive way—and all for what? For Atlanta? Please.

  Yeah, we helped the Khans. That counts for something. As Kendra said, no one else was going to take a magic purple crayon and draw a better life for Saba Khan, or for anyone. So we drew it. Someone had to, right?

  I’m telling you, if you’ve earned people’s trust and work as a team, there’s nothing you can’t accomplish.

  That’s why it’s super annoying to have to start all over again. It’s not a good feeling, you know, when nothing’s in your control.

  Did you ever look at those Darger paintings? It was easy for us to relate to those kids, the ones fighting against the grown-ups, the same ones who always run everything. The grown-ups who want to determine our future for us.

  I don’t mean to complain. Generally, when I think about the future, I feel hopeful. My mom says it’s not enough to hope. She says we need to plan—and take risks and make sacrifices and be ruthless. Or else, what? Watch our personal goals fade over time until there’s nothing left but a mem
ory of the goal? An old “what if?” That would suck.

  Anyway, yeah, Saba Khan’s doing fine now. I mean, better than fine. We made sure her situation turned out okay. That was important.

  And now, I don’t know . . . this insurance thing . . .

  Let’s not forget, Saba’s had advantages we haven’t had. For one thing, she’s lived in the same city her whole life. I really envy that. My family never stops moving, and Saba has a home. She has a community. And she has a dad! But we’ve done okay. My mom makes up for it. I’m not complaining. Put it this way: Everybody gets a different mix, right? We made sure Saba—

  Oh, wait. Sorry. Here’s my mom now. . . .

  Nice talking to you, sir.

  On FRIDAY, JANUARY 25, after bouncing a basketball for twenty minutes for no good reason in the gym lobby,

  Steve Davinski, senior,

  takes a seat on a bench next to an unfamiliar man who turns out to be the insurance investigator.

  Aw, no way! So, if I understand the facts correctly, you’re stuck with a mystery on your hands. A gigantic, expensive, embarrassing mystery.

  No disrespect, sir, but I’m betting the big boss at the office doesn’t cheer for a loss. Am I right?

  In my life, I don’t play much with odds or speculation. Me, I only shoot when I’m confident I can make the basket. I solve equations using the facts I know.

  But this mess we’ve had at school this year . . . It hasn’t always been easy to keep score, you know? Nothing’s been clear.

  Like, see this ball here? Well, actually, you don’t. You only see one side of the ball. The only way you ever see the whole thing is like this.

  [Spins the basketball on his finger.]

  That’s Coach P’s favorite trick. Before each game, she stands in the locker room and spins the ball on her finger. She says, “Players, here’s what you gotta think about if you want to win today.” She tells us if we work as a team and watch the ball from every side, we’re golden.

  Suppose I was playing your little guessing game—Who Screwed Everything Up? One thing we know now, for example, is that we can rule out my old roommate. A grand adios to Javier. Guess I was wrong about him. Yeah, the kid had sticky fingers, thanks to the spray paint, but he wasn’t a thief. He was a loner, but harmless enough. He walked away empty-handed.

  My guess? Like everything else, it all comes down to numbers. Cold hard cash. According to my dad, money motivates Americans. It’s what brings people to this country. Face it, nobody ever comes to the good ole U. S. of A. in search of spiritual enlightenment.

  The Khans came here to make money and to give their kids access to the best education in the world. Will they get it here at Highsmith? Depends who you ask. But if Saba takes the opportunity and gets the best education she can, I guarantee Saba will make her money down the road. And so will I. Look at me, I’m playing the game.

  So follow the money.

  Don’t look at me—I got squat.

  Yeah, Saba’s family got their forty grand, and can live in a swank apartment for a year, rent-free. Happy ending for them.

  And Principal Stickman got herself some cash to build a tacky little wedding chapel outside.

  Our coach is retiring early, thanks to some inheritance money. And Mr. Delacroix, the art teacher—he’s giving up teaching and plans to pursue his own dreams.

  But in the big picture? That’s all peanuts.

  After all is said and done, who came out ahead? Who made the money?

  Two quick emails from

  Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal,

  dated MONDAY, JANUARY 28.

  To United Insurance:

  Sorry I missed your call. I wish I could help you. As of last Friday, January 25, the Spoons are no longer enrolled at Highsmith. At present, we have no forwarding information for the family. If that changes, I certainly will be in touch.

  To the Chicago Tribune:

  Sorry I missed you! To answer your question, I can confirm that the Spoons are no longer enrolled here. Mrs. Spoon came in on Friday. Apparently she asked for their first semester transcripts, then pulled the kids out of class. That’s all I know. To be honest, I’m ready to draw the curtain closed on that little drama. This time of year, we at Highsmith are looking ahead, not behind. Our seniors are getting into excellent, selective colleges and we celebrate good news as it arrives.

