Paint by Magic (17 page)

Fitzgerald Cotton sat up and rubbed his face. "A flood?"

"Yes! Hurry! It could be running out of the kitchen and into the other rooms!"

Fitzgerald Cotton stood up and headed for the door. "Grab some towels out of the bathroom, boy, and help me mop it up," he ordered. "And keep quiet—there's no need to wake my parents."

I had to start down after him or he'd suspect something. I stopped at the bathroom as he continued on down the stairs. Then I grabbed a few towels, tossed them down the stairs after him, and turned and ran back up to the attic studio.

I might have only seconds to search for the lost sketch. Where to start? I looked wildly around the studio. The big portrait of Mom—
trapped
—was covered, and I was thankful. But then I saw another painting of Mom on the small easel, and my heart thudded hard as I walked over to it. This time she was sitting on a couch—pressed back against the cushions—her hands outstretched as if to ward off an attacker. An attacker—or an artist? A large book rested open on her lap. In one out-flung hand she clutched a single rose. Her eyes were wide with desperation.

Oh, Mom!

I stared harder as I realized that I recognized that couch, those cushions, even the big book and the rose. It was our living room. It was Mom as I had seen her myself, frozen. Posing. Locked in time.

I drew in a thick breath, shocked at this proof that Fitzgerald Cotton was not painting my mom from memory as he claimed, but actually
seeing
her. Somehow.

I reached out fearfully and touched one finger to the canvas. Red paint burned my fingertip like a bee sting. I gasped and rubbed my finger furiously against my nightshirt. How could paint cause such pain? The paint was wet, and that meant it had been applied recently. But how in the world could Fitzgerald Cotton be seeing my mom in the future, and painting her in our own house, which hadn't even been built yet? None of this made sense—but one thing was certain: Fitzgerald Cotton was using his special ancient paints. The colors before me were incredible, just as he had described. The paintings of Mom seemed to pulse—as if there were some life force captured there. And my fingertip still stung.

I sped around the room, opening every cupboard, checking every shelf as I looked for clues to how he could control my mom from so distant a time. I felt underneath the couch cushions, looked behind the couch—nothing. The big wardrobe was locked. I pulled extra hard before moving on to search other places.

Then I found half a dozen canvases leaning against the wall, covered by the long curtains. I turned the paintings around, one by one, and I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. There, in every one of them, was Mom, trapped and frightened. There she was in our living room again, this time curled up with a cup of tea in her hand, lifted as if to drink. But she could not drink; she was frozen. A piece of pound cake lay on a plate on the table at her side. I had eaten some of that cake. I had come into the room and interrupted this pose!

I felt dizzy trying to understand. There was Mom in another painting, standing in our ultramodern, state-of-the-art kitchen with one hand holding a knife steady over a tomato. Her eyes were great pools of terror, and beads of blood seeped out along her hairline—no, not blood, I remembered, but paint.

There she was in the family room, with a pile of soft green knitting on her lap, her neck muscles bulging with the strain of her fear. In every single picture her face was creased into an agonized grimace.

"
Mom,
" I whispered desperately, letting the curtain fall back to hide the canvases. I felt sick to my stomach.

The locked wardrobe mocked me. I was certain there were answers in there.

Then I heard footsteps creaking up the stairs. Fitzgerald Cotton was coming back! I would never be able to figure this out tonight.

I'm so sorry, Mom.

I quickly stepped out of the room and started down the stairs, meeting Fitzgerald Cotton coming up. "D—did you stop the flood?" I stammered.

"There was no flood, boy."

"No flood? But I saw all that water—"

"Ice still frozen solid."

"But I saw—"

"Lots of water on the floor, though. Way, way too much to have come from any ice block. The very devil to mop up. Funny thing." His eyes were narrow in the faint light, peering at me. "Wonder how it got there..."

My heart was thudding hard, and I wanted to pass him but didn't quite dare.

He reached out one hand and pressed my shoulder. "Wonder where it came from, boy?"

"I don't know," I told him firmly. "Must be the pipes are leaking."

"
Hmm,
" he said. "
Hmmm.
So, now, what about that bread you wanted?"

