“I feel bad about that oil spill,” Calder said. “She’s still cleaning.”
Zoomy could only observe the deeps, but the others gave him a running account. Everyone felt as if they needed glasses by the time Eagle stepped out the kitchen door, closed it with a bang, and headed for his van. Ms. Hussey wasn’t with him.
“Quick!” Tommy called as they took off at a run, hoping to stop the vehicle as it turned the corner toward the hospital. Early got there first and waved Eagle down.
The driver’s side window opened. “You guys still hanging around? Not much to see,” Eagle said calmly, as the kids gathered in a breathless group. Tommy had led Zoomy along by the sleeve of his sweatshirt, calling out, “Dip, three steps” and “Crack, four!”
“We’re getting good at this,” Zoomy mumbled, and Tommy nodded.
“Mrs. Farmer —” began Petra. “She likes kids. We need to get back, but without — you know, interference.”
“And how will you do that?” Eagle asked, his voice still alarmingly smooth.
“Someone could let us in,” Calder said, scratching his head with the F pentomino. “Someone who’s good at alarms. And devices, like dehumidifiers.”
“Ahhh … and you think Ms. Hussey and your parents would be comfortable with this?”
Just then two young men in black jackets crossed the street at the end of the block and seemed to pause midstride when they saw the van surrounded by kids. Eagle nodded in their direction and they hurried on.
Is he communicating with them? Tommy wondered. He glanced at three of his four friends to see if they’d noticed.
“Hinige sinigigninigaliniged tinigo blinigack jinigackinigets!” Tommy said quietly.
“Ooooh, well, I’ll leave you guys to it.” Eagle smiled. “Always loved codes myself. Mother Goose has its own cryptic language that works with our world. Like blackbirds being similar to people dressed in black leather. Stuff like that.”
I’m not the only one who sees that, Tommy thought to himself.
The five stood back quietly as he started to roll forward. “Wait!” Petra blurted. The van stopped. “We didn’t mean to be rude. We were just trying out a language we made up. Can you get us back into the Farmer, Eagle? Please? We might pick up something that’s missing in how everyone’s thinking about the F-A stuff. You know Mrs. Farmer wanted kids to feel welcome in her home, and —”
Eagle laughed softly. “I always felt welcome there, as a kid. I went whenever I could. It was strange. I almost felt as if I belonged there.”
“That basement door, the one that all the trustees have a key to — could you open it for us?” Early asked breathlessly.
Good timing. Wish I could cut to the chase like that. Tommy shot her an impressed glance.
“And what about the guards and the police?” Eagle asked. “Shall we drug them with poisoned doughnuts and … hmm, tie them up? Then sit down and do a Ouija board?”
The kids’ mouths were all open now.
“Wait,” Petra said. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I believe in what Sarah Chase Farmer believed in. Like you kids, I’m open to ideas. Why do you think I bought a Ouija board for you after our visit the other day?”
“Seriously?” squeaked Tommy. “You’re not just making that up?”
Eagle winked at them and recited:
“Wire, briar, limber lock,
Five geese in a flock,
Sit and sing by a spring,
O-U-T and in again.”
He grinned. “You guys remember that one? Do you mean to tell me you didn’t spot the Ouija board up in the attic this morning? I tucked it in between some old games. Didn’t want to be too obvious.”
Seems like he’s always a step ahead, Tommy thought to himself. And winks are usually a sign of someone trying to get away with something.
“As long as we don’t end up like Willie running around the beehive,” he mumbled. “Isn’t there a Mother Goose rhyme about running away from bees?”
“If you can run, you won’t get stung,” Eagle said evenly. “Meet me back here at seven tomorrow evening, and wear dark clothing. I’ll research the guard setup, both inside and out. Tell your parents — and grandma — that you’re having a work dinner at Mrs. Sharpe’s.”
As the van accelerated slowly, the kids felt as though they’d signed on for something that could be as dangerous as tying their sneaker laces to the bumper.
