Title: The
Accidental Art Thief
Genre: General fiction
Author: Joan Schweighardt
Publisher: Twilight Times Books
For a quarter of a
century forty-five-year-old Zinc has worked as a caretaker for a wealthy old
man, living in a small casita on his ranch in New Mexico. She doesn’t make much
money, but she has the old man, her dogs, and gorgeous views of the mountains.
She is basically a very content recluse who doesn’t invest much time thinking
about what she might do if her circumstances change. So when the old man dies
suddenly, and his daughter all but throws her off the property, Zinc is forced
to reinvent herself—and quickly.
With a touch of magical realism and a collection
of offbeat characters, The
Accidental Art Thief explores
the thin line between life and death and the universal forces that connect all
things.
//////////////////////////////////////
THE ACCIDENTAL ART THIEF
a novel by
Joan Schweighardt
Chapter 1
Zinc had hung feeders all along the boughs of
the trees, mostly cottonwoods and piñons that she could see from the window of
the casita where she lived. This way when she needed a break from the work she
did at her desk, she could look up—a small window was right there—and drink in
the bird life, albeit at some distance. There were greenish-brown hummingbirds
and red-brown finches to be seen three seasons of the year. Sometimes there
were piñon jays, their blue bodies as vivid as the desert sky overhead. At
least once a week she caught sight of the local roadrunner, whom she had named
Steven, after someone she had loved once, someone who had broken her heart. And
once—mystery of mysteries—a peacock dropped out of the sky, spread its
resplendent blue-green feathers, turned its head in the direction of the window
behind which Zinc stood with one hand over her open mouth and her eyes brimming
with tears of joy, and looked right at her before disappearing into the scrub.
Now that was a day to remember.
But lately Zinc had
begun to wonder what it would be like to work facing the mountains rather than
the cottonwoods. In fact her casita did have windows facing east, but the main
house, where the old man lived, obscured her view. She wondered what it would
be like to work outdoors sometimes, where she might see jack rabbits running in
the scrub, or maybe even a lone coyote reigning proud from some rocky outcrop.
She mentioned this desire to Smith, the old man’s sometimes driver, and Smith
said she should get a laptop. Smith told her there was a second-hand computer
store on Central. The owner was a real geek, he said; he picked up obsolete
models for next to nothing and gave them new life. His prices were
extraordinarily reasonable, as if he labored merely for the love of it.
For the love of it. Zinc liked that.
*
On a Saturday Zinc
walked down the dirt road from her casita to San Dominic Road, and from there
she walked to the bus stop on Bonita. She preferred not to talk to strangers if
she didn’t have to, so she carried with her a Macy’s shopping bag into which
she’d stuffed the bathrobe she’d removed from her body earlier that morning. It
still smelled faintly of the coffee she’d accidentally spilled. When the bus
came, she took the seat behind the driver. Then she watched out the window, and
sure enough, before long she saw the second-hand computer shop storefront,
wedged in between a coffee shop and a new-age gift store that featured a large
limestone Buddha in its big front window.
She took the bus a
mile or so farther and then got off and awaited a return ride. This time she
knew where to look and she was able to gather in more information. The computer
store was called Timothy’s Second-Hand Computers, and what Zinc recognized as a
very old Mac model sat in the center of the window—a bookend (in size and
positioning if not in eminence) to the Buddha in the shop beside it. The Mac’s
screen and the innards that should have been behind it had been removed,
replaced with a roll of toilet paper, the end sheet of which stuck out from
what had once been its floppy drive opening. Timothy had turned the old Mac
into a toilet paper dispenser!
Zinc could drive of
course, and she had a junker to prove it—a seventeen-year-old Pontiac Firebird
that her brother, Frankie, had given her two years earlier. But she didn’t
drive it unless she absolutely had to. Just looking at the orange-red beast
with its long raised snout and angry flared nostrils, parked as it was as far
from her casita as the old man would allow, seemed like a bad idea. And so the
following week, late in the afternoon, she took the bus once again, this time
throwing a pair of jeans and a paperback into her Macy’s bag, and getting off
at the corner just before the second-hand computer store. Then she stood,
hidden behind sunglasses with lenses the size of fists, her wild brown curls
stuffed beneath a NY Yankees cap, leaning against the stucco wall of the
Central Ave Bank, cattycorner from Timothy’s, at the point where she could see
the door but could not be seen herself, attempting to determine how busy the
place got. When she felt quite sure there wasn’t much traffic (in fact, the
door hadn’t opened once), she crossed Central and marched in.
