The Bottle Imp of Bright House

by Tom Llewellyn

  At the end of the week, school ended for the summer, but, Dear Reader, believe me when I say I barely noticed. On that same day, Joanna made her mom go in for a checkup, even though she wasn’t scheduled to have one for another week. Joanna had to beg the doctors to give her mom a head-to-toe exam.

  “They thought I was crazy,” she said to me. “I said I wouldn’t leave until they tested her for everything. I think the only reason they agreed to do all the tests was to calm me down.”

  “And?”

  “And all the tests showed the same thing.”

  “What? They showed what?”

  Joanna smiled. “No more cancer.”

  “None?”

  “None. They still want to monitor, of course. She’s still got to come in a bunch of times. And I mean a bunch. But the doctor said that not only is the cancer gone, but her blood looks great, she’s gained some weight, and even her heart rate is down.”

  “That’s amazing. Now you can sell the bottle.”

  “Now I can,” said Joanna, but the smile had left her face.

  The next day—the first real day of summer vacation—I saw Mandrake in the stairway. He pulled himself up each step with a groan. He was unshaven and his silk robe was untied. The sash dragged on the steps. He saw me and said, “Oh, Sea Goat. Would you consider helping me up to my apartment? I am exhausted, dear boy. Completely exhausted. Perhaps you could walk behind me and push. Oh, why did I ever get the unit on the top floor?”

  I pushed and pulled Mandrake while he groaned and wheezed. We finally reached his apartment. He collapsed into the nearest chair. I said, “Are you sick?”

  “If I’m not, I soon will be. I haven’t slept in days. You don’t have that dreadful bottle again, do you?”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that—”

  Mandrake mopped his sweaty forehead with the end of his sash. “I knew it. Sea Goat, be done with that thing before you kill me.”

  “Is there any chance you’d want it? To buy it?”

  “Dear boy, you couldn’t pay me to take it.”

  “But what about one of your customers? Don’t you buy and sell antiques?”

  He steadied his gaze at me. “I have a very select list of clientele. And there is not one of them—” He paused. “No. Not even old Mrs. Hoover. There is not one I would burden with that accursed object. Get it out of the building. Out out out! Before I die of exhaustion.”

  I went downstairs and joined Henry and Joanna on the front steps of the Bright House, trying to think of someone—anyone—we could sell the bottle to.

  “What about Dave?” said Henry.

  “Who’s Dave?”

  “You know. Dave. The guy with the cheese shop. He buys and sells cheese, right? Maybe he’d buy this.”

  “I don’t think we should sell it to anyone we like.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if it’s hard to sell now, think about how much harder it would be for Dave to sell. He’d buy it for three cents, but then he’d have to sell it for two. Who would buy it for two cents, knowing they’d have to convince the next person to buy it for a single penny? That’s the last deal. That last person will lose their soul.”

  “Assuming any of that is even true,” said Joanna.

  “Is your mom better?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And remember when the imp came out of the bottle?”

  Joanna didn’t answer, but she put her injured thumb in her mouth.

  “Hey, I have an idea,” said Henry. “What if you sold it for less, but not a whole cent less? Like maybe Joanna could sell it for three-point-five cents or three-point-nine cents.” Henry stood to his feet. “Or maybe three-point-nine-nine-nine cents. I mean, you could keep selling it practically forever if you did that.”

  “You can’t do that, remember?” I said. “Shoreby said you had to sell it for a whole coin less, and that the last person stuck with it would be when it was at one cent.”

  “So she should wish to be able to sell it for less than a cent, then.”

  “Did you listen to anything Shoreby said?” I asked. “You can’t wish to change the rules.”

  Joanna sighed. “So there’s three deals left. After all these years. After who knows how many people.”

  “Think of how many people have gotten rich from it,” said Henry.

  “Think how many have gotten hurt by it,” said Joanna.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I wonder if we’ll ever find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “You know—who paid the price. For your mom getting cured.”

  Joanna shook her head. “Do you ever think that sometimes we’d all be better off if you just kept your mouth shut?”

