The Last Little Blue Envelope

by Maureen Johnson

  He grabbed a pocket of fabric down by his stomach and jiggled it. It made a rattling noise.

  “Cheater,” Ellis mumbled.

  “I think I’m going to bed too,” Ginny said.

  “You do everything he does,” Keith called after her. “You love him.”

  She felt his gaze follow her long after she disappeared up into the darkness of the stairwell.

  Random Acts of Cruelty

  Ginny woke the next morning to a scream. Luckily, it wasn’t her own. It was loud, male, and from right below them. Ellis jolted awake in the bed next to her.

  “What was that?” Ellis asked. “Did I dream that? Was that you?”

  Now there was yelling, and a thumping noise. They jumped out of bed at the same moment and ran down the steps, slipping on the slick wood as they hurried. The door to Keith and Oliver’s room was shut, and a fevered conversation was going on behind it.

  “What do we do?” Ellis asked. “They’re at something in there. Think we should break them up?”

  Another muffled cry, followed by loud laughter. Keith’s.

  “Yes,” Ginny said, stepping forward and opening the door.

  Keith was standing closest, dressed in a baggy pair of sweatpants and the T-shirt from yesterday. Oliver was just in boxers and a T-shirt again, but this time she couldn’t really blame him. He was also soaked, and swearing profusely.

  “Shut the door!” he yelled. This time, he was not in the mood to show off the boxers. And once again, Ginny found herself staring just a little. Keith did not shut the door. He reached over and opened it wider, letting the cold air from the stairwell in.

  “It snowed,” he said, craning his arm over his head and lazily scratching his neck.

  Now Ginny saw it. Snow scattered all over the floor, all over Oliver’s bed. So much snow—snow that could only have come from one source. Keith must have been very, very quiet, because those stairs were like a musical instrument. And it must have taken him a few trips, because there was a lot of snow. Oliver grabbed his bag and let out a groan of dismay when even more snow poured out. His clothes were utterly soaked.

  “Oh dear,” Keith said. “Those are going to be unpleasant and cold.”

  Oliver shoulder-shoved Keith and slipped quickly past Ellis and Ginny on the way to the bathroom. Keith let it go with a smile.

  “That was mean,” Ginny said.

  “Mean?” Keith sat on his bed and surveyed the damage contentedly. There was snow on his bed as well, probably thrown there by Oliver. “That’s nothing. I could have done much worse, and you know it.”

  There was just a little defiance in his voice. Ellis put her hand over her mouth, possibly to stifle a giggle.

  “He’s going to freeze,” Ginny said.

  “Again, I’m not seeing the problem.”

  Ginny walked away, taking heavy steps back up to their room. She wasn’t really sure why she was angry at Keith for doing this, but she was. She grabbed for her clothes, not even bothering with a shower. She could hear the water running through the pipes, though, as Oliver took his. Ellis came in a moment later and shut the door quietly.

  “He’s trying to help,” she said. “Honestly.”

  “I know,” Ginny said. “I just don’t want that kind of help.”

  Ellis nodded and pulled on her clothes as well. They went downstairs, where a table full of yogurt, muesli, bread, cheeses, and meats was waiting for them. Keith joined shortly after, humming cheerily under his breath.

  “I’m starving. Anyone else starving?” He loaded up his plate and sat down at the table. Both Ellis and Ginny stared at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Ginny’s right,” Ellis said. “Enough’s enough.”

  “Have you both forgotten what he’s doing?”

  “No,” Ellis said. “But . . .”

  The creak of the stairs broke the conversation. Oliver came into the room in his wet, clingy clothes. His pants were clinging to his calves. Even his shoes were wet. He took seventy damp Euros from his wallet and handed them to Ginny.

  “For the room,” he said. “I’ll be outside.”

  “I’ll bet that coat’s not quite dry after getting splashed yesterday,” Keith said. “Such bad luck.”

  Oliver left without a word. Ellis punched Keith lightly in the shoulder.