A little brass bell
on the door announced her arrival, but Timothy, who had his back to her, only
mumbled, “How ya doing?” and didn’t turn around. The table he worked over was
full of computer parts, illuminated by a green goose-necked desk lamp, the bulb
of which was close to the table surface.
“Fine,” she heard
herself say. It came out sounding like a child’s voice. Well, that was her
voice; it was high-pitched and there wasn’t much she could do about it.
“Can I help
you?” he asked, and he looked past her for a second, perhaps searching for the
child he thought he’d heard.
“I’d like to buy a
computer. A laptop. A used laptop. An inexpensive used laptop.” She smiled
nervously.
Timothy was old,
perhaps in his mid seventies. But it was only the skin on his face, which fell
over his bones like carelessly hung curtain swags, that gave him away. He was
trim and—she noted as he got up to round the counter—spry and surefooted. She
raised her hand to her sunglasses, but then dropped it just before her fingers
made contact. A moment later her hand came up again, and this time the glasses
came down with it. Timothy stopped in his progress to stare into her eyes,
tipping forward from his waist for the briefest moment. “The laptops are over
here,” he mumbled, and he turned to show her the way.
Timothy spent the
next several minutes describing the virtues of each of the four second-hand
models he had available. Two were so old they didn’t even have modems. “What do
you want it for?” he asked, turning toward her suddenly.
Zinc swallowed. This
is what she hated. The sudden question, the switch in focus, and then the
inevitable journey the interrogator always took into her eyes. Years ago, when
her skin was smooth and tight, people only said, “What an unusual color your
eyes are.” But now she was forty-five and there were tiny lines around her
eyes, making them somehow more—not less—prominent, or so she felt. Sometimes it
seemed as if they were doorways, with doors that strangers could throw open
easily and walk on through. Where did they go? What did they do in there
all that time?
Caught off guard, there
was no chance to come up with a lie. And the truth was Zinc was a terrible liar
anyway. “I write poetry,” she said.
“For a living?” asked
Timothy, sounding alarmed.
“No, I keep house.”
“For a living?” This
time he chuckled.
“For an…a…man.” She’d
almost said “an old man,” how she and Smith referred to him, a term of
affection for them.
“Your husband?”
“My employer.”
“Full time?”
“Part time…the
housekeeping. Well, actually, it’s more than that. I do other things for him.
And then the poetry. I make some money now and then from that too. So if you
put the two together….” She realized she was rambling and stopped
abruptly.
Timothy turned back
to the computers. “You’re under the radar,” he mumbled. “One of those people
who can’t manage a real job. A lot of you here in Albuquerque.”
The color came to her
face immediately, a flash flood. She loved what she did. She loved her life.
Why did everyone assume that if you didn’t make much money or didn’t do
something glamorous, you were a loser? And wasn’t he under the radar too,
working at rejuvenating dead computers in a store that nobody visited? She
squared her shoulders. For the love of it indeed. But all she said was, “No.”
And then she thought better of it and forced a chuckle. “Well, maybe.”
“You shouldn’t admit it,” Timothy said, turning
to hand her one of the laptops. She could see in his eyes that he was serious,
that he meant well. “If you make your money cleaning house for someone,” he
expounded, “you should tell people you’re a personal assistant. It’s almost
true if not exactly, and it sounds much better. Saying you keep house….” He
shook his head. “People will make assumptions. You’ll never get anywhere.
You’ll clean houses forever.” Again he took the journey into her eyes, but this
time he returned much sooner. “But then you’re not all that young, are you?”
Although she wanted
nothing more than to escape, she forced her feet to stay planted just where
they were, because, second to escaping, she wanted a laptop. And, as Timothy
had so kindly pointed out, she wasn’t a child anymore; she had learned to
control her impulses. Ultimately, she chose the laptop that was least
expensive—an old modem-less IBM that Timothy guaranteed would work for the next
five years if she was kind to it—and took the bus home.
