The Mistaken Masterpiece

by Michael D. Beil

  “For now, let’s look for more pictures of the cake,” Margaret suggests. “I’ll take you both to the loony bin later.”

  But we turn up no more pictures of the birthday cake, or ones that show the painting, either.

  Margaret sits cross-legged on the floor, deep in thought. “All right. We have to expand our search target. From the pictures we have, we know what the living room looks like—the wallpaper, the furniture, everything. So let’s go through the pictures one more time, and this time save anything that shows even a sliver of that room.”

  “And then we can do something fun, right?” Becca asks.

  “We’ll see,” Margaret answers.

  Leigh Ann nudges me gently. “That’s just what my dad always says. I finally figured out that it was his way of saying no without actually having to say that word to me.”

  Margaret, who still has that silly loupe stuck in her eye, doesn’t look up, but I catch a quick glimpse of a sly grin. A few seconds later, she motions for us to look at another photo that she has set on Leigh Ann’s bed.

  “This is the same room, right? Same rug, same coffee table.”

  “Looks like it to me,” I say. “Just taken from the other side. The fireplace is here.” I point to a spot on the quilt that is about an inch past the right edge of the picture. “And the painting would be here.”

  The loupe reveals that the magazines on the coffee table are a Life and a National Geographic, just like in the second picture we found, but they’re arranged differently. And it’s hard to be certain, but it doesn’t seem to be the same issue of Life.

  “Look at the two people sitting on that bench. It’s the same couple from the birthday cake picture.”

  Leigh Ann looks at the young couple. “This was taken on the same day as the birthday cake picture. Same blouse and skirt on her, same shirt and tie on the guy, same hairstyle—although, to be honest, all the women in these pictures seem to have their hair done in exactly the same way.”

  “Yeah, lots of hair spray,” I note.

  “Check out the TV,” Becca says. “It looks just like the one Father Julian showed us in the rectory.”

  Margaret squints through the loupe. “Ohmigosh—look! You can see what’s on TV, too—it’s a baseball game.”

  “Let me see,” I say, pushing Margaret aside. “Oh yeah. That’s a Yankee uniform. A little baggier than they wear now, but I’d know those pinstripes anywhere.”

  What can I say? Some girls know designer shoes; I know baseball uniforms.

  In which it becomes apparent that I may have spoken too soon

  In the morning, Margaret and I head back into Manhattan early—she’s anxious to get to work on a new piece on the violin and I have to meet Michelle and the swim team outside Asphalt Green at seven sharp. We’re taking a bus up to a pool somewhere north of the city where we have a meet with a school I’ve never heard of.

  I arrive a few minutes before seven and settle into a seat on the bus, which has just enough room for all twelve of us, plus Michelle, who’s driving. At seven, we’re all buckled in and ready to go, except for Livvy, who is nowhere in sight.

  “Has anybody heard from Livvy?” Michelle asks.

  Nope.

  “Anybody have her cell phone number?”

  “I’ve got it,” says Rachel Ungerman, waving her phone. “Hold on.… Hey, where are you? Okay, cool. Bye.” Rachel looks up at Michelle. “She’s on her way—she said she’ll be here in five minutes.”

  Thirteen minutes later (not that I was counting; I just happened to look at my watch), a taxi pulls up and out pops a grumpier-and-gloomier-than-usual Livvy Klack.

  “Oh man, she looks bad,” Carey Petrus says.

  “Like she’s going to kill somebody,” adds Jill Ambrose, who is sitting next to me. And who, for reasons I can’t begin to understand, gets up and moves back a row in the van—into the only empty seat.

  Which leaves an empty seat next to me. Thanks, Jill. Just see if I remember you at Christmas.

  I slide over as far as I can against the window. When Livvy gets to the bus door and realizes that I’m her only option, she shoots poison eye darts at the girls in the back and then throws herself into the seat with me. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word to me—Sophie St. Pierre n’existe pas. She has a truly remarkable ability to do that. They say that everybody is really great at something, and I may have just figured out what Livvy’s one true gift is. The girl could share a prison cell with you for twenty years and never acknowledge that you were there.