  “What?” he asked again.

  It was even colder than the day before, so the walk to the bookshop must have been brutal for Oliver. He had his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Charlie was waiting for them outside of the shop, dressed in skinny white jeans, a black leather jacket, and huge mirrored sunglasses. His hair was even higher and scragglier.

  “You’re wet,” he said, tipping down the glasses to look at Oliver.

  “Fell in a canal,” Keith lied, jerking his thumb at the canal behind them. It was to Oliver’s credit that he didn’t reach over and knock Keith backward into the aforementioned canal.

  “Oh. That happens. Come.”

  Walking with Charlie in the lead was a strange experience. He walked a vaguely snaky path and occasionally, Ginny swore he skipped a little. Not high enough to click his heels or anything. He’d just pop up higher than normal. Then snake, snake, snake.

  “This man is stoned,” Keith said in a low voice. “Or, even worse, he might not be. What the hell is wrong with everyone your aunt knows?”

  This question became all the more relevant when they saw the boat.

  To be fair, the pink boat was not horrific as Ginny had imagined it would be. In her mind, it was going to be Pepto-Bismol pink and painted all over, even on the windows. In reality, it was at least four shades of pink and rose. It was still very pink.

  “Margaret picked the colors,” he said, reaching up to run his finger along the slender bare branch of a tree.

  This much was obvious to Ginny. It was either Aunt Peg or a group of five-year-olds.

  “Where’s the window?” Oliver asked.

  Charlie took off his shoes and jumped over to the deck of the boat. He walked around to the front (the bow, whatever they called it). And there it was, the very front window, essentially the windshield of the boat. It was a painting of a jungle scene, a cartoonish one. Massive green fronds, huge orange flowers, a massive parrot. The picture mostly went around the frame of the window, leaving the center open, like an opening in the foliage. Whoever was driving would have to navigate through Aunt Peg’s strange landscape as they made their way around the canals. It was interesting, if not entirely safe.

  “Let me just get it off,” he said.

  “Ooh er,” Keith said quietly. Ginny and Ellis both stared at him, and he shrugged sheepishly. He wasn’t quite off the hook yet.

  Charlie grabbed the window by the edges and started pulling on it, which wasn’t exactly the removal method Ginny was expecting.

  “Do you need help?” Oliver said, preparing to climb on.

  Charlie waved him away.

  “It’s no problem,” Charlie said. “I stuck it on with glue. Just glue.”

  He was such a strange, spidery person, wrestling with a window on a pink boat. He groaned and grunted, locking his spindly legs and yanking over and over, his head snapping back. His glasses slipped off his face. He was some kind of deranged Muppet that had decided to attack a sailing vessel.

  “This is incredible,” Keith said. “Can we take him home with us?”

  There was a cracking noise, which made Ginny’s stomach sink.

  “Here you are,” Charlie said, coming over to the side of the boat and passing them the window. The glass wasn’t broken, fortunately. The cracking noise seemed to have been the splintering of the wooden frame around the pane.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” Charlie said, putting his ink-stained hands gently on her shoulders. “It was a loss for everyone, for all, for art.”

  “Yeah,” Ginny said quietly. “It was.”

  They took the Hoek van Holland ferry, which was just south of Amsterdam. Ginny had done
a monster of a ferry ride on her last trip—twenty-four hours on a ferry to Greece. Of course, she had spent much of that time basking in the sun, not huddling inside, avoiding the December air and the frigid spray. But this trip wasn’t nearly as long.

  Ginny was a little nervous about leaving the window in the car. She had taken all her clothes out of her bag and wrapped it carefully, just in case the boat was dipping and swaying. Ideally, she would have stayed in the car with it, but it was freezing in the car hold, and they didn’t allow passengers to remain down there anyway.

  The three of them sat around one of the welded-down café tables. Oliver was relegated to a different table. He looked even colder once he was inside, but he bravely took out a huge novel and tried to read. Ellis got the Top Trumps cards out again. “Come on,” she said. “You know you want to play the horses pack.”