So lost in her
thoughts was Zinc that she was briefly startled when she opened the door to her
casita and was immediately charged by two dogs, her dogs, Paddy and Orlando.
Paddy was six years old and appeared to be mostly golden retriever with some
chow mixed in—a furry yellow dog with a black tongue that was always hanging
sideways out of his mouth. Zinc had found him at the end of the dirt road that
led to the property when he was a puppy. He was half starved then, and the gash
on his leg indicated that a larger animal, probably a coyote protecting her
pups, had tried to warn him away. (If a coyote had really wanted to hurt him,
it would have gone for his throat, and given his size at the time, Paddy would
not have survived.) Paddy was sweet and intelligent, but he was also suspicious
when there were strangers about, generally up at the old man’s house as Zinc
didn’t get visitors herself. Orlando was a beagle mix, about four years old. He
had come from a shelter just over two years ago. This was back before the old
man’s legs had gotten so bad, back when he could still get around with a cane
on one side and someone’s arm on the other. He’d heard that his neighbor’s dog
had run away, and since the neighbor was in worse physical shape that he was,
and didn’t have a driver to chauffer him around, the old man volunteered to
have Smith take them both to the shelter to look for the Doberman, Gilly. Gilly
wasn’t there, but the old man saw Orlando dancing at the bars of his cage, and
he imagined that the beagle would be the perfect companion for Paddy, that
Paddy might relax if he had a younger dog to play with. So he brought him home
and told Zinc if she didn’t want him, or if Paddy wouldn’t tolerate him, it
wasn’t a problem; the shelter would take him back. But both Zinc and Paddy fell
in love with him immediately and that was the end of that.
Once she had greeted
her dogs, given them each a biscuit and let them out, Zinc let the “under the
radar” remark go down the drain, literally. It was a trick her father had taught
her when she was a child (back in rural upstate New York, a couple hours north
and west of New York City) and would come home crying because someone had
teased her or called her a name at school. He would drag a wooden bench over to
the kitchen sink and have her step up on it. Then he would turn on the faucet
and Zinc would repeat the words that had hurt her so (“weirdo,” “mute,” “witch
eyes,”) and together they would wash them down the drain. They had done this so
many times and with such zeal that both believed that they could “see” the
insults swirling drainward. “Go play, now,” her father would say, and she
would, skipping outdoors, her curly brown pigtails flying out on either side of
her head, calling out her brother’s name, Frankie, Frankie, who, her father
hoped, would watch after her after he and his wife were gone—because a sixth
sense told him they would never reach old age.
Zinc had been working
for the old man and living in the casita behind his house for twenty-five years
now, since the year after her parents died, the same year Steven left, and she
did not love the place any less. It had been built over one hundred years ago,
from adobe. Although it had been upgraded with central cooling and heating,
Zinc seldom needed temperature control. The adobe stored and released the heat
slowly, keeping her little house cool in summer and warm in winter, except when
the temperatures were extreme. It was almost as if she were living in something
that was alive itself.
Her little casita was beautiful in its
simplicity; all the walls were painted a warm white and all eight-hundred
square feet of flooring was covered with a red-gold Mexican saltillo tile. Her furnishings had all
come from the old man’s house over the years, odd pieces that he no longer needed,
and all of it was Mexican as well. And then there was the art. The old man was
a collector, and each time he brought new paintings into his house, he would
pass the old ones on to Zinc. His daughter, whose name was Marge, liked to
carry the smaller ones over herself, probably, Zinc thought, so that she could
remind her each time that some of the paintings were of considerable value and
that Zinc must never nevercome
to think of them as anything but a loan. As if Zinc could ever forget that.
Zinc did not have a
land line or a cell phone. She did not have a TV or an MP3 or an iPod or a
digital camera. She had a radio. And she had a computer, now two of them, and
while the new one was modem-less, the Internet that worked through her desktop
model had become her connection to the world. She had even made a few friends
over the Internet, most of them editors of literary magazines who
considered—and sometimes accepted—her poetry for their quarterly or biannual
publications.
