“You stole a key?”
Oops — wrong word. “I mean, I borrowed it to have a copy made. I’m not a thief like that poor little stableboy of yours.” He couldn’t help adding, “And I’ll bet he was just taking some food home to his family.”
“On the contrary, he stole something very precious to me.”
“Then you should be glad all I want to do is paint.” Simon was beginning to feel desperate. “Please let me stay — please, lady!”
“Stop calling me lady. It’s ignorant. My name is Mrs. Fox-Nugent.”
Simon grinned at her. “Your name is Dorothea. One heck of a pretty name, I must admit.”
She stood still and her milky face under all that dark hair changed slightly. Had he gotten to her with his little compliment? She said, looking at his paints, “Certainly this idea of yours is ingenious.”
“It was my girl’s idea.” Simon took this as the go-ahead and sat down, picking up his brush. “She’s the ingenious one.”
“Also the mistaken one.” Dorothea’s surrounding light flared. “The rules of this museum must not be violated.”
“Who’s violating? I just wanted—”
“I don’t know who you think you are, other than a common housebreaker, but you will leave this museum immediately.”
Simon sat seething, then he stood up and said, “I’ll tell you who I think I am. I’m an unlucky guy who had a good thing going till you came along and blew it.” He collapsed his easel with an angry snap. “How the heck did you swing this, anyway? I thought people died and stayed dead.”
“There are certain outrages,” she was moving along the wall looking at the painting, “that one may be allowed to return and rectify.”
“Well, consider yourself rectified.” Frustrated and angry, Simon began setting the room to rights. “You can go back to your heavenly rest and feel good. Maybe I’ll get a job at Burger King. They might even let me come back after hours and paint the Whoppers — or would that be violating the place?” He walked to the door. “So long, Dorothea, and thanks for nothing.”
But she was gone. Simon shrugged and went back down the hall to his locker. He stashed his gear, then retraced his steps to the basement. As he beamed his light on the door, Dorothea’s voice said, “I am dismayed.”
It made him jump. She was hovering near the elevator.
He said, “Will you kindly stop following me? I said I was going, didn’t I?”
“Dismayed!”
“Why?”
“The security here is deplorable. If you were able—”
“Relax.” Simon opened the door. “With a gimmick like you, who needs security?”
He turned the key behind him and walked up the ramp. What a rotten break. He stood for a minute letting the breeze from the gulf cool his hot face. What the heck had really happened? He knew guys who took stuff they said gave them crazy dreams. What had he taken? A soda and a candy bar. Dorothea had seemed real enough in there; out here she was nothing and nowhere. He was tired, that had to be it. He’d been concentrating on this crazy plan and blown his brains.
Simon got over the fence and back to the street. Funny. He’d been so scared and careful going in, now he didn’t give a darn what happened. He never wanted to go back to the place. He’d phone in tomorrow and say he was quitting.
Trudging back to the bus stop, Simon desperately wished he had his motorbike. He’d known he couldn’t bring it today and he’d left it at Volanda’s house.
Volanda. His heart sank. How was he going to tell her about this nutty Dorothea business? He couldn’t. She’d think he was bats and maybe he was. What made it worse was that the idea of going in there to paint after hours had been Volanda’s and it had seemed like such a good one.
At the corner he looked at his watch. He knew the buses ran till ten; thank goodness, here came one now. He boarded and sank into a seat. Volanda was working the late shift and he’d promised to stop in and tell her how it went. It went crazy, but how could he tell her that? Simon stared out at the dark streets as the bus drove through Newtown. The nursing home where Volanda worked, Senior Years, was only a few blocks from her home. Simon had gotten very familiar with Senior Years in the last few months because of Uncle Willie.
He got off the bus and walked the block to Senior Years. It was at the end of the street across from the Baptist church. There was a service and the organ was playing “Silent Night.” Less than a week till Christmas, Simon thought, dreading it.
He said to the woman at the desk, “Hi, Mrs. Bowles.”
“Hello, Si. She’s with your uncle.”
“How is he?”
“Not good, honey.”
The waiting room was dim and small and smelled of medicine. Mrs. Bowles took off her glasses and stood up.
“I’ll tell her you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
She went through some folding doors and Simon sat staring at the wall. Uncle Willie, whom he loved, was “not good.” Of course, Uncle Willie hadn’t been good in quite a while, but as Simon’s mother would say, “He’s darn good for eighty-two.” But Mrs. Bowles had sounded different just now.
The folding doors reopened and Volanda came out. She was a year older than Simon, pretty and smart, and he felt lucky that she liked him. She wore the blue and white pantsuit of the nurse’s aide and looked like a million in it. Her hair was in neat cornrows, her brown eyes alert. She beckoned to him.
“I want coffee.”
They went down the hall to where the bright lights of the cafeteria and the smell of coffee were a little more cheering. Volanda headed for a big urn, looking back at Simon, her face eager and expectant. She said, “So how’d it go?”
“Sit down, babe. I’ll bring it. You want a doughnut?”
“No thanks.”
Simon carried two cups of coffee to the table. There was a scattering of other people and some of them nodded to him. Volanda leaned forward, chin in hands.
“So tell me.”
“I forgot your cream.”
“The heck with the cream. Si, tell me.”
“Well, it worked and it didn’t.” Simon reached for the sugar dispenser. “I got in okay and got up to the room, but I was real nervous and I don’t want to go back.”
“What?” Her disappointment was instant.
He spoke very rapidly. “I kept worrying the whole time about what if I got caught. Besides, the light wasn’t great.”
“Si—” Volanda looked at him intently. “—were you seen? Is that it?”
He shook his head. At least he could say truthfully, “I swear, not one living person saw me.”
“Then why?”
“It’s too risky, Voley, and the basement door is going to be sealed up anyway. I’m not going back there ever again!” He stirred his coffee, looking down at it.
Volanda sat still for a few seconds, then pushed her cup away. “I guess it was a dumb idea.”
“It wasn’t, it wasn’t!” He felt awful. “It was a great idea and you were a genius to think of it.” He touched her hand. “It was you who told me to go work there in the first place, remember? And I love it. But I need to make better money.” A newspaper lay on the chair beside him and Simon picked it up. “There’s tons of places pay better than that museum.”
Volanda pulled her coffee back and began to sip it. Simon felt worse than ever. “Mrs. Bowles said Uncle Willie is bad,” he said.
“He is.”
“Can I see him?”
“Finish your coffee first.” She looked out the window at the dark street. “Funny. I got the idea from him.”
“From who? What idea?” Simon was reading an ad for help at a Waffle House.