Still Life

by Jacqueline West

  “She’ll be here soon,” she said, watching Walter mash the gleaming black powder. “Are we almost ready?”

  “Almost,” said Mrs. Dewey. “Just one more shade to go.”

  Between her bowl and Walter’s mortar, a beaker of bright yellow juice bubbled over a candle. Feathers and petals and leaves and tiny bones waited on little brass trays. A row of jars already filled with vivid pigments stood along the table’s edge.

  “You can take these upstairs with you now and see how things are progressing,” said Mrs. Dewey, loading the full jars into a basket. “It took us three tries to get that red shade to work, but I think we finally did it!”

  Holding the basket carefully, Olive tiptoed back along the tunnel, up the rickety ladder, and out of the basement.

  The empty spot on the kitchen wall where the painting of Baltus and the stonemasons should have hung made Olive pause, even though she had gone through the entire house herself, removing the hollow picture frames. With Aldous and Elsewhere gone, they had dangled on their hooks in a perfectly ordinary way. Olive guessed that even Alec and Alice would notice if their house was suddenly decorated by a collection of empty frames. Besides, looking at them had made Olive’s chest ache.

  Elsewhere had been dangerous and strange, but it had also been beautiful. Sometimes it had even been wonderful. And, for a while, it had been hers.

  Giving the empty spot on the wall one last glance, Olive headed onward down the hallway. The jars in their basket clinked softly.

  Inside the pink bedroom at the end of the upper hall, Olive set down the paints. The painting that had decorated this room—an ancient town somewhere in Italy or Greece—had burned away like all the others, revealing the attic’s hidden entryway. Olive opened the heavy door and hurried up the steps.

  All the inhabitants of Elsewhere had been packed into the attic. The neighbors from Linden Street were settled comfortably on the old sheet-draped furniture. The orchestra and dancers had made themselves at home in a corner. The castle porter and the stonemasons were building a fort out of boxes. Baltus was tied securely to the leg of a hefty wooden bureau, where he bounced and barked at the splotchily colored cat who sat on the rafters, just out of his reach.

  “That’s right, me old matey,” Harvey growled, watching Baltus with the eye that wasn’t covered by a patch. “Ye can caterwaul till the ocean echoes, but ye will never catch the wily Captain Blackpaw!”

  Baltus made a jump so high that it jerked the entire bureau forward. Harvey shot across the rafters and hid behind the sewing dummy.

  “How is it going?” Olive asked Morton and Rutherford, who stood together in the center of the room, their heads bowed over an open notebook.

  “Very well,” said Rutherford.

  “Very very well,” said Morton.

  “I believe we’ve spoken to everyone,” said Rutherford, leafing through the notebook’s pages, “and we’ve managed to collect all viable requests.”

  Olive looked over the list, reading aloud. “‘Daytime, nighttime, a circus, a castle, a meadow full of flowers . . .’”

  “And a pond!” said one of the dancing girls.

  “And chairs,” said another. “Soft ones.”

  “‘A café beside the Seine,’” Olive read on. “‘A stage under the stars, a spiderweb, snow and sleds, houses, moonlight, a five-foot bathtub with gold taps . . .’”

  The woman wearing the towel gave an emphatic nod.

  “‘A library, farmland, a hedge maze, bricks and mortar, a bone to chew on . . .’” Olive paused. “Who asked for an Apatosaurus?”

  Morton raised his hand.

  “You know about Apatosauruses?”

  Morton glanced at Rutherford, who was looking at the floor. “Apatosaurus was first described by paleontologists in 1877,” Rutherford murmured.

  “You thought a dinosaur was a viable request?” Olive asked.

  “They’re herbivores!” said Rutherford defensively. “It would be passive. Whatever it tried to eat would just grow back, anyway. And we’d have the chance to see an almost living dinosaur! It’s every paleontologist’s dream!”

  “No dinosaurs,” said Olive, drawing a line through the Apatosaurus.

  “Olive,” said a voice from the attic steps.

  Olive turned around.

  Horatio’s fluffy orange head peered over the top of the staircase. “She’s here,” he announced.

