by Jim Klise
So that was when my brother showed up, pulled me into the hallway, and told me what happened to the paintings.
The reason I’m telling you this is—okay, when I was out of the room, Ms. Ames wrote a long sentence on the overhead. It’s from the first page of the book: “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one . . . just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” Out of context, it seemed a little defensive. I mean, who’s criticizing anyone? What advantages? I stared at that sentence for a long time.
Ms. Ames is so much younger than the rest of the faculty. Her salary is probably tiny. She doesn’t seem happy at this school. Not that I think she’s a dishonest person. But her point seemed to be that we’re all desperate dreamers like Jay Gatsby.
I mean, the defensiveness and the timing, and her being so irritated—it all seemed weird to me. It registered, you know? And even now I keep wondering: What are her secret dreams? And how far would she be willing to go to make those dreams come true?
Early that evening, while reviewing copious notes at the station, the police detective receives a visit from none other than
Ariel Ames, Department of English.
I’d like to speak with you privately, detective—if that’s okay?
I suspect . . . I mean, what I know may be helpful. At the same time, I really hope it won’t be. Maybe that sounds nuts.
I’ve worked at Highsmith for three years. My first job out of college. I always wanted to teach. I used to play teacher in my bedroom when I was little. My dolls and stuffed toys were my students, and I taught them about Rumpelstiltskin and the Three Little Pigs. Those were my lesson plans.
The school? I’d say it’s a strange place. The campus, obviously, is gorgeous. I love the old architecture. And they spend a fortune on the gardens. Do you know who designed them? Frederick Law Olmsted Jr. Probably the most famous landscape architect of his time. He worked on the National Mall and the White House grounds in DC, the US parks system—and our very own Highsmith campus.
Plus a million other projects, but don’t mention that to Dr. Stickman. She’ll tell you Highsmith was his crowning achievement as an artist. That woman lives in a fantasy world. Or she lives in the past, I don’t know.
Sure, the gardens may look perfect, but the buildings are in sad shape. Leaks everywhere in the roof, cracks in the foundation, and broken, outdated equipment in classrooms. Think about it: If we had some security cameras in the building, maybe we could have protected those watercolor paintings.
The enrollment is down. We have too many empty classrooms. For a lot of students, the school is a family tradition. You often hear, “Dad went here, Granddad went here, Great-Granddad went here. That’s why I’m stuck here.”
That’s mostly who we get. The legacies. If you look at the old black-and-white photos in the main lobby, you see the same faces we have here today. It can feel clannish at times. The kids all have names that sound like platform stops on the ‘L.’ “Hello, so nice to meet you. These are my boys, Clark and Wellington. And these are my girls, Addison, Damen, and Kimball.”
Anyway, because of this dynamic, newer families like the Khans and the Spoons may have a harder time. It’s not the friendliest community.
Same goes for teachers. When I first got hired, I was so excited. It turned out I was the only new teacher they hired that year. So it was a little lonely. Nobody ever took time to get to know me.
I replaced a guy named Mr. Bunder. Glen Bunder taught at Highsmith for forty years. He was a legend, and I was a twenty-two-year-old with no experience. That was a rough year.
The next year, they didn’t hire any new faculty—not in any department. So I was still the “new” teacher. Same thing happened this year. No new faculty hires. Last week, I heard a teacher from the Science Department refer to me as “the new girl.” After three years! And “girl”? Please.
If there’s a paper jam in the copier, they blame me. If someone leaves a coffee mug on a counter in the main office, the secretary will call my classroom: “Ariel, did you forget to take your coffee mug to the kitchen again?” Meanwhile, I don’t even drink coffee.
At faculty meetings, when Dr. Stickman repeats her speeches about rules and procedures, it’s always “for Ariel’s benefit.”
My point is, if any members of the faculty want to suggest I stole the artwork . . . well, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m an easy target. I’m still the mysterious stranger in town.
But you can check the attendance: I was out of the building all morning on a field trip, and by the time I got back, the artwork was gone. For once, we can’t blame “the new girl.”
Besides, I don’t have a car. And that book of watercolors would definitely not fit in my milk crate.
Who do I think took it? The thing to remember is, most of the dinosaurs who teach at Highsmith are too old and set in their ways to realize that a painting doesn’t have to look like a Rembrandt to be valuable.
It has to be someone who would know what to do with the art. It’s not like fencing a TV, right? You’d need to find a way to sell it on the black market.
Well, who knows the most about art in the school?
I don’t mean to point a finger at Jean. Jean Delacroix is probably the nicest guy at Highsmith. He gives me rides on bad-weather days. Generally I take the ‘L’ and it’s not a problem, except for really cold days. Last year, on one brutally freezing day, I was desperate, so I asked Jean if he could give me a lift home. I mean, I barely knew him. But I knew we lived near each other, so I thought, Why not? What did I have to lose? Now it’s a regular thing. Whenever I need a ride home, I just email him or call first. He’s not much for conversation in the car. He likes NPR.
No, it’s nothing romantic.
[Smiles hesitantly.]
That’s funny—I mean, because Jean’s gay. I don’t suppose it’s relevant to your investigation. He’s totally out with the staff, but maybe not with the students. You know how some teenagers can be.
