The Art of Secrets

by Jim Klise

  Do I really believe my girl? I want to. I need to. But how can I ever know for sure until we get our hands on that art again?

  That’s where you punks come in. Starting today, you guys are like my army, right? You’re my eyes and ears. You’re gonna help me turn this place upside-down until we find that freaky artwork. We will assume that everyone at Highsmith is guilty until proven innocent. You come to me immediately if you find anything that looks weird or might be useful, okay?

  And hey, whoever finds it, I promise you I will make it worth your while. Your life will change around here. You won’t even know what hit you.

  Concurrently, in the gym office,

  Wendy Pinch, Department of Physical Education,

  pours a lukewarm cup of joe for the police detective.

  I know what people are saying: “The artwork was stored in the gym. Wendy’s in charge of the gym. If the art went missing—heck, let’s all blame Wendy!”

  All weekend, people have been looking at me funny, like I was the one who took it. Nobody has flat-out accused me, but see, now you’re here questioning me about it. Nothing against you. In fact, it’s kind of refreshing to have somebody come right out and ask.

  You and me, we’re practically in the same business. We both deal with the little turds of the world. And believe me, after thirty years, I know cons. I know all the tricks, scams, schemes, frauds, and dupes. I know the new ones, using the fancy gadgets to share answers. I know the old standards, like the one about the dropped test. Jesus, I love the dropped test. You’re not familiar?

  “Coach P, Suzie must have accidentally dropped her answer sheet on the floor. I picked it up on my way up here.”

  Yeah, honey. Sure Suzie dropped her answer sheet on the floor. Suzie accidentally dropped her answer sheet on your desk so you could accidentally copy her answers—you know what I mean? Classic.

  And how about an ugly bruised ankle to get out of gym class? “Coach P, I can’t play basketball today. See, my ankle is bruised.” Listen, I’m not shy about rubbing eye shadow off any kid’s ankle, just like that. Heck, I invented the blue-eye-shadow bruise!

  I’m telling you, scams? I kinda love ’em. God’s honest truth, teachers live for this stuff. You should hear us in the staff lounge.

  But this robbery? There’s no pleasure in this.

  Meanwhile, my boss, Regina, keeps stopping by the gym on a regular basis just to scratch her little chin and “think about where it could have gone.” Yeah, let’s keep thinking about it, honey bun.

  I do take some responsibility, of course. I must have seen something. I’m not a teacher who bounces from room to room, know what I mean? It’s not exactly convenient to play dodge ball in the computer lab. I’m here in the gym all day, every day. And detective, I do not take my eye off the ball.

  I spent the whole weekend going over it in my mind, trying to remember anything at all—anything unusual. Friday was a regular schedule, and that means basketball, kickball, kickball, kickball, strength training, kickball, kickball, basketball. The way I work my schedule, see, every day of the week is different. However, all Mondays are the same, all Tuesdays are the same, and so on. I have to do it that way or I’d lose my marbles.

  Fridays, like I say, are kickball heavy. Kickball requires the whole gym. We’d been playing most of the day, one group after the next. Mid-afternoon, I realized the artwork was gone. Not even a cloud of smoke!

  Why would I take it? Me, ordinary, churchgoing Wendy Pinch. What would a normal person like me do with a piece of artwork like that? Not exactly my taste, know what I mean? Darger’s stuff doesn’t really belong on my coffee table, between Michael Jordan: Modern-Day Michelangelo and my big book of Audubon birds.

  What, sell it on eBay? The criminal underground, yeah, that’s maybe more like it. But honest to God, I don’t meet a lot of those guys in my line of work. Stuck here in the gym, I don’t often see those fat cats in pinstripes, running their crime syndicates. Shocking to you, I’m sure.

  You’re asking who I think took it?

  [She hesitates, removing invisible bits of lint from the sleeve of her Highsmith Athletics sweatshirt, which is the color of tomato soup.]

