Masterpiece (13 page)

I
t was nearly seven o’clock by the time Karl, James, and Marvin returned to the Pompadays’ apartment and provided Mrs. Pompaday with a plausible (but not too detailed) explanation of why James would need to make another visit to the Met that week. Karl described it as a private art tutorial with the Curator of Drawings and Prints, which managed to satisfy Mrs. Pompaday’s hankerings for special treatment, recognition of her child’s distinction, and entrée into an exclusive world of upper-class pursuits, all at once. They agreed that Karl would come for James on Wednesday at four o’clock.

When James finally retreated to the sanctuary of his bedroom, Marvin was frantic to return to the bosom of his own family. They would be beside themselves with worry. He’d been gone overnight—again!—and the whole of the next day, and there was no way for them to know what had transpired. He hoisted himself over the lip of
the jacket pocket and began to scurry down the boy’s pants leg to the floor. James stopped him with a finger.

“Here,” he said, “let me help. I don’t know where you’re going, but it’s out in the hall somewhere, right? That’s where you live?”

Marvin sighed. How wonderful it would be if he could just explain to James where home was and hitch a ride straight there. It would take James mere seconds to cross the apartment to the kitchen cupboard, compared to the half hour or more it would take Marvin. Here was a truly bothersome inconvenience of being friends with someone you couldn’t communicate with in any of the usual ways.

But maybe James would figure something out. It seemed worth a try. At least he’d get as far as the hall. Marvin crawled onto James’s knuckle and held tight as the boy walked to the doorway.

“Don’t worry,” James said. “I’ll make sure nobody sees.” He cracked the door and looked both ways. They could hear William bellowing in the kitchen. “Ya ya! Ya ya!”

“I’m coming, William,” James called, smiling a little. James was unaccountably patient with William, Marvin thought, submitting to his hair-pulling, picking up his dropped toys. None of the beetles could understand it.

“My mom’s fixing dinner,” James said to Marvin. “It’s okay.” He crouched and laid his finger on the smooth
polished floor, next to the baseboard. “Here?” He watched Marvin.

Marvin started to climb down, but then James said, “Hey! Know what? If you crawl to the end of my finger when I’m in the right spot, I can put you down
exactly
where you need to be.” He squatted back on his heels, grinning. “It’ll be like that game Hot-or-Cold, you know?”

Marvin beamed up at him. James was so smart. He settled himself in the middle of James’s finger and held
on as the boy wandered down the hallway, pausing every few minutes and watching for Marvin’s reaction. Marvin sat tight.

James stepped into the bathroom, then poked his head into his parents’ room.
Not here
, Marvin thought, shuddering. He couldn’t imagine spending any more time than was absolutely necessary with Mr. and Mrs. Pompaday. What a racket they made with their constant chatter, not to mention the frequent explosions.

“Huh,” James said. “I hope you get what I mean. You don’t seem to be doing anything. Listen, if I’m
not
close to where you live, crawl the other way, down my finger toward my hand, okay?”

Marvin obligingly crawled toward James’s hand.

James laughed out loud.

“James, is that you? What’s so funny?” Mrs. Pompaday stuck her head around the doorway from the kitchen. James immediately dropped his hand to his side, and Marvin held on for dear life.

“Nothing,” James said. “I just saw something funny.”

Mrs. Pompaday looked at him suspiciously. “Out here in the hall? I hope you weren’t laughing at my Apsara statue.” Marvin watched her cross to the hall table and tenderly lift a small hand-carved wooden figurine of a naked woman dancing. “I noticed some of your little friends laughing at her during the party, but I trust you’re more mature than that. The female body is a beautiful thing, James.”

James squirmed. “I wasn’t laughing at that, Mom.”

“Well, good, because you’re an
artist
now, dear. You need to show appreciation for the art of different cultures . . . even those silly old Eskimo sculptures your father has lying around. Why, when I think that your pretty drawings might be hanging in somebody’s parlor—oh, it just gives me goose bumps!” She swooped down and kissed the top of James’s head.

James stiffened in surprise and slid his hand behind his leg, shielding Marvin. “When’s dinner?” he asked, clearly desperate to change the subject.

“Twenty minutes.” Mrs. Pompaday returned to the kitchen.

James walked toward the living room. “We’re almost out of rooms, little guy. Here?” He paused in the middle
of the Oriental rug, looking around. Marvin stayed close to his hand.