  I decide that maybe this isn’t the day to push things with her; let’s face it, that nice moment that we almost shared in Mr. Eliot’s class is now a distant memory. Instead, I lean my head against the cold window and pretend to sleep all the way to the meet.

  The meet is a huge success for us—we win all but two events, and every swimmer on the team wins at least one first-, second-, or third-place medal. I win the 400 individual medley, breaking my old personal record by a second and a half, and win two more first-place medals as a member of relay teams. We win the final event, the 400 medley relay, by almost a full length of the pool, and Livvy, Courtney, and I lift Carey Petrus, who swims the anchor leg, out of the pool for a group scream and hug. On the ride back to the city, the atmosphere on the bus is completely different. We sing along with the radio the whole way. Even Livvy, believe it or not, is smiling—those four first-place medals dangling from her neck have put her in a great mood. It’s like we’re an actual team, and it feels doggone good. Maybe not quite on the same level as the first night the Blazers rocked Perkatory, but it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

  When we get back to Asphalt Green, a bunch of girls decide to go out for pizza together—Carey, Rachel, Courtney, Amy, Jill, and Livvy. Carey catches me off guard when she asks if I want to go along.

  I hesitate at first. “Um, no—but thanks. I’ve got some homework to—” But then I stop myself. I mean, it’s Sunday afternoon. Why not? I have plenty of time to get my homework done, and it could be fun, right? I do everything with Margaret, Rebecca, and Leigh Ann; it wouldn’t kill me to hang out a little with my teammates, would it? That whole team-spirit thing wins out against my better judgment, which would have had me going home to finish my science and social studies assignments.

  “Okay, why not?” I find myself saying. “Just give me a minute—I need to run inside to use the bathroom.”

  “Good idea,” says Livvy, who follows me inside the building. When I come out of the bathroom, Michelle is standing in the hallway talking to a woman I don’t know, and she motions for me to come over. The woman, Cindy Allan, is a former Olympic swimmer who now coaches the swim team at a college in upstate New York. Michelle tells her all about me, bragging about my times from earlier in the day, and Cindy invites me to come and visit the campus whenever I want.

  Michelle smiles as she tells me, “You keep improving at the rate you’re going, you could be looking at a scholarship.”

  “It takes a lot of dedication,” Cindy says. “But you’re definitely on the right track. Keep up the good work, and congratulations on today.”

  “Thanks. I, um, need to get going, Michelle. I’ll see you Tuesday. It was really nice meeting you, Cindy.”

  I turn and run out the door, only to find that everyone—Livvy included—is gone. I look up and down East End Avenue, but there’s no sign of them. It’s official: I have been ditched.

  Remember all those warm, wonderful feelings I was having about being part of a team just a few minutes ago?

  Gone.

  I walk home slowly, fighting back tears and the urge to let loose with all the really bad words I feel like screaming—the kind of words Cam Peterson was using on the phone that first time we met him. Oh sure, I could have gone looking for my teammates, but there are, like, forty-seven pizza places they might have gone to. Or they might have decided that they were more in the mood for raw meat, or whatever it is that jackals and hyenas eat. By the time I get t
o my block, the hurt has morphed into anger—not just at the girls who are allegedly my teammates, but at stupid, stupid me for allowing myself to be vulnerable. Being in seventh grade is a lot like being at war; you don’t know where that next ambush is coming from, but you know it’s coming. Let your guard down for a second and—poof!—you’re toast.

  When I get home, I put on my happiest face for Mom and tell her the good parts—the medals, the fun ride home—and leave out the bad. I go back to my room, where Tillie is sacked out on my bed; she rolls over on her back and stretches out her long legs so I can rub her belly.

  “Tillie, do you have any idea how good you have it, being a dog?”

  She wags her tail and nudges me with her nose. Apparently she does know. As she wags and wriggles, she knocks to the floor a small package that I didn’t even see.

  “Hey, what’s this?” I ask. If Tillie knows, she’s not talking, so I stick my head out the door and shout, “Mom? Is this from you?”

  “Oh, that package? It came in the mail today. I thought maybe you ordered something.”