  She was obsessed with those cards. Her inner Little Ellis couldn’t be at peace until someone played with her.

  “Go on then,” Keith said.

  “Ginny?”

  Ginny shrugged.

  “You’ll have to teach me,” she said.

  Top Trumps appeared to be a game in which you got cards, and the cards had a picture (in this case, of a horse), and told you all kinds of stats for that horse, how fast it was, how big it was, etc. Whoever had the better horse won both the cards. You repeated this until someone had all the cards. So, basically it was exactly like high school, except it only took three minutes. Which was really a bit more humane, if you thought about it.

  “You feel like you’re really on holiday now, don’t you?” Ellis said, once they’d played a game.

  “Strangely, yes,” Keith replied. “But we’ve confused the American. Look at her. You can just tell she’s never been on one of the seaside holidays where you sit in the car in the rain and eat sandwiches.”

  “Those are the best,” Ellis said, nodding.

  “You make these things up,” Ginny said. “You’re trying to trick me.”

  Keith slapped the table loudly, causing Oliver to jump. “Oi!” he said. “Where are we going next?”

  “Dublin.” Oliver stiffly turned a page.

  “Dublin?” Keith repeated. “As in Ireland, on the other side of England from where we are now, on the Continent?”

  “You are bright. Yes, Dublin. And since we have to go through England to get there, I suggest we stop there for the night. You don’t have to come the rest of the way if you don’t want to, since we’re quite capable of handling this on our own.”

  “Dublin, the day after tomorrow?” Ellis said. “That’s New Year’s! Dublin on New Year’s would be epic. This must be done.”

  “She’s right,” Keith said, with a nod to Ginny. “It must. By the way, I think you have the wet trousers contest all sewn up. You have my vote, and I mean that.”

  Oliver got up and went outside.

  “Was it something I said?” Keith asked.

  “I’m going to the snack bar,” Ginny said. “Want anything?”

  They shook their heads. Ginny went by herself, stumbling from left to right as the boat rocked. She saw Oliver through the window. Clearly, he had struggled between his dampness and his need for a cigarette. The latter won. He got up and went out on the deck in the freezing spray, flicking his lighter over and over, trying to catch a spark. The sight made her sad, so on impulse she bought two coffees and took them out. She handed him one. He looked at it in confusion.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” she said.

  Oliver looked at her and back at the coffee. He squeezed it like it was something rare and precious and maybe a little dangerous.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’m going to go. My plan is to find somewhere on this boat to hide and sleep.”

  “Hide?”

  “The one thing I learned from going away to school as a kid,” he said. “They never stop. Never let them find you asleep. My own fault.”

  Oliver’s hidden sleeping place turned out to be the car. They found him in there when they were alerted to go back to the auto deck on arrival. He had gotten into the trunk, taken all of Keith’s dry clothes, and piled them over himself. He was a sleeping pile of laundry.

  “He really does read lock-picking sites,” Keith said, peering at him through the window and knocking loudly to wake him. “This car is like a bank vault. No one can get in.”

  “I once opened the door with a pen,” Ellis told him.

  “Don’t tell me things like that.”

  “I did. Just a little flick of the Biro and . . . pop! Door open.”

  Oliver rearranged himself in the backseat to make room for Ginny, shoving all of Keith’s clothes down by his feet. The extra packing meant they were wedged in together more tightly than usual. Back on his home soil, Keith floored it in confidence, the little white car banging and clattering down the motorway. As soon as they came into London, Keith pulled over to the side of the road. There was no Tube stop, nothing. He turned around and looked at Oliver.

  “This is your stop,” he said.

  “Where are we?”

  “I just said. Your stop. That’s where we are.”

  “Fine,” Oliver replied. “I’ll just take the window with me. You can keep the tabletop.”

  Ginny grabbed the edge of the window as hard as she could. There was no way she was letting Oliver take it.

  “Out,” Keith said again. “The window stays.”

