Still Life

by Jacqueline West

  Beside the first row of shelves, Leopold froze. “Miss,” he whispered, very softly. “I’ve been here before.”

  “Here?” Olive whispered back.

  Leopold sniffed at the air. “Yes. I am certain. This is where Annabelle brought me.”

  Goose bumps rippled over Olive’s body. When Annabelle had taken Leopold away—when Olive had lost him in an idiotic bargain—she had kept him blind and smothered, confined in a bag so he couldn’t escape. Leopold hadn’t known where he’d been taken; only that he was underground, in someplace cold and dim, and that Annabelle had used him to free the last self-portrait of her grandfather. That someplace could certainly have been this someplace.

  Olive backed toward the wall. The chill of the cement seeped through her winter coat, straight to her skin. “Do you think Aldous is down here right now?” she breathed.

  Before Leopold could answer, Rutherford let out a gasp.

  “Look!” he whispered, beckoning the others down one narrow aisle.

  On the floor, between two pallets of cloth-wrapped paintings, there lay the black heap of Rutherford’s coat. Rutherford picked it up. “My other glove is in the pocket,” he murmured, rooting through the fabric. “And stuck inside the sleeve . . .” He held up something that glittered in the faint light.

  “The spectacles!” Olive sprang forward, grabbing them gratefully with both hands. She threaded the ribbon around her neck. “Oh, thank goodness! I was sure—”

  “Shh!” hissed Leopold.

  Olive and Rutherford fell silent. In the stillness, Olive could hear the faint swish of fabric along the cement floor. A half second later, there was a soft, metallic jingle—like the clink of keys on a dangling cord.

  Olive craned around the shelves. At the far end of the room, with her back turned and her kinky red hair swaying, stood Ms. Teedlebaum. The art teacher was busy packing a crate. Keys and pens clattered as she bent down, sliding a canvas into the waiting straw.

  Without a word, Olive, Rutherford, and Leopold backed down the aisle. They tiptoed up the stairs and through the basement door, closing it with the softest thump they could manage.

  “I thought we heard Ms. Teedlebaum leave!” Olive whispered as they hurried back down the hall.

  “So did I,” Rutherford agreed. “She must have gone back through the museum rather than out the front doors.”

  They streaked into the gallery where Mary Nivens’s painting hung. Harold Nivens’s tall, sturdy shape stood in the center of the room, gazing at the image of Morton. He wheeled around as they approached.

  “There you are!” he said, much too loudly. “We need to get Mary,” he announced. “She’s in the other portrait, I’m certain of it.”

  “Other portrait?” Rutherford repeated, before Olive could ask him to keep his voice down

  “Her other portrait,” Harold boomed, rubbing his hands together energetically. “She painted both of them at the same time. It must be nearby!”

  “But Ms. Teedlebaum said there aren’t any other portraits by Mary Nivens in the museum’s collection,” said Rutherford.

  “Wait!” gasped Olive. Everyone turned to look at her. “I think—I think I know where we can find one.”

  In the moment of silence that followed her words, there was a soft, not-too-distant thump.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Olive hissed.

  Grabbing Harold’s painted sleeve, she charged into the hallway. Her boots squealed on the parquet. Harold’s and Rutherford’s feet pounded beside her. At that moment, she wouldn’t even have heard another pair of footsteps running after them. They tore across the entryway, Leopold sailing ahead like the shadow of some huge bird, and burst through the museum doors.

  The sunlight that had tinted the sky was long gone. Darkness hung over the town, thick and total. The streetlamps turned patches of snow from gray to blue.

  “Stay to the lighted areas!” Olive called over her shoulder as they rushed down the broad stone steps. “Mr. Nivens, you should keep your face down. The light could hurt you. Leopold, lead the way!”

  The black cat shot ahead.

  The rest of them clustered tightly together, skidding here and there on the icy sidewalks.

  The center of town was full of worn brick buildings that had been built for one thing and were being used for another. Some still had old-fashioned signs painted on their sides, reading things like Northern Lumber Co. and Sip a Simpsons’ Soda! but now their plate glass doors glinted like mirrors, and neon signs flared in their windows. Harold winced at the lights, turning his face away.

