by Jenny Goebel
“I see … Oh dear … When did this happen? … Yesterday afternoon at Prospect Park? My, how heartbreaking … Yes, we’ll schedule the funeral for Saturday … I can’t believe we’re having another one so soon … I know. Sam Fuller’s family must be devastated.”
As Mrs. Evans spoke into the phone, giving the caller details for a funeral, an icy chill ran up my spine. “Where did your mom say she’d seen Mr. Stein?” I whispered to Michael. I already knew the answer, but I wanted to think I was wrong.
Michael narrowed his eyes. “By Prospect Park.”
I dropped the ad on Mrs. Evans’s desk and bolted for the door. I ran all ten blocks home, not slowing a bit the entire way. My heart raced and pounded in my chest, and I was panting like a dog by the time I reached the desk in the den where Mimi meets with all the grievers.
I pulled down a cheap metal picture frame from a collection lining the top shelf. I’d accidently broken a nicer porcelain one a few months before and had noticed then that a description was written on the back side of the photograph. But it hadn’t crossed my mind to look at the picture itself — I mean really look — until Mrs. Evans’s phone call shook something loose in my head.
I pulled the photo from its slot and flipped it over. Grandpa Morrison’s shaky handwriting read:
Fishing with Sam Fuller
I turned the photo back over to its front side, and looked closely at the two old fishermen. Each was holding a string of dead-as-a-doornail rainbow trout. Grandpa was wearing an old blue cap with stick-straight brown hair poking out beneath. He also wore a smile that lived more in the eyes than the mouth — a smile just like mine.
The other guy, Sam, wore a broader smile, and … sure enough, bottle-thick glasses.
I’d been racking my brain this whole time, and, wouldn’t you know, the photograph of the man from the portrait had been sitting on the shelf in the den all along. I still couldn’t recall ever having met Mr. Fuller, but of course he’d looked familiar — seeing as how I’d been dusting over his face for years.
My thoughts started pulling together, but all it did was make me dizzy — the way I feel when I’m trying to solve a math problem and can’t come up with the right answer. Everything I knew just didn’t add up.
Mr. Stein was wandering around Prospect Park the day before.
Sam Fuller had died the day before at Prospect Park.
Sam’s portrait was in the worktable drawer this morning.
I’d been around all evening yesterday, and all morning before I’d snuck into the carriage house, and I was certain Mr. Fuller’s family had not requested a portrait.
Not yet, anyway.
Then there was the troubling speed, once again, with which Mr. Stein completed the portrait. Even if he’d started right after Mr. Fuller died and worked on it all night, I think he would’ve been hard-pressed to finish it by morning. Even then, I wasn’t sure it could’ve been completed … Unless — what if he’d started it sooner? It’s like he’d known that Sam Fuller was gonna die. What if —
Michael suddenly burst through the den door, “Where’s the fire?” he said, messing up all the calculating going on in my head.
“What are you talking about?” I said. Why was Michael here? I wasn’t thinking straight, and, of course, my question just set me up for another one of his stupid jokes.
Michael grinned. “As fast as you were running, I thought maybe your crematorium caught fire.”
“Get lost Michael, before I cremate you.”
“I just thought you might be interested in what Mrs. Evans had to say after you blazed out of her office. Guess not. I’ll just get going. Catch you later, Grim Reaper.”
He had me again, and he knew it. He wasn’t budging an inch toward the door, regardless of what he’d said.
I huffed. “Oh, all right,” I said. “What?”
“First, tell me what’s going on.”
I thought about it. I hardly wanted to talk to Michael about something as dull as the weather, let alone this. But the truth was, I needed someone to help me think things through, and I certainly didn’t want to bother Dad or Mimi until I had a much clearer picture of just what was going on. So, as much as the thought irritated me, Michael appeared to be my best option. It took a little more hemming and hawing, but I finally decided that if Mr. Stein had something to do with Sam Fuller’s death, the sheriff’s son might just come in handy.
“Ugh. Fine. Here,” I said, gritting my teeth and shoving the photograph at Michael. Then I told him about finding the etching in Mr. Stein’s drawer, his frightening tools, and everything else.