“Scinigaz,” Petra said. “Inigarinige winige stinigupinigid?”
* * *
Knowing they weren’t expected home yet, four of the five called their parents for permission and then headed downtown. Gam wouldn’t agree to Zoomy going with the others, not without Ms. Hussey along, and Zoomy decided to pick his battles: He was needed as a part of the expedition the next night, so he’d lie low until then. Plus, he couldn’t fool Gam twice.
“Gam and me, we’ll go to Powell’s and read some more Mother Goose. I’ll see what else might fit with Eagle and how he views things. Maybe catch some clues.”
“Excellent,” Petra agreed. “And we’ll check out another piece of art with a face, one my mom suggested at dinner last night: Picasso’s huge outdoor lady. Might be the solution that no one has investigated. Hidden but in plain sight!”
Calder, Tommy, and Early didn’t feel as hopeful, but it was an investigation, a job to keep them busy. After dropping Zoomy at the guesthouse, the four hurried on toward the train station at 56th Street.
When they reached the wall outside the entrance, beneath the tracks, Early stopped.
“Hey, guys! My family calls this the Story Wall, and it’s covered with faces. Real faces, portraits from the neighborhood. And look, there’s a heavy metal box on the bank up there, one I never noticed before! Probably just has track equipment, but it is behind the faces! If the art’s in there, that’d be faces behind faces, for real!”
At the top of the wall mural were the words Where Are You Going? and Where Are You Coming From? Early explained that the artist, Olivia Gude, had photographed and talked with a bunch of everyday people who happened to walk by on one particular day here, over twenty years ago. She’d recorded them in paint, including some of their answers to her two questions. Most looked directly at the viewer. A few hurried past. What they shared were mostly heartfelt experiences, like coming to the US from another country, trying to find a way out of poverty, building a life through education and family. One answer was simply, “I’m walking in a circle.” The words they left behind spelled out dreams, disappointments, work, routines, hope, happiness, desperation, and faith.
“My dad says it’s like an open book with pictures, a living story for everyone, out in all weather,” Early said.
“It makes me think of all the art people in the Farmer,” Petra said, “but they can’t speak. Except in dreams,” she added hurriedly.
“Funny how plain old folks get important when they’re turned into art,” Early said.
“I wouldn’t mind having my picture up there,” Calder said. “Holding a pentomino.”
“Heads up!” Tommy’s voice was strangely muffled.
Calder, horrified, watched his buddy scramble up the bank, clinging to bushes and clumps of dead grass. The other two glanced around nervously, expecting a shout from someone driving by.
“Hurry up, man!” Calder called. “A train is coming!”
“Oh, no,” groaned Early. “My bad idea!”
Tommy crouched by the box, which was several feet from the tracks and tagged with spray graffiti. He ran his hands around the sides and whooped, “There’s a door! This could be it!” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he had a flash of the open door in his dream, the door in the big tree.
“HEY, KID!” bellowed a voice. “Get away from there! You could get fried!”
Tommy jumped to his feet, lost his balance, belly-surfed down the bank, and shot off the wall at the base, landing in a painful pile on the sidewalk.
The girls and Calde
r hurried over. Tommy sat up and checked his elbow and a hole in the knee of his jeans. “Scaz,” he muttered.
A face peered over from the top of the bank. “Trust me, kid, stay off the tracks. Bad way to go,” the man growled.
It wasn’t until the train arrived and they were safely onboard that Tommy muttered, “He didn’t have on an orange vest. Could’ve been anyone.”
The four looked at one another and then around the train. “Yeah,” murmured Calder, glancing at a guy in a black jacket several seats away. “Good guys, bad guys — who can tell?”
Without Zoomy there, the boy-girl balance felt awkward; somehow, Zoomy’s presence put small things in perspective. Now Petra was aware of sitting next to a girl who had thighs that were half the size of hers, and Tommy was aware of a new Krakatoa simmering on the side of his nose.
“Sorry I gave you the idea, Tommy,” Early said abruptly. “That box wouldn’t be a very protected place to stash great paintings from the biggest art theft in US history, would it?”
