Spelled Out in Paint

Chapter 1

A Wrong Turn

Duncan saw the one-way sign too late. Since he couldn’t back up into traffic onto the busy street he had come from, he said a silent prayer that no cars would turn down the short one-way alley before he could make it safely out the other side.

He was about half way down when his luck ran out.

In the gray light between the buildings at the end of the street, he saw the boxy silhouette of an automobile enter, blocking him in. The straight, high roof of the vehicle hinted at a set of emergency lights.

It's just a ski rack, said May in the front passenger seat next to him.

The alleyway lit up bright blue for several seconds then returned to wintery gray twilight.

Or maybe not, she said, twisting around to glare at her brother, Charley, in the back seat.

As the mini-van ground to a stop, Charley said, Hey, don't blame me. The GPS didn't say anything about this being a one-way.

In the seat next to Charley, Sheila pointed to the cell phone in her hand with the sparkly blue nail of her pinky finger. What about that arrow there? And wasn't I supposed to be reading the GPS for him?

Charley was silent as he took the cell phone from her, turned it upside down, and frowned at the screen.

May said, Any dumb idiot could see this was a one way, Charley, but you just kept screaming at him to turn. You've been back seat driving this whole trip.

Duncan was surprised to hear so many words strung together from the girl in the front passenger seat, though he was glad at this particular moment that they weren't aimed at him. But she was right about her brother back seat driving and when he wasn't doing that, he was bickering with Sheila.

Just what Sheila saw in Charley, Duncan couldn't figure out, but he had never known his cousin to make brilliant choices when it came to boyfriends anyway.

From inside the van, they all watched the police officer squeeze himself out of the squad car, trying not to ding the side of a red Subaru with the Taser on his hip. Duncan ran the palms of his hands down the thighs of his jeans. The cop looked close to retirement and there were hard lines on his face. He had probably heard every excuse in the book, and he looked like he hadn't believed any one of them.

Charley said, Dude, that guy's seen a lot of donuts.

Silently, they all nodded in agreement.

At the very back of the minivan, Duncan's little brother, Shane, blurted out, Is that a real cop car? Dunc, are you gonna get 'rested?

Sheila answered sweetly, No Shanie, the nice officer's just going to talk to Dunc a little.

Duncan wished she sounded more sure.

So far it had been one of those dry Decembers, too bitter cold to snow, and Duncan decided to wait until the cop got to the van before pressing the button to roll down the window. Not that the cold would have affected the girl in the front passenger seat; she hadn't removed her puffy white parka the entire trip even with the heat cranked. With her skinny legs sticking out, it was like driving around with a giant cotton swab.

The cop seemed to be taking his sweet time getting to the van. When he finally got close enough, Duncan clicked the control to the window but nothing happened.

The cop looked blandly through the glass, gnawed some gum in his mouth and waited.

Duncan tried the button again, but the window still didn't budge. He tried to remember if his mother had been having trouble with it; the van was ancient.

I'm sorry, officer, Duncan yelled through the glass, holding his hands up helplessly.

The cop raised his eyebrows, drawing up the tired hoods of his pale gray eyes. He lifted a finger and pointed to the back of the van.

From behind him, he heard Charley say, Thanks for the fresh air, dude. Why don't you try rolling down your own window now?

Duncan felt, more than saw, the girl next to him roll her eyes as he looked down, moved his hand to put up Charley's window, then pressed the correct button for his own.

The officer's eyes scanned the interior of the minivan as the window came down. He said routinely, License and registration, please.

Oh right. Duncan unclasped his seat belt, wrestled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans then offered it to the cop. The wallet was made of duct tape.

The officer chewed his gum at it. Could you take out the license, please?

Duncan dug out his license and handed it to him, then watched the cop look it over.

And I'll need the registration, said the cop, not looking up.

Oh, right, I forgot, Duncan shot a hand out to the glove compartment and the girl next to him startled like she'd heard a gunshot.

He snapped his hand back, then excused himself twice before gingerly reaching in front of her again to flick the clasp of the compartment.

At his touch, the door flew open and exploded papers all over her knees and onto the floor. Mixed into garage repair bills and a decade's worth of van registrations, there was a mutilated owner's manual and an unwrapped orange tootsie-pop.

He stretched out his hand to take some of the papers off her lap but then stopped himself, suspecting that he might get it slapped this time. She bent her head down and started pawing through the pile like she was looking for a missing lottery ticket before he could make another attempt to enter her body space.

The officer, reading from the license with the trace of a smile on his purplish lips, announced, Duncan Fergus O'Callahan. That you? The man poked the name badge on his uniform. I'm Officer James O'Reilly, Duncan. Could you take off your hat, please?

