by Jim Klise
And now there was this weirdness among the four of us when nobody said anything. I stood there, like . . . what? Am I supposed to feel guilty for getting into Harvard? Or for saying that I did? Or for using Saba’s fundraiser in my essays? I mean, give me a break. Kendra had her reasons for leading this thing, and I had mine. It’s not a crime. And it’s naïve to think that people go around helping people without some motivation, without expecting something in return, right? My sister and I have been working our butts off to make this thing happen. And Steve Davinski, of all people, has the nerve to criticize me for trying to take advantage of that hard work?
Sorry to get so fired up. My whole point was that Saba didn’t need to feel grateful. She’s not in our debt, not at all. That’s the only reason I told her about Harvard.
Two seconds later, Saba looked at the clock and said she needed to go. Steve was only too happy to give her a lift in his car, and then Kendra and I were alone. Kendra told me to settle down, and the rest of the work went quickly. When we were done, we turned off the gym lights and went to find Dr. Stickman. The halls were deserted. It wasn’t until then that I realized how hot that dang building was. My clothes were soaked with sweat, and I couldn’t wait to get outside. As usual, my sister was starving.
We got to the main office, and through the glass doors we saw Dr. Stickman standing near the counter in her long wool coat.
Kendra grabbed my sleeve and was like, “Oh, snap.”
I told her it was fine—staying late could be the principal’s small contribution to this effort. I mean, the school has gotten some incredible publicity, thanks to you guys.
The principal straightened her back when we entered, like she’d been standing there asleep on her feet. She smiled and asked if everything was set up, and we told her it was. We finally walked out of the building into the cool air. As Dr. Stickman was activating the alarm system, she said, “Look at you both, you’re sweating!”
“It’s a ton of work,” Kendra said, a little defensively.
Dr. Stickman said, “I know you kids must be disappointed . . .”
Before she could continue, I said something like, “Who knows? Maybe those paintings will be found someday, and we can use them for some good.” I really believe that.
Dr. Stickman said to Kendra, “Your brother is quite an optimist.”
“Oh, he’s cheesy all right,” Kendra said. I could tell the only kind of cheese she wanted at the moment was the kind with ham on a sandwich.
The principal said she would see us first thing in the morning, and she walked off toward the parking lot.
Anyway, sorry, I’ve been talking too long. So, like, will we see you there tomorrow? Are you sending a photographer? If you can send a photographer, that would be fantastic.
The following day, on DECEMBER 15,after an eventful morning,
Saba Khan, sophomore,
withdraws to her bedroom, washes her hands, and opens her notebook.
If only there was a quick, painless way to lift the memory of this messed-up day out of my head + transfer it onto these pages . . . Then maybe I could rip up the paper, launch the stupid, sad confetti out the window + let it flutter down like toxic snow onto some poor, unsuspecting fool’s head. Sorry, stranger. Tag—you’re it.
If only.
Dr. Stickman asked us to arrive early this morning so Papa could sign contracts with the auctioneers + the school. When we left the lobby, Dom the doorman (cup + saucer) wished us luck. It was frrr-eezing outside. Our neighbor “Hannah from down the hall” had told us there would be cameras, so Ammi asked me to “dress up” in something traditional. Only for her, I wore my salwar kameez. I should have worn leggings under my pants, because the heat in the Ford never works. (Clueless me.)
On the ride, Salman asked where we were going. (Clueless Salman.)
Ammi told him, “Our lives changed on the day of the fire, remember, baby? Today life will change again.”
“This time for the better,” Papa added.
Nobody said it out loud, but we were all feeling sick that the Darger paintings hadn’t been found in time. We expected that once the police had identified the thief, the artwork would be returned. They seemed so confident that the art teacher had taken it. So why didn’t we have the artwork?
“In the 1st place,” Papa said gently, “the art teacher should not have been teaching at the school. Men like him . . .”
