The French Impressionist

by Rebecca Bischoff

  “Change things? How?” Sylvie says in a trembling voice.

  “You see, we looked at my grandmother’s records, and these flats were not supposed to be two-level homes. Only single-level flats. Tenants who are using two floors will have their rent adjusted accordingly. If they do not wish to pay more, they will need to move out of the extra rooms they have been using.”

  “But, we have a contract,” Émile says. His face is so distressed, my heart breaks for him.

  “All contracts were intended for single-level flats,” Mrs. Thackeray repeats, speaking slowly, condescendingly, as if speaking to a small child. She sits primly in her chair with her stupid poufy hat on her head, and I hate her more than ever.

  “Forgive me. We really shouldn’t discuss business at dinner,” Mrs. Thackeray says. “I only brought this up because I know Rosemary is quite interested in my grandmother’s flat. The empty one next to yours, you know. She’s been sneaking in there quite often, I believe. And there is a matter of grave concern. She must return all the stolen property or I will press charges today.” She looks at me with a gleam of triumph in her faded eyes.

  All heads swivel in my direction.

  Gavin hurries over to me and presses a piece of paper into my hand, keeping his back to the group so they can’t see what he’s doing. He doesn’t say anything at first, because he’s coughing again, but finally he chokes out a harsh whisper. “Just read it, okay?” He moves away and goes off to hack by himself in a corner.

  “What does she mean, Rosemary?” Mom asks, practically shouting to be heard over all the other voices that talk at once.

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. There is nothing I can say. Nothing I want to say. I know I should give it up. Confess. Why should I keep pretending? My plan is ruined.

  But as I look around the room at faces in front of me, something hard and angry starts to form itself inside my heart. First, I look at my mother, always the one in charge, so full of smothering, overwhelming concern; then at Mrs. T., regally self-righteous and accusing; at Valerie, sweetly confused; at Phil, vaguely embarrassed. Then, there’s Gavin. What is he, exactly? I glance down at the paper he’d pressed into my hand.

  Meet me in the empty apartment. I just want to help. Trust me, okay????

  Trust him? Can I? I glance around the room for him. He’s by the back stairs. His eyes find mine.

  He’s not mocking me. He’s for real. I finally see it, and I know he reads it in my face. He turns and vanishes.

  I stand up and face Mrs. Thackeray.

  “You can’t prove anything,” I say. My words come out perfectly clear. They’re sharp, like bits of broken glass. Everyone understands. A little thrill runs through me.

  Mrs. Thackeray’s eyebrows almost disappear into her white hair.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asks. Her voice ends in a surprised squeak.

  Once again, everyone starts talking at the same time. Mom gets up and heads in my direction, but Zander holds onto her arm. She whirls back to him, annoyed, and says something that sounds angry. Phil leaves the shop. Valerie stares at me. When I meet her gaze she glances away. Sylvie has tears in her eyes. So does Ansel. Émile whispers to him, his head bent down to his son. His face is strained. Mrs. Thackeray stares at me. Her face is hard. I stare back. My legs shake. I’m terrified, but I won’t let her win.

  “We should go,” Valerie says, shouting to be heard. “Thanks for inviting us, but . . .” her voice trails off and her face flushes pink when she realizes nobody is paying her any attention. Phil rushes back inside, shoving his way through the shell curtain.

  “Where’s Gavin?” he asks, his face crinkled with worry. “He isn’t here.”

  “Allow me to say something,” Mrs. Thackeray calls. She raises a hand, and the talk dies down.

  “I’ve had the empty flat sprayed for rodents. Rosemary should not enter it for a few days,” she says.

  “But she told you she didn’t . . .” Émile splutters. “This is crazy,” he adds, looking at the ceiling. The old lady and I continue our staring contest, but when Phil speaks his words spark a sudden feeling of dread inside me.

  “I think that’s why Gavin coughed so much when we got here,” he says. He darts his eyes around, still looking for his son. “He has asthma. I’m afraid the chemicals they used might bring on an attack. We should leave. He didn’t bring his inhaler tonight.”

  “But where is he?” Valerie says.

  And my dread turns to panic. I know where Gavin went. He went there, fully expecting me to follow. If something happens to him, it’s my fault.