Michael shook his from head side to side. “Man, this is one freaky place. I’d better get out of here before you wrap me in cloth and shove me in a sarcophagus.”
I punched him hard in the arm, aiming for the sweet spot my elbow had connected with earlier.
“Ouch. You just gave my bruise a bruise.”
“Just spill already, will you?” I said.
Michael rubbed at his arm. “Okay, okay. Sheesh. Mrs. Evans said Sam Fuller died of a heart attack yesterday afternoon at 3:30. He was fishing at Prospect Park when it happened.”
“That’s it?”
Michael nodded.
A heart attack? Well, that was disappointing. Of course, I should’ve known better. Michael’s mom had seen Mr. Stein around the same time. I think she would’ve noticed if he’d been, say, covered in blood. Still …
“What was Mr. Stein doing there?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” Michael said, shaking his huge head. “But it’s not like Mr. Stein could’ve known Sam was going to have heart attack. I mean, did he even know the guy?”
I threw up my hands and made a noise that came out sounding just shy of a horse snort. “So what was Sam’s portrait doing in Mr. Stein’s drawer this morning?”
Michael shrugged. I guess I didn’t really expect him to have an answer.
“Well … I would’ve thought Mr. Stein would need days, if not weeks, to complete a portrait with that much detail … and Sam Fuller’s wasn’t the only one,” I said, remembering how even Dad had been shocked by the speed with which Mr. Stein completed Mrs. Finley’s portrait. “It’s like he’s doing the etchings before the people die.”
I looked down at the floor. “That’s not the way we do business,” I said quietly, and then stopped. I expected another insult from Michael. When he said nothing, I went on, “Making a memorial for someone before they kick the bucket seems a little like burying a person alive.”
Michael grinned. I could tell he liked the comparison. Especially since I was the one to make it. “Okay,” he said. “So maybe Abbot Stein didn’t kill Sam Fuller, but something majorly creepy is going on here.”
I nodded my head slowly, not knowing whether to feel relieved that the stranger living in my backyard wasn’t a murderer, or worried that he might be something worse.
“I want to see him,” Michael blurted out.
“Are you nuts? We need to get help,” I said. “Maybe your mom can arrest him or something?”
“Not a chance,” said Michael. “Think about it, Bernie. As far as we know, the only thing the guy’s guilty of is taking a walk near the place where Sam Fuller died of natural causes and, you know, being on the wrong side of normal. Half of the people in this town are a little wacko. Take you, for instance. Should my mom arrest you, too?”
I stared straight at Michael. There was no way I’d give him the satisfaction of rolling my eyes.
“Trust me. We can’t tell anyone,” he said. “Not yet. If Mr. Stein is up to something, we need proof.” Michael put his hands on my arms.
I shook him off and took a deep breath. “We? As in, you and me?” Was this how it was going to be? Me and Michael working as a team? I’d almost rather face Mr. Stein alone.
Michael nodded.
Dang. But he was right.
I wasn’t about to tell Mama what was going on, not in the state she was in. And Dad, Michael’s mom, e
ven Mimi — they wouldn’t really believe it. I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. Maybe Mr. Stein was just a really fast etcher. Maybe it was all coincidence. Or maybe it wasn’t even Sam Fuller’s portrait in Mr. Stein’s desk after all. Maybe it was just someone who looked like him. That’s what Mimi and Dad and everyone else would say.
I thought I might even get in trouble for snooping if I mentioned it to anyone other than Michael. But I couldn’t just sit back while Mr. Stein etched portraits that made my skin crawl and then nice people like Mrs. Finley and Sam Fuller wound up dead. What did Mr. Stein have against them, anyway? I hadn’t a clue why he’d want them to die. As far as I knew, they were just … nice people. And what if Mr. Stein kept on etching his portraits, and even more nice people of Stratwood turned up as worm food?
Something had to be done, and Michael was probably the only person in town goofy enough to believe any of it, anyway. “Okay,” I said after a long silent spell. “We’ll go see him. But keep your big trap shut.” I nodded toward the back door that led to the carriage house. “Let’s go.”
