The Painted Room Page 11

Chapter 8

  Beyond The Mirrored Door

  For a while, all Carlisle seemed capable of saying was, "The devil!"

  He took the clear crystal doorknob out of Sheila's hand and swung the mirrored door back and forth. First his eyes focused on the top of it, then at the bottom. Then he fingered the sides of the doorframe, if any doorframe could be said to exist at all. He scrutinized it completely and examined it for hinges.

  "The devil!" he spat out again, fuming.

  The door was cut from the surrounding surface much like an entrance is sliced out of a large cardboard box in which children have decided to play. It had no hinges, but folded out from the surface on one side. The three cut edges of it blurred as Carlisle swung the door back towards the wall and stood out sharply as he pulled it away.

  If the knob slipped out of his hand (a distinct possibility where he was concerned), May was certain that the door would slam shut and disappear completely, lost again in the seamless silver surface. And who knew if Sheila would ever be able to find it again! A boiling pressure was building inside of May as Carlisle fiddled with the door. She felt ready to explode.

  "The devil!" Carlisle cried again. Then seeing May's popping eyes, he quickly finished his examination of the door and held it open.

  Now that she could be sufficiently sure she wouldn't be struck in the face, she ventured to look inside. She had hoped to see Sheila's living room, but disappointingly all she saw was yet more forest ahead of her. May was about to step over the threshold when Carlisle put his arm across the doorway.

  "What are you doing?" he said. "It might be dangerous. I'll go first."

  She stared down at his arm blocking her way. "Suit yourself," she said, inwardly rankling that there would be no getting rid of him now.

  She let Sheila go through next and followed last to watch the door close behind her. As she had imagined, the flat mirrored surface, which was just the same on this side of the wall, reabsorbed the edges of the door entirely until only May's uninterrupted reflection stared back at her. The door had simply ceased to exist.

  The forest on this side of the wall was noticeably different. They had left the thick, wild, buggy woods of Maine and had entered a woodland that felt older somehow and tamer. It smelled sweeter—less full of the acrid scent of pine. She could no longer smell the ocean and thankfully gone was the beastly humidity of the hot Maine day. The air on this side of the wall was cool and dry.

  For several hours, the three of them pressed through the forest until May began to wonder if they would ever find their way out.

  When they came to an embankment that dropped off sharply below them, she and Sheila walked to the edge and gazed down at a small stream in a sunny glade below.

  Carlisle hung back. Crouched on his heels several yards away, he watched them as he poked at the ground with a stick.

  "It's too steep to walk down this way. We'll have to go around," said May loudly.

  "There's a break over there," said Sheila, gesturing to a point along the embankment where the land leveled out.

  "Good," said May. It wasn't far and it beat having to skid down on their backsides this way at any rate. She hushed her tone and said, "Don't you think we should ditch him?"

  "No," whispered Sheila. "Why? I think he's only trying to help us. I don't think he would hurt a fly. Is that what you're worried about?"

  "Oh come on, Sheila," squeaked May. Sheila was funny about people. Irritatingly, she never seemed to have to go through the process of figuring anyone out—what made them tick, guessing what skeletons were in their closet. She either liked and trusted a person, or she didn't.

  "Lighten up, May. If he was going to do anything, don't you think he would have done it already?" Sheila had apparently decided she liked Carlisle.

  "We're better off without him," insisted May.

  "You don't know that. And you know I'd be all for it if I felt like he was a creep or something but—" Sheila shook her head and shrugged, "I'm just not getting that."

  From behind them, Carlisle cleared his throat loudly. They were taking too long.

  "Fine," whispered May, roughly tugging down the bottom of Sheila's sweatshirt to cover her newly pierced navel. "I can't believe you're talking me into this. But fine. We'll keep him. But I don't know how much he can help us. The man is practically an idiot and, at the very least, a menace to himself and probably everyone else around him." She fixed Sheila with a pointed look. "And I'm not even going to mention his track record with women. You know he must have killed his wife with that castle, and ten to one he gave that cousin of his the measles. With any luck neither of us will end up another casualty."

  Sheila leaned over, picked up a rock then offered it to May. "Here. You can whack him over the head with this if he starts acting funny. Then, if you like, you can whack me over the head with it, too."

  "That's okay. I have the butter knife from breakfast in my shoe."

  Sheila tossed down the rock and brushed off her hands. "I wondered where that got to. Okay, if he starts acting funny you have my permission to butter him to death."

  After walking down the embankment to the stream, Sheila splashed her face with water and sat down. She took off her sneaker, removed her sock and plunged her swollen ankle into the ice cold water.