  “What if you’re stuck with it, Joanna?”

  “It’s fine. I knew what I was getting into. It was my decision.”

  “Yeah, but I mean, stuck with it forever?”

  “I know what you meant. I’ll figure it out.”

  “But what if you don’t?”

  Joanna slugged me in the arm—in the same spot where she always hit me. “Geez, Gabe, would you just shut up and give it a rest?”

  A red Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the curb. Hashimoto stepped out of the backseat and walked by us, dressed from head to toe in black and white zebra stripes with a pure white cape.

  “Darlings,” she said, as she approached the steps. “How are my dears today? Ahh, why do you all look so sad? Hashimoto does not like these frowny faces. You all look as if you just found out your Louis Vuitton luggage was lost by the airline. Stop all this frowning. Now let me by. I have painting to do.”

  Hashimoto walked up the stairs and into her studio. When she closed the door, her white cape caught. She must have tugged on it from the other side, because the end of it slipped out of sight. As it did so, the door to her studio opened a crack. Light shone out. I looked at Joanna. She’d seen, too.

  “What?” said Henry. “What’s going on? Is that the crazy genius lady you talked about?”

  “Her door’s open,” I said.

  “Duh. I see that. So what?”

  “So this is our chance to see what she is actually painting!”

  “I thought you told me you’d been inside there before,” Henry said.

  “I have,” I said, “but she always keeps her paintings covered up. Wrapped in cloth. That’s her whaddayacallit—her style.”

  “Her gimmick,” said Joanna. She crept toward the door.

  Henry and I followed.

  The barely cracked door gave such a tiny view that only one of us could look in at a time. Joanna looked first. “What do you see?” I whispered.

  “Shhh….I can’t really tell. Oh, wait, there’s Hashimoto. I can’t tell what she’s doing. She’s got something in her hand. Looks like a set of keys. Yeah. She’s unlocking something.”

  “Can you see any of the paintings?”

  “Not really. I’m gonna open the door a little more.”

  “She’ll see you!” I said.

  “Who cares? She’s just an artist. It’s not like she’s dangerous.” Joanna opened the door a tiny bit more. I could see in now, over her shoulder, but from my angle, all I saw were paintings on easels, wrapped in cloth. Joanna opened the door a few more inches. Then, before I could stop her, she dropped to her knees and crawled inside.

  I felt my heart beating faster. Then I felt Henry’s hands on my back, pushing me. He pushed me right through the door. I quickly got on all fours and followed Joanna. She crept behind a row of canvases leaning against a wall. She slipped out of sight. Henry and I followed. When Henry tried to squeeze in behind me, he knocked one of the canvases over. It fell with a thud. I held my breath.

  I heard footsteps coming our way. Hashimoto came into view as she walked straight to the studio door. I watched as she pulled it open and stuck her head outs
ide. “Hello? Darlings? Are you out there?” She looked from side to side, then closed the door and locked it with a key. She put the ring of keys into the pocket of her white cape and walked back out of my line of sight.

  “Now we’re trapped!” I said.

  “Shhh,” said Joanna. She crawled to the other end of the row of canvases. I pushed up next to her and could just see out into the studio.

  “What’s going on?” said Henry. “I can’t see anything but your butts.”

  Joanna kicked out with her foot. Henry grunted, but quit talking.

  Hashimoto was still dressed in her white cape and zebra stripes. She walked to a wall and pulled out her keys. She placed a key in the wall and turned it.

  A panel swung open. Hashimoto walked through it. She said a few words in Japanese. A man’s voice answered back. “Did you hear that?” said Joanna. I nodded.

  “What do you see?” said Henry. “I’m trapped back here in buttland.”

  Before I could answer, we heard music—that same Hawaiian music we always heard.

  “That’s Jimmy Hyde’s music,” I said.

  I heard the voices again from the other room. The man’s voice grew louder. He stepped into view in mid-sentence. It was Jimmy Hyde speaking. Hashimoto stood next to him. I heard Joanna draw in her breath.