  Twenty-Five

  Once inside Marguerite’s apartment the smell hits me immediately: it’s overpowering, sharp but strangely sweet at the same time, making me gag. Is Gavin really in here? He can’t be that stupid. I shout his name, but hear nothing. Maybe I’m wrong, but I have to be sure. If he’s here, it’s mostly my fault.

  My eyes dart everywhere but find nothing. Then I hear a sound. A hoarse, rasping cough. I sprint to the kitchen and he’s there, sitting on the floor. Lips blue, dark eyes wide, mouth open, gasping. As I reach for him, an iron grip circles my wrist and I’m jerked backward.

  “I knew it was you, girl! Where is it?” Thomas bellows in my face.

  “He can’t breathe!” I scream. “He needs to get out of here!” My words are mangled.

  “What?” Thomas says, taking a step back. He looks down at Gavin on the floor.

  “Get up, you!” he screams. His face is a monster mask, contorted with rage. Gavin doesn’t answer. He just sits there and tries to breathe. His coffee-colored eyes are round. He looks up at me with nothing in his expression but fear.

  “Up!” Thomas screams. Still keeping his grip on me, he lunges toward Gavin, grabs his shoulder and shakes, hard. Gavin’s head snaps back and forth.

  “Stop it! He needs help!” I scream again. Thomas lets go of Gavin and shakes my own arm so hard I yell in pain.

  “Where is it?” he roars. I stare helplessly as Gavin curls into a fetal position and gasps for breath.

  “What?” I sob, feeling tears pour down my face. Gavin is going to die if we can’t get out of here.

  “Don’t play innocent with me, girl!” Thomas screams. He lumbers over to me and jerks me by my arm, pulling me so close I smell sour sweat and pine tree aftershave. He leans his revolting face into mine, inches away. “It’s time you learned your place! You’ve caused us enough trouble!” Still holding me by one arm, he lifts a bony fist into the air. “You tell me where it is, NOW!” he screams, as his arm starts to descend. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face to the side, fear curdling in my stomach. But Thomas’s fist doesn’t make contact. Instead, he bellows like a bull, clutches his head and lets me go. I fall to the floor and open my eyes.

  I blink. Maybe the rodent-killing fog is giving me hallucinations. Mrs. Thackeray, tottering and tiny, has appeared in the kitchen, a look of shock and rage on her face. Still holding onto Marguerite’s portrait when she came in, she saw what her sweet Tommy was up to and smacked him on the side of the head with the heavy wooden frame of the painting. I’d cheer if I weren’t still so terrified.

  Not to be deterred, Thomas snatches the portrait from his mother’s hands, knocking it from her grasp. As it thumps onto the tiles, there’s a sound of splintering wood and something small falls from the back of the frame and hits the floor with a metallic “ping.” It’s a tiny metal key. Thomas and I dive for it at the same time, and neon stars and galaxies explode in my eyes as our heads collide.

  Sound detonates all around me as well. Booming voices bounce off the walls in Marguerite’s home. Gentle, soft-spoken Émile, who never shouts, is screaming like a drill sergeant on steroids. He yells words I don’t understand and I blink swirling supernovas out of my eyes in time to watch while Émile and Zander hustle Thomas outside. My mother shouts and sobs as he
r trembling hands cling to me. Phil and Valerie magically materialize, pull Gavin to his feet and rush him out, their pale faces terrified. Shouting and scuffling sounds fade away.

  Mom finally stops yelling, helps me stand and leads me out of Marguerite’s kitchen and through the ruined front room. She won’t stop sniffling. My head pounds. I stumble over books and hear the crunch of something broken beneath my feet. We exit through the front door, which screeches as it opens, and totter down the stairs. Back in Sylvie’s shop, I’m led to a chair at the long table. Mrs. Thackeray is already there, her ancient face now covered with confusion and fear.

  Sylvie appears with an ice pack and I hold it to the bump that’s forming on my head while I sit and stare at platters of congealing food. No one speaks. I hear the whir of Ansel’s respirator. I wonder what he thinks about all this.

  There’s something small in my hand. I still have the little key that fell out of the portrait frame. I quickly close my fist over it and shove it into my back pocket along with the Wizards’ key. Why do I feel the need to hide it? No one says anything. Maybe they don’t notice in all the craziness.