  I’m genuinely sorry I missed your call, because I am eager to chat again. Do you want to put together a story about the wedding venue planned for our campus? I’ve met with a contractor already, and I can promise you, the new facility is going to be a very charming, welcome addition to the area!

  One day later, on TUESDAY, JANUARY 29,

  an unnamed college admissions counselor,

  in fine spirits after an extra-long lunch with favorite colleagues, reads the following essay and is predisposed to like it.

  Steven T. Davinski

  Personal Statement

  In an essay of no more than 350 words, please describe an experience from your life when you felt like an outsider. What did it teach you?

  Even though I am the president of our student government, I understand better than most people how it feels to be marginalized in society. My girlfriend Saba is as American as me, but her parents were born in Pakistan. Saba’s family has been the victim of unspeakable discrimination. Last fall, their home was destroyed in a fire, which was determined to be arson. The only explanation was that it was a hate crime. Soon after, a valuable piece of artwork, which had been donated specifically to raise money for Saba’s family, was stolen and then senselessly destroyed—only for spite.

  In addition, during this school year, my family hosted a foreign exchange student from Spain. We looked forward to Javier’s arrival and welcomed him into our home, despite his cultural differences and shy personality. Unfortunately, the only warmth Javier experienced during his stay was the affection our family bestowed upon him. Javier left after one semester, when it was clear that he did not feel like an accepted member of the school community.

  These painful experiences may help to explain my low GPA during my senior year. In fact, I had hoped to raise my grades as a senior, but unfortunately that wasn’t able to happen due to the impacts of prejudice and hate in our community. However, the time spent with my Spanish brother, as well as my close relationship with Saba, has taught me something very important: Despite what the Constitution says, not all people in America are treated equally.

  If admitted to your fine university, I plan to pursue a degree and a career that allows me to fight for the rights of all people, not just the insiders. I plan to study law, eventually working as a vocal advocate for immigrant rights. (A second option would be to work as an investment banker.)

  I am normally a responsible, by-the-rules, natural leader, but the things I have seen this year compel me to raise my voice and become an activist. We must demand equality and acceptance for everyone now.

  Thank you very much for considering my application.

  On MONDAY, FEBRUARY 4,

  Louise Denison, International Fine Art Authentication & Appraisals,

  sends an email to Mr. Pierce McQueen, United Insurance.

  Dear Mr. McQueen:

  Lately I have been dividing my time between Chicago and Chandigarh, India. How the mail piles up in my absence! (It is challenging to manage two completely separate lives, I am finding.) Anyway, I returned yesterday after three months abroad and found a report from you, as well as some correspondence on my desk relating to Henry Darger and what looks like an IFAAA appraisal from last fall, for a client named Monica Spoon. I do appreciate being cc’d on this claim. But the paperwork is full of errors—maybe sent to my office by mistake? It’s lucky I saw this at all because I head straight back to India in a few days. I am writing to you quickly (still half-asleep with jet-lag) in the hope we may clarify this matter as soon as possible.

  Around late October of last year, I received a phone call from the principal of the
Highsmith School—a request for an appraisal on what might be work by Henry Darger. A day or two later, when I arrived at the school at the appointed time, a girl met me in the parking lot, a student. She greeted me by name. As we walked into the building, I said it was great they contacted me when they did, because in a couple of weeks I would be leaving on a research sabbatical. I was busy getting ready for that and not doing many new appraisals.

  The girl looked at me funny. I could see she was confused. She explained that there must have been a misunderstanding: I’d been asked to come at her own request—not for an appraisal, but for a classroom research project on careers.

  She said she’d seen the newspaper article about (what was then) my forthcoming trip to India to study the work of Nek Chand. She said that “outsider art” was a particular interest of hers, and she was so grateful I’d made time to come and speak with her about it.

  “What about Henry Darger?” I asked—because the principal had expressly made an appointment for an appraisal. That was clear.

  The girl explained that maybe the principal herself had been confused by the student’s request. It was true, she said, that her interest in Darger had been born on a class trip to the Intuit museum in Chicago. That’s where she got the idea to research careers in the art market, especially outsider art, etc.

  I was disappointed—big understatement. I’d spent about 48 hours excited about possibly seeing something new by my beloved Henry Darger. And as I say, time was tight. So honestly it was awkward. But I figured, I’m here, and this blond girl seems sweet—so why not give her thirty minutes?

  We found an empty classroom and sat down. It turned out to be a fun conversation, because this student was so prepared. She had a list of excellent, detailed questions: What are the steps one takes to authenticate valuable art? What different types of tests are conducted, and how much time is needed? What forms are used? That sort of thing. I was happy to answer all her questions. I even gave her blank copies of the forms we use to authenticate and appraise art.