Duncan removed his faded red baseball cap. Unsuccessfully, he tried to smooth down the ends of his dark hair that curled up where the edge of the cap had been.

O'Reilly inspected his face, comparing it to the picture on the license in his hand. I didn't know you young guys were still wearing your sideburns so long.

The girl next to him made a funny noise in her throat like a little cough.

You drove up from Mass? asked O'Reilly.

Mass?

Yes, Mass. This is a Massachusetts license, Duncan. This is yours, isn't it?

Oh, right, Mass. No, we left from Masobesic Bay.

Maine? Are you vacationing?

Vacationing?

Yes, vacationing. Are you on vacation? The cop was getting annoyed.

Vacation? No, we just moved up from Boston.

When was that?

Um … I don't know, said Duncan slowly, watching the cop flip the license over in his hand. A week?

O'Reilly looked up sharply. So you're saying you don't know if it was a week ago that you moved? I think I would remember—

No, sorry. I mean, a few weeks. Duncan swallowed. Why? How long do I have to change it? I was going to get a Maine one tomorrow, I swear. Don't I still have a few days?

Take it easy. You've had this license about seven and a half months, Duncan?

For sure.

Is that a 'yes'?

Yes, I mean, yes.

O'Reilly raised an eyebrow at him.

Duncan shrank in his seat. Sir? I mean yes, sir. Is … is there a problem with the license? When the cop didn't answer right away, he added weakly. Sir?

No. Not necessarily. Where are you all off to today?

Art museum, sir?

Are you asking me or telling me, Duncan?

Art museum, yes sir.

O'Reilly nodded. This is the wrong street, Duncan. It's around the corner, next street over.

Duncan had already figured that out. Thanks, sir.

How old are you, son?

Sixteen, sir. Couldn't he tell from the license? He was looking right at it.

Do you know why I stopped you, Duncan?

Charley grumbled something about not knowing how to drive that was audible to everyone, including the cop.

There was a thump from the back of the van as Shane kicked the underside of Charley's seat.

Um, not really, sir, said Duncan, widening his eyes, trying to look innocent.

Did you happen to see that sign on the corner, son?

Sign, sir?

O'Reilly sighed, turned to face his squad car and motioned to both sides of his thick body with his hands, one of which still had Duncan's license in it. Okay, Duncan, do you see that all the parked cars are facing in our direction on both sides of the street? And do you see how your vehicle happens to be pointing the opposite way?

Duncan nodded, watching his license move up and down in the cop's hand.

You're traveling down a one way street in the wrong direction.

Duh, breathed out Charley.

Shane kicked the underside of Charley's seat again, which made it about the hundredth time since leaving Sheila's house.

Bingo! shouted May, holding up the orange tootsie pop.

When everyone just stared at her, she pointed to the piece of paper stuck to the lollipop. I finally found the registration to the van.

She passed the tootsie-pop to Duncan by the very bottom of the stick. He took it from her carefully, trying not to touch even one of her slender white fingers. Then he offered the lollipop with the registration to O'Reilly.

Both sides of the officer's mouth went down. Could you remove it from the sucker, please?

Duncan tugged a few times on the registration until it let go with just a small tear out of the corner. The wrinkled paper fluttered as he held it out to O'Reilly.

May said suddenly, It's really not his fault, officer, my brother gave him the wrong directions. He's a total back seat driver. You should try playing a video game when he's around.

I'll consider myself warned, mumbled O'Reilly, reading over the registration.

The GPS was incorrect, insisted Charley, who hated being wrong about anything. Luckily for him, but unluckily for others, he was not wrong often. Sheila pointed again to the phone with the painted nail of her little finger.

Sheila, that's the next street up. The GPS is simply in error.

Oh, said Sheila. Then to everyone, she said, You know, I think he's right.

Thank you, said Charley. He smiled and handed the phone back to her.

Duncan closed his eyes and exhaled. Charley seemed to have that effect on everyone eventually.

I'll be back in a minute, said O'Reilly. Don't go anywhere.

As he watched O'Reilly saunter back to the cop car, Duncan slumped in his seat and stuck the lollipop in his mouth. In the ten minute wait that followed, Sheila and Charley argued, and Shane announced that he needed to go to the bathroom. The girl next to him said nothing of course.

He turned on the radio to drown out the sound of Charley and Sheila and Shane in the back. What he really wanted to do was to scream at them all to just shut up already. He pressed about a dozen buttons on the radio, got nothing but talk—some obnoxiously political, some obnoxiously inane, some both. Finally, he gave up and turned it off.

What was taking the cop so long? Wasn't it always bad if they took a long time? Duncan was going to lose his license, he just knew it. He had finally passed the written test on his third attempt, made it past the six month mark and the passenger and night restrictions, and now his license would probably be taken away until he was thirty, maybe forty even. He'd be practically dead by then.

