13 Little Blue Envelopes

by Maureen Johnson

  “These are the names of my dogs, the ones that have died,” Mari said. “I’ve dedicated my hands to them. My foxes’ names are on my feet.”

  Instead of the logical, “You had foxes? And you put their names on your FEET?” Ginny managed to say, “I think I saw a fox. Last night. In London.”

  “You probably did,” Mari said. “London is full of foxes. It’s a magical city. I had three pet foxes. When I lived in France, I had a cage built in the garden. I locked myself in there with them during the days and painted. Foxes are wonderful companions.”

  Keith looked like he was about to say something, but Ginny planted her foot firmly on the toe of his Chucks and pressed down.

  “It’s good to be in a cage,” Mari went on. “It keeps you focused. I recommend it.”

  Ginny ground her foot down hard. Keith pressed his lips together tightly and turned to look at the paintings on the wall just next to him. Mari poured out the tea and loaded her cup with sugar, stirring it loudly.

  “I’m so sorry about your aunt,” she finally said. “It was such terrible news to hear that she died. But she was so ill…”

  Keith turned from a painting of a woman morphing into a can of beans and raised an eyebrow in Ginny’s direction.

  “She mentioned you might be coming. I’m glad you did. She was a very good painter, you know. Very good.”

  “She left me some letters,” Ginny said, avoiding Keith’s gaze. “She asked me to come here, to see you.”

  “She mentioned that she had a niece.” Mari nodded knowingly. “She felt so bad for leaving you behind.”

  Keith’s eyebrow went up higher.

  “I lived without a home for a long time,” she went on. “I lived on the streets in Paris. No money. Just my paints in a bag, one spare dress, and a big furry coat I wore all year long. I used to run past outdoor cafés and steal food off people’s plates. I’d sit under the bridges in the summertime and paint for a whole day straight. I was crazy then, but it was just something I had to do.”

  Ginny felt her throat go dry and had the uneasy feeling that both Keith and Mari were watching her closely. It didn’t help that she was sitting in a spot of sunlight coming in through the ancient multi-paneled window above Mari’s worktable. Mari thoughtfully pushed one of her little chocolate wrappers around the table with her finger.

  “Come,” she said. “I’ll show you something. Both of you.”

  At the back of the room, in what looked like a closet, was the narrowest set of stairs Ginny had ever encountered. They were made of stone and spiraled tightly. Mari’s body could just about squeeze through. They emerged in an attic, which had a low, curved ceiling painted a bright, cotton candy pink. The room smelled like burned toast and several centuries of dust, and it was filled with shelves loaded down with massive art books, with spines featuring titles in every language Ginny could recognize and lots more that she couldn’t.

  Mari pulled down a particularly large book that had a thick crust of dust along the top and banged it open on one of the tables. She flipped through the pages for a moment until she came to the print she wanted. It was a very old, intensely colored image of a man and woman holding hands. It was an incredibly precise picture, almost as clear as a photograph.

  “This is by Jan van Eyck,” she said, poking at the picture. “It’s a painting of an engagement. It’s an ordinary scene—there are shoes on the floor, a dog. He’s recording the event. Just two ordinary people getting engaged. No one had ever gone to so much effort to record ordinary people before.”

  Ginny realized that Keith hadn’t tried to make a comment for a while. He was looking at the picture intently.

  “Here,” Mari said, pointing a long emerald green fingernail at the center of the picture. “Right here in the middle. The focal point. You see what’s there? It’s a mirror. And in the reflection, that’s the artist. He painted himself into the picture. And right above it is an inscription. It says, ‘Jan van Eyck was here.’”

  She closed the book shut as punctuation, and a dust bunny puffed into the air.

  “Sometimes artists like to catch themselves looking out, let the world see them for once. It’s a signature. This one is a very bold one. But this is also a witnessing. We want to remember, and we want to be remembered. That’s why we paint.”

  Mari was just getting to something that seemed like a clear message—something Ginny could wrap her head around. We want to remember, and we want to be remembered. That’s why we paint.

  But then Mari went on.

  “I marked my hands and feet to remember my companions, the ones I loved,” she said, looking at her tattoos.

  Keith’s eyes lit up and he got as far as opening his mouth and making an “eeee” sound before Ginny got to his foot again.

  “What’s your birthday?” Mari asked.

  “August eighteenth,” Ginny replied, confused.

  “Leo. Ah. Back downstairs, love.”

  They oozed back down the stone steps. There was no rail, so Ginny gripped the wall for support. Mari shuffled back to her worktable and patted a stool next to it, indicating that Ginny should sit. Ginny crossed over uncertainly.

  “Right. Let’s see.” She eyed Ginny up and down. “Why don’t you just take off your shirt, then?”

  Keith folded his arms and sat on the floor in the corner, deliberately not averting his eyes. Ginny turned her back to him and self-consciously pulled off her shirt, wishing she’d put on a nicer bra. She had packed a good one, but of course she’d put on the stretchy, sporty gray one.