  “Let me know if you think of anything else!” said Olive, ripping the list out of the notebook and flying down the attic steps behind the cat.

  The front door was just creaking open as Olive and Horatio reached the top of the main staircase. A blast of cold, sunny air whooshed up from the entryway. Standing in a patch of sun, her necklaces glittering and keys jingling, was the genuine Ms. Teedlebaum.

  “Florence!” said Mrs. Dunwoody, ushering the art teacher into the house. “What a nice surprise. Is there something we can help you with?”

  “She’s helping me, Mom,” said Olive quickly, bounding down into the entry. Behind her, Horatio slunk out of sight. “Remember? You said I could paint a mural in one of the guest bedrooms, and you suggested asking Ms. Teedlebaum to help me?”

  Mrs. Dunwoody blinked. “I did?”

  “Yes,” said Olive rapidly. “And you promised to make a big donation to the art museum in exchange.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Dunwoody. She looked from Olive to Ms. Teedlebaum, who both beamed brightly back at her. Mrs. Dunwoody gave them a tentative smile. “I don’t know where my mind is today. I think I could use another cup of coffee. What about you, Florence?”

  “Oh, I never know where my mind is,” said Ms. Teedlebaum, setting down an armload of paper bags and unwrapping herself from the sparkly shawl that spiraled around and around her body. “I’m lucky if I can find both hands in the morning.” She pulled her arms out of her sleeves. “Look! There they are!”

  “Let me hang that up, Ms. Teedlebaum,” Olive offered, tossing the shawl onto the coatrack. “Then we can head upstairs and get started.”

  “Wonderful.” Ms. Teedlebaum picked up the bags again. “Lead the way!”

  Mrs. Dunwoody watched them climb up the staircase, smiling a confused but happy smile.

  “Honestly, Olive,” Ms. Teedlebaum said as they turned the corner and headed down the upper hallway, “I’m just delighted to have this distraction today. It’s been a traumatic week.” She let out a sigh. “First, it appears that the museum was broken into, although we haven’t been able to figure out if anything is missing. And then one of our security guards simply vanished.”

  “Really?” said Olive. “That’s weird.”

  “Yes,” Ms. Teedlebaum agreed. “And he was such a talented artist himself—very quiet, very reclusive, very gifted with paint. He asked me to model for a portrait once.”

  “Really?” said Olive again.

  “It was an excellent likeness. Well—the proportions were a little off, but I doubt most people would even notice.” She shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not a fan of that old-fashioned, realistic style.”

  “Oh, good,” said Olive, leading the way into the pink room. “Because here’s what I’d like to paint . . .”

  • • •

  Olive and Ms. Teedlebaum worked until the light that fell through the lace curtains turned from diamond-bright to pearly gray. Rutherford delivered replacement jars of paint. Mrs. Dunwoody wandered in with cups of tea and cocoa, forgot what she was doing, and wandered out again. Olive’s arms started to look as though she had a case of rainbow-colored chicken pox. The tips of Ms. Teedlebaum’s kinky hair dragged through the wet paint, adding their own delicate brushstrokes to the work.

  At last, when the downstairs clock chimed six, Ms. Teedlebaum stopped painting. Olive put down her palette. Together, they looked around the room.

  Brushes and jars and
palettes and drop cloths were scattered across the floor. The smell of fresh paint hovered in the air, tangling with the older scents of mothballs and stale potpourri. And on the walls around them, just beginning to dry, was a brand-new painted world.

  On one wall, sunrise poured over a field of sparkling snow. The snow dwindled away into rolling farmland and leafy forests, where a huge stone castle thrust up from the greenery. A meadow full of flowers—and a circle of comfortable chairs—spread out into the Parisian skyline, where a café of little wrought iron tables waited beside the River Seine. Around the corner, the painted daylight dimmed above a street that looked very much like Linden Street. Sturdy old houses gazed at each other across the quiet pavement. Candles winked softly in curtained windows. The hill rolled down to a beautiful pavilion, complete with a raised stage, orchestra seats, a grand piano, and a huge dance floor. Beyond the pavilion, where stars thickened in a violet sky, a torch-lit circus arranged its striped tents. Boats shaped like swans and ducks floated on a silvery lake. One big, beautiful bathtub, complete with gold taps, bubbled near the baseboard. Ms. Teedlebaum had even painted a massive heap of dog toys, safely enclosed inside a high fence.