"I'm not hungry anymore," I whispered. "Guess I'll just go on back to bed." I sidled past him. He smelled of paint, and something else. Rotten egg?

I felt him staring after me as I hurried down the hall to the room I shared with Homer and Chess, but I didn't look back. My fingertip burned in the darkness.

I opened the boys' bedroom door and slipped inside, then gasped—
a ghost!

But, of course, it wasn't a ghost. Just Betty, standing in front of me in her long white nightgown, her finger raised to her lips in warning. "
Shhh!
" she hissed.

I ignored her and slid into bed, pulling the sheet up to my chin. "What do you want?" I whispered.

"What were you doing?" she hissed back at me. "Where were you?"

"Nothing. Nowhere," I said stupidly.

"
Shhh.
Keep your voice down." She stood over me. The sliver of moonlight through the window threw her shadow up high on the wall so it looked like a threatening monster. I was surrounded by them tonight.

"
Who are you?
" Betty pressed, keeping her voice very low. Her eyes were dark pools in the moonlight. "I don't believe you're an orphan at all. I think you've come here under false pretences. I think you're an
impostor!
"
She leaned over me, her voice low and controlled, but shaking—with fury, I supposed.

"What is it you want from us?" she demanded. "Is it
money
? Are you out to swindle my grandparents? Or what? Are you a robber?"

"No!" I whispered back. "Of course I'm not!"

"There's something very strange about you," she continued. "And I don't like it. It—it's scaring me." She took a deep breath, and I thought I heard the catch of tears behind it.

She was
scared
of me? Brave Betty, you had to hand it to her. She thought I might be a danger to her family, and she was going to try to protect them.

I sat up in the harrow bed. "Listen, Betty," I whispered. "It's all right. I'm not any danger to you or your family. I promise."

"Did Pammie send you?" she demanded. "I
know
you know her—I can tell."

"How can you tell?" I asked. "I mean—what do you
mean,
you think I
know
her?"

But it was too late. I'd given myself away.

"I know you know her," Betty said. And this time she wasn't even bothering to keep her voice low. "You must be related to her. You look exactly like her, same face and everything."

"That's what my dad always says," I muttered. I was making mistakes left and right. But the burden of my story was getting too heavy. And those canvases up in the studio had really rattled me.

"So your father knows Pammie, too," Betty said softly. She lowered herself to sit on the edge of my bed. It was so narrow, I thought her weight might tip us both over onto the floor. But it didn't. "Tell me about your father," she coaxed. "And about Pammie. And who you really are. And everything."

"There's nothing to tell. Absolutely nothing." I'd already had one narrow escape tonight, I told myself. Now it was time to manage another—because if I told Betty the truth, she'd never believe me. And she'd get really mad—like Crystal does if she thinks you're lying to her—and make a huge fuss about how I was an impostor and everything, and the Cottons would throw me out. I couldn't let that happen—not when I was so close to figuring out Fitzgerald Cotton's hold on my mom.

She didn't look angry, though, just sad. In the moonlight I could see her bewildered face. "You know, when someone lives with you for a year, you kind of get attached," she said softly. "I
liked
Pammie, and so it's really hard having you here. I believe you know what's happened to her. I'm sure you do! I just can't understand why you won't tell us—"

"I can't," I muttered.

"Tell us if she's happy, wherever she is now. And why it has to be such a secret. And—if she misses us." She sounded nearly in tears.

Did
Mom miss this family? Not Fitzgerald, surely, but Betty and Homer and Joanna and the others? She was certainly trying hard to re-create their way of life back in our own time....

I didn't want Betty crying. I cleared my throat. "I know I look like Pammie," I said carefully. "But I don't know much else. I think—I think I must have amnesia."

"
What?
" she yelped.

"
Shhh!
" I said quickly, glancing over at Homer's and Chester's beds. "Yeah, amnesia. That's what I said, and it's what I meant. Maybe I was in an accident or something, but who knows? All I know is, I found myself wandering around Shady Grove, lost, not knowing what was going on or who I was. Maybe I'll remember who I really am in the morning. After a good sleep."