  See, to me, the answer is obvious. I don’t want to name names, but think about it. Life is about strengths and weaknesses. Every day I watch kids pick up weights that are too heavy for them to lift. The squirts think they can do it. But they can’t. They call out for help. “Spotter!” So, after years of watching this, I began to see the same thing happening outside the gym: people, everywhere, who try to lift more than they are, in fact, capable of lifting.

  My feeling is, when people lift too much, they panic, and then they get desperate. But in real life, people don’t call for a spot. They cheat. Cheat on tests that are too hard, cheat on taxes, cheat on marriages. They commit crimes. You weren’t born yesterday. You know what I’m talking about.

  Listen, who do we know who’s in over her head? Who has the responsibility for a large, expensive operation but doesn’t understand the first thing about budgets? Who’s been saying for the past three years that she doesn’t have money for salary increases, yet still manages to redecorate her office every year? The kids don’t even complain about being sent to the principal’s office anymore. They say, “Au revoir, mes amis. I’m off to Versailles!”

  Who complains about the teachers’ “excessive” use of copy paper and dry-erase markers? Meanwhile, she only goes to education conventions when they’re held in places like Florida or Hawaii.

  Who needs the money most because enrollment is in the toilet?

  Final score: Who is the most desperate?

  Not naming names, see, just asking questions.

  Years ago, I wrote a confidential letter to the board of directors. These are the top dogs, right? The people who make the decisions about our administration. I told them what I was seeing, all my concerns. I didn’t have much experience under my belt, but I knew right from wrong. My parents raised me that way, see? I made a list of the sketchy practices and unfair policies that I was seeing. Nothing personal, just facts. I spent a couple of days on it, typed it out, and put it in an envelope. Never sent it.

  I was afraid for my job, you know?

  Two years ago, I pulled my cowardly head out of the sand and wrote another letter to the board. Same circus, different clowns. Spent a week on it—but never sent it. I needed this job.

  But listen, I found out recently I’ll be coming into some money in a few months. An inheritance from an aunt I hardly knew. Gal named Muriel, wife of my dad’s brother. A complete and unexpected windfall. It means I’ll be able to retire at the end of this school year.

  No more student scams. No more administrative shenanigans.

  Anyway, because of this inheritance, I feel a lot freer to speak up when it comes to the administration.

  Somebody needs to say something. You understand what I’m getting at?

  Later on, during study hall in the library,

  Javier Conejera, sophomore,

  writes once again to his friend Jennifer in Oklahoma. Next to him, the coiled, cast-iron radiator hisses and spits.

  On the phone I told you about this crime at school, but I could not tell you that my host family is very strange concerning it. The Davinskis enjoy the mystery programs on the TV—murders for all the nights of the week. This family has become police detectives in their minds. Last night during the meal, they spoke about the crime at school, one suspect after the next, like bites of the meatloaf on the forks.

  Mrs. Davinski is certain the thief could not be the principal, because the person who stole this artwork required a partner. Someone to monitor the hallway, to distract. She said, “Who would help the principal like this? She cannot find someone to be the ‘Secret Santa’ for her during Christmas!”

  Jen, this family uses voices with a volume that is unusual, as if they are speaking through the long cylinders. Possibly because of their height. A family of giants, not only Steve. Bec
ause of the size of these people, the furniture in the house is too large for the rooms. The rooms feel cramped and noisy, even in the big chicken. When I can, I escape to the backyard just to breathe, and also to smoke.

  Mr. Davinski wondered if the thief is the teacher of English, Ms. Ames. He said, “She is young, smart, and the students admire her. She might be able to persuade one of them to help her. Someone to help remove the art from the building.”

  Mrs. Davinski added, maybe only to me, “Mr. Delacroix, more than any of them, knows the value of the paintings.”

  I was grateful this conversation was different from the usual: the games and the working-outs, the picking-ups and the dropping-offs. They review the schedule after supper each night, very solemn, the way my mother prays the Rosary during Lent.

  Mr. Davinski said to me, “What do you think, Savior?”

