Masterpiece Read online

  They dove, down, down, through the dark water, with Marvin zigging and zagging just out of reach of the turtle. Marvin swam as fast as he could, but minus his peanut-shell float and with one leg gripping Elaine, he had neither the strength nor the speed that he was used to. Every time he glanced behind him, the turtle’s head loomed closer, his beady eyes fixed on the two beetles.

  Finally they reached the rock. Marvin heaved Elaine over the edge of it and gasped for breath, then immediately swam away, hoping the turtle would follow him instead. They had no hope of escaping together; it would take too long to climb out of reach.

  Fortunately, the turtle swerved after Marvin, who zoomed to the opposite end of the tank. Rushing directly to the corner, Marvin lifted two legs out of the water and frantically tried to pull himself up.

  But the glass was too slippery. He crashed back into the pool just as the turtle descended on him with jaws snapping.

  “Marvin!” Elaine screamed.

  Marvin ducked under the turtle’s open mouth and hurled himself at the neck. He grabbed tight with all six legs. The turtle swung his head back and forth, twisting and writhing. Marvin clung tighter. Then the turtle spun back toward the rock, gliding swiftly through the water.

  “Marvin!” Elaine cried again. “Jump off!”

  Marvin knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold his breath much longer. As soon as the turtle neared the rock, he loosened his hold on the muscular neck. He saw Elaine’s blurry shape through the water, crouched at the edge of the rock. He flung himself toward her. For a second, the heaviness of the water seemed to trap him. But then Elaine grabbed him, yanking him up, up, up into the clean air.

  “Hurry!” she cried. Together they dashed for the slippery back wall of the tank. They could hear the turtle splashing out of the water and lumbering over the rock toward them.

  “Don’t look back,” Marvin warned Elaine, pulling her with him onto the wall. Frantically they scrambled up the glass.

  Seconds later, they climbed onto the top rim of the aquarium, well out of reach. They toppled over the edge and half-slid, half-fell to safety.

  “Oh, Marvin!” Elaine let out a long breath as they flopped on the ground. “That was a close one! I think I saved your life back there.”

  “Saved MY life?”

  “When I pulled you up on the rock.”

  “What about when you fell into the tank?” Marvin demanded.

  “Oh, I know! Talk about scary. Who would have thought that old turtle would be so fast? We’ll have to be more careful next time.”

  “Next time?” Marvin stared at her.

  “You know what I mean,” Elaine said dismissively. “Come on, let’s go. It’s noon already.”

  They ran across the aquarium table toward the windows, where the long planter filled with herbs beckoned in the sunlight. Marvin could smell the sharp scent of mint, and glimpsed Mama in the distance, untying the yellow hamper and spreading the picnic fare on a fallen basil leaf. He and Elaine hurried past waving fronds of oregano and dill toward their parents.

  “There you are,” Mama said. “I was beginning to worry.”

  Uncle Albert smiled at them. “I told her, ‘What trouble can they possibly get into with a bunch of plants? There aren’t any humans around.’ ”

  Marvin and Elaine exchanged sheepish glances.

  “Sorry,” Marvin said.

  “We were having so much fun, we didn’t notice the time,” Elaine added brightly.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Mama replied. “That was the whole point of coming here today, so you two could relax. Especially you, Marvin.”

  Marvin secretly made a face at Elaine, but she only shrugged.

  “I’m starved,” Papa declared. “Let’s eat!”

  And with that, the six beetles gathered around the bountiful spread—a midday feast of shattered pretzel pieces, blueberries, cantaloupe seeds, muffin crumbs, a semisweet chocolate chip, and a fresh oregano salad—and enjoyed their picnic in the shade of the fragrant herbs.

  James’s Problem

  For the past two days, Marvin had worried about what to do on Wednesday afternoon. Mama and Papa had made their position clear: There were to be no more trips to the Met, and no more drawings.

  “It’s James’s problem now,” Papa said. “He’s a bright boy. He’ll figure out something.”

