Paint by Magic (24 page)

"Mama was in love with him," said Betty. "I'm sure she was. I thought it would be perfect, after Daddy died, if she and Uncle Fitzy could marry. I mean, it's okay for a
woman to
marry the brother of her dead husband. Henry the Eighth's first wife, Catherine of Aragon, was married to his older brother, Arthur, first! But then Arthur died before he ever became king ... and Catherine married Henry, the younger brother..."

I felt like I was back home with Crystal, with her talk of royalty and weddings. I bet Betty would have been a major Prince William fan, too, if she lived in my time. Must be something about thirteen-year-old girls.

"Don't rush things, Betty, lamb," said her grandmother. But the two of them exchanged pleased looks.

"And he's
so
much better than Mr. Riley," Betty continued. "And you know it's true, Gramma. Who better for Mama than another of your own sons?"

"All in good time," Grandpa murmured. "All in good time."

"Speaking of time," Mrs. Cotton said calmly, "it's almost time for bed. All three of you children. Don't forget, school starts again tomorrow. Joanna will have to take you to get registered, Con. Maybe you can be in Homer's class."

"It would be the cat's pajamas!" cheered Homer, and I had to laugh.

"It would be awesome," I agreed. "I mean, it would be the bee's knees to stay here and be in Homer's class—but I can't."

"You can't? Why not? You won't want to be in Miss Gruber's class, believe me," said Homer. "Miss Anderson is much nicer and—"

"I mean I won't be staying here." It had hit me, seeing Fitzgerald Cotton trying to get on with his life in a new way, that that's what my mom was free to do now, too. With the paints gone, nothing was holding her to this time anymore—and now that I had the sketch, nothing was holding me.

"I have to leave," I told the Cottons. I smoothed my hind over the folded paper in my lap.

"Dear boy, you're most welcome to make your home with us," Mrs. Cotton said. "An orphan boy like yourself needs a family."

"Thank you," I said.

Mr. Cotton turned puzzled eyes to me. "Where would you rather go, lad?"

"Um, I don't know, really," I said. "I mean, I like it here just fine on Lemon Street."

I could tell Homer was just bursting to talk to me, so I got up and said good night to Mr. and Mrs. Cotton. I went inside, and Homer followed me. Then Betty came in, too, and darted up the stairs in front of us.

We sat on Homer's bed in our bedroom, whispering because Chester was sound asleep. "Are you really going?" Homer asked. "Back wherever Pammie went? Are you going now? Tonight?"

"
Sssh!
" I hissed, looking over at Chess, fast asleep and snoring, on his back in the bed by the window. My head was aching from all the stuff that had happened that day. And I was thinking all sorts of weird stuff, like how the tree in Doug's yard might be a good place to build a fort.... And that real hammers and nails couldn't be too different from the cyber ones I used in the Carpenter Gothic game, the one where you smash the nails as they try to jump out of the wood so the haunted mansion will fall down.... I could take what I'd learned about fort building with Elsie and Homer and Chess home with me. And if Doug and I explored around our neighborhood, we might be able to find some trace of the streams that must still flow underground.

"Let's see that sketch," begged Betty.

"Well, I don't know," I said, holding it tight. I could feel the wind pulsing around me, though neither of the other two seemed to notice. "You can't touch it! Promise me you'll just look."

She and Homer leaned over the sketch. "Be careful!" I yelped, pushing them back. "If you touch it by mistake—and that wind starts blowing—who knows where you'll end up!"
And it's my ticket home.
If one of them disappeared with it, I would be stuck here forever. True, there could be worse places to live—but if there was one thing I'd learned from my time with the Cotton family, it was that family mattered and that home was home.

"Look how Pammie is smiling and holding out her hand," said Betty. "She looks so happy—and so real. Makes you want to touch her, doesn't it?"

In a panic I reached out and picked up the sketch by its corner and folded it securely closed again. The pulse of wind receded.

"Take me with you," murmured Betty.

"
What?
"

"I want to see what it's like in the future!"

"Oh, Betty," I hissed. "You belong
here
" It sounded hokey, but I knew it was true. "And besides, what if the wind doesn't blow you home with me, but somewhere else? What if it blows you back in time—back to Lorenzo da Padova's time?" I shook my head.

