“You know about that?”
“I heard.”
“Do—do you know who did it? I mean, if you can—” How to put this. Did this—this—ghost wander all over the campus, coming here when she did, but otherwise have the ability to be anyplace he liked. “Do you go to other buildings whenever you feel like it?”
“Would you like to see my studio?”
“You work—you paint down here? Or near here?” This situation moved beyond her imagination, so all she could do was say yes and see what happened next. Before he could answer, she continued. “I’d love to see your studio.”
“Come.”
She still could not see this man who kept her company in the basement room, but when the door opposite the door to the upper floors opened, she stepped that way.
Again, she was assailed by musty air, air which had probably been trapped here for a long time.
“I can’t see.” The light from the basement reached only a few feet into the darkness.
“Follow my footsteps.”
She swallowed, straightened her shoulders, and took several steps forward. Then she continued, guided only by the rustle and soft thud of his feet ahead of her.
Her father had told her once of the tunnels that ran underneath all the campus buildings. The metal tubes held pipes, underground power lines, air ducts. In some places this tunnel was large enough to stand upright, in others she had to bend over slightly to continue behind him. Mr. Sable warned her when this was the case, and she let her hand reach up and guide her.
Cobwebs brushed against her fingers, causing her to jerk back. Dust floated in the air, probably raised by their—her—feet. How long since anyone had walked here?
The thick ebony air began to make her feel trapped. She had no idea where she was walking, how to get back unless he guided her. When she could no longer touch the ceiling, she stretched her arms ahead, swimming in inky blackness that got colder the farther she walked.
She shivered, wishing she had worn her jacket. She had never liked caves and was easily claustrophobic. The feeling of being smothered wrapped round her.
“Is—is it much farther?”
“Trust me.” His voice came from directly ahead of her.
She was. She realized she had placed a lot of trust, maybe her life in this man’s hands, and she didn’t even know who he was, what he was.
Just as she thought she might start screaming, they stopped. She heard the click of a lock, the twist of a doorknob. Paint smells, a touch of the familiar, soothed her nerves.
Then a dim light came on. The cord dangled in the center of the room as if a soft breeze had touched it. She began to see around her. The small room was piled with art supplies, covered with dust. The brushes, the paint tubes hadn’t been touched for years. The walls were covered with more of his work, and for a few minutes she stood, turning to the next, the next, and the next painting, admiring them all. The style was easily recognizable, the work all fierce, angry, sorrowful, mystical, or sad. She felt as if the walls were papered with raw emotion.
A few sculptures posed in various stages of completeness. Only two seemed finished.
“You worked in clay?” She felt he was still there with her.
“I tried. I gave it up. I couldn’t express myself with that media. But this was my best attempt.”
For just a few seconds she thought she was going to be able to see her companion. His fingers materialized near a stallion that reared, hooves pawing musty air.
The hands she saw reminded her of Johnny’s. Long, slim fingers, strong fingers, an artist’s fingers, the fingers of a sculptor, even though he admitted he had given that up.
The hands faded.
“Oh, for a moment—why won’t you let me see you?”
“It’s not necessary.” His voice—was he angry with her? Or disappointed? She couldn’t quite make out what he was feeling.
“It’s all right,” she quickly assured him. “I don’t mind, really, I don’t.”
“You are a rare individual, LaDonna. Most people would have been afraid of me.”
“Should I be?”
“Of course not. But they would not have believed, or they would have demanded more.”
“You would have known that. You would never have spoken to them.”
“That’s right. I knew I could speak to you. I needed to speak to you. Thank you, LaDonna.”
“I should thank you. You’ve given me back my art, my talent.”
“Your talent never left you. It was your confidence that left. It took only your working again to restore it.”
All the time they talked, she studied his work. Fell in love with every piece. Wanted to take them all back to the basement gallery. Then show them to—to the world.
“Has anyone else ever seen these paintings, Mr. Sable?”
There was a long moment of silence. But he hadn’t gone. He hadn’t left her here alone.
“I didn’t—I—”
He left then. He left her in the dim room, far back under the campus, alone.
“Mr. Sable? Mr. Sable, please come back. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Begging, pleading was of no use. He was gone. She almost panicked. How could she find her way back to the art building basement? She couldn’t even remember how far it was.
“Please show me the way back.” Her voice sounded hollow, flat, and insignificant in this place.
She moved to the door and looked back the way they had come. She could see nothing but flat, black air. Her mind created a maze of tunnels that twisted and turned. A path that could lead to nowhere, or one she could wander for days without seeing the light.
But she couldn’t stay here. She pulled the string on the overhead bulb that had lit the room dimly. Stepped into the river of darkness. Swam with only hope for her return to light.
She forced herself to walk slowly, but with purpose. She pretended she knew the way, had walked it for a million nights. The darkness was nothing to fear.
Her hands made fists. Her stomach tightened. Her breathing became labored, heavy desperate sucking. She calmed herself. In and out, in and out. Deeply. There was plenty of air, stale, but life giving. In and out, in and out. Step by step. Step by step. Forward. There were no wrong turns. There was only the one pathway back. He would not let her lose her way.
