Persistence Of Memory

Chapter 3

Bartholomew held out a hand to steady himself. He was back in his hospital white bedroom, unchanged. Even the mud under his nails was gone.

Bartholomew quietly slid back one of the wooden screens that separated his room into two sections. This half of his bedroom suite had a fireplace with brick so white you’d think it had never been used. And of course, it hadn’t in years. Not since Mother inherited the estate.

Ignoring both the cold hearth and the leather loveseat in front of it, he headed straight for his writing desk, yanked open the drawer, and felt around for the latch to his secret compartment. He started to pull out some pencils when he changed his mind. He should make something larger. But his rumbling stomach told him to snack first.

Bartholomew tiptoed down the sweeping staircase and started to turn toward the kitchen when hushed voices down the long hall made him pause. At first, he ignored them, but then he heard his name and curiosity got the better of him. Slinking along the wall, he crept toward Mother’s office.

Mr. White’s clipped British accent made Bartholomew frown. “He steals away for hours.”

Be more careful. Bartholomew shook his head. Artania needs you.

Be more careful. Artania needs you.“Is he clean? Or?”

“Yes, yes. Always. But he barely focuses during his studies.”

“It is your job to make sure he does.”

“I do endeavor, Mrs. Borax. However…”

Bartholomew started to turn away. It seemed like his tutor was always complaining to Mother. And he used to care. But Bartholomew was tired of trying. From the cleaning army shooing him from one room to another, to faking focus during Mr. White’s boring lessons, to Mother’s panic attacks, it was too much for this fifteen-year-old.

Mother’s voice lowered until it was barely audible. “You haven’t shown him you-know-what?”

“Of course not. That would be folly. If he knew—”

“Which he won’t. Ever.”

“Not by my admission, ma’am.”

“Filth splashed across canvas! Why haven’t the lawyers been able to do more?”

What is she talking about? Mother hates art. Bartholomew thought. She won’t even allow it in the house.

What is she talking about? Mother hates art. She won’t even allow it in the house.Most of their mansion had bare walls with the exception of a few framed mirrors, a handful of family photos, and the Cleanliness is Next to Godliness poster glaring daily in the schoolroom.

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness I hate that stupid poster.

I hate that stupid poster.“Did you hear something?” Mother said.

“Dust bunnies!” Bartholomew whispered turning toward the stairs.

“Master Borax, what are you doing?” his British tutor asked before he could take a step.

He’d hoped bolting down the hall would make it look like he had just arrived, but his tutor was too quick. Keeping his back turned, Bartholomew tried to think of some reason for lurking outside Mother’s office.

Mother’s voice joined Mr. White’s. “Bartholomew?”

He pivoted slowly. “Hello, Mother.”

Hygenette Borax was seated behind a computer at her clear plexiglass desk, platinum blonde hair pulled in a tight bun. She wore a white silk blouse with matching slacks. Bartholomew’s middle-aged tutor stood next to her, filing his fingernails.

“Don’t hello mother me. Mr. White asked you a question. Now answer it.”

hello mother “I was just coming to ask you, to ask you…” He trailed off, chewing on his lower lip.

Mother thrust her pale hands onto her slim hips. “Well?”

Just ask her what you always do. Even though you know the answer. “I was wondering if I might be able to go back to school again. Alex says that Santa Barbara High is amazing. All kinds of interesting classes. Like—”

Just ask her what you always do. Even though you know the answer. “Absolutely not! Too dangerous. Filth. Disease!”

“But…” Bartholomew began but trailed off when she glared at him with those diamond blue eyes. He hung his head, “All right, Mother.”

“Now why don’t you be a good boy and go take a bath. Mr. White and I have business to discuss.”

Bartholomew smiled sweetly as if ready to comply while thinking. Of course, I’ll take my third bath today. Not.

Of course, I’ll take my third bath today. Not.Just then Hygenette’s desk phone rang. Smoothing her blonde bun with a pale hand, she looked to Bartholomew’s tutor.

Pausing from filing his nails, Mr. White tucked the manicure kit in his upper righthand coat pocket and picked up the receiver. “Borax residence. Whom may I say is calling?” He glanced at Bartholomew and nodded. “Yes, I will summon him.”

A few moments later Bartholomew was in the kitchen using the wall-mounted phone. Since Mother was sure that cell phones were a petri dish for germs, the Borax household only used landlines.

“Hello?”

“Dude, you okay?” Alex asked from the other end.

“Yes, you?”

“It’s starting again.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. Another one was,” he lowered his voice, “changed.”

“No! I thought that was over.” Bartholomew shook his head.

“Can you meet Gwen and I you-know-where?”

* * *

Bartholomew glanced over his shoulder, darted around the pool house, and started to trot across the grounds. Taking a deep breath of bleach-free air, he ripped off his tie and headed for his special place.

Although Mother had replaced most of the estate’s plants with plastic ones, one corner remained as wild and glorious as when Grandfather Borax was alive. And Bartholomew would forever be grateful. Grandfather’s will required that the area near the glass conservatory remain untouched and even today, lush vines, vibrant flowers, and moss-covered fountains graced every corner.

Bartholomew had first discovered the hidden space right after his eleventh birthday when a trap door opened and dropped him into the underground room. There, a message from Grandfather Borax explained how he’d designed a concealed studio under the greenhouse with enough art supplies to last years.

Bartholomew supposed that if Grandfather had lived, he would have shown off this amazing place himself. He often imagined the two of them sculpting or painting side by side.

He closed the hatch to the hidden studio before settling into a chair across from Alex and Gwendolyn Obranovich, the only other person who had ever traveled to Artania with them. When it first happened back in seventh grade, he didn’t understand why. She wasn’t an artist. But he sure was glad. That tough redhead had saved his rear more times than he could count.

Ever since he’d shown them the secret space beneath the conservatory and how to circumvent security at the front gate, they’d often met there to catch up, make plans, and talk in private. He was pretty proud of all the art supplies there. And not just a few crayons. Oh, no! There were shelves from floor to ceiling with bags of clay, potter’s wheels, and sculpting knives. Large canvases were stacked in one corner with an assortment of paintbrushes, paints, and pencils above them. A huge gas-fired kiln stood in one corner near the trap door where they now sat.

“Mom has been having the nightmares.”

the nightmares“No way,” Gwen said.

Bartholomew was perplexed. “But you’re creating. Right?”

“Some. But Mom needs help. I was painting warriors when she called me to take care of Destiny. And when I got back, the painting was all messed up.” Alex shook his head. “Like someone had snuck in while I wasn’t looking.”

There’d been a period a couple of years back when every canvas Alex painted, and every sculpture B-3 formed became a macabre horror overnight. After some experimenting, they realized that the only way to keep them from changing was to make them together. So, they created Knights of Painted Light side by side. And for months now everything returned to normal.

If you can call popping in and out of an art-created world without warning normal.

Gwen clenched her fists. “Swineys. Friggin’ a.”

“Sludge up to his old tricks,” Alex spat.

“Your mom doesn’t need that crap. She has enough to deal with.”

Alex’s face blanched. “I know.”

Gwen was a doer. If there was a problem, she jumped into it as quickly as she leaped onto her skateboard for one of those tricks she was always working on. And she liked Alex’s mom. Always had. Gwen said Mrs. Devinci was so gentle you expected fairy dust instead of words to come out of her mouth.

“So, what are we going to do?”

Bartholomew sighed. “What we always do,” he said picking up a lump of clay. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”