Chapter 17

Michael Whyte

April

Michael sipped lemonade from a blue plastic cup at the rickety kitchen table. A blue notebook sat before him, a heap of more notebooks and stacks of paper beyond, and a box containing an inexplicable object. He faced the window, which looked out onto an empty sunny street. The window illuminated the cool interior of the kitchen.

Slow week at the publishing house. It gave him time to work on his own stories, for which he jotted notes in the many notebooks lying around the house. Many of his ideas came from Jimothy. For instance, he had one now about a ball that bounced all by itself, disrupting an otherwise entirely normal setting. Bit of surrealism.

But what sat in front of him that afternoon was a story by one of Jim’s friends, Isaac Milton. Isaac would never let Mike read any of his stuff, but Elizabeth apparently had no scruples sending his stories to a professional editor of fiction for review behind his back. Jim sure had a funny bunch of friends.

Isaac’s story lacked polish, but it wasn’t too bad. Its clever pseudo-self-aware silliness had made Mike laugh. A refreshing break from the heavy-handed self-serious stuff he typically had to wade through. Isaac gleefully disregarded the conventions of which he simultaneously displayed perfect awareness. The genre was oddball fantasy, something along the lines of Terry Pratchett. There was also something of George MacDonald in it: a philosophy of terrible goodness, unbeautiful art. A bizarre yet invigorating brew, altogether. If it had been a real submission, Michael would have returned it with a rejection and an encouraging note to keep writing but to stop trying so hard. Since he had received this story illicitly, he wasn’t sure what to do with it now.

So he set this aside and began work on his own project, about the bouncing ball, but the box across the table beeped at him only a few minutes into his writing. It was a single low, sustained beep. This happened every once in a while, and Mike had no idea what it meant. He had no idea about anything pertaining to that box or its contents. And Alan Sheppard, the source of the package, was not returning his calls.

The object was a metallic device like a bunch of discs piled up, the approximate size and shape of a six-stack of pancakes. It looked modular, designed to come apart into six pieces, but Michael hesitated to meddle with it. The top surface was embedded with lights and tiny readouts with numbers and wave-form shapes and symbols he didn’t understand. The bottom had a few switches, and one side had some dials and buttons. Nothing was labeled, there were no instructions, and he had no clue what this thing was or what it did even after extensive online research.

He put these thoughts out of his head and tried to return to work on his story.

His phone vibrated on the table. It was from a number he didn’t know. He hesitated a moment, but then thought it might be Alan. Maybe he would get some answers.

“Hello, this is Michael Whyte.”

“Hi, Michael! This is AJ.”

“Yeah, I, uh, recognized your voice.” Michael closed his eyes and shook his head. After a moment of silence, he continued. “How can I help you?”

“I have a question, about one of Jim’s paintings.”

“Oh? Okay. Uh, which one?”

“It doesn’t have a title that I can see.”

Mike gave a quick bark of laughter. “Oh, they all have titles.” Jim cared a lot about titles. “Can you describe it?” He stood and moved to the computer on his desk in the living room, where he kept a file of all of Jim’s paintings. He removed his running shoes from the office chair and dropped into it.

“It’s a killer. Your brother’s a sage with an abyssal soul.”

Michael carefully did not laugh in response to this, because he still wasn’t really clear on whether AJ used odd vocabulary as a means of humor or whether she was serious. He said, “Wow. Yeah, but I meant, what is depicted in the painting?”

“Most of it is blank, but along the bottom there’s a field of jagged objects, jutting ruinously at different angles. And there is a person standing apex of one, I think it might be Jim, and he’s holding a paintbrush and painting the sky.”

“Painting the sky,” said Mike as he opened the file and began scrolling through the images. “That sounds like one of his titles. But I don’t remember one like that…” Jim showed him all his paintings when he finished, so that Mike could photograph them. Mike was pretty sure he hadn’t seen one like that. “Why do you ask? Where did you see it?”

“It’s in my closet. Someone just left it at church.”

“Um. You mean you actually have the physical painting?”

“Verily. It’s pretty big. I took it home because I saw it was signed by Jimothy. And it spoke to me.”

“Oh. Wow, how did one of his paintings get all the way over there? And I’m not seeing that one. Maybe it’s an earlier one that I don’t have catalogued?”

“Want a picture?”

“Yeah, can you do that? Wow, this is pretty cool. What are the…odds.” Oh no. This was some Jim-weirdness, wasn’t it? This was one of those bizarre things that happened sometimes just because Jimothy.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” AJ sounded as suspicious as Mike felt. What were the odds? Really crazy, that’s what they were. And AJ was sure smart enough to know it.

But hold on. The painting might not even be Jimothy’s. He’d reserve judgment on the odds until he saw it. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll take a look at it, and then if it’s really his we can talk about how weird this is.”

“Sounds good! Picture incoming.”