  At first, everyone kept quiet. Olive could hear her own heartbeat, and Rutherford’s panting breaths, but Harold made no sound at all—until, at one corner, he let out a loud “Huh!”

  Olive whirled around. “What is it?”

  “The post office!” said Harold. “They’ve put some big metal doors along that side. And there used to be a hedge along the front walk. Now it’s gone.”

  “Oh,” said Olive. “Well—yes. I’m sure some things have changed since the last time you were here.”

  “And is that Harrison’s Haberdashery?” Harold asked loudly, pointing at the windows of a Chinese restaurant.

  “Um . . . maybe?” said Olive, who wasn’t sure what a haberdashery was but assumed it had something to do with smashing things, possibly with hammers.

  “And there’s Mason’s hardware store!” said Harold, even more loudly. “Now it says ‘Laundromat.’ Huh! Must be a family name. French, perhaps.”

  “Actually,” Rutherford’s nasal voice piped up, “Laundromat is not a French family name; it’s the name of a place for doing laundry in coin-operated washing and drying machines.”

  Harold blinked at him.

  “Hello,” said Rutherford. “I didn’t have the opportunity to properly introduce myself before. I’m Rutherford Dewey. I was named after Ernest Rutherford, the father of nuclear physics, not after the sixteenth president of the United States. This is slightly ironic, as physics is not among my main interests, while history is, although I’m far more interested in medieval history than American history, and in fact I’m an expert on the middle ages in Western Europe, primarily Britain and France, which is why I can say with reasonable certainty that Laundromat is not a French name.”

  “Ah,” said Harold. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Rutherford!” He gave Rutherford’s hand a hearty shake. “A real pleasure!”

  When they reached the foot of Linden Street, even Harold and Rutherford fell silent. Everyone seemed to know that if something terrible was going to happen, it would have to happen here, now, in the few remaining moments before they were safe on the other side of a locked wooden door.

  The hairs on the back of Olive’s neck prickled with little electric shocks. Her stomach swirled. Her legs ached from running, and her lungs were sore with the scrape of cold air. She glanced from one house to another, waiting to spot a pair of painted eyes staring back.

  “There’s Mr. Fitzroy’s house,” said Harold, in a softer voice, when they were halfway up the hill. “And the Smiths’. And the Gorleys’ . . .”

  They crested a curve in the sidewalk, and suddenly, the tall gray house loomed above them. Its rooftops sparkled with a delicate crust of snow, and its downstairs windows glowed, ruddy and welcoming.

  Harold let out a gasp.

  The front door flew open before them. Walter’s water-bird-like body appeared in the doorway. “Olive!” he rumbled. His gaze traveled past her to the tall, mustachioed man. “And . . . oh. Oh.” Walter’s eyes widened. “Mmm . . . Come in! Come in!”

  Everyone rushed past him into the hallway. Rutherford hurried to the wall, snapping off the nearest lights.

  “Morton!” Walter called, in a voice that was several registers higher than usual. “Mmm . . . I think you should come down here!”

 
There was the sound of small bare feet stomping along the hallway above.

  “What?” called Morton, rather grumpily. His tufty head appeared at the top of the staircase. “I was busy fixing the shelf in my room, and now—”

  He stopped on the second stair as if he’d been caught in an invisible net. His eyes went from Harold to Walter and back to Harold before landing on Olive for a split second. Then they flew back to Harold and settled there for good.

  “Papa?” he whispered.

  Harold charged up the steps. He grabbed Morton in both arms and hoisted him up into the air, both of them laughing until Olive and Rutherford started to laugh too. Walter made a rumbling “mmm—hah—hoom” sound, and Leopold turned away, clearing his throat and blinking hard.

  “Where’s Mama?” Morton asked, when Harold had finally set him down again.

  “I think I know!” Olive answered.

  Taking the steps two at a time, she raced up the creaking staircase, with the others right behind her.