Michael smiled, showing both rows of his big white teeth. “Ladies first,” he said, extending his hand out in front of me.
I snorted again and walked right past his bruised forearm and into the backyard. Instead of following the paver path, this time we crept close to the garage and back behind to the carriage house window. Michael and I bumped shoulders and then had a silent scuffle to see who would stand on the tile box first. Finally, we mounted the box together, side by side, letting our shoulders rub, which was far more than I, for one, was comfortable with. But at least that way we could peer in together.
“What’s he doing?” Michael whispered.
“Dunno. Looks like he’s getting ready to etch something,” I said. Mr. Stein had his arms straight at his sides, like two steel rods. The hammer was in one hand, the chisel gripped firmly in the other. His head was tilted back so that his chin pointed like an arrow angled at the ceiling. His eyes were closed. He wasn’t moving. On the worktable in front of him was a blank piece of black granite tile.
In a movement so swift I barely saw it, Mr. Stein’s face dropped down and his arms swept forward. He pressed the chisel to the stone and struck the hammer with a force that was, at the same time, both soft and fierce. He reminded me of a conductor orchestrating a grand symphony.
Beside me, Michael gasped, and I lost my balance. I tumbled backward off the edge of the box.
Michael looped his hand under my arm and dragged me back up beside him. “Look! Look!” he whispered again. This time his voice was a few octaves above where it should be.
I did look. Mr. Stein’s face was up, and he was staring straight ahead.
Then I saw what had Michael so worked up. His eyes! Mr. Stein’s eyes seemed to be covered in a milky film. When I delivered the first tray, I thought Mr. Stein’s gray eyes had seemed out of focus as he’d slid the tools into his pocket. They looked similar now, but not really the same. The white dullness was thicker, creamier, and horrifyingly strange.
“I don’t think he can see us,” Michael said.
Mr. Stein tilted his head in our direction and screwed up his face like he smelled a real bad smell.
“Maybe not, but he knows we’re here. RUN!” I hissed.
Michael and I jumped down and scrambled for the garage. I was faster and crashed through the back door ahead of Michael. On the other side, I nearly bowled into my father.
“Bernie, what’s wrong?” Dad asked just as Michael plowed through the door behind me. Dad looked back and forth between us. “You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I opened my mouth but clamped it shut again when I saw the expression on Michael’s face. We still didn’t have proof.
“Ahhhh, there you are.” Michael and I both jumped at the raspy sound of Mr. Stein’s voice behind us. “I’m afraid I might’ve frightened the children.” Mr. Stein said to my father, laying out his hand in explanation. “You see, they startled me while I was working.”
Slowly, I raised my eyes to Mr. Stein’s. They were clear and gray — no trace of the milkiness anywhere.
“Working?” Dad narrowed his own eyes and his large brow creased into three straight lines. “We haven’t had any other jobs come in that I’m aware of.”
Exactly, I thought, not even Sam Fuller’s.
The corners of Dad’s mouth curled down. “Did Mimi …”
“Forgive me. What I meant to say was that I was working on my craft. I find practice etchings very beneficial,” said Mr. Stein.
My father nodded slowly. “Go on.”
As shook up as I was, I couldn’t wait to hear Mr. Stein’s explanation, either.
“While I’m etching, I sometimes go into … something like a trance. It helps me do my very best work.” Mr. Stein sneered at Michael and me. “The children found me in this state and I can only assume how alarming it must’ve been for them.”
Despite my thudding heart and trembling knees screaming at me to run, I stood rooted to the ground. Dad would see right through Mr. Stein’s story. I was certain of it. He couldn’t possibly believe Mr. Stein worked in a trance, could he? Well, maybe that is what it was, but Dad wouldn’t believe it was normal.
Dad shook his head, releasing all the folds and pleats from his face, and then let out a sigh. I think I heard him murmur the word artists, but I couldn’t be sure. Then Dad did something I didn’t expect. He aimed his misgivings right at us. Softer creases gathered around his eyes as he said, “Kids, you need to leave Mr. Stein alone. What were you doing back there, anyway?”
I couldn’t believe it. To make matters worse, Michael was giving me a look that said, “See, what did I tell you?”