  Jen, my host family calls me “Savior.” LOL. We all believe this is amusing, but for different reasons. It amuses them that my name is Savior and it amuses me that these people truly think my name is Savior. In September, I made efforts to correct them: My name is pronounced Javier, not Savior. “But it means ‘savior,’ right?” Mrs. Davinski said with impatience, as if I was banging a rock for no reason. At this point, I do not think it would be polite to correct her. “What do you think, Savior?”

  Very often, when I am with my host family, my English words fly away like birds from the nest. I could not tell them how I truly think—how strange it is that no one speaks of this girl Saba and her family, nor how we might help them. How no one makes plans to go to the auction next week. I know that Steve and Saba spend time together at school, and after school, with hands that are affectionate. However, never he speaks her name at the house, except when discussing the crime.

  I cleared my throat. “In my village, we say: ‘When the cake is missing, you suspect the one with crumbs on the beard.’ Over time, we will see the one with crumbs on the beard, and we will know the truth.”

  For once, my host family was left without words.

  Most interesting to me: This family never speaks of the art. And the art is brutal! Weeks ago, like many students, I went to the gym to see this work by Henry Darger. These paintings are nothing like what I see in my country. The students around me exclaim only about the “nude girls” and the crude abuse of the children, but they misunderstand the intention of the art. These beautiful pictures tell us a story of innocence and darkness. The two aspects exist together, no? That is nature. Well, this is the truth.

  After I saw the art in the gym, I wanted to see more. I wanted to know about this artist who is so original. Online I learned there is a museum in Chicago with his work. Therefore, I took the train to the Intuit museum on Milwaukee Avenue.

  I remember the many museums I have visited in my life and I think of the grand structures, very impressive, perhaps with columns in front. But the Intuit museum is hidden. It is only a plain brick building with a gray metal door. I walked beyond the museum once, before I turned on my feet and located it. Moreover, the interior of the museum is quite small—only two galleries and a book shop—and modest in décor. No floors of marble, no ornamental gold frames or varnished canvases that shine under lights. At the Intuit, one sees rough wood floors, and on the walls mostly simple drawings, made by pencil, marker, watercolor. All work made by the artists they call the “outsiders.”

  In the back corner, behind yet another wall divider, I find another thing hidden. It is the thing that I have traveled across the city to see: an actual room from Henry Darger’s apartment, made again here. Protected by a brown velvet rope, the space resembles a typical American room from the 1930s—a round table with wooden chairs, an elegant fireplace surrounded by tiles, a tall wooden cabinet. However, this room is crowded and dingy, with dark brown walls. This man Darger was a collector, a hoarder. Every centimeter of the table is piled with paints, brushes, cigar boxes filled with pencils, magazines and books for coloring; the floor is crowded with tall stacks of the National Geographic and the Good Housekeeping; near the entrance there is a container filled with many, many balls of twine; religious items dominate the fireplace mantel like an altar. According to the museum, the apartment was filled completely with newspapers, magazines and items he found on his walks. Because the things covered even Darger’s own bed, he slept all the nights on a hard chair at the table.

  In my mind, it is difficult to put this sad room together with the brilliant, colorful pictures I have seen. They do not appear to belong together. The following day, I went to the public library and borrowed two books about Henry Darger, so I can read more about the man. I learned this man lives his whole life with no friends, no family. As a janitor, he mops the hospital floors alone. After work, he walks the streets alone, collecting more things. Every night, he returns to his apartment alone and works on his art. Imagine this: a long life in isolation, a life without companionship.

  The life of this man and the image of that room, Jen, I tell you, they sit heavy on the shoulders. During the meals, when my host family tries to solve the mystery of the theft at school, I sit in silence. I think only of Henry in that dark apartment full of clutter, drawing the pictures of the little girls, having no company but those characters on the page.

  Well, I think this is a good example for me to see, no? Too many things I do alone. We have discussed this. Moving forward, I need to be more social. I must have the courage. I want to take the risks. I have traveled so far to do this—exactly for this—and I am wasting time. So now I will begin, OK?