  Oy. Here we go again. This time, the box is much smaller, about four inches square, but sure enough, there’s my name and address in that familiar printing. As I open it up, my first thought is that someone has mailed me a dead bird, and my poor brain runs riot trying to remember whom I’ve offended badly enough to deserve such an ominous message.

  It’s not a real bird, though, but a lifelike—and life-sized—robin, so I breathe a sigh of relief. Just as I lie down to ponder this latest offering from my mysterious benefactor, my phone rings; it’s Margaret, and she wants to hear all about the swim meet.

  “Please don’t make me talk about it,” I plead.

  “Um, okay. You’re usually dying to tell me about your victories on the field of battle. You didn’t hurt your nose, did you?”

  “No, nothing like that. I’ll tell you later, I promise. I just need a little break from thinking about it. What did you do today?”

  “I had a very interesting day. I went to the late Mass at St. V’s with my parents, and afterward we ran into Father Julian, so I stuck around to tell him about the pictures we found and ask a few questions. The girl with the birthday cake, the one who’s also in that other picture talking to the same boy, is his aunt Cathy. She was born in 1944, which has her turning eighteen in 1962. He’s not sure of the exact date, but he says her birthday is definitely in October. If that cake is for her eighteenth birthday, it’s no help, but if there’s a way to prove it was her seventeenth, we’re home free. The good news is that she’s still alive and lives a few blocks from the school. And Father Julian says she remembers everything. She’s kind of the unofficial family historian. So we’re going to meet her one day after school, to see what else she can tell us.”

  “Wow, you were busy.”

  “Oh, that’s not all,” she says. “Remember the magazine covers? Well, I did a little research on those, too. The one Life magazine is from August 1961, I’m sure of it. The August eighteenth issue has two baseball players on the cover—um, Mickey somebody, I think, and Roger something-or-other. Don’t worry, I wrote them down.”

  “Mantle and Maris,” I say. “You really don’t know who they are?”

  “Should I?”

  “Uh, yeah. They’re only two of the greatest Yankee players ever. I’ll bet they were on the cover of a lot of magazines in the summer of ’61.”

  “What was so special about 1961?”

  “That’s the year Roger Maris broke Babe Ruth’s record. He hit sixty-one home runs. And Mantle hit fifty-something.”

  There’s a moment of silence on Margaret’s end. Finally, she says, “Wow. I’m impressed. I’ve known you for five years and I had no idea you were so full of knowledge about baseball.”

  “Everyone knows about Mantle and Maris,” I say. “And it’s easy to remember—sixty-one in ’61.”

  “If you say so. Anyway, back to the magazines. The National Geographic is smaller, so it’s a little harder to see, but the picture seems to match the cover from October 1961. It looks like a woman with this crazy hat, or maybe it’s a basket of fruit, on her head. I can’t be a hundred percent sure.”

  “Well, two magazine covers from 1961 are a step in the right direction,” I say. “We know we’re in the, um, ballpark.”

  Margaret groans. “Say good night, Sophie.”

  “Good night, Sophie.”

  Click.

  In which I set loose an army of killer ants on Livvy. Okay, not really, but a girl can fantasize, can’t she?

  On our Monday morning subway ride to school, I finally get around to telling Margaret about being ditched after the swim meet. Now that I’ve had a full day to deal with it, I shrug it off as Livvy just being Livvy, but Margaret isn’t so quick to forgive and forget.

  “I never said I forgive her,” I say. “And I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. I’m just saying that it’s not worth staying mad about. I learned my lesson. Life goes on.”

  “What about all that ‘there’s more to Livvy than you think’ stuff you were saying just the other day?”

  “Maybe I was wrong,” I admit with a shrug.

  Margaret smiles. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted to hear. You were wrong; I was right.”

  “And you say I’m too competitive. Maybe we shouldn’t tell Becca and Leigh Ann about this. They’ll want to do something to get even with Livvy, and I want to stop before this turns into one of those Romeo and Juliet things where everybody dies in the end. Deal?”

  Margaret nods. “Deal.”

  A few minutes later, we’re watching Sister Bernadette steamroll through the school cafeteria, distributing demerits for uniform violations to every girl at one table and confiscating three cell phones from a table of unsuspecting eighth graders. When she approaches our table, we cower and cringe, waiting for the worst. Instead, she holds out a large yellow envelope.