This line of talk always makes me cringe. On the subject of LGBT issues, Papa’s mind is stuck in reverse; nothing I say will ever shift it into forward. (Clueless Papa.) I only said, “From what I hear, Mr. Delacroix is a very good teacher.”
“Saba, read your Quran,” Papa said. “The subject is not ours to debate.”
“All that, in God’s hands!” Ammi said impatiently. “When the artwork appears again, it will be sold. We will have that money.”
Next to me, Salman stared uncomfortably out the window. I described some of the items I had seen in the gym on Friday. “It’ll be fun to see what people spend money on, you’ll see.” I tried to sound cheerful, but even I felt this intense dread. Of course I wanted the auction to be a success. But I dreaded the attention, especially the pitying looks. I didn’t want people to feel sorry for us or keep labeling us victims.
I thought about that story, “The Lottery,” where the townspeople choose a random person to kill—like, a sacrifice. Except this was just the opposite. My family was being singled out + rewarded, but just because of our random bad luck.
(Speaking of luck, so Kevin Spoon used my family’s bad luck as his ticket into Harvard. So what? Steve was supremely pissed on my behalf + that was sweet, but I mean, you’ve got to hand it to Kevin. He’s not relying on any dumb luck to get him where he wants to be.)
(Of course, now I wonder what led Kevin to the auction idea: a pure motivation to help my family, or a totally bogus motivation to help my family because it would get him into Harvard. I could wonder about these things for a long, long time, until my brain shattered into cold little shards, like windshield ice.)
(Moreover, I ask myself, why should one more dude going to an elite college in Boston affect my life or my plans?)
(At the same time, as much as I totally thank Kevin + Kendra, and bow down like everyone else to their charitable spirit, I want to state for the record that I would be more capable of helping my own damn self if I had access to a car, the way they do. The Spoons may be new to Chicago, but you don’t see them freezing their butts off at the bus stop. Life’s different when you’re rich + they’re doing just fine, so—whatever.)
ANYWAY (*shaking it off*) we arrived at school about an hour before the auction + walked into the gym lobby. As usual, the air felt insanely warm, as if the thermostat was set too high.
By the strange quiet, I knew immediately: something had happened.
I looked around for Steve, but didn’t find him. He’d promised he would come early + sit near us at the auction. The slacker never showed at all. So that was the 1st weird thing.
Kevin + Kendra were sitting at the raffle ticket table with a woman I didn’t recognize. Maybe their mom? Kevin had his arm around Kendra, who looked upset. I wondered if they still felt awkward about what Kevin had told me about Harvard. I waved, but Kevin only shook his head sadly.
Near the gym doors, Dr. Stickman stood talking to two police officers. I wondered: Why security, with the valuable artwork still missing? People, it’s a little bit late for security, I thought. (Clueless me.)
Dr. Stickman turned her head and saw us. She approached us rapidly, her expression very serious. “Mr. and Mrs. Khan,” she began.
“Good morning,” Papa said, shaking her hand formally.
“It is not a good morning, I’m afraid,” Dr. Stickman said. “In fact, I have some unfortunate news to share with you.” Beyond her, inside the gym, some activity attracted my attention. Dr. Stickman drew a breath: “We have located the Darger artwork. What I mean to say is, the art has resurfaced . . .”
I suddenly felt too giddy to listen to her story. Slipping past Dr. Stickman, I rushed into the gym to see what had happened.
Thank you, God! I thought.
10 or more policemen stood in a group, halfway down the main aisle. Surrounding the artwork, I thought. Having the brains to protect it this time. One of them was taking photographs. I wedged myself between 2 of the men so I could see it again. Then my eyes seemed to play a trick on me.
The paintings lay in a pile on the floor. Each page of the album had been ripped out + torn into strips, leaving these hideous shredded scraps. As if that wasn’t enough, 3 big sections were burned, black wet patches of ash. It appeared that some fool had deliberately set the areas on fire, then came to his senses + doused them with water.