She did trust him.
She entertained herself with questions. She had almost seen him. Why hadn’t he let her see his face? Was he deformed? Scarred? The man without a face? She thought of that story, that book. The film. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered.
A sudden impulse to run flooded over her. No. No, I will not run. If I run, I will lose my way. I will run into something. She kept her hands stretched in front of her and sometimes moved them to the side or overhead. She touched nothing.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted dim light ahead. Her steps quickened. Reaching the basement room, she slipped in, closed the door firmly behind her. She widened her eyes and stared at her own studio, since that was what this room was becoming. She had done little work on sorting the donated paintings since she had started painting. But she had turned in no hours. She would be honest about her time here.
Would they let her stay if she wasn’t working? She hadn’t thought of that. Tomorrow she would return and dig into more of the boxes stacked against the walls. She would divide her time between her work and the college’s work.
She could never leave this place now that he had shared his secret with her.
“Thank you,” she whispered again. “I won’t tell anyone unless you give me permission.”
He hadn’t asked her to make that promise, but somehow, she felt she must. He had done so much for her. Restored her work. And now, somehow restored her ability to walk through the darkness with confidence. Was that why he had left her?
How many more tests would he expect her to pass?
eleven
THE NEXT DAY at school, LaDonna
had two new paintings to share. The one of Johnny, who no one knew was Johnny except her. And the one of her flying. She stood studying all three pieces of new work when Roddy stopped beside her.
He looked at the paintings for a long time. For so long that LaDonna started to worry.
“You don’t like them, do you?” she asked.
“On the contrary, I’m rather impressed.” Roddy smiled at her. “I want you to enter the district art competition for high school students.”
“I don’t know if I want to. I’ll have to think about it. And I’ll ask my—” She started to say teacher, but she didn’t want to hurt Roddy’s feelings. He had worked with her for three years without helping her this much. “—my dad.” She finished the sentence.
“Are you working with someone, La Donna?” Roddy asked.
“No one—you’d know.” No one you’d believe is what she really meant.
“Try me. I know most of the artists in this area.”
“I’d rather not say, Roddy. Maybe another time.”
Roddy nodded and left her still looking at her work. She prepared another canvas board, then stood staring at it. She couldn’t even make her hand reach up and start to draw.
“Where are you getting those paintings, LaDonna?” Eric Hunter asked, making her jump. He had sneaked up behind her.
“Don’t sneak up behind me like that,” she said. Eric had sounded angry and she answered with anger of her own.
“I didn’t sneak up. I’ve been standing here and you didn’t know it. I don’t think you painted those. I see you hesitating, looking at your canvas now. You haven’t put anything on a picture except gesso since I came into this art class.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t paint at home. And it’s none of your business anyway, whether or not I painted these three pictures. Roddy doesn’t doubt me.”
“Roderiquez is too soft on you kids. Especially you. When I was in high school we called people like you teacher’s pet. I guess things haven’t changed much. Luis believes everything you tell him.”
“That’s because he knows I wouldn’t lie to him.” LaDonna turned her back to Eric, indicating that their conversation was finished.
She tried to let go of the anger he had caused her to feel. And to be honest, the doubt. She still had the lingering doubt, the idea that Mr. Sable had painted these pictures, using her hand.
She had read about automatic writing. A spirit comes into a person and guides his hand, writes a story through the medium. If a spirit could write like that, why not paint like that? She chewed her lip and wished she could paint something similar to her pictures now. Then she’d know the work was hers.
Hunter moved over to pester Johnny. Johnny had come to school today, but he had been awfully quiet. In today’s class, he had moved away from everyone and had painted with his back to the class over in one corner. Eric Hunter interrupted his solitude, not even considering that it might be rude. If Eric planned to be a sensitive teacher that kids would respect, he had a long way to go and a lot to learn.
It was no use. LaDonna gave up on painting in class. Maybe she could eventually, but not today. She’d let the canvas board dry, take it to work tomorrow. She didn’t plan to try another painting in the basement gallery anyway. She needed to put in some hours on the real work she was hired to do.
As she washed her brushes, she glanced from the sink into Roddy’s office. One corner of the room had been inclosed with half walls and glass windows. Roddy could take a student in there and talk to him, yet keep his eyes on the rest of the class. The door was seldom closed. But it was today.
And that wasn’t all that attracted La Donna’s attention. The whole class had noticed. There was a policeman in the office talking to Roddy. Roddy was shaking his head, but LaDonna couldn’t hear what he was saying.
She shouldn’t stare. Quickly she shook the water from the fist full of brushes, grabbed a paper towel to soak up the rest of the water in them.
Since Johnny appeared to be finished for the day, she approached him. His face, still turned from the class, was stormy.
“Johnny? Want to talk?”
“Why do they have to come up here?”
“The police?”
“Wasn’t it enough for them to question me at home and at Old Main? Now the whole school will be talking. The police think I killed Katherine, LaDonna. I’m sure they do.”
