Who Are You? (9780307823533) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mr. Merson,” Frederick answers.
    Ms. Chase reminds me of a rubber band tightly stretched. I expect her to let go and shoot off at any minute, but she surprises me. She gives herself a little shake, as though she’s putting all the pieces back together, and smiles at Frederick. “This is all terribly upsetting to you, isn’t it?” she asks him. “You’ve worked for Douglas ten … twelve … how many years? And I’m sure you count him as a good friend, as well as an employer.” She lets out a long, painful sigh. “All of us share the same grief, Frederick.”
    “Thank you, Ms. Chase,” Frederick says quietly.
    She waits, as though she’s expecting him to say something else, but he stands motionless. I’m beginning to think Frederick doesn’t give information—even an opinion—to anyone. But I don’t leave. Ms. Chase obviously talks as if we don’t count. I’m curious to hear if she can get anything out of him.
    She goes on, “Now, Frederick, I’m going to ask you to do something. It’s not for me. Oh no, it’s definitely not a favor for me. It’s for poor, dear Douglas.”
    She pauses and dramatically sighs again. I’m totally caught up in this conversation, hoping for some clue.
    “Douglas has two paintings for the gallery,” Ms. Chase tells Frederick. “I was supposed to pick them up when I returned from Austin, so I’m sure they’re wrapped and ready. May I have them, please?”
    I’m positive Frederick will say he doesn’t know anything about them, so I’m surprised when he holds the door open wide and steps aside so that Ms. Chase can enter. She trots across the hall and up the broad stairway.
    I suck in my breath as I’m treated to a view of an entry hall right out of the pages of a designer magazine. My eyes survey the place quickly. The room is round, with a staircase that curves down the right side, and it’s light and bright with sunlight streaming through the broad front windows. A table with a crystal vase of white gladioli stands at the center of the room, but what catches my eye and holds it is on the wall facing the door. A canvas is covered with vertical splashes of reds, oranges, yellows, blues, and greens that shimmer like a stained-glass window. At the top of the painting a woman’s face peers down through the blinding strips of color.
    “I think of her as the heart and soul of the painting,” Ms. Montero told our art class as she showed us a slide of this painting. I’ve forgotten the name of the painting, but I can remember the name of the artist—Frank Kupka. I also remember that the painting is supposed to be hanging in New York’s Museum of Modern Art.
    Puzzled, I actually step forward to see better. It isnot a print, and it’s not a lithograph. I can see the strong brush strokes in the oil paint.
    Suddenly Frederick steps in front of me, blocking my view. As Frederick moves forward, I stumble back, my face burning with embarrassment. I’ve entered this house without being invited, and now I’m being forced to leave. When I reach the front steps I stammer, “I—I’m sorry. The painting … it’s so beautiful … I had to get a closer look … I wasn’t thinking.”
    Frederick gives a stiff nod, then silently closes the big door.
    Lindy waits on the drive. She looks a little scared. “What were you doing?” she asks me as I join her.
    “There’s a painting in the entry hall. I mean a real painting. The real thing, Lindy. It’s gorgeous.”
    Lindy gives me an odd look. “What’s so exciting about somebody having a painting in his house? Lots of people do.”
    “Not this painting. This is a museum piece. I saw it on a slide in Ms. Montero’s class. But she said it was hanging in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.”
    Lindy climbs into the passenger seat of the car and fastens her seat belt. “Calm down,” she tells me. “Douglas Merson obviously has a lot of money. He probably got the artist to paint another, just like the one in