The Wright 3

by Blue Balliett

  “Oh, dear,” Ms. Hussey said.

  “The message, lady, is clear: The house is condemned. It’s dangerous and coming down. Stay away!”

  Up in his apartment, Tommy had seen the class coming. He had planned to forge a note from the dentist and go to school late. When he heard the sound of kids’ voices, he peered out through the pondweed in Goldman’s bowl.

  At least Calder and Petra weren’t walking together. But darn — he’d missed his chance to tell the class about his discovery.

  He saw Calder sketching on the balcony. Several kids appeared around the back of the house, under Tommy’s window, but no one stayed there. He saw Petra stroll by without saying anything to Calder, and noticed that hair had escaped from her ponytail in funny black wings on either side of her head. Suddenly Tommy felt much better.

  Time went by, and he dusted his shelf of fish treasures while he waited. Then he heard a sharp whistle, and the kids all left. He’d wait a few minutes before walking to school. He knelt down by Goldman.

  “I got something for the collection yesterday,” he said. Goldman swam closer to Tommy’s nose, as if to say, What is it?

  Tommy reached into his pocket and pulled out the carving. He held it in front of his pet, then lifted it up so that the head was directly over the water. The color of white butter, the stone had little flecks of black in it. The mouth of the dragon-fish was opened in a snarl, and Tommy poked the side of his little finger into the opening. The fangs were sharp.

  “He’s fierce, Goldman,” Tommy said. “You’ll have to watch yourself.”

  The tiny spirals on the creature’s body turned in opposite directions, and must have been carved with a knife the size of a needle. Goldman came to the surface and eyed Tommy’s find nervously from both sides. Tommy, examining it also, wondered if it was okay to keep a treasure like this that had been found on a piece of private property. He hadn’t told his mom about it, perhaps for just that reason. He’d hidden it under his pillow all night.

  Something told him that the dragon-fish was an amazing discovery — maybe even the find of a lifetime. It reminded him of pictures in National Geographic magazine, but pictures from what part of the world? He squinted, trying to bring back the images, and thought he remembered a mountainous country with carvings that looked like this one. Maybe, when the Robie House was new and had rich people living in it, there had been a robbery and the fish had been taken from a family art collection, dropped in the garden, and then forgotten. It would be tough to research something like that, Tommy thought, imagining himself struggling through pages of tiny print.

  Maybe he could find an expert who would tell him about the fish. What were the rules on discovering art treasures of this kind near a deserted house? He’d heard about divers who recovered jewelry and money from ships at the bottom of the ocean and were allowed to keep what they found. Wasn’t the Robie House just another wreck?

  Maybe showing it to the class wasn’t such a good idea.

  On an impulse, he let go of the stone fish, and it fell with a quick plip into Goldman’s bowl. Tommy was pleased to see it was almost invisible against the gravel on the bottom. Goldman, after a quick dash around, took a dubious look at his new treasure and then went back to gazing out the window.

  When Tommy opened the classroom door, he was relieved to see kids all over. Some were writing, others were talking in small groups, still others were pinning sketches to a bulletin board at the back of the room.

  Ms. Hussey motioned him in and absentmindedly took the note he had written so carefully, in messy grown-up script, from his dentist. She stuffed it into her desk drawer, and Tommy took a deep breath.

  He looked around for Calder but didn’t see him. Then he noticed that Petra was gone, too.

  Tommy sat down at his desk. Ms. Hussey came over. “We went to the Robie House this morning,” she said.

  Tommy nodded, sucking in his cheeks.

  “Everyone is trying to figure out whether the house is a piece of art. There are two columns on the board, YES and NO, and I’ve written some of the kids’ ideas up there.” As Ms. Hussey talked, Tommy noticed she had an earring with a tiny silver fish today, and that the scales rippled when she moved her head. Tommy wished it was in his collection.

  He nodded again and said, “I live next to the house now.”