  “For you, Miss Wrobel. From Father Julian. Sit up straight, Miss St. Pierre! This isn’t your living room.”

  “Yes, Sister,” I say.

  That’s too much for Rebecca; her face breaks into a huge grin.

  Sister Bernadette’s eyes narrow as she hovers directly over Rebecca. “Do you find me amusing, Miss Chen?”

  “What? No.”

  “No, Sister. And let’s do something about that blazer, shall we? It looks like you’ve been crawling under cars in it. Have you become an auto mechanic?”

  Rebecca squirms in her chair, trying to pull the wrinkles out of her sorry-looking blazer. “Yes, Sister. I mean, no, Sister.”

  “That’s better.” She storms away, continuing her rampage as she terrorizes table after table.

  When she’s out of hearing range, Leigh Ann speaks up. “Boy, she’s on the warpath this morning.”

  “What’s in the envelope?” I ask.

  Margaret opens the clasp and dumps another pile of photos onto the table. Some are black and white, but most are color. The color prints are much, much more recent; based on the clothes and hairstyles, they are from five to ten years ago. Then she removes a large print that is protected by a clear plastic sleeve. It’s a notebook-paper-sized version of the one good-quality picture we found—the one of Father Julian’s great-grandparents standing in front of the fireplace and the painting.

  “Wow, this is a nice picture,” Rebecca says. “You can really see the painting. And look at the clock on the mantel. It’s so clear you can read the words on the face. Can I borrow this tonight? I want to check something out. I promise to take care of it. Sophie, you weren’t planning to bring Tillie over, were you?”

  “Ha ha,” I say. “I’ll have you know that Tillie hasn’t chewed anything in days. She’s been absolutely perfect.”

  As we pack up our stuff to head upstairs, Leigh Ann takes me by the arm. “I know this is a sensitive subject,” Leigh Ann says softly, “but did you hear from Nate after Friday night? He was really weird.”

  “No,” I admit. “Not a
word. How about you? Anything from Cam?”

  She can’t help grinning a little as she nods. “Last night. I was going to call you, but I had to finish my homework and then I fell asleep.”

  Rebecca sticks her head in between us. “What are you two whispering about?”

  “I’ll tell you at lunch,” Leigh Ann promises. “C’mon, we’re going to be late for class.”

  Mr. Eliot’s English class is even more entertaining than usual. He assigned a short story, “Leiningen Versus the Ants,” over the weekend, and the threat of a quiz ensured that everyone actually did the reading. At the beginning of the story, Leiningen, the owner of a plantation in South America, is warned that a mile-wide horde of man-eating ants is headed right for his land. He stubbornly refuses to leave, convincing himself that he can outsmart a bunch of stupid ants. Seems logical, right?

  Not so much, it turns out. These ants are seriously intense; they know what they want, and nothing he can do is going to make them change their minds. They cross rivers, walk through fire, and cooperate with one another in a way that’s so diabolical it kind of freaks me out.

  Somehow Margaret turns this into a discussion about whether “the end justifies the means.”

  Mr. Eliot just kind of stares at Margaret after she brings it up. “Well, I wasn’t really expecting anyone to be familiar with means-end analysis, but I seem to have underestimated you once again.”

  “Not all of us,” someone in the back of the room says.

  “Amen,” I say, turning around to see that I’m agreeing, probably for the first time in my life, with Jessica Glenn. “Margaret, what are you talking about?”

  Margaret explains, “It’s really not that complicated. People are always asking whether the end—in other words, your goal—justifies any means of achieving it. So, is it okay to do whatever you have to in order to make something good happen?”

  “Can you give us an example?” Leigh Ann asks. “Like, from real life?”

  Margaret scrunches up her nose and thinks for a second. Then her eyes open wide. “Let’s say the police arrest Sophie because they heard that she’s going to blow up the world. When they question her, she admits that she is planning to do just what they say, and that she already started the timer on the bomb. She’s not about to tell them where the bomb is hidden, though, so the police have to ask themselves: Does the end—saving the world—justify any means of getting it, like torture?”