As Tommy opened his mouth to answer, Petra cut across him. “Thieves have unloaded stolen art in all kinds of crazy spots — a tree house, bathrooms, even the trash.”
“I was gonna say, it could be anywhere,” Tommy agreed, glaring at Petra.
“Or spread all over, like the black jackets are,” Calder said. “Don’t forget, it’s thirteen pieces of art and thirteen people, now that Mr. Chase is gone.”
“Your point?” Tommy said. “That prime numbers can sneak around?”
“No, just that once something goes wrong, like a person dying —”
“The art will run away and cry?” Tommy snickered, not quite sure why he felt so mean.
Calder shrugged. “Think about it: Who has the best ideas — us, the Hussey-Sharpe-Devlin threesome, the trustees, or the faces in the art? It’s thirteen to thirteen now, art to people. That’s all I meant. And the F-A clue was important, but maybe no one will ever know what the old man meant.”
“Dead to alive,” Petra muttered.
“Alive to dead, you mean.” Early’s hand trembled as she fiddled with a button on her sleeve.
I’ve never heard Calder blat on so much, ever, Tommy thought to himself. His knee was beginning to really hurt. Is this just growing up, or noticing that girls like you more if you talk about stuff?
“So why did Mrs. Sharpe pull us into the group?” Tommy said loudly. “It wasn’t our idea. And it can’t be because we’re so amazing.” He glared at Calder.
“Maybe we’re the fish baiting the hook,” Early said. “Although I don’t know what I mean — I just said it.” She tucked her hair nervously behind her ears.
Glad Goldman didn’t hear that one, Tommy thought to himself. He’d never want her near his bowl again, not even with the juiciest baloney sandwich on the planet. And why was I thinking that Mrs. Sharpe looked like a fish when there was a huge cat in the house? And right after that, the cat was snapping up real fins and tails …
“Seems like there’s fish everywhere. And cats,” Tommy said.
“Plus snakes and blackbirds and rats,” Early added.
Calder pulled the T pentomino out of his pocket. “T keeps coming up. Thieves … together … thirteen … test … testimony.”
Talk talk talk, Tommy thought but didn’t say. “Maybe your pentominoes need a rest. Some snooze time.” Tommy elbowed his old buddy, who seemed like he was showing off.
“T for time, and yours is up,” Calder said. Tommy slid down in his seat, knowing that his friend was right. He was acting pretty terrible.
“And we’re worried about all that but not about going to the Farmer tomorrow night with Eagle — what are we, crazy?” Petra crossed her legs, her thighs rubbing with a miserable shreee sound. When everyone looked down, she kicked Tommy on his sore knee by mistake.
“Sorry!” she muttered just as he yelped, “Scaz!” Both looked out the window as if something out there could rescue them.
Stepping off the train, the four glanced around. No black jackets on the platform. The March air had a bite to it and loose garbage blew sideways across their path.
Relieved not to be facing one another, the kids walked several blocks in silence. When they reached the huge Picasso sculpture, set in Daley Plaza in the midst of skyscrapers, Tommy spoke first. “Pretty ugly, isn’t she? Like a gigantic hunk of rusty playground equipment, but for giants. Or a huge harp — if you like strings that go between someone’s nose and their hairdo.”
Early snickered.
Score. Things were looking up. Tommy shifted his feet farther apart and straightened his shoulders.
“Her eyes are awful close together,” Calder said.
“I don’t think she’s so bad,” Petra said. “I looked up some stuff about her. She’s untitled, been here since 1967, and was given to the city by Pablo Picasso. She’s about fifty feet tall and weighs something like a hundred and sixty tons. She’s Cubist. You know, that art style that chops up what you see and rearranges it.”
“That why she also looks like a dog?”
“No, a baboon!” Tommy and Calder were now shoving each other.
“How about a stinging insect?” Early added, and Petra stiffened.