  They raced into the dimness of the third bedroom. Leopold and Rutherford blinked around, observing the place for the first time. Harold turned in a circle, his warm brown eyes growing misty.

  “Our bed!” he said, patting the end of the mattress. “And Mary’s wedding-ring quilt!” Harold flipped back the blankets. “Our sheets! And our pillows! It’s all still here!”

  “I kept it this way, Papa,” Morton piped up proudly. “I knew you would come back.”

  Glancing up from the bed, Harold’s eyes locked on the portrait above the dresser. “Lucy!” he cried. “That’s Mary’s other portrait! We must be close!” He smiled at the others. “Where is Lucy? Is she here too?”

  Everyone looked at the floor.

  “Um . . . That’s a long story,” said Olive, unable to meet Harold’s hopeful gaze. “And I think Morton should tell it to you. After we look inside the painting.”

  Harold looked down at the tufts of Morton’s bowed head. “All right.”

  “Walter, you and Rutherford and Morton should stay out here with the spectacles, just in case.”

  “And Morton?” Morton’s head shot up. “My mama might be right there, in a picture of my sister, in my house, and I have to stay outside?”

  “Morton . . .” Olive sighed. “It might be dangerous.”

  “I know it might be dangerous,” said Morton, pulling himself up onto the dresser after Leopold. “I might be the one who saves you.”

  Leopold placed one paw within the picture frame. Lucinda’s image began to shimmer and shift. “Ready, miss?” he asked softly.

  Olive gave another sigh. “Ready.” She passed Rutherford the spectacles, grasped Leopold’s tail with one hand, and took hold of Morton’s sleeve with the other. She saw Morton smile as Harold clasped his cold little hand in his larger one. “Let’s go.”

  They clambered across the dresser. The room had been too dim for Olive to get a good look at the surface of this painting, but as she crawled closer, she could see the portrait’s strange bumps and whorls, its brushstrokes hiding a second, secret image.

  What might be enclosed behind Lucinda’s chilly smile? Another quaking bog? A swamp full of snakes or poisonous spiders? A prehistoric jungle roaring with herds of hunting tyrannosaurs?

  Whatever it was, it kept perfectly—almost menacingly—still as Olive crawled through the surface and tumbled inside.

  LEOPOLD, OLIVE, MORTON, and Harold Nivens plunged through the picture frame.

  They fell past the portrait of Lucinda, into something soft, and crisp, and icy cold.

  Olive sat up.

  The ground crunched beneath her. Cold burned against her bare palms. Tucking her hands protectively under her arms, Olive watched the divots in the snow where she’d landed hurriedly fill themselves again.

  Beside her, Harold and Morton staggered to their feet. Leopold stood a few steps away, staring into the distance. Olive followed his glinting green eyes.

  They were in a forest—a frozen forest. Heavy snow blanketed the ground, and a cold pewter sky arched above. Trees stretched away on every side, thick ice coating their wiry black branches. Each twig hovered within its glassy skin like bones revealed by an X-ray.

  Snowflakes hung motionless in the air. As Olive stood up, she felt the hovering flakes brush her face, each one returning to its spot the moment she stepped out of the way.

  “Mary!” Harold shouted, making Olive and Morton jump. “Mary!”

  There was no answer.

  “She’s here somewhere,” said Harold confidently. He scanned the trees, chin raised. “Sweetheart! Hallooo!”

  Without even waiting for an answer this time, Harold charged forward. He took long, loping steps, swinging his arms. If he’d had an ax over his shoulder, he would have looked like a cheerful lumberjack heading off for a day in the woods.

  Olive, Morton, and Leopold followed him into the crunching snow.

  Even in her coat and hat, Olive was starting to shiver. Somehow this piece of Elsewhere felt even colder than the wintery world outside. She tugged the mittens out of her pockets and wriggled her shaking hands into the wool. Beside her, Leopold was marching along, looking unfazed by the chill. Harold probably couldn’t feel it either, not being actually alive anymore . . . but Olive saw him flex his painted fingers and rub his hands together, as though the cold was affecting him too.