  Oliver considered for a moment, then turned to Ginny.

  “Well,” he said, “there’s not much you can do with these without the final piece. About tomorrow . . . should I assume we’re driving again, or can we just take the train and the ferry and do it ourselves?”

  “I suppose it’s too much to ask where exactly in Ireland we’re going?” Keith said.

  “Are you really asking me this as you’re dumping me on the side of the road?”

  “At least I took you all the way to London. I could have dumped you in Wales.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Oliver said, opening his door. Keith started pulling away before he had a chance to get his bag out, forcing Oliver to walk all the way down the block to get it. As soon as he reached the car, Keith drove forward again. Oliver waited this time before approaching the car. When he did, Keith backed up, causing Oliver to jump back to the sidewalk.

  “Keith!” Ellis said. “Stop it!”

  The backseat was suddenly very roomy. It was too big. Ginny shifted uncomfortably in the space and looked through the back window. Oliver was already making his way assured down the road, as if he knew exactly where he was going, his coattail snapping. For some reason, the sight made her very sad.

  When they arrived at Richard’s house, there was no parking, so Keith stopped the car and kept the engine running while they carefully extracted the pieces from the backseat. They helped her get everything up the steps.

  “So we’ll wait to hear from you about tomorrow,” Keith said. “Times, directions, whatnot. I assume we’re going to have to make an ungodly early start.”

  “You guys don’t mind? Going to Ireland?”

  “Course not,” he said. “We would never leave you with him, would we, El?”

  “Definitely not,” Ellis said. “I’m excited! This has been amazing so far!”

  Ellis gave her a big hug; Keith, a friendly clap on the arm. No sooner had they pulled off, the car farting and spitting its way down the street, Oliver appeared. Ginny didn’t even have time to close the door. He was just there, like he had grown right out of a bush or popped out of a rubbish bin.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” she asked.

  “I was just standing over there, waiting for you to get home.”

  “I would have seen you. What, were you crouching?”

  “I wasn’t crouching. I was just over there. . . .”

  “How did you get here so fast?”

  “I took the Tube. I beat you by ten minutes. He actually left me at a very convenient . . .”

>   “How do you know where I . . . oh, the letters.”

  “Now that we’ve settled all that,” he said, sighing, “wouldn’t you like to know why I’m here?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “There’s something you need to do, and I didn’t exactly get a chance to explain in the car. I can at least help you get these inside.”

  He pointed to the tabletop and window leaning against the door. Had he come here to take the pieces? That seemed unlikely. Like he’d said, they were of no use without the last one. Maybe for some other underhanded reason? Probably not. Keith really had thrown him out of the car. He couldn’t have planned for that.

  “Are you going to let me in?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said, shoving the key in the lock.

  The House of Secrets

  Unlike Keith, who always came in like he owned the place, Oliver stepped in with caution, head slightly ducked, stepping lightly, looking around at everything like there might be something waiting to ambush him from behind the sofa. He didn’t wander into the kitchen looking for food. He didn’t even sit. Mostly, he stared at the decorations that covered the living room.

  “Who did this?” he asked.

  “So, what did you come to tell me?” she said. “You could have just emailed the instructions about tomorrow.”

  “Except there’s something we have to do today. Here. In this house.”

  He punctuated that statement by reaching up to touch the garland Ginny had strung around the doorway, accidentally pulling half of it down. He tried to stick it back up again, fumbling with it for a moment.

  “Leave it,” she said. “Just tell me what we have to do here.”

  He leaned against the door and assumed his recitation stance, his head tipped back and his eyes closed.

  “‘Here’s a shocker, Gin. I made some paintings that are actually worth some money, and since you’re back, you might as well go and get them. You’ll find them up in my workspace at Harrods, locked away in the cabinets in the back. The key is stuck in the Blu Tak under the picture of A Bar at the Folies-Bergère. . . .’ ” Oliver’s eyes opened and he looked over at Ginny. “Those are the paintings you already sold.”