  “I love it!” Ms. Teedlebaum cried, clapping her painty hands. “The circus! The castle! The bathtub! It’s a fantasy world! Who wouldn’t want to live in this place?”

  Olive smiled up at the row of painted houses. “Nobody,” she said.

  Ms. Teedlebaum paused, tapping a still blue-tinted brush against her chin. “Are you sure you don’t want to add an Apatosaurus?”

  “I’m sure,” said Olive.

  Olive walked Ms. Teedlebaum out to her car. The old stone house glowed cheerily behind them. The air was cold, but less bitter than before—or maybe Olive was simply remembering it that way. She waved as the rusty station wagon rolled slowly down the hill.

  Then she froze.

  Standing across the street, staring straight at her, was the girl with the red coat and the dark eyeliner.

  “Hi,” said the girl.

  “Hello,” said Olive, in a not-very-friendly way.

  The girl hurried across the street. She stopped, facing Olive, on the icy sidewalk. For a moment, they simply stared at each other.

  “Have you been watching me?” Olive asked, before she realized that she was going to say anything at all.

  “What? No,” said the girl, frowning. “Well . . . Kind of. Yes.” She lowered her voice and glanced in the direction of the vanished station wagon. “I’ve been keeping an eye on your house. Because I think someone might be trying to rob you.” She lowered her voice even further. “Ms. Teedlebaum.”

  “Ms. Teedlebaum?” Olive echoed.

  “I saw her sneaking around over here, late at night,” the girl went on, speaking fast. “She was talking to somebody who came out of that tall gray house, the one everybody said was empty. At the museum, she was talking about how your house belonged to this great, famous artist, and then that security guard asked me to bring that note to your house.” The girl leaned closer to Olive. “I think they might be in cahoots!”

  This sounded so much like something Harvey would say that Olive nearly snorted out loud.

  “Wait,” she said, catching herself. “You brought that note? The one that was on my porch?”

  “I saw Ms. Teedlebaum come to your house the other night and never come out again, and today she shows up and spends hours and hours inside, and . . .” A blush began to rise on the girl’s cheeks. “She might be casing the joint.”

  This time Olive couldn’t stop the snort.

  “No,” she said, laughing. “She just came over to help me paint a mural.”

  “Oh.” The girl’s face fell. She took a step backward. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.” Olive glanced around the darkening street. “How did you see all this, anyway?”

  “I’m staying with my grandparents over winter break. The Butlers.” The girl looked down at her boots. “My bedroom window faces your house, so I couldn’t really help it. I just thought . . . I thought I might be able to help.”

  Olive put her hands in her pockets. “Do you like mysteries?”

  The girl met her eyes. “Kind of. Yes.”

  “Me too.” Olive shuffled awkwardly in place. “It’s . . . it was nice of you to try to solve this one. Thanks for trying to help me.”

  The girl shrugged, looking embarrassed. “It would have been more helpful if it was a real mystery.”

  Olive shrugged too. “Maybe next time.”

  They looked at each other for another moment. Olive started to smile.

  The girl smiled back. “I’d better get back inside,” she said, heading toward the street. She stopped halfway across and gave Olive another look. “My name’s Vanessa, by the way.”

  “My name is Olive.”

  The girl’s smile widened. “I know.” Then she ran the rest of the way across the street and through the Butlers’ sturdy front door.

  • • •

  Back inside the old stone house, the Dunwoodys were making dinner. Neither of them would remember that the other had already added the cheddar to the big dish of macaroni and cheese, which meant that they would both add it again, resulting in a macaroni casserole that was four times as delicious as usual. They had also invited the Deweys and Walter to join them—multiple times, because they had both forgotten that they’d done so—and at that very moment, Mrs. Dewey was down the street in her own cozy kitchen, spreading the last strokes of frosting onto the Dark Chocolate Cherry Cake that they would all share for dessert.