  Carlisle had long ago become tired of carrying his jacket in his hands. He hung it on a branch then sat down on a large tree root. He put his elbows on his bent knees and leaning his head back against the wide tree trunk behind him, loosened his tie.

  May had enough. They might be traveling in circles for all they knew. She untied the sleeves of her sweatshirt which she had knotted around her waist and slung the garment over a branch.

  She looked up the enormous trunk that Carlisle was leaned against. The tree was plenty tall. If she climbed it she would be able to see far enough to figure out in which direction they should head. Some of the lower branches were a bit sparse, but up a short way, the limbs were more closely spaced and, by the looks of them, thick enough around to carry her weight easily. The top boughs could only be described as scrawny, but she would deal with them when the time came.

  May was a few branches high already when she was surprised by an angry male voice. "What are you doing?" barked Carlisle. "Get down from there!"

  She was so shocked by his low, loud outburst that she actually stepped down a branch. "I want to see where we're going. We've been traveling in circles for hours."

  "Are you crazy?" he bellowed, getting to his feet. "Get down at once!"

  "Well, someone's got to figure out where we're going. In case you haven't noticed, we're completely lost."

  He licked his lips. "Then I'll climb up and see where we are. Now come on. Down you go."

  She stared down at him from a limb several feet over his head. Her crazy? Even underfed as he was, he must weigh twice what she did. He simply wasn't making any sense. There was no way the tree branches would carry his weight. He'd either fall to his death or maybe just break a leg. Then Sheila would insist on carting him through the forest or one of them—herself probably, considering Sheila's twisted ankle—would have to run and get help—

  Carlisle dropped his voice an octave. "May Taylor, get down from that tree at once!"

  She did start to climb down then, staring icily at him and mumbling all the while under her breath. She glanced at her feet to get her bearings then sent him one last frosty look.

  But he wasn't looking back at her—he was looking up the trunk of the tree, twitching his fingers against the palms of his hands. He had gone white.

  She cast her eyes up and followed the trunk all the way until it burst through the forest canopy into a small patch of blue sky far above. So that's what all his yelling was about!

  May smiled to herself. Innocently and unwittingly, she had backed him into a corner. Raised in the grinding mill of Victorian tradition, his conscience demanded that he climb the tree himself. Only Carlisle had one small problem—he was afraid of hei
ghts.

  She and Sheila exchanged a look. Sheila approached him and then said casually, "Mr. Carlisle, May's a whiz at climbing trees. I've seen her climb like a hundred of them twice this tall. This is a piece of cake, believe me."

  May watched his face. He wasn't looking at Sheila, but he was listening.

  Sheila put her hand on his sleeve. "Mr. Carlisle?" she said softly, demanding his attention. Sheila was always more convincing face to face, and she knew it.

  When he finally looked at her, she said, "May climbs pretty much any tree she can find. I'm surprised it took her this long. I've never seen her fall out. She won't get hurt. Honest."

  From her bird's eye view, May observed his pulsing, tightly closed jaw relax just the tiniest bit. As much as he had no desire to watch her climb the tree, he had even less of a desire to do it himself.

  "Really, she'll be fine." Sheila finished with a winsome smile.

  She really was an angel.

  May started up the tree again as swiftly as a lizard. Carlisle fumbled for words, only nothing coherent came out. What could he say, after all? He was outnumbered by two and a half people: May, Sheila, and half of himself.

  As she climbed, May kept her feet close to the trunk, careful not to stray out onto the weaker parts of the branches that might break under her weight and send her tumbling back to earth. Just as she had thought, the boughs became sturdier and more closely spaced after she passed the lower growth, and she was able to climb them easily. The closer she got to the top, however, the thinner and more pliable the boughs became, and she slowed down, choosing each limb with more care.

  May stopped for a moment, looked down, and saw the now tiny face of Sheila turned up at her. Carlisle had his arms crossed and was pacing in an arc around the base of the trunk with his head down. Momentarily, he glanced up. Even from this height, he looked nauseous.

  She had gone about as far as she could safely go without the branches snapping or bending under her weight. Only just a couple more, and she would break out above the roof of the forest. There looked to be a good crow's nest several feet above her head made out of a branch that forked up at an angle from the trunk. She was reasonably sure it would hold her weight, and she would be able to wedge her body snugly into it to look out over the terrain.

  Unfortunately, the only means of getting to the branch she wanted was to trust another scrawny limb that she didn't think could hold her for more than a few seconds.

  At first, May tried to stretch past the piece of deadwood. Hugging the now spindly trunk, she extended her arm as much as she dared—even a little beyond what she dared—towards the thick branch of her crow's nest. Her fingers trembled short of it by no more than a centimeter.