  Jimmy was dressed in work clothes. He pulled a paint-splattered apron off a wall and wrapped it around himself, all the while chatting away in Japanese.

  “Why is Jimmy Hyde dressed as a painter?” I said.

  Hashimoto kissed Jimmy, right on his lips, then exited through the panel.

  “Oh my gosh,” said Joanna. “She kissed him!”

  “What’s happening?” said Henry.

  “Shhh!”

  Jimmy grabbed a box of paints and a can of brushes. He walked over to the biggest painting in the studio, set down his tools, and began unwrapping the cloth. The painting was angled just out of view. We still couldn’t see it. But we could see Jimmy Hyde. He stared at the painting. He squeezed paints onto a palette. Then he set to work.

  “Jimmy Hyde is painting. Why is he painting?” I said. “Where’s Hashimoto?”

  We watched in silence for a few minutes as Jimmy touched brushes to different sections of the unseen creation.

  “I want to see what he’s making,” said Joanna. She scanned the room, then set off, crawling from easel to easel.

  Henry pushed up next to me. We watched as Joanna reached a position where she could see Jimmy Hyde’s work. She leaned out to look. Even from where I crouched, I could see Joanna’s eyes grow wide. She got to her feet.

  “Oh no!” said Henry. “What is she doing? She’s gonna get us all caught.”

  “Hey!” shouted Joanna as she marched toward Jimmy Hyde. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Jimmy spun around, dropping his palette and splattering paint over the floor. He yelled as Joanna descended upon him.

  The panel in the wall opened. Hashimoto shouted in Japanese as she ran back into the studio, still dressed in her zebra stripes.

  “Stop painting her!” shouted Joanna. “You have no right!” She grabbed Jimmy’s hand. It still held a paintbrush in it, glistening with bright red paint. They fought over the brush as Hashimoto rushed toward them.

  “Interloper!” shouted Hashimoto. “This is my studio! Out! Out!”

  Joanna kept struggling with Jimmy Hyde. “Not without that painting!” She yanked the brush out of his hand. When she jerked it back, she flung red paint right across Hashimoto’s zebra-striped dress. Hashimoto gasped, then made a sort of growling sound. She stomped forward and grabbed the painting at the same time as Joanna. The two of them began a tug-of-war.

  “Give it to me!” shouted Joanna.

  “Not on your life!” said Hashimoto. “It’s mine!”

  “Not this one,” cried Joanna. “Not ever! Help!”

  “Oh boy,” I muttered, then sprang out of my hiding place. I could hear Henry behind me. We grabbed onto the painting. Hashimoto and Jimmy Hyde stood on the other side, pulling in their direction. Hashimoto yelled at us in Japanese.

  While I fought to hang on, I just managed to get a look at the painting. It was a portrait of Joanna’s mom. It was so perfectly rendered that for a second I thought it was a photograph. In the portrait, Mrs. Sedley stood in her window, staring down on the street. Her eyes glistened, as if on the verge of tears. The skin around her eyes was dark. A scarf covered her head.

  “Pull hard,” said Joanna. We pulled. “Harder!” yelled Joanna.

  The three of us gave a mighty heave. We jerked the painting free. We tumbled backwards across the studio, knocking into two other easels and sending their contents flying. Henry lost his footing and fell to the ground. I fell after him, dragging the painting with me.

  The framed canvas smashed over Henry’s head. I heard canvas tear and wood crack. I lost my grip and fell on top of Henry and the painting, tearing it even more.

  My head took a few seconds to clear. Joanna and Hashimoto stood above us, staring down at the destroyed work of art. “My beautiful painting!” Hashimoto wailed. “You’ve broken her. She is broken beyond repair!”

  WE PULLED THE BROKEN PAINTING of Joanna’s mother off of Henry. And, Dear Reader, you’d think that I would have felt embarrassed. But Joanna was so mad there was no room in that studio for my feelings.

  “I’m glad we broke it,” Joanna said, glaring at Hashimoto. “That’s my mom. Not yours. My mom, when she was dying. You didn’t even ask.”

