The woman in the portrait nodded. “It’s always hard to move to a new place. Why don’t you come in here with me, and we’ll have a real visit?”
“Really?” said Olive.
“I’d be delighted to have a guest. Climb right up,” the woman said, smiling.
Olive clambered onto the chest of drawers and leaned into the portrait’s silver frame. She landed with a bounce on a squishy sofa covered with dozens of ornamental pillows, all in different shades of pastels. Long, lacy curtains were draped around the windows, delicate vases full of lilacs and lilies stood on every surface, and elegant collections of seashells and bottles and porcelain rosebuds were scattered everywhere.
In her jeans and sweat socks, Olive felt like she had wandered into the pages of Little Women or Anne of Green Gables, two books that she liked very much but that she wouldn’t have wanted to live in. She could never have kept all those petticoats clean.
The woman from the portrait was seated at a little cloth-covered table, just pouring a cup of tea from a filigreed silver pot.
“Won’t you join me?” she asked, gesturing to the other chair.
Olive freed herself from the sofa pillows and made her way to the table.
“Do you take sugar?” asked the woman.
“Yes, please,” said Olive.
The woman dropped a lump into Olive’s cup and passed it across the table. Olive tried to take the cup gracefully, but her hands weren’t cooperating. The delicate saucer slipped out of her fingers, hit the tabletop, and split in two with a brittle chink.
Olive shut her eyes and wished that she could disappear. She had wished the same wish many times, and it hadn’t come true yet. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The woman across the table smiled. “Don’t worry. Everything stays the same here. Look.” She gestured to the broken bits of porcelain. Olive glanced down. The two halves of the saucer had pulled back together, like magnets. Olive picked up the saucer very, very carefully, and turned it over in her hands. There wasn’t even a chip in the glaze.
“I’m so glad you came,” said the woman, picking up her own teacup. “I haven’t had a visitor for ages.”
Olive looked around the room while the blush on her cheeks started to cool. “This place seems familiar to me,” she said.
“It should,” answered the woman. “It’s the downstairs parlor of this house.”
Suddenly Olive could recognize the shape of the fireplace, the built-in bookcases, the carved wooden panels of the door. The woman seemed funnily familiar too—not just because Olive had looked at her picture so many times, but because she reminded Olive of the kindergarten teachers at her old school. She had the same sweet, slow way of speaking and moving, which always ended up seeming a bit too sweet and slow to be real.
“I grew up in this house, years and years ago.” The woman gave a little laugh. “It belonged to my father, and to his father before him. But I’m sure that many things about the place have changed since I was a girl.”
“I suppose so. It doesn’t look like this anymore.” Olive took a sip of her tea, then plopped four or five more sugar cubes into the cup.
“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?” said the woman with a very sweet smile.
Olive cleared her throat and began the recitation. “My name is Olive Dunwoody. I’m eleven. My parents are Alec and Alice Dunwoody. We just moved here a few weeks ago.”
“And what do you think of the place?”
“It’s kind of . . . strange,” said Olive, hoping not to seem impolite.
“Yes, I suppose it is a bit strange. Most old houses have a secret or two.” The woman rearranged her string of pearl beads and sipped her tea. “Well, Olive, my name is Annabelle. And you can come to see me any time you like.”
“Really?” asked Olive, wondering meanwhile if a person could put more than ten sugar cubes in one cup of tea without seeming insane. “The people in all the other pictures were worried I would get them into trouble. They said there was a man who was watching them.”
“Oh, that,” said Annabelle, stirring her tea with a dainty spoon. “That is really nothing for you to worry about.” She leaned closer to Olive, lowering her voice. “I don’t want to sound unkind, but there are some . . . people in this house who like to make something out of nothing. They’re like cats getting startled by their own tails. You can’t believe everything they tell you.” Annabelle pressed her cold palm hard against Olive’s hand. “Trust me,” she said.
Annabelle stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs out of her lap. “I do hope that you’ll come and see me again sometime, Olive.”