The smell was intense. I reached up to protect my nose + mouth. I stared for many seconds, not believing. This was like a bad dream, more surreal than Darger’s original images. Among the ashes, I saw glimpses of things I remembered: pale sky, orange fire, a soldier’s black gun, the soiled hem of a little girl’s yellow sundress.
Why would someone destroy the paintings on purpose? It seems so cruel. I understand why someone would steal the album, either to keep or sell—but this? No one will benefit from this.
It makes no sense. It makes zero sense.
This important art discovery—destroyed. All that money—
gone. My family’s biggest dreams—lost.
+ for what? What is the point?
As long as I’m asking all the unanswerable questions: If I stare at my phone long enough, will Steve ever call me back today? Where is that boy?
ACT III
On THURSDAY, DECEMBER 20, while on break at the shampoo factory,
Farooq Khan, U.S. citizen,
receives a visit from an insurance investigator. Mr. Khan removes his wire-framed eyeglasses before speaking.
It is good that a claim has been submitted. I understand why you must investigate. An investigation will reveal the truth, as it did when it excused my family completely in the matter of our fire. We place our trust in the system to do what is right. I will tell you everything I remember about Saturday.
The reappearance of the artwork, in that form, was very stressful for my family. The police photographed the scene many times, examined the area for evidence. They used all the minutes we had before the auction.
There is no question, I think, that these destroyed paintings are the same paintings that were stolen three weeks ago. I never saw these pictures, but several teachers and students confirmed they are the same.
Just before they let the people in for the auction, the police carefully removed the artwork, scooping up the remains with gloved hands and taking them to a police van.
Then many hundreds of people entered the room. They must have been waiting in line, outside in the cold. They brought the cold air in with them. The chairs filled, row by row. In the end, many people had to stand in their coats. A gymnasium filled with coats.
The auctioneer was a short man in his seventies, wearing a pale-blue cowboy hat. He did not look like a man who has ever been to a cattle ranch. My wife wears less gold jewelry than this cowboy. But his voice was strong, clear, and he worked fast.
During the bidding, my family and I sat in front. I expected the auctioneer or the principal—someone—to invite me up to the microphone to say a few words, to acknowledge my thanks. I had prepared a few lines to this end. However, no one asked me to speak.
Ordinarily, I might have felt foolish. All this public scrutiny could make anyone feel odd. Given the newest circumstances, however, we felt only numb. The sad reality overtook me like nausea. The paintings—destroyed. So the auction would not change our lives forever with the sale of an art treasure. The money collected only would help us to get back onto our feet again.
At best, we would return to where we were before the fire: in a safe, small apartment, with rent paid by this job. I reminded myself to be grateful, to give thanks to God. This modest success, after all, was the intention of the efforts from the beginning.
Across the gym, I saw our new landlord, Mr. Musgrove, standing with his wife. I had met them only once before, when they came by the factory to give me the keys. They are a tall, fair-haired, well-dressed couple. He makes his living downtown at the Stock Exchange. Seeing them at the auction, I said a prayer for continued blessings on them. These generous people had allowed us to stay at their luxurious condo until the auction. I knew they must be eager for us to move on, so they could rent the condo for a good income.
My wife sat next to me the entire time, but I could not meet her gaze. I did not want to convey my own shock or disappointment. I whispered to her, “Sit tall, my beloved, and proud. Try to smile.”
On my other side, Saba sat on her hands, staring into space. She was in shock, too. I whispered, “Remember, God is watching you now. Try to smile in His light.”
“I am trying,” she said, not smiling even the slightest. She kept twisting her body around to search the room, as if seeking a friend who never arrived.
Only my innocent son seemed unaffected by the crowd’s attention. He sat in his chair, happily reading comic books. Surely he did not understand what this new crime meant for us. This is an example of the purity of children, yes? They live each moment, caring only about the present. Perhaps our hearts become corrupt when we focus too much on the future, on plans and desired outcomes, rather than being grateful for what we have now.