She turned away and walked quickly toward the sculpture, as if to say, Too bad for you guys, none of you get it. Seconds after disappearing around the back, she popped out again.
“Hurry!” she called. “Hinigidiniging plinigacinige!”
Zoomy didn’t want to worry his grandma, but when he reached the children’s section in Powell’s, there was the little red book — once again not at all where it was supposed to be.
Gam didn’t notice his surprise, having spotted several copies of Mother Goose. Zoomy was down on his knees in front of the shelf and placed his finger right on the spine: The Truth About My Art. He pulled out the book and brought it over to Mr. Watch, who was behind the front counter.
“This book has a mind of its own,” Mr. Watch joked, but Zoomy didn’t think that was too funny. After all, Petra had found it and then someone had moved it seconds after she and the other kids walked away, then it turned up on its shelf again the next day — or so Mr. Watch had said — and now it was hidden in the kids’ section.
“Maybe you should keep an eye on it,” Zoomy suggested.
Had Eagle moved it there, after it had reappeared? If so, why? And if the man was such a jokester, why were the five of them trusting him to take them to the Farmer tomorrow night? Zoomy tried not to worry, but the questions buzzed noisily in his mind.
He sat down and began tap-tapping his chin.
“Notebook,” Gam reminded him. She sat on a stool not far from his.
Zoomy found his purple pen and notebook, and wrote, ~whose joke? After a moment he wrote, ~who is hiding what? Was it part of Petra’s pattern thing that Mrs. Farmer’s book was tucked in next to the Mother Goose books? Like a coincidence that seemed too close to be an accident?
Gam had dragged out the large Baring-Gould Annotated Mother Goose, a copy that contained several versions of the old book. She was reading, following the lines with a finger.
“Wow, this Mother Goose idea is ancient,” she declared. “News to me! No one’s sure who first wrote down the rhymes or songs, but it seems they’ve been around for centuries. Some people say the eeny-meeny-miney-mo types of jingles were used by northern peoples thousands of years ago when choosing a victim for human sacrifice. Oh, my. Hmm, and William Shakespeare must’ve heard these rhymes as a boy in the 1600s, because snippets got into his plays. And there are university types who think Mother Goose was really King Charlemagne’s mother, back in the 700s. She had big feet, like a goose. Mm, we would have liked each other. Kind of surprising that the Mother Goose stuff has been around for so long, don’t you think, Zoomy?”
He nodded, still wondering who had moved the red book. Could it have been one of the black jacket guys, the ones who were all over Hyde Park? If so, who were they? Suddenly he pictured a very different ma
n in a black jacket, the one in his dream. You’ll understand this message, he had seemed to be telling Zoomy. And when the moment comes … The man’s eyes were bright and sure, and as Zoomy closed his for a moment, he could feel the truth of what the man was saying. I will, Zoomy promised, I will.
“Hey, listen to this alphabet rhyme,” Gam went on, all excited. “From a collection that was published in Boston in 1761, but — funny thing, the middle numbers just change places — first heard and quoted in 1671. This fits all the mess and fighting around the Farmer collection, the theft and Mr. Chase’s death:
“A was an apple pie,
B bit it,
C cut it,
D dealt it,
E eat it,
F fought for it,
G got it,
H had it,
I inspected it,
J jumped for it,
K kept it,
L longed for it,
M mourned for it,
N nodded at it,
O opened it
P peeped in it,
Q quartered it,
R ran for it,
S stole it,
T took it,
U upset it,
V viewed it,
W wanted it,
X, Y, Z, and ampersand
All wished for a piece in hand.”
“What do you think of that, Zoomy?” Gam sounded pleased. “Though I’m not sure what ampersand is. Are you?”
Zoomy shook his head. “How did you know about all the fighting and disagreeing?” he asked. Gam had a way of knowing an awful lot about what was going on in life.
“Don’t stolen art and valuables always make people behave badly?” Gam asked. “Plus I picked up a few things in the Farmer the other day.”
“Like what?” Zoomy asked.
Pieces and Players Page 14