She held out her icy hand, and Olive shook it.
“Be careful as you leave,” said Annabelle. “Don’t hit your head on the chest of drawers.”
“Good-bye. Thanks for the tea,” said Olive, climbing onto the couch. Then she smiled back at Annabelle, pulled herself through the picture frame, and hit her head on the chest of drawers.
11
OLIVE LEFT THE violet room and walked slowly down the hall, past the pictures of the rocky hillside and the bowl of odd fruit, and stopped in front of the painting of Linden Street. The windows of the distant houses were dark. The same starless sky hung above them, stifling the street like a heavy black blanket.
Olive played with a strand of her hair and gazed at the empty street. She tried to imagine living in a painting, like Annabelle or Morton. It would get dull, that was certain. It would be sort of like being sick—lying on the couch, unable to move, while everybody else bustles around you. Olive liked being sick, because it meant she got to stay home from school, and she could read and draw all day. But she supposed that if she were sick for a really long time, she would probably get cranky and impatient. She imagined being stuck like that for years and years, and felt a tiny tug of pity for Morton. Even though he was about as much fun as having a burr caught in your hair.
What if she did go inside the painting of Linden Street? What was the worst thing that could happen? Well, the worst thing would be getting trapped inside and being stuck forever. Olive nibbled nervously on the ends of her hair. Imagine being trapped with Morton for eternity! Still, as long as she kept the spectacles safe and didn’t stay too long, she would be fine. Horatio had said so himself.
Horatio. Even the thought of the giant orange cat had begun to make Olive’s blood simmer. Giving her little slivers of information, telling her what to do, refusing to answer a simple question, and then disappearing for days! Well, if Horatio wasn’t going to help her, she would have to find the answers on her own. Besides, Annabelle had said that there was nothing to be afraid of.
Olive dropped the hank of soggy hair. If she were Morton, what would she want? She would want to get out of the painting, of course. And she would want to know that she hadn’t been completely forgotten. Olive closed her eyes and tried to picture Morton’s round, pale face, but his frowning features and taunting voice kept bumping into the way. Morton might not be happy to see her. But he might be happier if she brought him a present.
Olive dug through her drawers and boxes and closet. There were lots of things she didn’t want to give away, especially not to someone like Morton, but there were also lots of things that she could live without: gifts that distant relatives had sent her, or consolation prizes she had won at the school carnival after failing to hit a single balloon with a dart.
With her pockets stuffed, Olive went into the hall and looked carefully in all directions. Her parents were downstairs; she could hear the sound of water in the kitchen sink and the soft voices of a radio news program. Olive put on the spectacles. She grabbed the picture frame and pulled herself into the misty field that rolled up to the painted Linden Street.
Inside the frame, Olive waited for her eyes to adjust. Even the gloomy upstairs hall had been bright compared to the twilight of the painting. Then she took off at a run, moving like scissors through the mist that mended itself behind her.
She spotted
Morton from a long way off. He was still dressed in his nightshirt, which seemed a little funny to Olive. Somehow she had expected him to change out of his pajamas. But, of course, nothing else had changed. It was still a cloudy, windless evening on Linden Street, and the faces that peeped through the dark windows at Olive disappeared whenever she turned to look.
Morton had noticed her too. As Olive ran up the street, he froze, his head craned intently in her direction. Then, when he was sure Olive was hurrying toward him, Morton turned his back, raising his shoulders in a long, unwelcoming shrug.
Olive slowed to a walk. If Morton was going to act like he wasn’t happy to see her, she would act like she wasn’t happy to see him either. She wasn’t happy to see him. Nope. The little jump she felt in her chest was just relief that he was all right.
By the time Olive shuffled up behind him, Morton was swinging on the gate in front of his house, making it crash as hard as he could. His white nightshirt rippled like a kite’s tail behind him.
Blam, went the gate. Blam.
“Hello, Morton,” Olive said, trying to sound pleasant and nonchalant at the same time. “I came to check on you. Just like I said.”