“They can’t possibly think that, Johnny.” LaDonna felt a stab of sympathy along with disbelief.
“They can think anything they like.”
“I think they questioned my father several times. Just because he cleans up there.” She didn’t mention the incident in the hall when she slipped out of Johnny’s practice room. “They’re going to keep talking to anyone who was anywhere near Old Main the night of the murder. It’s routine. You have to ignore them.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I think maybe we should play hooky from art and music and go to a movie after school. How does that grab you?”
“I need to practice. The recitals aren’t that far away.”
“And Roddy wants me to enter the district art competition. But I’d say we’re too stressed to do anything well tonight.”
“Okay, let’s go all out. We’ll stop at the house and make popcorn. I’ll get Mom’s car. We’ll make it a real date.” The anger left his eyes as he looked at LaDonna. She liked what she saw there in place of it. The softness, the—the—yes, love for her in Johnny’s eyes made her feel all soft inside.
Roddy stopped them on the way out. “LaDonna, are you still working at the art building on campus at night?”
“Sure. Thanks, that was a perfect job for me. I’m seeing so much bad art, mine seems halfway professional.”
“That’s good. But maybe you should just work afternoons. I’m worried about your being up there at night.”
“Has something else happened?” She hadn’t looked at a newspaper for days.
Roddy hesitated. “I guess you’ll read it in the newspaper soon enough. Another young woman was assaulted last night, late. She got away, but she was darned scared. She didn’t get a look at the man who jumped her, but he tried to strangle her. All she could say was that he had long, slender fingers. Strong fingers. And that he seemed really angry.”
LaDonna shivered without meaning to. Maybe it was foolish for her to walk across the campus late at night. But a strange thought came into her mind.
I don’t have to worry. He’ll protect me.
twelve
WHEN THEY CAME out of the school, La Donna would have fainted if she hadn’t had hold of Johnny’s arm. His mother waited in the parking lot. She honked and waved to get their attention.
“Your mother?” LaDonna said, looking at Johnny. “Why isn’t she at work?” Then a flash of fear hit her. “Something must be wrong.” She pulled a reluctant Johnny over to the car. “Mrs. Blair, what’s wrong?”
“Are you all right, Mom?” Johnny finally spoke.
“Yes, yes, yes, and nothing is wrong, but I didn’t want you two to go up on the campus today. Get in. I’ll take you home.”
“Mom.” Johnny was embarrassed. “You’re being silly.”
“We were both going to cut work and go to the movies.” LaDonna felt disappointment now that she found Johnny’s mom was just doing her Super-mom act. She had been looking forward to some down time with Johnny.
“You can go later. Come on, Johnny. Get in.”
Johnny sighed, shrugged, and opened the front passenger door for LaDonna. Then he got in the back of their old Subaru.
“I don’t want you or LaDonna on that campus today, Johnny. You can practice at home.” Mrs. Blair headed toward home.
“Mother, I can’t stop practicing on the grand. I have a recital in May and I’m nowhere near ready.”
“And I can’t quit my job,” LaDonna added. “I need the money.” No one, nothing was going to make her stop going to the basement room.
“An
other girl was assaulted up there last night, LaDonna. She got away, but it could have just as easily have been you. That campus is not safe. Your boss will understand. Tell him you’ll come back after they catch this maniac.”
“Mom, how did you find that out?” Johnny asked. “It hasn’t been in the papers.”
“We hear everything at the store. Some students came in later and told us the whole story. They had gathered around when the girl got away and called the police.”
LaDonna turned and looked at Johnny. He was staring out the window. His hands lay in his lap. She stared at his long, slender fingers. Strong fingers.
How silly. She forced her eyes to move to his long bony face and she missed his crooked smile. It had been days since Johnny had smiled.
“Take me home, Mrs. Blair. We can still make the five-thirty movie, Johnny. Okay?”
“Sure. Be there in a little while.” Johnny held the door open for LaDonna. He looked upset. She ran inside, leaving him to deal with his mother.
Her father hadn’t left for work, and she didn’t ask why. When she walked into the kitchen he was eating a TV dinner. He glanced up but didn’t say anything. My happy family, thought LaDonna. She hurried into her room to change clothes. She would wear her best jeans, and a new sweatshirt.
Thinking of something she wanted to ask her dad, she hurried back to the kitchen. He was sipping a cup of coffee.
“Dad, I’ve heard that there are tunnels under all the buildings on campus. Is that right?” She’d pretend she knew nothing.
“Sure. They’re air ducts. They hold pipes and electrical systems. Phone lines. Some are closed off, but you can get through most of them. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. The idea fascinates me. I wonder if anyone could live down there?”
Her father studied his coffee. His fingers circled the mug where cream clouded the dark liquid. The fingers on his right hand were stained yellow with nicotine. The doctor had told him to stop smoking but he probably never would. He just didn’t smoke at home any more. Permanent dirt and grime emphasized the lines and his fingernails. She had never noticed how long her father’s fingers were. She was sure they were strong. He had used them for hard work all his life.
The Gallery Page 7