AJ hung up. Mike swiveled his desk chair back and forth a few times. It began to slowly sink of its own accord; he lifted his weight and reset it. Just wait for the picture. Wait for it…

His phone vibrated. He opened up the most recent message, an image file. It wasn’t a very good picture: the angle was askew and glare obscured part of the image. But it was in-focus, and Mike zoomed in to take a closer look.

He was no connoisseur of art, but thanks to Jim he had learned quite a bit about styles and technique. Jim’s genre of choice was fantastic realism: highly detailed renderings of fantastical creatures, places, or objects which did not exist. Lots of artists did this, especially concept artists; Jim had introduced Mike to many of them. Jim’s special strength lay in his ability to instill atmosphere into a piece, which he accomplished primarily through brilliant use of lighting, like a combination of Salvador Dali and Caspar David Friedrich.

Jim worked prolifically; he had created hundreds of paintings. Mike had photographed all of them, or so he thought, and was therefore intimately acquainted with Jim’s style. The painting he was looking at, discovered by AJ at her church in Philadelphia, was definitely Jim’s style. The signature in the bottom right, also definitely Jim’s, only confirmed it.

He called AJ back. “Well?” she asked as soon as she picked up.

“It’s his,” said Mike. “But I’ve never seen it before. It could be one that just slipped past me. Jim’s not good at keeping track of his art…”

“Or? I heard an ‘or’ in there.”

“Or…I don’t know. I can’t think of another explanation.”

“So how did I just happen to find it? Why did someone leave it in my church? That’s not a normal thing, by the way. People don’t just drop off paintings in the foyer.”

“Well, I don’t know. This is Jim, and you know, sometimes with Jim…ah, nevermind. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Just…weird things happen sometimes, I guess? Forget it.”

“Mike. I don’t know Jim very well, but I’ve heard a lot about him from Liz. I’m sitting here with my sister’s cat Callie, who can go back and forth between us in seconds even when we’re hundreds of miles away. I can handle any weirdness about Jim.”

“You…wait, what? Callie—Liz’s cat? The one I saw at your house, the blind one?”

“She’s not blind.”

“She has no eyes!”

“We saw her at my house, but she spent most of that night at the Carter Estate. In the UK.”

“…”

“She might even visit you now, since she’s watching us talk.”

“Um. Okay. I’ll have to…think about that. All I’m saying with Jim is that sometimes stuff happens that…agh, I can’t explain it.”

“Aren’t you a writer?”

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“I’m an editor. I’m just saying, don’t expect me to be able to tell you why you found one of Jim’s paintings, one I have never seen, against all odds. Hey, I’ll ask him about it. See if he recognizes it. If he doesn’t, then…we’ll see.”

“We will see, indeed.”

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” Wait, did that sound like he wanted the conversation to end?

“Well. Do you know much about Liz’s other friends? The ones that were there for her birthday?”

“Eric and Isaac? Yeah, I know them pretty well. They used to live here. They made friends with Jim back in elementary before they both moved away.”

“What about the other two?”

“Other two? That would be Kate and…?”

“Heidi Sheppard.”

“Oh.” Mike narrowed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know them as well. Why do you ask?” But he was getting that sinking feeling again. Six kids.

“You know, never mind. It’s nothing. It’s just Liz’s been talking a lot about them lately. I guess someone said they might be getting together again for Jim’s birthday? That’s coming up, right?”

“Yes.” Okay, wow. This was news to Michael. He’d be fine with it, though. More than fine, honestly, if AJ was also attending. “Well, I haven’t heard anything about it. But you’re welcome. Or, they’re welcome. Whichever!” He closed his eyes and put a hand to his forehead. “Oh, hey. One more thing. Have you heard anything from Alan Sheppard?”

“Heidi’s dad? Nothing. Why?”

“Okay. Let me know if you hear from him, okay?”

“Huh. ‘Kay. Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay if I call you Mike, right?”

“Yeah, still okay.”

“Oh, right.”

“What?”

“What?”

Mike began silently shaking with laughter. “What were you going to say?”

“Oh. I was just going to say how weird of a conversation this has been.”

Mike’s suppressed laughter seeped into his voice. “Yeah you got that right. Mission accomplished, I guess.”

“Verily.” He could hear her smile. “Talk to you later?”

He smiled too. “Verily. Bye.”

“Bye!”

Mike hung up quickly and groaned. So awkward. He turned his phone back on and added AJ to his contacts.

“Who was that?” said Jim behind him. Michael started at the sound. For a guy who fell down all the time Jim sure could move quietly.

“Jim! Just the man I wanted to see. Come over here for a minute. That was AJ, and she found a painting she thought might be yours.” Mike swiveled to look at his younger brother. The chair began to sink again; he let himself drop all the way down. Jim held some kind of black board in front of him. Was he experimenting with painting on black backgrounds? That would be new for him.