Jean’s a wonderful artist. Did you know that? He makes these amazing quilts. Not like the quilts you see on beds, but art to hang on the wall. Incredible landscapes and portraits, things that take him months to complete. He’s like a painter with cloth and a sewing machine. I always love to see what he’s working on when I stop by after school to wait for a ride. His talent is really something.
Anyway . . . I hate to tell you this, but I’m going to, for the sake of those kids. And it’s God’s honest truth. I’ll sign anything you need me to.
As you know, we had a snowstorm on Friday. The first big snow of the season. I’d seen how bad it was getting during the field trip, but later it was even worse. Taking the ‘L’ sounded awful. So naturally I went to find Jean.
Even though Jean is the only art teacher at Highsmith, the art annex is massive. Like I say, the enrollment used to be bigger. There’s the main studio, a sewing room, kiln, and so on. Jean’s got a nice office of his own, just as big as Regina’s, to be sure. And private.
Anyway, I was waiting for him, not sure where he was. There weren’t any students around. I saw that Jean had some new quilt projects on a table, three or four of them, all folded neatly and stacked. I was curious. I mean, I’d looked before and Jean never seemed to mind. In fact, he always was proud of the work, glad to have someone notice his creative efforts.
I opened the first one, a late summer cornfield shown in these blazing, orange-gold colors. No kidding, I felt warmer just looking at it. I refolded the fabric and set it aside. I was about to unfold a second quilt—I actually had it in my hands—when I heard Jean’s voice behind me.
He said, “Ariel, put that down.”
I turned and saw him standing in the doorway. I said, “Hi, Jean! Bet you know why I’m here . . .”
He looked furious, the way he’d look at a student who was being insubordinate. He repeated, “Put that down now, please.”
I realized the quilt I held was folded around something.
At the time, I thought: Why is there a book in this blanket? I really thought that! I pictured an atlas. I figured it must be some technique for storing his quilts—folding them around an atlas to avoid wrinkles, or something. The funny thing is, I wouldn’t have noticed anything if I hadn’t picked it up.
I apologized, of course, and gently placed the folded quilt back on the pile. “I didn’t mean to be nosy. It’s just that I love looking at your quilt—”
“I can’t give you a ride today,” he told me. “You didn’t call or email.”
I felt horribly embarrassed. “I know!” I said. “It’s just that with all the snow . . . well, I was hoping—”
And he interrupted me, sort of gruffly, and said, “Can’t help you today, Ariel.”
“I understand,” I said. “It’s fine, Jean. You’re always so generous.”
I was really confused. He’d never been angry with me—moody maybe, but not angry or unfriendly. I picked up my backpack and buttoned my coat, feeling so embarrassed. I looked out his office window at the darkness and snow. I remember thinking vaguely about my CTA fare card and where I had left it, did I have any money on me, all that.
I told him goodnight and turned for the door.
“Wait. Ariel.”
I turned back. His face had softened, more like the Jean I know.
He told me, “It is awful outside. Of course I can drive you home.”
I said I didn’t want to be trouble. And he said, “Listen, I was going to run an errand tonight. But with the roads all snowy and slow, it will be better if I do it tomorrow. I can give you a ride.”
He did give me a ride. I was so relieved and so grateful. Like I said, he’s generally a thoughtful guy.
But what I never figured out was: Why was he acting so strangely?
And it was weird, because the very next day, Saturday, I was at home, doing some planning for this week. Obviously I also was thinking about all the drama at school, the Darger artwork being stolen, and how awful that situation is, in different ways, for two of the girls I teach, Saba and Kendra. I was reading The Great Gatsby, and—hold on a second. . . .
[She removes a copy of the novel from her bag and opens to a bookmarked page.]
I was reading, and I came to these lines about Gatsby: “He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire and freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.”
When I read this, detective, it seemed like a sign. I couldn’t help but remember that beautiful folded quilt of Jean’s. And I wondered again what he might have been hiding inside of it.
So you see why I thought I better tell you, why I thought this information might be helpful. But like I said, I sure hope it’s not.
The following morning, DECEMBER 4, in the art annex during a free period,
Jean Delacroix, Department of Art,
looks up from his digital camera and sees the police detective standing in the doorway.
Oh! You startled me!
Please, come in. Do you mind if I work while we talk? I’ve got a bit of a deadline here. One of my fiber art projects has made it to the final round of a competition. Yes, in Paris! The award carries a prize of five thousand euros.
Well, they received the images I sent. They liked what they saw, and now I need to send the actual piece. Before I put it in the mail, I’m taking more photos to be safe. Honestly, I’m nervous about sending it.
It’s this one.
Thanks, but the beauty is only part of why I’m proud of it. Let’s see—artists generally don’t like to explain their work, but . . . Okay, when you first look at it, it appears to be the skyline of Chicago at night. A very detailed cityscape.
But look, try to focus only on the blue and green stitch lines, here and here and here. You’ll see that each building contains an abstract portrait: here a painter at her easel, here a sculptor with his clay, there a writer with a book, and so on. Any city, Chicago or Paris or Des Moines, is home to many artists, all working in their solitary boxes.