I ignored him and turned to face my father. “But Dad —”
“I think I can answer that,” Mr. Stein interrupted. “She wants this.”
Mr. Stein stepped between us and pulled the portrait of the beautiful woman out of his coat pocket. My heart thumped harder. He held it out to me. With his back to my father, Mr. Stein raised his eyebrows and said in a syrupy-sweet voice, “Here it is, Bernie. Go ahead. Take it.”
“You don’t need to do that, Mr. Stein. Bernie should know better than to be bothering you,” my dad said, peering over Mr. Stein’s shoulder at the woman’s face.
“I insist,” said Mr. Stein. Then, quieter, with a twinge of sadness that seemed to deaden his words, “I have no use for her anymore.”
I snatched the granite piece from his hands. The jagged edges bit into my fingers, but regardless of all that had just happened, I was thankful to have it. With the portrait clutched to my chest, I did run this time. I quickly fled the room before Mr. Stein could change his mind.
WHEN SAINT BERNADETTE WAS JUST A GIRL, A LOVELY LADY appeared to her. That lovely lady was the Blessed Mother. Not a whole lot of people believed Bernadette, but the reason she went on to became a brave, bold saint is ’cause she kept telling people about what happened. And then, of course, she also dug up a spring with miraculous water and had a body that never went to rot even after she was dead and buried. She still looked all fresh and young (and, in my mind, slightly creepy) when they opened her tomb years after her death.
Mimi thought it important I be named after such a courageous woman. It wasn’t the first time, or the last, that her hopes were too high for me, and I rarely gave my namesake much thought. However, I couldn’t help but think of Bernadette when I was visited by the beautiful woman from the portrait. I had to wonder if the saint ever felt like she was losing her mind, the way I felt I was losing mine.
Even if she had, my lovely lady wasn’t the Mother of God (which probably gives one more clout), and since I didn’t have plans to dig in the mud or be buried soon, I figured I was better off keeping the whole thing to myself. I may have dumbly given up all the other details to Michael, but I wouldn’t share what I’d seen, or rather who I’d seen, standing at the foot of my bed.
The night before, I’d cradl
ed the woman’s portrait in my left hand as I worked on my sketch. I felt so confused. I didn’t know what else to do. But, for the first time, drawing didn’t seem to sooth me … nor did the portrait. The look on the lady’s face was cheery enough, but something about the etching rang false. It was too perfect. There was nothing in her expression — her smile wasn’t too tight, the sparkle in her eyes, too hollow — to make me think her joy in life had been unreal.
It was something about the masterfully etched lines scratched into the otherwise smoothly polished stone that roiled my stomach … and chilled my heart. The stone itself felt cold to the touch and, eerily, the coldness crept — inching from the palm of my hand, up my arm, through my chest — until it felt like icy fingers were grasping at, and then clenching, my heart. Whatever I’d felt from Mrs. Finley’s portrait, it was nothing compared to this.
Yet for hours, I continued to sketch. I ignored the chill and the way the portrait numbed my fingers — I wanted so badly just to get it right. Part of me foolishly clung to the idea that everything would be okay. That I could make it okay. If I could just figure out how to make the portraits myself, I thought we could get rid of Mr. Stein and whatever sort of evil he’d brought along with him. And then things would get better.
But things were getting worse, not better. Or maybe things were getting better for Dad, but certainly not for Sam Fuller and Mrs. Finley, and not quickly enough for Mama.
At last, the frosty feeling and the image I couldn’t keep out of my head of Mr. Stein’s milky eyes became too much. I gave up. I closed my sketch pad, placed it inside my nightstand drawer, next to the rolled-up drawing of me and Mama, and then set the granite portrait on top.
I climbed into bed and then folded the comforter down so it rested neatly below my knees. I used only a thin white sheet to cover my body. My mind told me it should be enough, considering the still-heavy heat in the air, and yet I couldn’t stop shivering. I worried I was too shaken up to sleep, but exhaustion won over. As I drifted off, still shaking from the chills, I wondered if this was why Mr. Stein always wore that heavy overcoat.