Jim walked to a nearby wall and carefully set the board against it. He had to adjust its position to make it fit among the dumbbell weights lined up there. From this angle Mike saw the texture of paint on it, as well as the white along the outside edges. Was that…a white canvas completely covered in black paint?

“Jim, take a look at this.” Mike plugged his phone into the computer and opened the photo AJ had sent him. “Recognize it?”

Jimothy squinted at the screen and leaned in close. “It looks like it’s mine!” he said after a moment. “Is that my signature?”

“Yes,” said Mike. “Do you remember doing this painting?”

Jimothy unconsciously reached up with one hand and began rubbing his temple. His forehead scrunched up.

“Take it easy, Jim. Yes or no. Think of the Line.”

“I can’t see the Line, Mike. Not right now. But I know I haven’t painted this. Um. Not yet? I think maybe I almost had some kind of idea that could have turned into this?”

Mike sighed. “Okay. Then don’t worry about it for now. We’ll take care of it.” Mike took the opportunity to get a closer look at the black painting. The oil hadn’t dried yet. It looked like just a solid black coat of paint, pretty thick in places. “What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s Black,” said Jim. “That’s the title, I mean. I was, um, going to burn it.”

“Does fresh oil paint burn?”

“I don’t know. I was going to find out. I don’t think it matters if it burns completely, though. Wait, maybe it does. I guess it would still be black.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t burn it then? It would still be black.”

“Maybe you should paint over it. Make it…not black?”

“But then it wouldn’t be Black!”

Mike shrugged. “Then I don’t know what to tell you. Do what you want.” He stood. “Hey, I was thinking of taking Hazel to the park today. Want to come?”

“Yeah!”

Mike made lunch for Jim, and a half hour later they arrived at a nearby park. Mike had packed kites, just in case, and after some consideration had thrown the mystery-box with its contents into the backseat as well.

Hazel got excited about the park, as he did about everything. As soon as the car door opened, he rocketed out and into the vast expanse of green grass. Jim followed after him, laughing, and fell down onto the grass when he tripped on the curb. Mike brought up the rear, helping Jimothy to his feet with one hand and carrying an expensive camera with the other.

Mike strolled around and took pictures while Jim played fetch with Hazel. Jim sat down while he did this because Hazel had a tendency to tackle Jim when returning the tennis ball. Jim always laughed when it happened though. Mike got some good shots of Hazel cannonballing into Jimothy.

Hazel eventually became bored with returning the ball and began running around with it, streaking back and forth across the park with inexhaustible energy. Mike sat down beside Jim, but kept an eye on Hazel. There weren’t many people or dogs in the park due to the overcast sky and its promise of rain, but Hazel sometimes became a nuisance to others, running circles around them and trying to get them to play. Sometimes he almost knocked people over. Mike had a whistle that he used to distract Hazel and bring him back if Mike spotted any children playing. Hazel had never tackled a child to the ground before, as far as Mike knew, but he was not taking any chances.

“Hey, Mike,” said Jim.

“Yeah, Jim?” said Mike.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh oh.”

Jimothy grinned. “I was talking to Eric. And I’ve been thinking, maybe I don’t want to paint for a living.”

Mike turned to Jim in surprise. “What? Why? What did Eric say?”

“Well, he didn’t say anything. But you know how he always wants to help people? Like be in the Coast Guard or something?” Jim stared out at the park, watching Hazel run.

“Jim, you can’t be in the Coast Guard.”

“But I was thinking, you know how good I am at finding things? I’m really good at finding things. Especially missing things.”

“I know, Jim.”

“And people too. I know I can find missing people. And maybe that would be a better thing to do than painting. There are lots of missing people! And when I think about how sad it would be if one of my friends went missing, or if you did…if I can help others not be sad like that, I think I probably should. I want to.”

Mike looked back out at the park, Hazel running around. He didn’t know what to say, so he said, “Huh.” This was something new. His little brother never ceased to surprise.

Jim sure could find things. He would just guess where something was, and his guess would just happen to be right. Almost every time. And he wanted to find missing people. That was…awesome? But did he really want that more than to paint?

“Of course I’d still paint,” said Jim. “Just maybe not as much? Or maybe I could paint maps of where things are!”

Mike chuckled. “I think that sounds great, Jim. Is there something that brought this on? Is there something you want to find right now? Or someone?”

Jim thought about it for a minute. “Well, I already did,” he said slowly, and his tone of voice made a chill run through Michael. His little brother sounded scared. “Remember that painting?”

“The black one?”

“Yeah. I know where he is.” Jim focused on the grass by his folded legs. His eyes were wide. The overcast sky seemed lower, darker. The wind gusted around them.

“He?” There hadn’t been anyone in the painting.

“Yeah,” said Jim.

“Who? And, uh, where?”

“Black,” said Jim. “He’s in Montana. I think Isaac might be in trouble.”