She stood up, leaned over me, hands on hips. Her shadow reared up like an avenging angel. "Nice try," she snapped, and now she did sound furious, "whoever-you-are.
Amnesia!
Can't you come up with anything better?"

It was exactly what I was thinking myself.
You can do better than this. Time for plan
B. But not tonight. "Tomorrow," I whispered. Then I turned on my side and burrowed my head into the pillow, and I didn't open my eyes again until morning, not even when I heard—finally—the click of the door as Betty left the room.

In dreams I saw Mom's anguished face. In dreams I saw the horrible canvases with her portraits falling through space like starships out of control, spiraling down and down and down through time. In my dreams I must have been tossing and turning, because I woke up with a thunk—fallen from my camp bed onto the floor, wrapped like a mummy in my sheet.

My first thoughts were of getting back into that studio. But there was no chance—not before breakfast. Old Mrs. Cotton stood in the bedroom door. "Connor? My goodness, what are you doing down there?" Without waiting for my reply, she crossed the room and snapped open the curtains. "It's a lovely sunny day, and time's a-wastin'. The other children will be gobbling your food if you don't hurry down."

My second thoughts were of Betty and how she'd be waiting for me. "Yes, ma'am. I'll hurry," I said faintly. As soon as Mrs. Cotton left the room, I unwound myself from the sheet and went into the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and caught a deep breath of fresh morning air from the open window. Had my mom stood at this same sink, in front of this same mirror, looking at her new 1926 haircut before she had hurried down for breakfast with this same family?

I'm trying, Mom,
I told her silently.

Again, an amazing feast was waiting down in the dining room, with bacon and eggs and toast and homemade jam. Mr. Cotton was already at the table, halfway through a big plate of food. The kids were all harassing Joanna because she was dressed up and ready to go out somewhere. My eyes met Betty's briefly, then we both looked away. But I'd seen her determined expression, and I realized she would not let me off easily next time we had a chance to talk alone.

"Mama's got a fella. Mama's got a fella!" chanted Elsie. Her mother laughed and went into the kitchen to help Mrs. Cotton bring out the rest of the breakfast food. Mr. Cotton patted his lips with his cloth napkin, then laid it down next to his newspaper. He said good-bye to everyone. Then he set off for work.

"Mr. Riley telephoned," Betty told me darkly when I sat down next to her. "Somehow he got some time off from his ice deliveries today—and he's taking Mama to lunch at the Walnut Inn." She didn't say a word about our conversation the night before. I wondered if maybe she
was
going to let me off the hook.

"Time for plan
A,
" Homer whispered to me. "Are you with us?"

I nodded, but I was thinking about my own plan B instead. "What sickness?"

"A horrible rash," he said gleefully, passing me the platter of bacon. "We're going to have to think up a way to turn ourselves red. Elsie had a good idea—to go pick the early blackberries ... Most of them are still green and hard, but some are red—and if we mash them up, we can make a kind of red paste, like a stain to turn our faces and bodies red..."

"The problem with that plan," Betty said, "is that the blackberry bushes are out by the swimming hole. We'd have to get there, find enough red ones, mash them up, turn ourselves red, and hurry back—and Mama's already dressed and ready to go. She'll be gone before we get back."

"We could run fast," suggested Chester.

"You guys are missing something," I said, lowering my voice as Mrs. Cotton and Joanna came over to the table with more toast and a pitcher of milk.

"Such as?" asked Betty, one eyebrow raised the way I always wished I could raise mine. But mine only go up and down together.

"Such as you have an uncle who's an artist, with a big studio and tons of supplies. Why go all the way to the swimming hole to mash up berries and stuff, when there's all the paint in the world right upstairs?"
Just don't use the old stuff,
I thought to myself. My finger still stung and a small blister had formed at the tip.

The four kids just looked at me. "Go in Uncle Fitzy's studio?" Elsie said. "Are you crazy?"

"It's simple," I said easily. "Just go when he's in the bathroom or something."

"He takes his bath at night. And he never leaves the studio during the day. He just never does," said Betty. "I would think you'd know that," she added. "Or is it only Pammie you know things about?"