  “I know this is important to you, darling,” Mama added soothingly, “but you can’t take the risk. It affects all of us.”

  Marvin said nothing, quietly fretting and hoping that some brilliant solution would occur to him before Karl came at four o’clock on Wednesday.

  By three o’clock on Wednesday, no such solution had appeared, and Marvin hadn’t even seen James since Monday.

  “I want to go to James’s room,” Marvin told his parents. “Even if I can’t help him, I have to see what’s going to happen!”

  Mama and Papa looked doubtfully at each other.

  Papa said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Marvin. It will only make this harder for you.”

  “But what about James? He won’t understand. He thinks I’m coming.”

  Mama shook her head. “Marvin, darling, there’s no way to explain this to James. Your father is right. He’ll have to figure it out on his own.”

  “Mama, please!” Marvin felt like crying. All he could think of was James, excitedly getting ready for the Met, sure that Marvin would be right there alongside him.

  “I can’t just not show up,” he pleaded.

  Mama sighed.

  “Mama, we’re friends.”

  His mother looked at him for a long minute. “All right,” she said finally, “but I’m coming with you.”

  Together they left the cupboard and darted along the kitchen baseboard. William was strapped in a bouncing canvas sling in the doorway, careening madly from one side of the door frame to the other, his feet intermittently thumping the ground.

  “Watch out,” Mama warned as they skirted treacherously close to his fat flailing legs.

  “Ayeeeee!” squealed William. A long string of saliva dangled from his chin.

  As they hurried down the hall, they heard voices in the living room.

  Mrs. Pompaday sounded annoyed. “Of course he isn’t ready. You said four, Karl. That’s what we planned on.”

  James called nervously from his bedroom, “It’s okay, Dad. I just need a few more minutes.”

  Marvin looked at his mother. Karl was here already? James must be in a panic.

  “No problem,” Karl said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I finished early today, and I thought if we got to the Met earlier, that would give James more time.”

  “More time for what?” Mrs. Pompaday demanded. “Isn’t the art lesson at four-thirty? That’s what you said.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Karl said easily. “It’s not a big deal. I’m ready whenever you are, James.”

  Marvin and his mother crawled under James’s closed door and waited at the edge of his rug, hidden by the cotton fringe. The boy was hunched over his desk, his head in his hands. They could hear him talking to himself, his voice muffled.

  “Oh, where are you? Where are you, little guy?” His shoulders shook. “I haven’t seen you in days! What am I going to do if you don’t come?”

  Marvin looked at his mother, horrified. “Mama, he’s crying.”

  Mama frowned. “Well, I’m sure he’s upset. But he’ll pull himself together, you’ll see.”

  “James? Almost ready?” Karl’s voice echoed distantly from the living room.

  James looked around, his eyes wet, his cheeks flushed. He wiped his nose furiously with the back of his hand. “Yeah, Dad, um . . . just a sec.”

  He stood up slowly and lifted his jacket from the closet doorknob.

  “I don’t get it,” he mumbled, biting his lip. “Why didn’t you come back?”

  “Mama,” Marvin cried, “he can’t do this by himself!”

  Mama shook her hea
d firmly. “Marvin, we already discussed this.”

  “But James is my friend.”

  “Darling, he’s a human! He can’t be your friend. You come from different worlds. Why, you can’t even communicate with each other.”

  “But we can, Mama! We do! Not by talking . . . but in other ways. And besides, that’s not the only thing that matters.” Marvin groaned in frustration. Why didn’t Mama understand? The most important things in a friendship didn’t have to be said out loud.

  James put on his jacket and gazed forlornly around the room. “I know you’d be here if you could,” he whispered into the air. “I hope nothing happened to you.”

  “Mama!” Marvin was beside himself. “Look at him!”

  The boy picked up his ink set, turning the navy blue pen case over in his hand. Marvin could see the three gold letters on the top. “I can’t draw, not the way you can. I can’t do it by myself.”