The auction lasted two hours, but the time seemed shorter. A blur of items and bidding and constant knocking of the auctioneer’s gavel. Everything sold, even the cast-off junk. By the end, the auction raised approximately fifty thousand dollars. God had provided. Not a fortune, but nearly my annual salary.
I signed the auctioneer’s contract again, verifying the sum. Per the contract, we would receive eighty percent, or forty thousand dollars. I wondered how quickly that sum would dwindle and disappear, like a flickering candle on our supper table. Much of it would be zakat, a donation for the poor. At the thought of that, my heart began to feel light again.
Afterwards, when the gymnasium emptied, Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove approached us. They had not bid on any items at the auction. This surprised me. They have so much money, and they had gone to the trouble of attending. Mrs. Musgrove wore an elegant pin on the lapel of her coat, a bird made of red and white gems that sparkled under the high gymnasium lights.
I introduced my wife to them, thanked them for coming.
“As our donation,” Mr. Musgrove said, “we invite you to stay in the condo for the next full calendar year. You are welcome to stay.”
“Rent free, of course,” added his lovely, smiling wife. “Just to help you get back on your feet.”
We hardly had the words to thank them—what remarkable generosity. And may God increase their kindness.
God has provided. We live modestly, and our needs are small.
[He puts on his eyeglasses and rises from his chair.]
Sir, that is all I can tell you, all I remember. I hope it’s helpful. I will ask you to be in touch.
Before you go, I have a question for you: How many weeks are needed before this insurance claim will be paid?
That evening, at a below-street-level jukebox joint near Michigan Avenue,
Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal,
slides into a wooden booth across from the Tribune reporter.
I apologize for being late. Thanks for meeting me at this out-of-the-way place. Well, out of the way for me. I didn’t want to inconvenience you. That was the whole point!
What are you drinking?
Oh—wonderful, that’s my father’s drink. During my childhood, my father was principal of Highsmith. Surely you knew that? For twenty years, he ran the place. He worked his way up from a teaching position. When he got hired, he gave up his parents’ name. Strikmann. First casually, then formally. He felt pressured to change it. Well, it was a whole different world, wasn’t it?
When I became principal, I was very young. Still in my twenties and feeling like my own school days were yesterday. In my father’s time, they called the principal “headmaster,” like at an English school. Right from the start, I insisted on being called “principal” rather than “headmistress.” To my ears, “headmistress” sounds like some elevated rank of concubine.
Truth be told, I was naïve. I assumed that a leader could be friendly with her staff—could be “part of the gang.” But when you’re the one who has to make all the hard decisions, that isn’t possible. In the end, management personifies all the things workers dislike about their jobs. We become scapegoats for every complaint. Any principal will tell you that. Maybe it’s the same at newspapers?
Anyway, I asked you to meet me tonight because I need your help. I find myself in the very unlikely position of having to defend my judgment. My board members have been getting all sorts of questions about the auction.
Yes, well, as you can imagine, that day was pure shock—indescribable shock to arrive at school that morning and discover the Darger artwork smoldering in a pile of ash. Because then I was forced to confront what I hoped could not be true: This was an inside job. I know for a fact that every door was locked. I turned on the security system myself Friday night when I left the building. Believe me, no student holds a master key, or knows the code for the alarm system. The police must now investigate my faculty like never before.
The worst part was when I noticed Louise Denison, the art appraiser who’d been so generous with her time, standing with the Spoon kids, waiting for the event to begin. She waved hello and said she was in town briefly for the holidays. I smiled, but I felt terribly embarrassed to see her again; so much has happened since we saw her in November that I didn’t know what to begin to say. Plus, I realized that conveying this most recent development to the Khans personally would demand all the strength I had. As far as I was concerned, everyone else could find out secondhand.