What's more, he had some sense to realize what a moron he looked like being dressed down by this cop. But it didn't really matter because the girl (what was her name again?) was on a date with a 'dumb idiot' that couldn't read street signs anyway.

Duncan was starting to deeply regret agreeing to go along on this trip. He realized now that he had made a mistake. When he first met her, she had seemed so different to him; but he saw now that she just wasn't his type.

Okay, really, he saw now that he just wasn't her type. She looked down her thin nose at him whenever he said anything to her. At the start, he had tried to make small talk, even attempted a few jokes, but after getting back only one word responses for over an hour, he had given up.

He supposed it was just as well. After all, she wore way too much make-up, obviously had no sense of humor, and to top it off, had an obnoxious, know-it-all, back seat driving brother who had rattled him into making a completely stupid mistake which might cost him his license. The only reason he had ended up driving was because his mom's minivan was big enough to carry all five of them. His little brother had insisted on coming along and, as usual, had gotten his way. Shane was smart, smarter than himself at that age, Duncan realized, and he had a persistent will that wore down their mother completely.

Duncan also suspected his mother wasn't above using his little brother as a spy.

He watched the girl trying to organize the stack of papers from the glove box. He should tell her not to bother. The van was usually a dumping ground of soda bottles, paper cups, and empty snack bags.

He crunched the rest of the lollipop and chucked the stick at his feet.

You know, you don't really need to do that, he said, picking some candy out of a tooth with his finger. The whole van's usually a pig sty. I've tried to clean it once or twice, but it's usually a junk heap a few days later.

Her Highness didn't even look at him. All she said was, Oh? like he didn't need to tell her what she already knew. Then she just went on fiddling with the papers on her lap. Duncan wanted to reach over and mess them all up on her.

As he was looking at her, she touched the edge of her eye and came away with a smudge of black goo which she gave a disgusted look to before taking another paper from the pile.

Why hadn't he guessed it? Of course the makeup was all his cousin Sheila's work. The heavy eyeliner and bright lipstick, which seemed just a part of Sheila (he couldn't even remember her without it), seemed out of place on this girl. She looked like a tarted up librarian. He suspected she knew it.

About the only good thing Sheila had done was to put the girl's hair up in a bun. Curled lengths of glossy brown hair bounced around the back of her head every time she moved. His eyes followed one shiny lock down to the nape of the girl's slim neck. He had the impulse to reach out and run his fingers down the length of it.

She faced him suddenly and gave him a wide eyed look. Her almond shaped eyes were a strange shade of light brown on the edge of orange.

Duncan felt heat rush to his face and hated himself for it. He quickly looked out the driver's side window.

It wasn't like he hadn't ever stared at a girl and got a nasty look in return. But those were girls who knew they were pretty and just acted offended. This girl really was offended, as though he had stared at her like she was a side show freak.

He was almost glad when O'Reilly's wrinkled mug appeared at the window.

Could you please step outside the van? he said, before Duncan could even get the window down all the way.

His stomach dropped. He rubbed his hands over his face, opened the car door and got out.

The cop led him midway down the side of the minivan. Duncan leaned his back against the cold metal and shuddered.

Officer James O'Reilly had three boys with his ex-wife. Two of them were in college and one was a senior in high school. He wasn't taking any chances. So far the kid was keeping it together, but he didn't like the thought of him losing it in front of everyone in the van, especially his girlfriend.

Or the girlfriend's brother, who reminded him of his ex-brother-in-law.

The kid's story had checked out. O'Reilly hadn't smelled or seen anything unusual in the vehicle either.

Damn GPS. At least a dozen people made a wrong turn down that one-way street each week. Why couldn't people just go back to reading maps and paying attention to road signs?

O'Reilly's nicotine gum had lost its flavor, but he kept on chewing it anyway. He crossed his arms, looked down the street at his squad car, deciding what to do, then looked back at Duncan.

Look, kid, I can't find anything on you, but you need to know that Maine isn't Mass. Namely, it's a bit longer before you can have a gang of people in your vehicle if you're under eighteen.

Duncan tilted his head back, reached up with both hands and folded them together over the top of his head. It seemed to stop his head from spinning, but his eyes were starting to sting. He stared up at a gray cloud that seemed to have followed him all the way from Boston.

Relax, said O'Reilly. This is still a Mass license but you need to change it pronto. I want you to find a ride for a few of your passengers, like your girlfriend's brother there. Make some phone calls, but not on the road. Do it at the museum.

She's not my ... she's not ... I just met her.

O'Reilly waved his hand impatiently, motioning for Duncan to get back in the van. Date, friend, BFF, whatever you all say now. He pulled a pad of paper and a pen from his inside jacket pocket and started writing.