  Marvin pictured James alone in Christina’s office, faced with the blank paper and the tiny, perfect Dürer drawing. He looked hard at James, at his pale, worried face, the sad slump of his shoulders. He thought back to the disastrous birthday party on Saturday, the loud, indifferent boys, the scolding Mrs. Pompaday who always seemed vaguely irritated by her son.

  People like James weren’t treated right by the world, Marvin decided. The quiet ones never were. They were doomed to be jostled, bullied, and overlooked because they didn’t know how to take up space for themselves, to insist on their own share.

  And now James was about to lose the one thing that had finally given him the attention he deserved.

  No, thought Marvin. He stared at the boy, sending every ounce of his affection and loyalty pulsing through the air between them. You’re not alone, he thought. You have me!

  As soon as he thought it, Marvin knew it was true. He turned to Mama, suddenly determined.

  “Mama, he needs me. I can’t let him down. You and Papa always tell me to be a good friend.”

  “Of course we do, darling, but—”

  “A good friend is someone you can count on. No matter what.”

  He watched as James took a breath, squared his shoulders, and started toward the door.

  “I’m going with him, Mama. I have to. He can’t do it without me.”

  “Marvin!” Mama protested, but Marvin was already scuttling out from under the heavy fringe of the rug. He rushed up the door to the brass knob, where he positioned himself in plain view.

  “Oh, darling!” his mother cried.

  James stopped in his tracks.

  “Hey! YOU’RE HERE!” he yelled.

  The door swung open. “For heaven’s sake, who are you talking to, James?” Mrs. Pompaday demanded.

  James gingerly reached for the knob, his hand almost touching Marvin. Marvin climbed onto his finger and quickly crawled under the cuff of his jacket.

  “Nobody,” James mumbled.

  “Well, don’t do that, dear. It’s odd.”

  Resting his hand on the door frame, Karl winked at James. “Let’s go, buddy. Got your ink set?”

  “Yeah, Dad, I’m ready.”

  “Be careful!” Marvin heard his mother call from far below.

  He poked his head out from under the knit cuff and waved at her to show he’d heard. He could see James’s wide grin as he and his father strode through the apartment to the elevator, then out of the building into the gray winter afternoon.

  The Art of the Fake

  When they met Christina in her office, she greeted them in a flush of excitement. “Here you are! I’ve been thinking about this all day.” She gave James’s shoulder a quick pat and beamed at him. “I still can’t believe my luck in finding you, James.”

  James smiled shyly, staring at his sneakers.

  “Oh, I know,” Christina laughed. “I’m embarrassing you. I do that to my nieces all the time.”

  Karl walked over to her desk. “Are those the girls in the photo?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, yes . . . my sister’s children, Katie and Eleanor.” She looked at the picture, her eyes shining with affection.

  Marvin climbed quickly up to James’s collar, for a better look at the photo. He liked the relaxed expression on Christina’s face, the way her arms curled comfortably around the children. She looked different in the photo—unguarded. He remembered hearing Karl tell James once that it was hard for people to ever know what they really looked like. Reflections in mirrors weren’t accurate, Karl said, because when you stared at yourself in a mirror, you subconsciously composed your face in a way that wasn’t your natural expression.

  Marvin wondered if that was true when you were with strangers too. Maybe you only looked like your true self with the people you loved. And maybe that was a face you yourself hardly ever got to see, except in photos like this one.

  Karl lifted the frame. “The little one looks exactly like you.”

  Christina smiled. “Doesn’t she? And Eleanor is the spitting image of my sister’s husband. Have you noticed how that happens sometimes? The genes of the parents seem to sort themselves out, and the children look like one side or the other. I told Lily she saved me the trouble of having children.”

  Karl tousled James’s hair. “Well, it’s not so much trouble, really.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” Christina said quickly, glancing at James. “Anyway, it’s the kind of trouble I’d enjoy.”