  Ms. Hussey’s eyes widened, and she clapped her hands together, making Tommy blink. “So you know exactly what the outside looks like! You see it in all lights … that’s fabulous. Grab a piece of paper and tell me whether you think it qualifies as a piece of art.”

  Tommy looked at the board.

  Under YES, he read:

  — Art should have surprises. The house looks like it’s full of places to go in and out and change directions.

  — Art should make you feel better. The house is bright and looks like it would be great to explore.

  — Art should make you think. The windows are filled with geometric shapes, and it must be amazing to look out from inside.

  Under NO, he read:

  — Art shouldn’t be spooky. The house looks like it has a lot of dark corners.

  — Art shouldn’t be dangerous. This house looks like it has too many places for a kid to fall.

  — Art should be a thing you want to live with. This house looks depressing.

  Funny … he had thought the house looked really welcoming. Of course it didn’t have any furniture in it at the moment, but he could imagine how much fun it would be to live in. A kid could spy in all directions, with so many windows, and could even sit on the terrace walls or climb out on one of the roofs when no one was looking. And who had written that stupid thing on the board about falling? The place would be perfect for squirt gun fights, and his mom would love all the space and sunshine. She’d be out sitting on one of the many balconies with her tea every morning.

  So what should he add under the YES column?

  He still liked books with pictures, and always remembered the illustrations that had hidden stories — the ones with a mysterious, slightly dangerous person, or an open box you couldn’t see into, or a path that disappeared around a corner. He got up and walked slowly to the board. He wrote:

  — Art should have secrits. This house doz.

  Ms. Hussey came right over to him when he had finished. “What secrets does the house have, Tommy?”

  Suddenly he wished he hadn’t written that. His handwriting looked crooked and young next to hers.

  “Hidden treasure?” she asked.

  Tommy turned dark red and looked at his desk. Could she read minds?

  “Mmm, well, I meant art should stay interesting when you look at it again and again. And the Robie House keeps being interesting when I walk by it.”

  “Good thinking,” Ms. Hussey said, although she sounded disappointed.

  The door flew open, and Calder stomped in, followed several seconds later by Petra. Both carried an armload of heavy library books. “Wright info for sale!” Calder announced cheerfully.

  On the way to her desk, Petra caught Tommy’s eye. She winced as if she’d bitten the inside of her cheek, and both looked away quickly.

  Ms. Hussey put two fingers in her mouth and gave her everyone-in-their-seats whistle. “What a day,” she purred, her purple skirt swishing as she turned quickly toward the board. “Isn’t it amazing how we can all visit the same place at the same time and come away with opposite conclusions? From what you’ve said, not everyone thinks this house is a piece of art, although obviously we’ve only seen the exterior. So where do we go from here?”

  Petra’s hand went up. “I think it’s kind of spooky, but I know some art is spooky. There are plenty of things in museums that you wouldn’t want to look at every day. I think we should persuade the university that cutting it up would be the same thing as cutting up a priceless painting.”

  “Who’d believe that?” Denise muttered.

  “Great idea,” Calder said.

  Tommy choked. He’d
never heard Calder say “great idea” to anyone but him. He blinked rapidly. Pulling at the neck of his T-shirt, he told himself fiercely to toughen up.

  “You wouldn’t hack up one of those Monet haystack paintings in the Art Institute and sell the haystacks separately,” another kid added. “Even if you didn’t like the painting.”

  Ms. Hussey stopped walking and beamed at them. “You guys are on to something. Comparing this kind of art with another kind of art may just do the trick.”

  The class squirmed happily. Calder said, “Maybe if we tell that haystack idea to the museum people who are getting the pieces of the house, they won’t want them anymore.”

  “Yeah, like getting a cutoff foot in the mail,” Tommy blurted, and his voice sounded loud even to him. It was the first thing he’d said in a class discussion since he’d gotten back. There was silence after he spoke.

  “Well, that’s gross,” Denise said.

  Tommy’s shoulders stiffened.

  “Not if you compare the house to a human body and the foot is an art-glass window,” Petra said.