As the door closed, O'Reilly ripped off the sheet from his notepad. And another thing. I noticed you got a skateboard in there. Word to the wise. The property owners around here don't like skateboard punks ripping up their walkways and piazzas. You get?

I'm just storing it for a friend.

For sure, said O'Reilly, holding out the sheet of paper. This is a ticket.

Duncan just stared at it.

Relax. It's not for you. He reached into the window and passed it to the back seat.

For me? said Charley, taking it from him.

Sheila leaned across Charley's lap and read out loud, 'Speeding ticket for running your mouth. Your Fine: Silence for the rest of the trip. Advice: No one likes a back seat driver.' Ha! That's pretty funny.

Charley crumpled the paper up in his hand and added it to the food wrappers at his feet.

Back up and I'll wave you out into the street, O'Reilly said, giving a final pat to the window ledge.

Duncan put his seatbelt on then started the ignition. Placing a hand at the back of May's seat, he set the minivan in reverse.

She noticed that he wore about a dozen multicolored friendship bracelets on his wrist. His hand next to her smelled of scented soap, and his eyes were bloodshot like he'd been crying.

Great, she thought, the sensitive type.

Chapter 2

The Doomed Date

Like many small art museums in rural states, along with the shock of a lesser known Picasso or Van Gogh in the regular collection, from time to time there are exhibitions of other pieces of famous and rare art. Northern New England drives to Boston for culture, but time brings culture in the opposite direction as well; though somewhat more slowly than traveling on I-95, depending on the traffic.

May checked the time on her cell phone again and was frowned at by a passing security guard who seemed to think that all cell phone usage meant that people were taking photos—a big no-no at the museum.

She was on the never ending date. Doomed to wander around an art museum with a guy with whom she had nothing to talk about, who made stupid jokes about every painting, and who had made it obvious that he didn't think she was even remotely attractive. Since she had been forcibly stripped of her parka by Sheila at the coat check room, Duncan had ceased to look at her whatsoever aside from brief glances. He rarely stood in one spot long and when he did, he shifted on his feet like he was going to bolt off any second. He seemed twitchy for the date to be over, which was fine with her. Didn't she want it over herself? So what did she care if this guy was making it completely obvious that he thought she was dull and unattractive?

Shortly after splitting up from Sheila and Charley, she had excused herself to the restroom and washed off the makeup that Sheila had puttied on her while getting ready for this last minute escapade. May couldn't get all the eyeliner off, but at least her eyes had stopped itching, and she felt less like she belonged in a circus.

Before she left the restroom, May stuck her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror as she adjusted the top of the low cut tank she was wearing. She was glad she could at least tuck the tank top into her pants because the sweater Sheila had made her wear was just weird. It didn't even go all the way to her waist. Sheila called it a 'shrug', and it was rightly named since she'd like to shrug it off. Thankfully Sheila didn't have any hot pants or high heels that would fit her, so May had been allowed to wear her own jeans and sneakers.

When Duncan wasn't avoiding looking at her, he was usually trying to keep track of his little brother. The open spaces of the art museum and the vanilla shake at the burger joint they had stopped at for lunch were wreaking havoc on the nervous system of the five year old. The kid was zooming around like a jet engine.

Literally.

Luckily, it was almost closing time and most people were finding their way out of the museum into the gloomy winter evening to find a restaurant. In a plea bargain deal, Shane had avoided having to hold his older brother's hand by agreeing to stay in the same room.

That sure is a lot of blood, said Duncan, twisting around to catch sight of Shane. Are they nurses?

Not likely. She pointed to the placard on the wall. "Judith Beheading Holofernes by Artemisia Gen-til-es-chi, yup, Gentileschi."

By who?

By whom, she corrected.

She's got a little of her brother in her, thought Duncan. Okay. By whom?

Artemisia Gentileschi.

Not ringing any bells.

Maybe because she's a woman?

This date just keeps getting better and better, thought Duncan.

Shane buzzed by as a mock airplane. He wore a red Superman cape leftover from Halloween and it trailed out straight behind him as he zoomed around. He stopped making engine sounds for a second, halted in his tracks and said, Look at all that blood!

They're cutting off his head, she told him. She sounded glad.

Awesome! said Shane before resuming his flight around the room. After a few seconds, the engine sounds cut out abruptly.

Duncan looked over his shoulder and caught sight of Shane prodding a spider on the floor with the toe of his sneaker. Leave that alone, he said as his eyes traveled over the walls of the room, making sure there wasn't anything he'd have to explain to the kid later.

The rest of the paintings were pretty innocent looking: mostly still lifes of flowers and fruit, some ratty yellow tapestries in frames, a few portraits of people, (none of whom appeared to be living now and a few others, not when they were painted in the first place).

A couple paintings in the room were