"I don't care," she insisted. "I want to try. I want some adventure! I want to find out that magic is real!"

"Forget it, Betty. Just forget it!" But I didn't know how to fight her if she really meant to come. And maybe it would be cool, after all. She would be a better sister than Crystal, probably.

"
Could
that happen?" demanded Homer. "I mean, going to da Padova's time?" His face looked ashen in the moonlight.

"Who knows?" I said. "Who knows for sure if the sketch will even work again? After all, the old paints are gone. The magic might be over—" I stopped. I knew it wasn't true. I could feel the wind waiting for me.

"And would that be so terrible?" Betty whispered, her eyes bright, challenging me in that way she had. "If you had to stay here with us?"

I grinned at her. "Not
so
terrible at all, if you really want to know the truth." In fact, I was realizing, the only thing wrong with 1926, really, was that my family—okay, and Doug—weren't in it. "It's a pretty nice time to live in."

After a long moment she smiled back at me. "What's it like, then, in your time?"

Whoa.
That was a big question. "Well," I said after a moment, "you'll see for yourself, won't you? When you get there someday. You'll be an old lady, of course, but you'll get there." And for a second all the things I'd managed to pick up in my history lessons flashed in my mind—all the troubles Betty would have to live through before she made it to my time. The Great Depression. World War II. Vietnam. Terrorist attacks and...
yikes.

Something in my face must have worried her, because Betty nudged me. "What's wrong with your time then?" she asked.

I sighed. "There's a lot that's wrong with the future. But there are good things, too. In my time your dad wouldn't have died from pneumonia, probably. There are medicines you've never heard of that can fix tons of things." I hesitated. "There's nothing really wrong with my time—except maybe there's too much going on..."

"Is Pammie happy in your time?" Betty pressed. "Because she could come back here, you know. If she's not happy, I mean..."

I drew in a big breath. "Maybe she wasn't happy," I said. "But she will be." And then I stood up abruptly, the sketch firmly in my hand. "I've got to go. I really do."

Betty said nothing, but her silence took up a lot of space.

I headed out into the hall. Homer trotted at my side. Betty followed more slowly. I went into the girls' bedroom and stood by Elsie's bed. I reached out a finger and touched her silky hair. "Bye, Party Girl," I whispered.

I turned and walked to the end of the hall, with both of them dogging my steps. I slipped into Mr. and Mrs. Cotton's empty master bedroom. The room was dark, but I could see a pad of paper on the nightstand between the two neatly made beds. I picked up a pencil and wrote in my best handwriting:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Cotton,

You have been so nice to have me as your guest. I am not really an orphan. I lied about that, although in this time I sort of
am
an orphan. So it was only half a lie. But I have to go home now. Pamela is my mother. Homer and Betty and their uncle Fitz can tell you all about it.

Thanks again for everything. For talking at meals, for the lemonade and the puzzle on the porch. And everything.

Love, Connor

Homer was reading over my shoulder. "So you're really going?"

I turned and looked at him in the dim room. He was this skinny kid with dark hair slicked back from a center part, and round wire glasses—and the saddest face. A weird thought stabbed me: In my own time Homer would be an old, old man by now. He might even be dead! But if he were still alive, and if I were to look for him...

It was an unsettling thought. I shoved it away. "I'm going," I said.

Ready or not I all but ran up the last flight of steps to the attic studio. Of course, Homer and Betty followed right behind me. I hesitated outside the studio door. I could hear voices murmuring in there. I raised my hand and tapped at the door. The voices stopped.

"Go away!" boomed Fitzgerald Cotton.

"It's me," I said.

"And me," called Homer.

"Me, too," said Betty.

There was silence from inside the studio. I hesitated, then turned the knob and went in, anyway. "I've come to say good-bye," I mumbled, quickly taking in the scene in the studio. I could see why old Fitzy didn't want any interruptions. The room was aglow with soft lamplight. Joanna was curled up on the couch, holding one of those roses. He had a paintbrush in his hand and a canvas on the big easel. There was already a good sketch there in blocks of soft color. Joanna's face was recognizably hers, looking out over the rose with an expression of—a sort of
mischief.
As if she were trying not to burst out laughing at the dumbness of sitting on an artist's couch holding a rose. Her almost smile was what was going to make the painting really good, I thought.