  Mom sits next to Mrs. Thackeray. She’s crying again.

  “Rosemary, I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed. I want the truth, right now,” she says in her weepiest voice. At those words, my throat is full of sand and my tongue turns to plastic inside my mouth, like it will never be able to form words again. I stare into Mom’s red, puffy eyes. She always has this effect on me.

  “We all want to hear what you have to say,” Mrs. Thackeray murmurs. I look up, surprised. Across the table from me, she sits hunched over in her chair, hugging Marguerite’s broken portrait to her scrawny chest, and she’s somehow smaller. Even her voice is different. It’s quiet and unsure.

  “Well, Rosemary?” Mom says, snuffling. “What’s going on? And tell the truth, this time!” she says, swiping away a tear. “You obviously were going into that apartment, weren’t you, but you refused to admit it. No wonder that man was so angry! What did you do?” She continues to sob, softly, shoulders shaking.

  I stare at a bowl of cold sauce that looks like lumpy vomit and I hate her. What did I do? Thomas was about to smash my face with his huge fist and it’s my fault? I can’t even look at her. So, I swallow, and look at Mrs. T. in front of me, who reminds me of a deflated balloon, crumpled and empty. My stomach twists for a second with my familiar worry that no words will come out right, but I know I have to speak.

  “I didn’t mean to steal from you,” I tell her, wincing at how bad my words slur themselves together, like all the sounds are in such a rush that they trip all over each other as they leave my mouth.

  “Ah. Well . . .” Mrs. T. begins to say, but her voice trails off. She seems at a loss for words. “But you did steal?” she asks, as if to confirm what she already knows. “All those paintings?”

  My heart speeds up. “Yeah,” I say. I hear Mom gasp, and hurry to add, “I didn’t plan to.” Words come out a little clearer this time. I’m trying hard, now, because I want her to understand. “I only went in to find the cat. I took the paintings because I thought you were stealing them. I didn’t know you owned the place,” I say, pausing to clear my throat. “I’ll tell you where I hid the stuff. I kept going back to find letters, because I wanted to know about Marguerite’s weak words,” I add haltingly.

  “Weak words?” Mrs. T. stammers, looking at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “It says that in one of the letters.” But Mrs. T. still looks blank. “Wait,” I say, rising to my feet.

  “Stop!” Mom barks. “You’re not going anywhere, young lady!”

  “Mom,” I plead. “Please!”

  “I’d like to know what she means,” a soft voice says from behind me, speaking English. We all turn to Ansel, who was watching and listening the whole time. “Please, let her go.”

  Mom shrugs, rolls her eyes, and motions for me to go. I run upstairs to my suitcase, still waiting beside Sylvie and Émile’s front door. Returning with the ribbon-bound bundles of paper, I place them on the table in front of Mrs. Thackeray, who shoves dishes aside to make room. Everyone moves closer. I show them the first letter I read.

  “Des mots faibles. Weak words.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Thackeray sighs.

  “You understand?” I ask.

  “Perhaps more than you might think,” she says, looking up at me. Her beady eyes are watery. Before I can ask her what she means, Mrs. T. adds, “Did you find any jewelry, Rosemary?”

  I look blankly at her.

  Mrs. Thackeray tiredly rubs her eyes and continues. “My grandmother’s jewels were supposed to be worth a fortune. We found a list of everything in her records.” She holds Marguerite’s portrait in front of her and gazes sadly at it. “We were convinced we’d find jewels worth millions, but we found nothing. Thomas was most upset. Times have been hard,” she finishes, speaking in a near whisper.

  “I didn’t see any jewelry,” I say. I flinch at how the word sounds, like a drunk slurring syllables together. Mrs. T. looks right into my eyes for a moment and nods.

  “I believe you. I also believe, Rosemary, that you meant well when you took these paintings. I suppose you thought you were saving them.”

  “Saving them?” Mom blurts in an angry, incredulous voice. “Oh, I don’t think so!”

  She sniffs loudly and leans forward, glaring at me. I gape at her in shock. Her mouth is set into a thin line.

  “Apparently my daughter Rosemary has decided to become a thief,” she says through clenched teeth. “She stole a painting from her best friend’s brother and used it to fool us all into thinking she had some artistic talent. Then, she stole another painting from someone here, likely from that apartment, and sent it to me in Idaho, claiming it was hers. Our little art thief apparently doesn’t recognize the work of Gauguin.”