  She relaxed her arm and shook the muscles out. Aiming for the branch again, she tried to imagine her arm elongating just a fraction of an inch farther. May pushed her shoulder forward. She attempted to think long thoughts. She lifted her weight slightly off her opposite foot. The tip of her middle finger tickled the smooth gray bark, but that was all.

  Cursing in frustration, she gave up. The untrustworthy limb was knee high to her. Still clutching the trunk, May put her foot up and tested it. The dead twigs and leaves at the far end bounced up and down, rattling softly. It might work. She guessed it would hold her on the way up—she wasn't at all sure about the way down.

  With no other tree limb within reach, she held fast to the trunk with one hand, stepped on the uncertain support of the dead limb briefly, and with her other hand hoisted herself into her crow's nest. She jammed her foot neatly in the angled crevice between the trunk and the limb, stood up and hung on for dear life.

  It had been worth it. From her new vantage point, May looked out over a charming expanse of pasture land just beyond the forest. The fair wind blew fresh warm air into her lungs and rustled the leaves of the tree tops around her. Tall cotton candy clouds floated effortlessly against a pale blue sky.

  She looked down from a great distance, and everything seemed delightfully smaller and less important.

  About a half mile away was a white farmhouse with a thatched roof. A thin curl of smoke rose from the chimney. A glimmering snake of a stream flowed through a valley past the farmhouse and continued to points unknown. She could just make out a horse drawn cart making its way through the water. Somewhere she heard a dog bark.

  She frowned. There was something familiar about everything, like she had seen it before, but she couldn't place where. The sense of deja vu hadn't left her as she began her retreat back to earth.

  Climbing up a tree was never the problem. Getting down was always tricky. May regarded her descent as an unpleasant task and a sobering anticlimax after being up so high.

  She slid down onto her bottom and sat in the uncomfortable crook of the fork. Clutching the trunk, she twisted her body around and put the ball of her foot on the dead branch that had been stubborn enough to hold her on the way up. Gingerly, she bounced her foot on it and listened to the dried leaves at the far end rattle. There was no use debating it—she just didn't have any choice.

  She set her weight down and heard a gut sickening snap as the branch gave way. At that very instant, oddly enough, something snapped in her brain as well. A few seconds later, May found herself hanging from one of the branches directly below, with butterflies in her stomach and the underside of her jaw smarting. She spat out suddenly, "Constable."

  From below she could hear Carlisle condemning himself loudly in religious tones, and Sheila encouraging May down the tree with a trembling note of anxiety in her voice.

  May regained her footing and fairly flew the rest of the way to earth. She skipped the last few branches and jumped to the ground with an exaggerated flourish and a huge smile spread across her face. "Constable!" she exclaimed.

  Sheila and Carlisle stopped grumbling in unison and couldn't have looked more confused than if she'd said her hair was on fire.

  She said to Sheila, "Your mother—she has a picture of some men driving a horse drawn wagon through a stream. Do you know the one I mean? The painter's name is Constable—John Constable." She gave a quick nod Carlisle's way. "It's on the wall next to his painting."

  A light was beginning to dawn for Sheila.

  May continued, "It's called 'The Hay Wagon'."

  Carlisle said, "The Hay Wain?"

  "Yes, that's it."

  "Your mother has the painting?" Carlisle asked Sheila.

  "A print," May answered for her. "Just a print. It's a famous painting! The original would cost a fortune."

  Carlisle nodded.

  "The forest ends maybe two hundred yards that way," said May, pointing in the general direction of the farmhouse. "After that we should be able to find the other edge if we keeping walking."

  "And then what?" said Sheila. "Onto the next painting? Is that what we're doing?"

  "What choice do we have?" said May. "We don't know where it will go. Maybe to the next painting, or maybe it'll be the way back home. What else can we do?"

  Sheila said, "We could always go backwards, back into Mr. Carlisle's painting."

  "No, let's keep going forward," interrupted Carlisle. "I don't ever want to go back there. I'd like you girls to get home and maybe find a place for myself somewhere. Not there." He took his jacket off the tree branch. "It's settled. We'll head that way—the way you said, May. God willing, we'll find the edge shortly after that." Heading off in the direction she had indicated, he glanced back once and waved them forward, "Let's go!"

  "Who died and made him boss?" said May, watching him. She turned back to see Sheila scowling at her.

  "Nice work, May," Sheila scolded. "Why'd you have to go and say that for?"

  "What did I say?"

  "Why be subtle? Maybe you should have just told him my mom bought his painting at a yard sale for twenty bucks." And with that, Sheila set off after Carlisle, who with his longer strides, was a good ways ahead now.

  Shaking her head, May grabbed her sweatshirt off the
branch and ran after the both of them.