Maybe our school’s personal encounter with Henry Darger, the quintessential “outsider artist” in Chicago, was the lucky omen I needed for this piece to get noticed. I’m beyond excited, as you can imagine.
Speaking of Darger, how is your investigation going? Any leads?
You’ve got to be kidding. People are saying it’s me?
That stings a bit. If you think it will help, go ahead and search my office again. Search the whole department. Open every cupboard and drawer. Leave no hand-painted meditation stone unturned. Remember, it all got searched on Friday.
While you’re at it, search my house and my car. Bring in the hi-tech CSI equipment you use to examine rug fibers. The Darger album is old, crumbly. The paper is dry and brittle as a cracker. If I had transported the artwork in my car, you’d certainly find traces of it on the floor, or in the trunk.
Sorry, detective, I don’t have it. Believe me, I wish I did. I’ve been as worried as everybody else since it disappeared.
I mean, wow—I guess I should have expected fingers would be pointed at me. After all, I’m an outsider here. I’m the one who never goes out for beers on T.G.I. Fridays with the rest of the staff. I’m the one who doesn’t even pretend to care about Wendy Pinch’s grandkids. I don’t kiss up. I don’t take sides. I don’t play their office-politics games.
I learned a long time ago that there are people in this big bigoted world who won’t like me, no matter how hard I try. Some people will hate me just for being who I am. Since that’s true, why not just be myself? If I sound a little defensive, it’s because I am.
Who do I think stole those paintings? I . . . I couldn’t say. Unlike other people, I’m not going to be part of any witch hunt. That’s your job, not mine.
[Two police officers enter the art studio.]
Wait—you’re confiscating my quilts? On what grounds?
Who did? A member of this faculty? A sworn statement?
[Reads the statement.]
Okay, so let me get this straight. Ariel claims that she “might have held” the artwork in this room. Didn’t see the artwork, didn’t see me take it, but she “had a feeling at the time.” That’s enough evidence to confiscate my personal property for lab testing?
I mean, I know exactly what Ariel’s talking about in that statement. I asked her, very calmly, to put the quilt down because her hands were covered in blue dry-erase ink. They always are, from teaching—like Smurf hands!
I need to keep these things clean. This work is valuable to me. It’s not some casual hobby. Not that I expect other people to understand that, especially not Ariel. Seriously, guys, this is a woman who once asked me, “Jean, if Picasso’s grandson painted a picture, would you still call it a Picasso?”
Listen, I totally get that you need a break in this case. Like I said, you can search this entire annex again. Search my car, my house, my friends’ houses—I don’t have it. But please, you can’t just take those quilts. I need to send this one to Paris!
I need a lawyer. This is insane. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.
Two days later, in the cafeteria, the lunch tray of
Steve Davinski, senior,
lands with a clatter at the table where the police detective is sitting.
Steve Davinski, senior class president. Right, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve seen you around the building the past few days.
[Sits next to the detective and ignores his food.]
So it’s been a bummer, you know? We never thought something like this could happen here. Feel-good story doesn’t feel so good anymore, that’s the thing.
If you ask me, I’d be out looking for the original owner, the guy who threw the art away. Because you know he’s seen the news, and he’s thinking to himself, “Hey, bonehead, why’d you leave a fortune out near your garbage cans?” Anyone would be pissed for doing that. Don’t you think
maybe he wanted it back? It’s possible. And we know one thing for sure: that person exists. That unknown individual is a definite factor in this equation.
The problem is, the artwork wasn’t locked up in Fort Knox. The gym office door gets locked at night, that’s it. The rest of the day, it’s pretty much open to anyone who’s looking for a stopwatch or a herpes video.
Respectfully, sir, I’m not sure you’ve collared the right guy. The problem with Mr. Delacroix is . . . Listen, if you were the badass with the balls to steal that artwork, you would have grabbed it and gone, don’t you think? But Mr. Delacroix remains, still explaining color theory to kids who are looking for an easy A. I mean, heck, maybe our lonely-artist guy Darger was the sane one and Delacroix’s the nut.
He’s gay, did you know that? Not saying it’s relevant, just stating a fact.
Think of the numbers. At this school, you’ve got just under six hundred students, and you’ve got about fifty members of the staff. In other words, of our total pool of suspects, more than ninety percent are students. If you were in Vegas playing roulette, odds are you’d put your chips on the students.
So why are we looking at Mr. Delacroix or any teacher, when, based on probability, our thief is most likely a kid?
I realize that this scenario makes your job a lot harder. Sorry about that, sir. But let me help you out. Of these six hundred students, who can you skip? There’s my girl, Saba Khan, for one. She had no motive to take the art, since her family was going to benefit anyway, by selling it at the auction.
Then there are the Spoons, Kevin and Kendra. Those guys had no motive either, since they already had possession of the art and decided to give it away. I guess, if they changed their minds or something, and wanted to keep the money, that’d be a different story. It would have been super awkward, right, if they asked for it back? But that’s not what happened. They’ve never expressed any interest in that money. By all accounts, they’ve got some money.
