Read Under the Egg for Free Online

alarms everywhere.” I reached up to pat the painting’s elaborate gilt frame. “One time when I was little I put my hands on the frame of a Degas, and a zillion sirens went off. How would you fold up this thing and tuck it in your pocket?”
    Bodhi thought for a moment. “I saw this movie once where they cut a painting out of its frame, rolled it up, put it in a suitcase. . . .”
    â€œIt’s painted on a wood panel,” I interrupted, “not canvas. So you could remove the frame maybe, but you’d still have to smuggle the whole thing out.”
    â€œWhere’d he get it then? And why’d he hide it?” Before I could answer, she finished, “That’s the question—well, two questions—isn’t it?”
    I nodded.
    We stood unified before the painting.
    â€œSo who painted it?”
    â€œI don’t know. But there’s something familiar about it . . .”
    â€œWhat about a signature? What’s all this stuff down here?” Bodhi poked her finger at the letters marching along the bottom edge.
    â€œIt’s not signed. The words are Latin, but I don’t know what they mean.”
    Bodhi was back on her phone. “Well, that’s easy enough. Latin-to-English dictionary. We just punch each word in, write it down, and voilà—we have our first clue.”
    I was liking this. In the five minutes since Bodhi barged in, we’d made more headway together than I had all morning with the painting myself. I grabbed a nearby sketchpad and charcoal pencil, while Bodhi methodically worked her way through the verse. In no time, we had this:
    Bread alive, that grew but didn’t grow, suckled the plump, and also cured a doctor angel
    â€œMaybe there’s a better website,” mumbled Bodhi.
    Jack was right. This is what you get when you let machines do the thinking for you. “Would you put Picasso into Paint by Numbers? I don’t think translation software is the answer here.”
    â€œThen you need a translator. Know anyone who just happens to speak fluent Latin? And won’t report you and your mysterious discovery to the cops?”
    I smiled. “Actually, you just gave me an idea. Wanna come?”
    â€œI guess. Is it really far away? It’s brutal out there.”
    I wrapped a drop cloth around the painting like a present and looked around for something to carry it in.
    â€œI think you’ll like it. It’s pretty cool.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    â€œI don’t know if I’d call this place ‘cool.’” Bodhi looked suspiciously around the church sanctuary. “Is someone going to come out and ask me if I love Jesus?”
    â€œYou’ve got to admit it’s a lot cooler than my house.” And I was right. Stepping into Grace Church was like leaving summer outside and landing in the middle of October. Dark and easily twenty degrees cooler than the street, I was tempted to take off my shoes and chill my bare feet on the marble floor, but thought that might be considered sacrilegious. Or something.
    Bodhi was unfazed by such concerns and sprawled out on a pew. “So why are we here? Are you going to confess?”
    â€œNo. At least, I don’t think so.” To be honest, I wasn’t sure how this how church thing worked. Always on the lookout for free cultural events, Jack and I had sometimes attended Grace Church’s organ concerts, but I’d never entered the building for any spiritual purpose.
    As a family, the Tenpennys had been members of Grace Church since 1853—until Jack came along with his committed brand of atheism. Over the years, he’d devised his own worship schedule: Sunday mornings sketching at one of the city’s museums, Christmas reading Sartre before the fire, Easter morning working in the garden. I’d followed his lead and never had much need for any church—until now.
    But I’d read enough