She opened her new
used laptop on the kitchen table and plugged in the charger. In addition to the
Word program that she planned to make good use of, there were a half dozen
others. She was delighted to see that one was a chess game, and that you could
“zoom” it up to be the size of the screen. She and the old man played chess all
the time. She couldn’t imagine playing chess with a computer herself, but the
old man might enjoy it. He got so lonely sometimes. And now his eyes were so
bad that he could no longer read. She read to him frequently, but never for
more than an hour at a time, because she was prone to sore throats. He listened
to audio books, but he said it wasn’t the same. They made him sleepy. He hated
to sleep, because he had nightmares much of the time.
Zinc thought he must
have read more books in his life than any ten people she knew, not that she
actually knew ten people. He could remember everything too, even information
from books he’d read back when he was quite young. Although his tastes ran
toward histories and biographies and hers toward fiction and poetry, they could
spend hours talking about books; they could spend hours talking, period.
While the computer
charged, Zinc heated leftovers from a casserole she’d made for the old man the
evening before: artichoke hearts, spinach and chicken tenders. She called the
dogs in and fed them and let them out again. When she finally allowed herself
to look at the digital indicator on the computer screen, she saw that the
charging had progressed only to fifty percent of capacity, but it would have to
do.
Zinc pulled out the cord and closed the laptop
and hurried out of the house. Her breath caught immediately and she stopped in
her tracks, the laptop crushed to her chest. There was a moment every evening
when the setting sun was exactly opposite the mountains, and if one were lucky
enough to catch it, one could see the Sandias (sandia meant watermelon in Spanish) turn
pink. Not just light pink, but if conditions were right, shocking pink, a kind
of otherworldly fuchsia that made the heart pump faster.
Almost as soon as it
began it was over. The mountain turned gray and the sun was on its way again,
descending over the volcanoes to the west. The spectacle moved Zinc to run,
something she did occasionally when no one was around. Orlando and Paddy, who
had been resting together under a pine tree, saw her and rose simultaneously to
join in the fun. With the dogs at her heels, Zinc ran across the yard, along
the slate path through the garden, and started up the slate stairs. The stairs
were beautiful. The old man had built them himself, years ago, back when his
wife was alive and his children were young. They were encased in stone and
featured stone risers. He had gathered the stones himself, from multiple hiking
trips taken into the mountains with his loved ones.
Zinc was almost to
his door when the toe of her leather sandal caught and she fell forward. Of
course she had to drop the computer to keep from landing flat on her face. She
sat up and immediately burst into tears. Her new computer—which had cost her
two trips to town and half of the money she’d saved in the glass jar she kept
on top of the refrigerator—had to be broken. There went sitting outdoors facing
the mountain. There went who knows how many poems about coyotes, about jack
rabbits running through the brush. Orlando licked her. Paddy moaned as if he
knew exactly how she felt.
Under the radar.
The door opened
slowly beside her. She looked up expecting to see the old man looming over her.
She always praised him when he came to the door with his walker instead of
waiting in his wheelchair for her to open it herself. He needed more exercise.
He was a small man now, the size of a twelve-year-old boy. He suffered from,
among other things, kyphosis, a hunched back. A very hunched back. It made him
look like a troll. But it was not the old man’s troll face that Zinc found
herself staring up at. It was his daughter, Marge. “What are you doing on the
ground?” she asked impatiently, in a shrill voice. “And why are you crying? And
where were you this afternoon?”
Zinc got up slowly,
lifting the laptop from the slate as she did. She could feel movement, things
inside slipping around. She glanced over her shoulder at the driveway. Usually
when Marge was there she parked out in front of the house, where a delivery
person might park—which made sense because she never stayed any longer than a
delivery person would. Now Zinc saw that Marge’s car was beside the workshop.
She could see the bumper of the dark red PT Cruiser. If she had known Marge was
there, she wouldn’t have run across the yard, and then she wouldn’t have
dropped and broken her new computer. “He’s all right, isn’t he?” she asked.
Marge folded her thin
arms beneath her small breasts. “No,” she snapped. “He’s not all right.” She
looked upward and took a breath. “He took a fall. Down the stairs. Right here.
Where were you all afternoon, Kathryn?”
“What do you mean, he
took a fall? How?”
Marge unfolded her
arms and thrust them out, exasperated. “He must have been feeling badly. I
don’t know. He must have wanted something. He must have tried to get you on the
intercom and then gone outside to see if you were in the yard. And he must have
tripped.” She took another swallow of air. Her arms fell to her sides. “Peter
found him. He’s dead.”
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