“See my dad’s horse painting?” James asked softly. “Isn’t it great?” He walked closer, leaning over the couch to stare at it. Marvin leaned toward it, too, balancing lightly on his rear legs. The painting was bold and graceful, with its rush of bright blue color. You would never know it was a horse unless someone told you. But once you knew it was a horse, it was impossible to see it as anything else.

James glanced down at Marvin. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to make something like that? Probably not.” He sighed. “I mean, I can’t even draw. You’re the one who can.”

Marvin looked up at him sympathetically.

“But not without my ink set, right?” James said, smiling suddenly. “So it
is
like you need my help.” He looked at his father’s canvas again. “But could you make a painting? I don’t think so. Not one this big, anyway. It would take you years! We’d better stick to the small stuff.”

Marvin realized it was possible to have an entire conversation with James without saying a word. There were beetles like that, who did all the talking . . . but with James, it was like he did the listening, too, and filled in the gaps with what he knew you would say if only you could.

“Okay. Dining room?” James drifted thoughtfully through the archway. Marvin stayed put. “Huh. I don’t
think you live in William’s room. Did I tell you William ate a ladybug once? Yep, he did. Picked it up and popped it right in his mouth. My mom totally freaked out.” Marvin shuddered as James continued. “Let’s try the kitchen, but we have to be careful because everybody’s in there.”

As they turned to the kitchen, Marvin inched toward the middle of James’s finger. James grinned. “Okay! Getting hotter!” he whispered, tiptoeing into the room.

Mrs. Pompaday was busy at the stove, stirring something with a metal spoon. Marvin crawled to the end of James’s finger and James swiftly bent and deposited him on the tile floor, close to the wall of cupboards. Delighted at the ease and speed of the journey home, Marvin darted gratefully into the shadows.

“James,” Mrs. Pompaday protested, “don’t sneak up on me like that, I almost tripped over you. And what are you doing down there on the floor?”

“Tying my shoelace,” James mumbled, just as Marvin disappeared inside the kitchen cupboard.

W
hen Marvin came through the front door, his mother burst into tears. “Oh, Marvin, darling! Where on earth were you?”

“I’m sorry, Mama—” Marvin began, but before he could finish, she smothered him in a hug, covering his shell with several legs at once.

His father hurried over, clearing his throat gruffly. “Marvin, you’ve had us worried out of our shells! Why didn’t you come home yesterday? You got me in a lot of trouble with your mother, I hope you realize, for ever allowing you to stay behind.”

“We went to a museum—”

“A museum! What?” Mama’s eyes widened. “You left the apartment? Marvin, you have no business doing human things like that. It’s too dangerous! I know you want to help James, but not at the risk of your own life. Why, your father and Uncle Albert made trip after trip
to James’s room, looking for you. We had no idea what had happened!”

“I’m sorry,” Marvin said again. He explained about the drawings at the Met, the visit to Christina’s office, and the surprise of being knocked to the floor and left there.

“Oh!” Mama cried. “Darling, you’re lucky you’re still alive! What were you doing there, anyway?”

Marvin sighed. So much had happened since yesterday. How could he make his parents understand? “I’m hungry,” he said. “Could we talk about it at dinner?”

Mama nodded. “Yes, yes, of course, you must be starving. Here, sit down and eat something. It’s been a long day, for all of us.”

So the three beetles gathered around the rectangular pink eraser that served as their kitchen table, and Mama heaped it with foil platters of hearty digestibles: tiny steaming broccoli florets from the Pompadays’ supper, two cubes of cheddar from William’s lunch, crispy brown chicken skin, a lemon rind, a crushed potato chip, and a cherry Life Savers for dessert. Marvin hungrily devoured every morsel, and between mouthfuls haltingly relayed the story of Dürer, the missing
Virtue
drawings, his own effort to copy
Fortitude
, and Christina’s plan to stage a theft from the museum.

His parents were so astonished they stopped eating halfway through the meal and just listened. When Marvin was finished, Papa shook his head. “Well, that is amazing. Faking the theft of their own picture, huh?”

“Not the real picture, though,” Marvin said. “My copy of it.”

Mama smiled at him. “I’m sure it was lovely, Marvin. I wish I could have seen it! But humans lead such complicated lives, don’t they? Why would people steal something they couldn’t sell or even hang on their own wall?”