  Have faith in me, mi amiga!

  Meanwhile, across the library, sitting on a hard vinyl sofa,

  Kendra Spoon, sophomore,

  speaks quietly with the police detective.

  When I think about it going missing . . . No joke, last Friday I thought my head was gonna explode.

  It was the last period of the day, English with Ms. Ames. My brother, Kevin, caught my attention, waving like a maniac through the little window in the classroom door. He was gesturing for me to come out to him, and I remember sitting up, like, Seriously? I knew something must be up because my brother and I hardly ever see each other during the day.

  When I got into the hall, the first thing I noticed was that Kevin didn’t look right. Ordinarily my brother is Mr. Unflappable, Mr. Easy-Breezy. I had never seen his face like this—so freaked out and full of panic. He was running the palms of his hands on his khakis like he was rubbing off sweat.

  “Um, hey,” he whispered, with the weakest, fakest smile I’ve ever seen on him.

  I asked him what’s up, and he goes, “So, like, the artwork is missing from the gym office. By any chance, did you take it?”

  “What?” I said. “No. Why would I take it?”

  We stared at each other. It seemed unbelievable. All that planning, all the work on the auction. Our reputation was, like, on the line because of this thing.

  I kept saying, “No, no, no,” and the walls around us seemed to fall away. I leaned against a locker to steady myself. If Kevin is usually Mr. Easy-Breezy, I am often Miss Rudderless Boat in a Whirlpool. That’s why I’m lucky he’s my brother.

  He told me to chill. He was like, “Security’s been searching lockers. They’ll find it. Some knucklehead demo probably thought he could sell those pictures at a pawn shop.” Kevin said to meet him after school in the main office.

  All during that period, they kept the students in the rooms while they finished searching the lockers. No passes to anywhere, no excuse to leave for any reason. I kept waiting for Kevin to come back to my room, so he could tell me they found it and everything was okay—but he never did. After the bell rang, I went straight to the main office and found Kevin there, slowly spinning in a leather chair. He seemed as freaked out as me, which only freaked me out more. Principal Stickman told us that since the artwork “technically” was still ours, Kevin and I needed to report it stolen. Two of your guys showed up and we filled out a police report. I felt better knowing t
he police were around, but even then it seemed pretty hopeless.

  Do I think a student took the artwork? I thought so, at first. Everybody did. But security would have found it Friday, when they searched the lockers. Teachers have more freedom. This is a closed campus for students, but teachers can come and go. Any teacher could have moved the art to a car, or anyplace off campus. But not students—not during the day.

  After school Friday, Dr. Stickman gave us her keys, and Kevin and I searched all the classrooms ourselves. I mean, it was better than doing nothing, and it felt awesome that the principal trusted us with her keys. We even searched teacher closets and supply cabinets! We found plenty of cigarette packs and bags of half-melted candy bars, lottery tickets . . . I mean, hey, whatever gets you through the day, right?

  We stayed really late, climbing a million stairs and opening doors until we thought we’d pass out. Obviously, we didn’t find the artwork. Whoever took it was able to walk straight out of the building with it. That’s something only a grown-up could do.

  I hate to suspect the teachers. I actually like most of mine.

  If I had to pick one? Hmm . . . well, but any name I give you will be my opinion. Only a gut feeling, which isn’t fair . . .

  [Lowers voice even further.]

  Okay, so in English we’ve been reading The Great Gatsby. And on the day we’re talking about, the teacher, Ms. Ames, was . . . noticeably irritated with us. She had assigned the last few chapters, and a lot of us weren’t connecting with the end of the book. In our defense, that “borne back ceaselessly into the past” stuff? Most fifteen-year-olds aren’t exactly stuck in the past. We’re thinking about this week. We’re thinking about today.

  Ms. Ames said something like, “Can’t you identify with someone who was willing to do anything to make a secret dream come true?”

  The thing is, I got what she was saying. I think of myself as a dreamer, too. But around me everybody had these bored, slow-blinking eyes, like she was talking about politics or laundry or something.