  Christina seemed to turn shy suddenly, bowing her head to focus on a stack of papers on the desk. “Okay. These are from Denny. They’re blank manuscript pages, old ones, from the sixteenth century. That’s the trick to forgeries. Everything has to date correctly and show the right signs of wear.”

  Karl frowned. “But I thought you said it didn’t need to be an exact copy . . . since you don’t have to convince a collector, just some underworld art thief.”

  “That’s right.” Christina turned reassuringly to James. “Your drawing will pass for the real thing, James. I’m sure of it. But we don’t want anything on the surface to be a dead giveaway.”

  She gently lifted the pages and set them on the table, removing the parchment overlay. The sheets were yellowed and tattered at the edges, marked by odd discol-orations and blemishes. Marvin thought they showed every bit of their five hundred years.

  “The best forgers are meticulous about their materials,” Christina continued. “They use old paper, taken from books or manuscripts of the time period. They match the historic shades of ink. They ‘age’ the work with tears and smudges. There’s no surer sign of a fake than an image that’s too perfect.”

  Karl nodded. “Anything real has flaws.”

  “Exactly. And in the art world, oddly enough, the flaws are what show its value.”

  James looked at the pages on the table. “But what about my pen-and-ink set? It’s not old. Can we still use that?”

  We, Marvin thought, flexing his front legs. A trill of anticipation coursed through him.

  “If the drawing had to pass inspection by an expert, no. But James, you’re able to make such delicate lines with that pen of yours! So like Dürer’s.”

  “What about the ink?” Karl asked.

  “The ink has to be brown, as it is in the original drawing. I’ve been working on that for the past couple of days. I have a sample to try. James, we may need you to do the drawing more than once to get it right. Okay?”

  James nodded.

  “Okay, then.” Christina faced the broad wooden table. “Let’s set you up here. The museum closes shortly, and then Denny’s going to bring you the original Fortitude.”

  “The real one?” James turned to his father, looking worried.

  Karl raised his eyebrows. “Can you do that? Just take it off the wall? There’s no alarm system?”

  “Not during the day. Just the guards. We move artworks all the time,” Christina answered. She twisted a strand of hair, watching James. “What is it, James? Are you nervous?”

  Marvin looked at James’s pale face. He was b
iting his lip.

  Christina touched his shoulder, and Marvin dove for cover under the jacket collar. “Don’t worry,” she said reassuringly. “The drawing is protected by glass—you can’t hurt it.”

  I hope not, Marvin thought. He was trembling with excitement. He’d get to see it up close finally, the real drawing!

  “Okay,” James said in a small voice.

  Christina squeezed his arm. “I’ll check on Denny,” she said. “And fetch the ink.”

  As soon as she left, James looked at his father. “What if I break it? Or spill ink on it?”

  Marvin cringed, thinking how often Mrs. Pompaday cautioned James not to spill.

  Karl laughed. “You won’t, buddy. It’s in a frame, under glass. We’ll make sure it’s safe.”

  “But Dad, it’s, like . . . a masterpiece, right?”

  Karl considered this. “Well, it’s not the Mona Lisa. It’s not the Sistine Chapel.”

  James looked at his father, puzzled. “What makes those masterpieces, and not this one?”

  Marvin felt compelled to crawl out from under James’s collar to hear the answer.

  “I didn’t say that. A masterpiece is a great work of art. It’s the best of an artist’s work—one of a kind.” Karl rubbed his beard. “But sometimes people don’t recognize a masterpiece for years and years . . . till long after the artist’s death.” He hesitated. “It can be hard to say what makes one work stand out from the rest. What makes the Mona Lisa so special? On one level, it’s just a picture of a woman smiling.”

  James shrugged. “It is just a picture of a woman smiling.”

  “But on another level, it’s so much more,” his father said. “It’s full of secrets. Is she proud? Sorry? Flirting? In love? Look at it long enough and you might come to your own answer, but it’s a painting that can be seen in a hundred different ways.” He smiled a little. “By that standard, Fortitude could be a masterpiece, I guess . . . a tiny masterpiece.”