  Hashimoto picked up the broken painting as if it were her own sick child. “Hundreds of hours. Maybe thousands. It was to be my greatest work.”

  “Your greatest work?” said Joanna. “You didn’t even paint it. I bet he did the whole thing.” She pointed at Jimmy Hyde.

  “I wonder if I could stitch it back together,” said Hashimoto.

  “I won’t let you,” said Joanna. “I’m taking it with me when I leave. You don’t get to keep it.”

  Hashimoto looked down at Joanna. She sighed, then sprawled on the floor. “It’s true, you know. I didn’t paint it. I didn’t paint any of them. Jimmy paints them all.”

  “Figures,” said Joanna. “He does all the work, and you take all the credit. I hope you at least pay him.”

  “Pay him? I don’t pay him. He is not my employee. He is my husband.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Of course we are married. I love him. How could I not love him? Look at this.” She stroked the torn canvas where Mrs. Sedley’s image stared out.

  “Then why don’t you tell everyone that he does the work, so he could get the credit?”

  Jimmy sat next to Hashimoto. He took her hand in his, then shook his head at us. “I’ve tried,” she said, “but he made me promise not to. He prefers to be anonymous. Don’t you, my dear?”

  Jimmy smiled and nodded. He said, “Anonymous,” in a voice just above a croak.

  “My anonymous genius. He says that his joy is in the work. In the doing. And my joy is in—well, in the appearance of it all.” She kissed Jimmy’s hand. “I am beautiful on the outside. My Jimmy is beautiful on the inside.”

  She laughed. “My married name is not even Hashimoto. It is Mrs. Hyde. Hitomi Hyde. But that’s not a name that sells out shows. You know, I’ve been an artist for years and years. Doing this very same thing. This wrapping of things. But it was all flat. All dead. Until I met my Jimmy. He was painting for tourists in Hawaii, on a sidewalk in Waikiki—the most beautiful paintings you’ve ever seen. Done on old scraps of cardboard or plywood. But genius work even still. No one seemed to care what I wrapped up until there was something truly beautiful inside. As soon as I wrapped up one of Jimmy’s beautiful paintings, it gave off a strange kind of power. You couldn’t see his painting in there—all the meticulous brush strokes and—and the way he captured life—but you could feel it, right through m
y layers of cloth and rope.” She faced us. “You’ll keep our secret?”

  “I guess so,” I said. “I mean, those people at your gallery show were buying your wrapping as much as his paintings. That’s part of the power, right?”

  Hashimoto smiled. “Yes, darling. That is part of the power.”

  “So you’re the one who likes the Hawaiian music, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “The music. The Hawaiian music.”

  “Yes. That’s me. I grew up in Honolulu. I listen to the music while he works.”

  I studied the painting. I remembered where I’d seen that image before—way back when we first moved in. I’d seen Mrs. Sedley looking down from her window and had caught Jimmy Hyde looking up at her, his notebook and pencil in hand.

  Jimmy helped Hashimoto to her feet. Hashimoto made a slight bow toward Joanna. “I am sorry we painted your mother without asking. I didn’t think it would matter, since no one was ever supposed to see it. Take it and go, with my apologies. But go.”

  Joanna picked up the painting. We left.

  No one else was home when I returned to our apartment. Mom and Dad had taken the girls to an ice-cream social at their elementary school, so I thought I would be home alone. When I went inside, I found Alejandro on a stepladder.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  Alejandro motioned to the hole in the ceiling. He had patched most of it with a piece of Sheetrock and was now smoothing wet plaster over the patch.

  “I’ll have you fixed up here in no time,” said Alejandro.

  “That hole’s been there for months,” I said, “if that’s what you mean by no time.”

  Alejandro shrugged. “I would have fixed it sooner, but Mrs. Appleyard requested that I not do so.”

  “Why?”

  “You only paid extra for the leaky pipes. You didn’t pay extra for the ceiling. Repairs take much longer when you don’t pay extra. That’s how life works in America. The home of the brave and the land where nothing is free. I just do what I’m told. I cannot afford to get in trouble with Mrs. Appleyard.”