Morton didn’t look up. He kicked off the ground with one foot and swung forward so the gate slammed again. Blam.
“It’s dull here,” he said, still not looking at Olive. Blam. “Nobody will come outside. Everybody’s afraid. They think he’s watching.” Blam. Morton raised his voice. “But I’m not afraid.”
“Yes you are,” murmured Olive.
Morton finally looked up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Blam, said the gate.
“I brought you some things,” said Olive. “I thought you might like something to play with.”
Morton swung back and forth on the gate again and didn’t answer. His tufty hair twitched in the air.
“Look.” Olive held out the first present. “These are little pellets that turn into sponges if you put them in warm water.”
Morton glanced at the packet in Olive’s hand. “And then what?”
“I don’t know. Then you have sponges.”
Morton’s head drooped. The gate swung a bit more listlessly. When it shut, it only said tick.
Olive tossed the packet of sponge pellets on the ground. “How about this? I brought some crayons and a coloring book. It’s Grimm’s Fairy Tales. I’ve only done half of the pictures.”
Morton looked up at the book. Then he looked at the fistful of crayons in Olive’s hand. “Crayons?” he said slowly. “In all different colors?”
“Yes,” said Olive, glad that Morton didn’t seem to notice that the crayons were mostly broken ones.
“That’s pretty good, I guess,” said Morton. He put one foot on the ground, and the gate swayed back and forth.
“And,” said Olive, “I brought you this.” She put down the crayons and coloring book and pulled a miniature flashlight out of her pocket.
“What is it?”
Olive flicked the flashlight on. A narrow beam of light poked through the dusk and tickled a few of the distant houses.
Morton gasped. He slid off of the gate. Like somebody watching a magic trick, he tiptoed closer to Olive, his mouth hanging open.
“How does it work?” he whispered.
“There’s a battery inside it.”
“There’s batter in it? Like cake batter?”
“No, a battery. It’s . . . it’s a little thing that makes things work,” said Olive, hoping Morton wouldn’t ask any follow-up questions. “But it doesn’t last forever. So don’t turn it on too often.”
“Can I hold it?” asked Morton. Olive passed him the flashlight, and Morton twirled around with it, making swirls of gold light against the low-hanging fog.
“Look, I’m a soldier!” he crowed, assuming a stiff position, the beam pointing up from his side like a sword. “Charge!” Head down, flashlight out, Morton barreled toward Olive, who laughed and leaped out of the light.
Morton skidded to a stop. “Now what am I?” He held the flashlight above his head with both hands and turned in place, very slowly.
“An angel on a merry-go-round?”
“Nope. I’m a lighthouse.” Morton swung the flashlight in one hand, its glow making a sparkling trail through the mist. “I can write our names. Look.” Morton aimed the flashlight toward the low, dark clouds. “M-O-R-T-O-N and O-L-I-V-E,” he spelled softly, tracing letters that vanished as quickly as they formed.
“You’d better turn it off. Don’t waste the battery.”
Morton gave the street a last slow swipe with the flashlight beam, and the soft colors of the houses and lawns flickered at the end of its thin, bright tunnel. Then he let Olive show him how to push the switch. The light disappeared. The street was dark and silent, and somehow emptier than before.
Morton sighed and looked down at the sleeping flashlight. “When can I come out?” he said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“I want to go home.”
“But you said this was your house.”
“I mean my REAL house. Not in here. The REAL one. I told you, I was in my BED. And I woke up, and he was talking to THAT CAT, and—”
“I know, I know,” Olive interrupted. “But Morton, in the real world, this house belongs to somebody else. It’s Mrs. Nivens’s house. It’s not yours.”
“Nivens?” said Morton, staring up at Olive.
“Besides, you’re not real. You are a painting.”
Morton’s round face folded into a frown. “I am not!”
“Look.” Olive grabbed Morton’s spindly wrist and flapped his hand through the air. “Paint. Now look at my hand. See the difference?”