  “Yes,” Mari said, examining Ginny’s skin. “I think the shoulder. Your aunt was an Aquarius. It makes so much sense, when you think about it. Stay still now.”

  Mari picked up her pens and began to draw.

  Ginny could feel the pen strokes on the back of her shoulder. They didn’t hurt, but there was a sharpness to the pen. It didn’t seem right to complain; after all, there was a famous artist drawing on her. Not that she knew why.

  Mari was a slow worker, drawing dot by dot, poke by poke, working against the pull of the skin. She got up frequently for chocolate, or to look at a bird that had come to the feeder in the window, or to stare at Ginny from the front. It took so long that Keith fell asleep in the corner and began to snore.

  “There,” Mari said, sitting back and looking over her work. “It won’t last forever. It will fade. But that’s how it should be this time, don’t you think, love? Unless you’d like it tattooed in. I know a very good place.”

  She pulled a tiny mirror out from a drawer of supplies and tried to hold it at an angle that Ginny could see. She had to crane her neck around painfully, but she caught a glimpse of it. It was a lion, colored in bright gold. His mane shot out wildly in all directions (big hair seemed to be a theme with Mari), eventually turning into shooting blue rivulets.

  “You’re both welcome to stay,” Mari said. “I’ll have Chloe—”

  “The train,” Keith said quickly. “We have to catch the train.”

  “We have to catch the train,” Ginny repeated. “But thanks. For everything.”

  Mari walked them to the door, and on the top step she stepped forward and wrapped her fleshy arms around Ginny. Her crazy hair filled Ginny’s field of vision, and the world was black with streaks of orange.

  “Keep this one,” she whispered into Ginny’s ear. “I like him.”

  She stepped back, winked at Keith, and then closed the door. They both blinked at the patterns of salamanders for a moment.

  “So,” Keith said, taking Ginny by the arm and leading her back in the direction of the bus, “now that we’ve met with Lady MacStrange, why don’t you explain to me what’s been going on?”

  The Monsters Attack

  Outside the train on the ride home, the scenery was changing rapidly. First city, then green hills and pastures with hundreds of sheep nibbling at endless patches of green grass. Then they were riding along the sea, and then through towns with tiny brick houses and loo
ming, unbelievable churches. There was strong sun, sudden fog, then a final bright burst of purple as it slowly got dark. The passing English towns were just streaks of orange streetlights.

  It had taken almost the entire ride to explain the basics. She’d had to go back to the very beginning of everything…back to New York, back to Aunt Peg’s “today I live in” games. She brushed quickly over the events of the last few months—the phone call from Richard, the horrible sinking feeling, the drive up to the airport to claim the body—and got to the interesting part, the arrival of the package with the envelopes. She waited for Keith’s big reaction, but all she got was:

  “That’s a bit crap, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “The artist excuse. If you can call that an excuse.”

  “You really had to know her,” she said, trying hard to make it sound light.

  “No, I don’t. That is crap. I know crap. I have seen crap before. The more you tell me about your aunt, the less I like her.”

  Ginny felt her eyes narrowing a little.

  “You didn’t know her,” she said.

  “You’ve told me enough. I don’t like what she did to you. She seems to have meant the world to you when you were a kid, and she just left one day without a word. And her entire explanation to you comes in the form of a few very odd little envelopes.”

  “No,” she said, feeling an anger rising suddenly. “Everything interesting that ever happened to me happened because of her. Without her, I’m boring. You don’t get it because you have stories.”

  “Everyone has stories,” he said dismissively.

  “Not good ones, like yours. They aren’t as interesting. You got arrested. I couldn’t have gotten arrested if I tried.”

  “It doesn’t take a lot of effort,” he said. “Besides, it wasn’t getting arrested that was the problem.”

  “Problem?”

  He drummed his fingers on the table, then turned and looked at her for a moment.

  “Okay,” he said. “You told your story, might as well tell you mine while we’re here. When I was sixteen, I had a girlfriend. Her name was Claire. I was worse than David. She was all I thought about. Didn’t care about school, didn’t care about anything. I stopped mucking about because I was spending all my time with her.”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “Well, she got pregnant,” he said, flicking the edge of the table with his finger. “And that was a bit of a mess.”

  It was one thing to know Keith had had sex. That should have been obvious since he was Keith, and not her, not so painfully virginal. But pregnancy was a step beyond anything she could really process. That implied a lot of sex. So much sex. So much that he could say it all casually.

  Ginny looked down at the table. Obviously, she knew these things happened, but they never happened to her or to her friends. They happened on TV or to people in school who she didn’t know. Somehow, those kinds of stories always trickled down to the general populace months after they happened, giving the people involved a permanent, shiny veneer of maturity that she would never, ever have. She couldn’t even drive after ten o’clock at night.

  “Are you horrified?” he asked, glancing over. “It does happen, you know.”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “What happened? I mean, did she—?”

  She caught herself short. What was she saying?

  “I’m not a dad, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.

  Well, yes. That was exactly what she was so cleverly asking. This was why nothing ever happened to her. She couldn’t handle the excitement. She couldn’t even make it through a conversation about something serious and sexual without blowing it.