"So you like this one then, boy? Better than the other?"

I nodded. "Much, much better.
This
muse looks like she's having fun."

"Hello, Mama," said Homer, sort of sounding embarrassed.

Joanna laughed and lowered the rose. "Hello, children. I am having fun. I'm delighted to be Fitz's model again. It's been a long time..." Her voice trailed off. She must have been jealous of my mom, I decided. Even though she'd liked her, too.

"So you're leaving us?" asked Fitzgerald Cotton. "Do you have your travel documents in order?" His voice was genial, as if there had never been any trouble between us.

Joanna's smooth forehead creased in a frown. "Now, where in the world would you be going at this time of night? You children should be in bed by now!"

"Homer and Betty will tell you all about it," I said quickly. "But yes, I'm ready." I held up the sketch.

"Ready for what?" asked Joanna. "Connor, may I see that drawing?" She reached for it.

"Careful—don't touch it!" I cried and snatched it back.

Joanna looked astonished and totally confused, poor lady. And it was going to get wilder. But she'd have people to comfort her, I told myself, when things got
really
weird.

"It's a sketch of Pammie, and Pammie's his
mother,
Mama!" said Homer importantly. "And there's more—wait till you hear about the paint box—"

"Hush up, Homer!" said Betty. "Not now!"

I could see Homer was dying to tell the whole story, but Fitzgerald Cotton held up a hand to silence him. Joanna looked confused.

"Wait, all of you. Let's watch now how young Connor is going to take his leave of us." The artist turned to me. "Seeing is believing. That's what magicians rely on, and so do artists. Art creates. So why should we be surprised when sometimes real life comes up with a little magic of its own?" He moved to the small easel and smiled at me. "But before you leave us, I want to give you a souvenir. Show it to your sweet mother, so she'll know what her scamp of a son got up to during his short visit." He turned the easel around. We all stared. It took me a second to realize what I was looking at—then I groaned.

"I look pathetic!"

"It looks just like you," said Betty.

"Oh, Fitzy," said Joanna. "How dreadful of you. Did you really stand there sketching from life while the poor boy was—"

Now Homer was into his maniacal giggle. "He was! He did! He just stood there sketching while Connor was—"

Hanging from the skylight,
that's what everybody was trying to say. There I was, in oils, hanging from the studio skylight, my shirt twisted up and my mouth open in a cry for help. It should have been a pitiful thing to see, but it had me cracking up, and even the artist himself couldn't suppress a little twitch of the lips.

"It's so cool!" I said! "I mean, it's the bee's knees. I'll keep it forever," I added. "Unless somebody pays us a fortune and sticks it in an art museum with your other paintings."

Fitzgerald Cotton shook his head. "Now you are pulling my leg again."

I realized the man really didn't get that he was going to become famous and have books written about him and have his work hanging in museums all around the world. "I'm totally serious," I told him. "You're a famous man. I read all about you in an art book—" But then I broke off, remembering what I'd read. I didn't want to tell him any more—about how he never painted again after his muse left him. About how he committed suicide out of his despair...

But now he pulled Joanna off the couch and danced her around the room. "Hear that?" he crowed. "A famous man!"

Then Fitzgerald Cotton lifted the painting of me and the skylight carefully off the easel. "Now, mind that the paint's still wet," he said. "Won't be dry for a week. Hold it here, by the edge of the wood frame. And take this, too. For your mother. Proof that I never meant to hurt her." He went to the locked cupboard and drew out the ancient paint box. The dark box was dry again after its shower in the sink. Even empty, blackened with age, metal clasp broken, the box seemed to hold secrets. I held it gingerly, as if it might bite.

"I wish you'd be here for school tomorrow, Connor," said Homer in a forlorn voice. "You'd like Miss Anderson. She's the cat's meow."

I looked at Homer and felt again a little stab of something—pity? amazement?—to think that he was all grown-up and old, maybe even dead, in my time, but here he was just a kid, just my age, with the whole rest of his life before him, with all the time in the world. I looked over at Betty and wondered who she would become. Made me think how all our lives go by pretty fast. How it's important not to waste them. I decided I would look for them both. Search the Web. Send them an e-mail if they were still around. But if they weren't...