  Tommy’s eyebrows went up and stayed there.

  “Making the people in charge think that way is pretty clever,” added Calder.

  “It’s not like the building is alive or anything,” Denise said in a condescending tone. “Get a grip.”

  Ms. Hussey looked exasperated. “Dramatic language can actually allow you to get a grip.”

  “How do you know art can’t be alive?” Petra said suddenly.

  Denise rolled her eyes. “Brick plus concrete plus wood plus glass doesn’t equal a living thing,” she hissed.

  Ms. Hussey was looking out the window, her head on one side. “There are different ways of being alive,” she said slowly.

  “Like being a nut,” Denise mumbled. “And I don’t mean a walnut.”

  “Better than being a snake,” Petra said under her breath.

  Ms. Hussey, who didn’t seem to have heard either comment, looked at the wall clock and put her hands on her hips, signaling business. Her voice was crisp.

  “See what you can find out about the house in the next couple of days. Notice all your questions as well as your answers — what you don’t understand may be more valuable than what you do. Keep in mind what you saw this morning and all of your ideas about art, every single one. Maybe we’ll come up with a wild plan. Who knows?”

  Calder and Petra were loading library books into their backpacks as Tommy stood awkwardly to one side of the hall, his backpack swinging empty at his side. He looked at the floor and out of the corner of his eye he saw Calder’s and Petra’s heads together, as if they were whispering, and then Petra’s shoes approaching him. Everything in him wanted to run, but his body didn’t move.

  “Can you take some of these, Tommy? We have too many.” Petra’s voice was nonchalant.

  Suddenly Calder was standing next to him, too. “Come on, Tommy. You have the perfect lookout. Let’s work at your place today.”

  As Tommy dropped books into his backpack, he thought he had never felt so relieved. Losing Calder would have been … well, as bad as losing Goldman. And maybe he’d been wrong about Petra.

  Just maybe.

  The three marched in a horizontal line from school to Tommy’s apartment. Calder was in the middle and did most of the talking.

  As they passed a block-long lilac hedge, Calder waved his hand in front of his nose and said, “Peuw! Too sweet!”

  Petra said nothing.

  Tommy coughed, as if to prove Calder’s point.

  “Anyone got Good Humor money?” Calder asked as the ice-cream cart appeared. Tommy and Petra shook their heads.

  “How’s Goldman doing with his new view?” Calder asked.

  “Fine,” Tommy said.

  A silence descended, broken only by the occasional clacking and scuffing sounds of Calder’s pentominoes and three pairs of sneakers.

  All were pleased to reach the Robie House.

  “That’s the one,” Petra said, pointing to a casement window over the garage.

  “What about it?” Tommy asked.

  To his surprise, Petra told Tommy about seeing the weird light in the windows yesterday afternoon, and about the window opening and closing this morning and then the shadowy shape inside the building. Calder told him about spotting something dark in the living room area.

  “Have you ever seen anything weird out of your window?” Petra said, startling him. Had she seen him looking out that morning?

  His eyes narrowed. “Maybe. Come on up,” he said, as if he had something big to tell them but couldn’t do it out on the sidewalk.

  Inside, the three dropped their backpacks in the middle of Tommy’s room, which was also the living room. The apartment was cozy — two rooms and a pocket kitchen. Tommy whisked over to the window and took Goldman around the corner. “Got to get him out of the way,” he said over his shoulder. “Doesn’t like visitors.” Calder looked surprised, but didn’t say anything.

  Petra went right over to the window and peered out at the Robie House. “Those rear windows are so complicated — all sizes, and in the oddest spots.”

  When Tommy didn’t respond, she admired the shelf with his fish collection. “Calder told me you’re an experienced finder.”

  Tommy shrugged, “I like to scavenge.” A terrible thought came to him: Had Calder double-crossed Tommy hours ago and told her about the latest fish find?

