legend is,” he said, curt but not irritated. He pointed at a panel with one of his long, knobby fingers. “I know her. I’ve met her.”
“You’ve met Allison Hewitt?” Yeah right, buddy. “How is that possible?”
“You’ve drawn her too short,” he said, ignoring the question. “And Collin, her husband, he does not look so … so fatigued .”
“How did you meet her?” I asked, louder. He chuckled, and then glanced at the others asleep.
“They held a painting for me. So very many houses have been abandoned, and others ransacked. My colleague and I put out a general word of mouth about our services. Allison and Collin came across a Cassatt and kept it for me.”
“Cassatt? Hold on. You mean Mary Cassatt?”
“Yes,” he said. Then he smiled and it lit up his whole face. He pulled a Polaroid from his coat pocket and handed it to me. The flashlight beam fell on three people in front of an Impressionist portrait of a pale, lovely woman. “Private collections have gone to ruin everywhere,” he explained, cradling the picture as if it were made out of butterfly wings. “They were kind enough to protect this masterpiece.”
“And you have it?” I asked. Then I felt foolish, seeing plainly that he wasn’t carrying around a gigantic oil canvas. But he nodded.
“In Seattle. It’s at our safe house, in a bank vault on Seneca.”
I squinted down at the Polaroid. There was Kellerman—grinning like a child perched on Santa’s lap—standing between a tall, vibrant man with dark hair and a young woman in a green hooded sweatshirt. Allison. She was taller than I thought. And there was Collin Crane too. He had a salt and pepper beard. Had he always had one? I’d never considered a beard. It was like slipping downstairs early on Easter morning to find an actual giant, anthropomorphic rabbit in a pastel bowtie scattering eggs across your sofa.
“You’re an illustrator,” he observed.
“ Was an illustrator. Now I’m … I don’t know, a castaway? First mate?”
He shook his head. “You’ve rendered Miss Hewitt quite accurately,” Kellerman said. “Have you seen images of her?”
“No,” I replied honestly. “It was just a guess, and I had heard a few descriptions of her, rumors. I stopped following the blog after a while.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
“I had to focus on my own struggle,” I said. I don’t know why I went on, maybe because finding someone who knew about Allison made us instant allies. “It was just … depressing, realizing other cities weren’t any better, that there was no greener pasture. I stopped caring about what was happening in Philadelphia or Chicago when I was hardly eating. And then Shane dropped into my lap and I had to trade the laptop for vegetables.”
“Mm.”
That had been a bad day. I probably should’ve haggled harder and for more, but Shane and I were almost starving and suddenly that computer just didn’t matter like it used to. Pen and paper would have to suffice.
I blinked, suppressing those cold, unfriendly memories.
“And what does a Cassatt go for these days?” I asked, changing the topic. “Five hundred pounds of potatoes?”
“It was free, free with the understanding that I would take good care of it and see that it was safely stored until … Well, until it could be properly displayed again.”
A free Cassatt? This truly was a changed and frightening world. Carefully, I took the Polaroid from him. Allison beamed up at me, her hand around Kellerman’s slim waist, her smile genuine and free. So it was true. Suddenly, throwing my sketches overboard in a defiant and dramatic act of purification seemed pathetic, unthinkable.
As if reading my mind he said, “She would like to see these. Please don’t destroy them.”
Maybe Jason was wrong, the pudgy jerk. There might be an audience for the comic after all.
“So is that what you do?” I asked. No one had woken up from our conversation. We were lucky to be traveling with
“You’ve met Allison Hewitt?” Yeah right, buddy. “How is that possible?”
“You’ve drawn her too short,” he said, ignoring the question. “And Collin, her husband, he does not look so … so fatigued .”
“How did you meet her?” I asked, louder. He chuckled, and then glanced at the others asleep.
“They held a painting for me. So very many houses have been abandoned, and others ransacked. My colleague and I put out a general word of mouth about our services. Allison and Collin came across a Cassatt and kept it for me.”
“Cassatt? Hold on. You mean Mary Cassatt?”
“Yes,” he said. Then he smiled and it lit up his whole face. He pulled a Polaroid from his coat pocket and handed it to me. The flashlight beam fell on three people in front of an Impressionist portrait of a pale, lovely woman. “Private collections have gone to ruin everywhere,” he explained, cradling the picture as if it were made out of butterfly wings. “They were kind enough to protect this masterpiece.”
“And you have it?” I asked. Then I felt foolish, seeing plainly that he wasn’t carrying around a gigantic oil canvas. But he nodded.
“In Seattle. It’s at our safe house, in a bank vault on Seneca.”
I squinted down at the Polaroid. There was Kellerman—grinning like a child perched on Santa’s lap—standing between a tall, vibrant man with dark hair and a young woman in a green hooded sweatshirt. Allison. She was taller than I thought. And there was Collin Crane too. He had a salt and pepper beard. Had he always had one? I’d never considered a beard. It was like slipping downstairs early on Easter morning to find an actual giant, anthropomorphic rabbit in a pastel bowtie scattering eggs across your sofa.
“You’re an illustrator,” he observed.
“ Was an illustrator. Now I’m … I don’t know, a castaway? First mate?”
He shook his head. “You’ve rendered Miss Hewitt quite accurately,” Kellerman said. “Have you seen images of her?”
“No,” I replied honestly. “It was just a guess, and I had heard a few descriptions of her, rumors. I stopped following the blog after a while.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
“I had to focus on my own struggle,” I said. I don’t know why I went on, maybe because finding someone who knew about Allison made us instant allies. “It was just … depressing, realizing other cities weren’t any better, that there was no greener pasture. I stopped caring about what was happening in Philadelphia or Chicago when I was hardly eating. And then Shane dropped into my lap and I had to trade the laptop for vegetables.”
“Mm.”
That had been a bad day. I probably should’ve haggled harder and for more, but Shane and I were almost starving and suddenly that computer just didn’t matter like it used to. Pen and paper would have to suffice.
I blinked, suppressing those cold, unfriendly memories.
“And what does a Cassatt go for these days?” I asked, changing the topic. “Five hundred pounds of potatoes?”
“It was free, free with the understanding that I would take good care of it and see that it was safely stored until … Well, until it could be properly displayed again.”
A free Cassatt? This truly was a changed and frightening world. Carefully, I took the Polaroid from him. Allison beamed up at me, her hand around Kellerman’s slim waist, her smile genuine and free. So it was true. Suddenly, throwing my sketches overboard in a defiant and dramatic act of purification seemed pathetic, unthinkable.
As if reading my mind he said, “She would like to see these. Please don’t destroy them.”
Maybe Jason was wrong, the pudgy jerk. There might be an audience for the comic after all.
“So is that what you do?” I asked. No one had woken up from our conversation. We were lucky to be traveling with
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