Morton shook his head stubbornly.
With her fingers still wrapped around Morton’s wrist, Olive noticed something else—something that she didn’t feel. “Morton, you don’t have a pulse.”
“I do SO have a pulse!” Morton jumped so he could stomp both bare feet at once.
“You’re made of paint!” Olive insisted. “Why would you have blood or organs at all? You can’t have a pulse if you don’t even have a heart.”
Morton scowled at Olive. Then he turned his head to one side and craned his neck toward his armpit. He turned to the other side and craned again.
“What are you doing?” asked Olive.
“I’m trying to hear my heart.”
“You can’t get your ear to your own chest,” said Olive. “Here.” She dropped to her knees and pressed her ear against Morton’s rib cage. And it was funny—there was a rib cage there, beneath his baggy white nightshirt, exactly like you would expect a real, live, scrawny boy to have. But there was no sound of breathing. And there was definitely no heartbeat.
“I told you,” said Olive. “Nothing.”
Morton balled his hands into fists. “I don’t believe you.”
“Fine. I’ll prove it,” said Olive. “Let’s do some jumping jacks. When you exercise hard, you can feel your heart beating, right? So let’s try it.”
Olive and Morton spread themselves apart on the dewy grass. “Ready? Go!” said Olive.
They did jumping jacks for a long, long time. Olive counted out loud while the spectacles on their chain bounced against her stomach. Her breath got louder and faster. Soon she felt very warm, even in the cool, damp air of the painting.
“Ninety-one, ninety-two . . .”
“You skipped the eighties,” piped Morton.
Olive ignored him.
“One hundred!”
They stopped. Olive flopped down onto the grass. Morton stayed on his feet, staring at her.
“So,” Olive panted. “Can you hear your heart? Do you feel it?”
Morton held very still. Then he turned to look up at the sky, where there were no stars, and where the clouds never changed. He didn’t answer.
“Do you even feel tired after all of that?” Olive asked. “Do you ever feel thirsty? Or hungry?” She dropped h
er voice to a whisper. “Morton, do you ever even have to go to the bathroom?”
Morton’s pale, round face swiveled slowly back to Olive. New thoughts spread across it like a cracked egg. “I think you’re lying,” he choked. “I used to be hungry. . . .”
He sat down very suddenly on the grass. After a moment, he rolled himself up into a ball. Soft sounds of crying came from somewhere in the ball’s middle.
Olive crawled over and put her hand gently on what she thought was Morton’s back. He shrugged it away.
And suddenly, she remembered Horatio’s warning. How long had she been in the painting? She had no idea. Nothing changed here, so she couldn’t gauge how much time had gone by. Maybe it was already too late. Maybe by the time she got back to the frame, it wouldn’t let her through. Maybe she wouldn’t find the frame at all!
“Morton—I hate to leave right now, but I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.” The white ball snuffled, but it didn’t answer. “I’ll come back again. And I’ll try to find out how to help you. Maybe there’s a way.”
The ball made a soft snorking sound.
“Bye, Morton,” Olive said. Then she ran as fast as she could down the street, across the misty field, clutching the spectacles tightly in her hand.
There—thank goodness—was the frame, hanging just where she had left it, a square of the hallway glowing inside. Still running, Olive unfolded the spectacles, poked herself in the eye, tried again, and managed to get them on. She threw herself through the frame so hard that if it hadn’t been for the sturdy banister along the stairs, she would have fallen over into the downstairs hall.
She lay there on the floor for a while, thinking. Olive was afraid that if she moved, the thoughts that had just gotten strung together in her mind might all fall back apart, like a broken string of beads.
Every time she tried to grasp an idea and turn it over for a closer look, she saw Morton, his round face turned toward that dark, unchanging sky. She remembered the feeling of his warm nightshirt against her face while she had listened for a heartbeat that wasn’t there. She clutched at the thought before it could slip away. Warm. His nightshirt was warm.
The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows Page 6