  “Frank Lloyd Wright was a collector, too,” Petra was saying. “I read about it today. He bought and sold hundreds of Japanese prints, and visited Japan a number of times. The first trip was in 1905, just before he designed the Robie House. He was nuts about Japanese art and architecture, although he always said he wasn’t influenced by it.”

  “Really?” Tommy tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. A collector, just like him … and the stone fish … it actually did look a bit like things he’d seen in stores in Chinatown. Maybe Japanese art was similar to Chinese. Maybe he and Frank Lloyd Wright had something in common.

  “Anyone want popcorn?” Tommy asked quickly. “I’m starving.”

  He hurried off to the kitchen and then realized, too late, that he’d left Calder and Petra alone, perhaps to say things behind his back. But if he invited them into the kitchen, they’d look at Goldman’s bowl.

  When Tommy returned with the popcorn, Calder and Petra were sitting cross-legged on the floor with books spread around them.

  “So, Tommy — what was it you saw?” Calder asked, taking a handful of popcorn. “You know, out your window.”

  Tommy’s mind raced. These days, he seemed to be stumbling from one sneaky thing to the next. Suddenly he heard himself saying, “I think it was a hand. In one of the upstairs windows.”

  “A hand?” Petra asked, her eyes big.

  “A kid’s hand,” he replied. “It waved back and forth, like this,” he said, and he moved his hand in a slow fan movement, from side to side. He could feel Calder staring at him. Tommy opened one of the books that looked like it had a lot of photographs and began turning the pages.

  “Wow,” Petra said, looking from Tommy to Calder and then frowning slightly.

  “So what’s the plan here?” Tommy asked in what he hoped was an enough-of-this-silliness tone.

  “Research,” Calder said abruptly.

  The room was quiet for the next half-hour, except for chewing sounds. Petra picked at a scab on one elbow and took notes. Calder tore a piece of paper into strips and marked places in the books he was flipping through. Tommy picked up an invitingly slim volume called Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House and studied the old blueprints of the building. The outline looked like two long, narrow rectangles that had bumped up against each other and gotten stuck, one about halfway down the other. Like two barges.

  Petra said suddenly, “Hey. People used to think the building looked like a ferryboat, with that pointed terrace in the front. Like a prow.”

  Tommy stared at her. Was it just an ac
cident that they’d both been thinking about boats? If she could read minds, he was in trouble.

  “Wow, this is horrible,” Petra squeaked suddenly.

  In the kitchen, Goldman, startled, took a quick, splashy dash around his bowl.

  “The introduction says that every family that’s lived in the house has had a huge tragedy. Listen to this: A guy by the name of Frederick Robie asked Wright to build the house. He wanted it to be a bright, modern place where his two young kids would be happy, so he asked for lots of places to play. It looks like Wright pretty much planned the first floor for the kids, with a walled garden so someone didn’t have to watch them all the time. They could run in and out on their own.” Petra paused for popcorn.

  Calder said, “I know — I read about how Mr. Robie got his son a tiny car that he could drive around in the playroom and even out to the three-car garage, where the real cars were kept. Awesome.”

  “Wouldn’t you have killed for that?” Tommy whacked Calder on the knee with the back of his hand.

  “Absolutely,” Calder said.

  “I’ve got pictures of the boy here,” Tommy added, feeling better. “He was the oldest of the kids.” The three of them looked at a picture of the young son, who might have been three, walking sturdily along a plank during the construction of the house.

  “Dream-like …,” Petra murmured, studying the rest of the photographs on the page.

  “Look! He’s on the south side, and the dirt there is all torn up,” Calder said, glancing at Tommy. “Must be lots of pennies, nails, who knows what else down there,” he continued.

  Tommy scowled and pulled the book back.

  The room was quiet again while Petra read silently. Then she said, “So the Robies move in to their perfect house, which cost them a bundle and took a couple of years to build. Wow, Mr. Robie describes it here as ‘the most ideal place in the world.’ And he also says, ‘it seemed alive, because of the movement of the sun.’” Petra paused to write.