  Olive glanced down at Morton. His nightshirt fluttered. His bare feet left small, vanishing prints in the snow.

  “Morton,” she began, “it’s really cold in here. Are you sure you don’t want to go back?”

  Morton shook his head. “I’m going to help look.” He walked even faster, short legs and skinny arms pumping, until he’d caught up with his father.

  They wound between the frozen trees. The snow was deep. More flakes dangled in midair, never landing, like falling petals captured in a photograph.

  “Mary!” Harold shouted, striding ahead. “Mary, my darling! It’s Harold! Halloooo!”

  The sound of Harold’s voice made Olive recoil. It was too loud, too bright, too alive for this place. And what if there was someone—or something—near enough to hear him? Olive glanced over her shoulder at the white waves of snow. Their footprints had refilled themselves the instant they were made. There would be no trail to follow back to the picture frame—and the frame itself was already out of sight, lost between the petrified trees.

  “Don’t worry, miss,” Leopold murmured. “I will remember the way.”

  “Mama!” Morton shouted. “It’s us! We’re coming to find you!”

  “Mary!” Harold bellowed again. Brittle twigs snapped against his broad shoulders, ice fragmenting and fusing as he lunged between the trees. “Whistle if you can hear me!”

  Olive chafed her arms. Her teeth chattered. “What if we can’t find her?” she whispered to the black cat. “What if she isn’t here?”

  Leopold’s eyes narrowed. His whiskers twitched. “I think—” he began. “Perhaps I—” The cat stopped himself again. “No,” he said. “No. I didn’t.”

  “Mama!” Morton called.

  There was still no reply.

  The shadows thickened around them. At first, Olive thought this was because they had moved deeper into the woods, but when she looked straight up, she saw that the sky itself had darkened. Its steely blue had turned black. A hush thicker and colder than ice filled the painting.

  “He’s watching us, isn’t he?” Olive whispered through the darkness. “But there’s no wind. There’s nothing.”

  Even in the shadows, Leopold’s eyes were bright. He looked at Olive for a moment, not speaking, before turning back to the woods.

  Over a swale in the snow-covered ground, they stumbled on a spot where all the trees seemed to lean sideways. Soon the ground began to lean too. First Harold, then Morton, and then Leopold and O
live skittered down the snowy slope onto a flat, smooth surface.

  Olive threw her arms out for balance. Her boots skidded in opposite directions. She had slipped on frozen puddles often enough to know what this was: Ice. A lot of ice. It was an entire frozen stream.

  Leopold halted next to her. His eyes widened. His ears flicked forward. The tips of his silver whiskers shook. Raising his head, he sniffed rapidly at the air.

  “I think—” he said again. “Perhaps—”

  And without saying anything else, he streaked forward along the riverbed.

  “Morton! Mr. Nivens!” Olive called.

  Harold halted. Morton skidded to a stop, arms windmilling.

  “Follow the cat!” Olive yelled.

  Leopold flew soundlessly over the ice. He glided beneath frozen branches and skimmed through drifts of painted snow. Harold ran behind him with long, heavy strides. Morton flapped after his father, his nightshirt billowing. Olive struggled to keep up. The chill of the air was taking root inside of her. Her fingers throbbed inside the mittens, and her toes felt wooden and numb. If they had been inside the painting too long, she wouldn’t even be able to tell.

  But Leopold was slowing down.

  They had reached a fork in the frozen stream, where one vast, leafless tree spread its branches all the way to the banks on either side. Its rough black bark glimmered with ice. Heaps of painted snow balanced on each limb. The tips of its twigs shone like blown glass.

  And, at the base of its trunk, half-buried in a mound of snow, Olive spotted something else.

  Her heart beat faster.

  As she followed the others toward the tree, the body came quickly into focus. She could see its pale yellow hair, its waxy skin, its motionless hands.

  “Mary!” Harold yelled, lunging up the bank. He skidded onto his knees beside her in a spray of painted snow. “Mary! Can you hear me?”