  But Olive didn’t know that these surprises were ahead of her. She just knew that her parents were safe, and the kitchen was full of warmth and light and good smells, and upstairs, her friends were waiting for her.

  Horatio, Harvey, and Leopold stood beside her in the pink bedroom.

  “It worked,” said Horatio, staring into the drying painting.

  “It’s almost as good as Elsewhere,” Olive whispered.

  “Better,” said Leopold firmly.

  They gazed around at the glinting walls.

  “Horatio,” Olive began, “I’ve been wondering: How did Aurelia know what Aldous did to Albert? You told me Annabelle buried her parents in the graveyard, inside the painting of the Scottish hills. So how did Aurelia end up with . . . with what was inside that silver box?”

  An uncomfortable expression flicked across Horatio’s wide orange face. “That was my doing, I’m afraid,” he said. “I thought she deserved to know the truth about her husband, and about what had happened to her son. And I thought Albert deserved to be remembered by someone who had loved him.” Horatio cleared his throat. “It was my responsibility to keep this house and its secrets safe. Instead, intentionally, knowingly . . . I failed.”

  “No you didn’t,” said Olive, running her fingertips over the fine hair between Horatio’s ears. “It was my fault too. I didn’t listen to you, and Aurelia used us.” She looked at the painted walls again. “But we’re all still here. We’re together.”

  “Aye, matey,” Harvey whispered.

  “I believe the paint is dry enough.” With a flourish, Leopold offered Olive his tail. “Would you allow me, miss?”

  The entire room began to shimmer as Olive’s fingers closed around his sleek black fur. She took a step, and then another step, and then her feet were leaving the worn pink carpet and whispering through a field of dewy grass.

  Above her, streaks of sunset faded into a darkness that twinkled with tiny painted stars. Far to her left, she could see the fainter light of daytime above rolling fields of flowers. Leaves rustled in the forest, where the towers of a grand stone castle jutted up amid the green. To her right, waves rippled across the silvery pond. Beyond its shores, the torches of the circus flickered as white horses paced gently in their rings.

  And, j
ust ahead of her, the cozy, candlelit houses of Linden Street waited for their families to come home.

  “Wow,” Olive breathed.

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself, miss,” Leopold replied.

  The painted people from the attic shuffled, one or two at a time, onto the dewy grass nearby. Horatio and Harvey stepped in and out of the painted surface, bringing the others through, until the orchestra and dancers and neighbors and birds and Parisians and stonemasons and one small spider were all safe inside.

  “My carnival!” shouted Roberto the Magnificent, taking off for the circus tents.

  “My bathtub!” cried the woman in the towel.

  “Paris!” sighed the Parisians, strolling toward their café with flocks of pigeons scuttling after.

  “Harold, look,” Mary Nivens whispered.

  She and Harold and Morton were gathered in a tight knot just over Olive’s shoulder. The light of sunset made Morton’s pale face glow.

  “It’s our house.” Morton pointed up the hill. “Right there. Waiting for us.”

  He flashed Olive a quick, wide smile before tearing off up the hill, his nightshirt rippling into the twilight. Mary and Harold hurried after him.

  The others wandered off in streams and clusters, the dancing girls to the meadow, the geese to the farm, the porter and the masons to the castle with Baltus bounding happily behind them. The orchestra and dancers had rushed straight to the pavilion. Olive could hear the sound of a waltz already beginning, soft and sweet as summer mist.

  “I don’t want to leave,” said Olive to the three cats, who had gathered around her. Leopold was watching the rest of Morton’s neighbors climb the hill to their homes. Horatio was grooming his silky whiskers. Harvey was eyeing the swan boats on the lake through an imaginary spyglass. “Boom,” Olive heard him whisper.

  “But you can’t stay here,” said Horatio. “Paint is still paint, and you’re still alive—as long as you don’t stay too long.” His eyes glittered. “Besides, there are plenty of people in the real world who are waiting for you.”

  Olive watched the reflected stars shimmer on the water. “That’s true.”