  “What?” Sylvie spluttered. Even Ansel exclaims out loud.

  “No, Mom, I—”

  “Enough! Go pack your things. We’re leaving right now,” Mom shouts. “The painting is at the Chicago Museum of Art, Mrs. Thackeray. I sent it to a friend who works there. It will be returned to you, unless you want to sell it. The head curator is drooling over it.”

  “Darla, maybe we should—” Sylvie starts to say in her halting English, but Mom cuts her off.

  “No, Sylvie,” Mom interrupts. “She’s coming with me, this minute. I’m grateful to you for the kindness you’ve shown my daughter. I’m sorry that you’ve been repaid with lies and deception.”

  I stare at Mom’s face, furious and pinched. It feels like my life is draining away from my body. Then, someone puts a hand on my shoulder. The unexpected touch startles me, and suddenly, I’m flooded with emotions. It’s as if I’m a cornered, wounded animal. They’re all backing me into a cage, ready to take me back to captivity. I whirl and throw the hand off of me, screaming, “No!”

  “Sorry,” Zander murmurs. He backs up, holding his hand in the air, as if to show he means no harm. I hadn’t noticed his return. I stare, breathing hard. Sylvie sees my face. She stands.

  “No, Madame. She will not go with you,” Sylvie says in a trembling voice.

  “What?” Mom squeals. “Who do you think you are?”

  “Can’t you see what is happening? It already happened once, long ago, to a helpless child. I understood when I saw how frightened Rosie was of Thomas, and when I saw the painting of Rosie as a child. You think you have found someone you can trust, but you see how afraid your daughter was when Zander came into the room. Look at how she moves away from him! Don’t you see it?”

  “What are you saying?” Zander asks, his voice horrified. His face is drained of color. “I’d never, ever do anything to hurt Rosemary.” He turns pleading eyes to Mom. “Darla?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. As the understanding of
what Sylvie said dawns on her face, she hesitates, looking from Zander to me, with confusion covering her twisted features. Zander sees the doubt that clouds her mind. I read it in his face. It’s breaking his heart. I hadn’t planned to actually get him in trouble. He wasn’t supposed to be here when I lied about him. But he is, and this is my only chance to get away from her. Slowly, shakily, I look at Sylvie and nod my head.

  Mom gasps, puts her hand over her mouth, and stares at Zander, who shakes his head over and over in denial. He has tears in his eyes. Mom’s eyes are wounded, betrayed, and furious.

  My insides are coated with ice. What have I done?

  If I keep quiet, I can stay here. Sylvie said so. I can be free.

  A low rumbling sound fills the otherwise silent room. Fat Cat has entered the shop, and is rubbing his considerable bulk against my ankles. I plop down and scoop him into my lap, hugging him to me. I love him. I love Sylvie, and Émile, and my freedom. But I hate the lying. And I never wanted to hurt anyone. Not Zander. Not like this. No one deserves that.

  Taking a deep breath, I speak, looking up at my mother. “Zander never did anything to me,” my voice cracks.

  Mom puts her hands over her face. Zander’s body slumps as all the tension leaves him, and he closes his eyes.

  “Why didn’t you say that right away?” Mom asks in a hoarse voice, still keeping her hands over her eyes. “Rosemary, how could you?”

  I can’t speak. Not a single sound. The confusion of colors in Sylvie’s bright shop whirls around in front of my eyes. It almost hurts to look. Mom breathes, in, out, in, out, faster and faster, and I know her impatience is growing. So is her anger.

  She uncovers her eyes and marches to stand in front of me, towering over me and Fat Cat. He leaps from my lap and streaks from the room.

  “Rosemary!” she hisses. It’s a command, the way she speaks my name. The sounds are soft, but somehow sharp, like blades that were made to cut. Something in her dark eyes reminds me of the hardness I saw earlier in Thomas’s face, when he shouted and threatened me, raising his fist. I feel something boiling inside the way it did earlier, when I stood up to Mrs. T. My frozen insides start to thaw. I gulp air, leap to my feet and shove my mother. She falls onto the floor and looks up at me with her eyes wide.