  “It’s a fair question,” he said. “I offered to leave school and get a job. I was ready to do it, too. But she didn’t want to leave school, so she decided there was only one thing she could do about it. I can’t blame her.”

  They rode in silence for a few minutes, both rocking slightly in time with the train and staring at the poster for the train’s “Get some food!” promotion, which featured a picture of a bald man who was the “pork king of the north.”

  “The problem,” he finally said, “was that things were never right after that. I kept trying to make it better, to talk to her, but she didn’t want to talk to me about it. She just wanted to get on with her life. So she did. It took me months to get the hint. I was a mess. But now everything’s sorted.”

  He smiled brightly and folded his hands on the table.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, once you go through something like that, you learn. Went on a bit of a bender after that. Stole a car—just took it around for a few hours, don’t know why. Wasn’t even that nice. Then woke up one morning, realized that I had to take my exams and that my life was still going on. I got myself together, got into school. Now I am the rabid success that you see before you today. Just want to make my plays. That’s all I need. And see how it’s worked out? That’s how I met you, isn’t it?”

  He threw his arm around her shoulders and gave her a friendly shake. Again, it wasn’t overly romantic. This gesture had a “good dog!” feel to it. But there was something else, too. Something that said, “I’m not just here because you give me big handfuls of cash for no reason. Things are different now.” Maybe it was the fact that he kept his arm there for the rest of the trip home and neither of them felt the need to say another word.

  Half an hour later, they were standing on the platform at Kings Cross, waiting for the tube.

  “Almost forgot,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. “I have something for you.”

  He produced a small windup Godzilla, which looked exactly like the one from Mari’s house.

  “Is that from Mari’s?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “You stole it?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” he said, smiling. “You needed a souvenir.”

  “Why did you think I’d want something that was stolen?” Ginny felt herself stepping back, away from him.

  Keith stepped back a bit and lost his grin.

  “Wait a minute….”

  “Maybe it was part of some art piece!”

  “A major work ruined.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ginny said. “It was hers. It’s from her house.”

  “I’ll write her a letter and give myself up,” he said, holding up his hands. “I took the Godzilla. Call off the search. It was me, but I blame society.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I nicked a little toy,” he said, pinching the Godzilla between his fingers. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.”

  “Fine.” Keith walked over to the edge of the platform and tossed the little toy down onto the tracks, then wandered back.

  “What did you do that for?” Ginny asked.

  “You didn’t want it.”

  “That doesn’t mean you should just get rid of it,” she said.

  “Sorry. Was I supposed to take it back?”

  “You weren’t supposed to take it in the first place!”

  “Know what I’ll take?” he asked. “The bus. See you.”

  He disappeared through the crowd before Ginny could even manage to turn around to watch him go.

  #5 & 6

  * * *

  #5

  Dearest Ginger,

  When I was a kid, I had an illustrated book of Roman mythology. I was completely obsessed with this book. My favorite of all the gods and goddesses, believe it or not, was Vesta, goddess of hearth and home.

  I know. So unlikely. I mean, I’ve never owned a vacuum cleaner. But it’s true. Out of all of the goddesses, she was the one I liked the most. Lots of hot young gods pursued her, but she made a vow of perpetual virginity. Her symbol, her home, was the fireplace. She was basically the goddess of central heating.

  Vesta was worshiped in every town and in every home through fire. She was everywhere, and people depended on h
er every day. There was a large temple built in her honor in Rome, and priestesses at her temple were called the vestal virgins.

  Being a vestal was a pretty sweet job. They had one major task: They had to make sure that the undying fire in Vesta’s ceremonial hearth never went out. There were always six of them, so they could work in shifts. In exchange for this service, they were treated as divinities. They were given a palace to live in and had the same privileges as men. In times of crisis, they were called upon to give advice on matters of Roman national security. They got great tickets to the theater, people held parties for them, and they were paraded and revered everywhere.

  The only catch? Try thirty years of celibacy. Thirty years of living with their fellow vestals, poking the fire and doing crossword puzzles. If they broke the virginity rule, they were taken to a place that translates as “Evil Fields” and led down a set of stairs to a small underground room with a bed and a lamp. Once they were in, the door to the room was shut, the steps pulled up, and the whole thing sealed over in dirt. Which is pretty harsh.

  Still, you’ve got to hand it to the vestal virgins. It may seem sad and scary—but realize just how much power people have always seen in women on their own.

  The remains of their temple are in the Roman Forum, and you can see their statues. (The Forum is basically attached to the Colosseum.) Go and visit them, and make them an offering. This is your task. When you are done, you can open the next envelope, right there, in the temple.

  As for where to stay, may I recommend a little place I stumbled on when I arrived in Rome? It’s not a hotel or a hostel—it’s a private house with one room for rent. It’s run by a woman named Ortensia. Her house isn’t far from the main train station. The address is on the back of this letter.

  Va-va-voom,

  Your Runaway Aunt

  * * *

  The Road to Rome