alarms everywhere.â I reached up to pat the paintingâs elaborate gilt frame. âOne 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?â
Bodhi thought for a moment. âI saw this movie once where they cut a painting out of its frame, rolled it up, put it in a suitcase. . . .â
âItâs painted on a wood panel,â I interrupted, ânot canvas. So you could remove the frame maybe, but youâd still have to smuggle the whole thing out.â
âWhereâd he get it then? And whyâd he hide it?â Before I could answer, she finished, âThatâs the questionâwell, two questionsâisnât it?â
I nodded.
We stood unified before the painting.
âSo who painted it?â
âI donât know. But thereâs something familiar about it . . .â
âWhat about a signature? Whatâs all this stuff down here?â Bodhi poked her finger at the letters marching along the bottom edge.
âItâs not signed. The words are Latin, but I donât know what they mean.â
Bodhi was back on her phone. âWell, thatâs easy enough. Latin-to-English dictionary. We just punch each word in, write it down, and voilà âwe have our first clue.â
I was liking this. In the five minutes since Bodhi barged in, weâd 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 didnât grow, suckled the plump, and also cured a doctor angel
âMaybe thereâs a better website,â mumbled Bodhi.
Jack was right. This is what you get when you let machines do the thinking for you. âWould you put Picasso into Paint by Numbers? I donât think translation software is the answer here.â
âThen you need a translator. Know anyone who just happens to speak fluent Latin? And wonât report you and your mysterious discovery to the cops?â
I smiled. âActually, you just gave me an idea. Wanna come?â
âI guess. Is it really far away? Itâs brutal out there.â
I wrapped a drop cloth around the painting like a present and looked around for something to carry it in.
âI think youâll like it. Itâs pretty cool.â
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
âI donât know if Iâd call this place âcool.ââ Bodhi looked suspiciously around the church sanctuary. âIs someone going to come out and ask me if I love Jesus?â
âYouâve got to admit itâs a lot cooler than my house.â 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. âSo why are we here? Are you going to confess?â
âNo. At least, I donât think so.â To be honest, I wasnât sure how this how church thing worked. Always on the lookout for free cultural events, Jack and I had sometimes attended Grace Churchâs organ concerts, but Iâd never entered the building for any spiritual purpose.
As a family, the Tenpennys had been members of Grace Church since 1853âuntil Jack came along with his committed brand of atheism. Over the years, heâd devised his own worship schedule: Sunday mornings sketching at one of the cityâs museums, Christmas reading Sartre before the fire, Easter morning working in the garden. Iâd followed his lead and never had much need for any churchâuntil now.
But Iâd read enough