THE CASE

Local lore said the cemetery was haunted so none of the neighborhood kids went in there. “Haunted” sounded more magical to Robbie than scary so he spent plenty of time in the small cemetery surrounded by the wrought iron fence. The gates were always open, the hinges too rusted to move. Near the back of the cemetery was a stone mausoleum with a large oak tree pressed up against the side of the ancient building. On most afternoons after school, Robbie could be found sitting under the old oak tree, drawing. The stone mausoleum was marked with the name Smythe. Robbie knew that Jeremy Smythe had been a wealthy landowner who owned all the land that was now Rosecrest City. He had lived from 1811 to 1861 and was buried in the mausoleum with his wife Jenny. There were 25 tombstones in the graveyard; some of the names so old and worn off, you couldn’t read them. As a young child, Robbie’s mother had shown him how to do crayon rubbings so he could read all of the old names. Even at that young age, Robbie loved being able to bring out something that otherwise couldn’t be seen.

Robbie loved this old cemetery, maybe because it appealed to the artist in him, or maybe because he had born in it.

From his resting spot under this huge oak tree, Robbie could see the entire city. There were plenty of things for an artist to sketch. He could draw landscapes, buildings and even people. If he looked to the east, Robbie could see the tall buildings of Rosecrest City in the distance, the skyscrapers, the billion-dollar businesses and the expensive hotels with their views of Beflin Bay Harbor. He could see the huge museums downtown and the big theaters, including the one his mother was performing in this very evening. He could see Town Square—a large tree-lined park in the center of the city where the small old-fashioned stores were located—like Brown’s Apothecary, which made the best root beer floats Robbie had ever tasted.

To the west of this park, he could see the one-bedroom rowhouse where he and his mom lived at the end of a row of similar looking houses. Beyond his rowhouse, he could see rows and rows of buildings that looked like they were all wired together with miles of clotheslines. Some of the windows were boarded up now that the huge old factory at the end of the block had closed. It sat vacant, except for the rats. The neighborhood had been both pretty and affordable eight years earlier when Robbie’s mother, Gabrielle had purchased #418 Parkview with its view of the beautiful park across the street. It seemed the perfect quiet spot for a famous actress to hide from the public, after she had lost her fortune.

It was true Gabrielle Sartes was still a very beautiful actress, but few people knew how difficult it was for her to get a part anymore. Robbie knew that his mother remembered nothing of what happened to her during her accident on the night of his birth thirteen years ago. All anyone knew was that she woke up in a hospital on October 26th with a newborn baby, a missing husband, a huge lump on her head and a terrible headache. She had no memory of who she was or how she had gotten there. Even the paramedics who had found her in this cemetery one dark night with a crying newborn, said that she had been alone and was unconscious when they arrived. In fact, it was baby Robbie’s screams which likely saved his mother’s life. At the hospital, the night nurse recognized Gabrielle from “Phantom of the Opera” and called the theater. Her agent, Rosalie came and took her home a few days later, helping her with the newborn while Gabrielle healed her body and her heart, but not her mind. After several long months, Gabrielle hadn’t regained her memory, and it became clear that she could no longer star as the leading actress in wonderful new plays. Thankfully, she and her agent realized she could still get roles in plays she had memorized as a child, or ones she had performed before. On stage, Gabrielle was still glamorous. Off stage, Gabrielle hid herself away in her small home with her son and the lovely park across the street.

There were so many interesting things in the park to keep an artist like Robbie busy. He would sit under his tree and draw the teenage boys playing in the basketball courts with no nets on the baskets. He drew the smaller boys and girls throwing around a baseball. Robbie drew the little girls who were playing hopscotch, or jumping rope on the pavement. Robbie tried playing basketball with the other boys when he was younger, but the older and taller boys would keep the balls away from the shorter ones until Robbie gave up and walked away. He had joined in the game of catch occasionally, but not often enough to have to answer questions about why he didn’t own a baseball glove.

Robbie didn’t have much interest in basketball or baseball anymore. He preferred art. He was really good for a thirteen-year-old boy and had inherited his artistic ability from his father, or so he had been told. He had never met his father since the man had never returned to Robbie’s mother after Robbie was born.

Robbie loved to sit under this big oak tree with his cherished art case, the one thing of his father’s that he owned. The box was a wooden artist’s box, ornately carved on every square inch of surface. It had a chiseled picture of a lion whose face and mane spread across the front side of the box. The rest of its body wound around to the back of the box and its tail wrapped around the remaining four sides. The handle was made of ivory. The carved grooves of the mane were so thick, Robbie could press his fingers down into the grooves. Inside the art case were oil paints, drawing pencils, an eraser, a small sharpening knife, pastels, a set of watercolors and even crayons. There was also a space to slide paper in behind the paints. Robbie spent a lot of time sketching with charcoal pencils. He preferred these for his portraits. However, Robbie had a particular fondness for color. Mostly, he carried the crayons for sentimental reasons, because they were his first medium since he started drawing about the same time he could walk. He was four years old when he had every color in the crayon box memorized. The big fat 64 crayon box that his Godmother Rosalie had bought him. He still loved the colors in the crayon box, but as he got older, he preferred to draw in pastels and sometimes watercolors. He liked being able to blend colors by applying one on top of another. He would mix the watercolors and come up with new shades that he would then get to name. He could mix colors for the most perfect representation of the sky, the bay, the sidewalk, bricks, and even skin tones. Although he looked lovingly over the oil paints, these remained untouched in his box. Oils needed a canvas, and this was a luxury his mother said they couldn’t afford. Someday, he would get one, but for now he was content with his treasured box. His mother had given Robbie this box on his tenth birthday when she declared that someone entering the double digits would be able to appreciate something so special. It was the only item he owned of his father’s. In their cozy little house, he knew his mother had no room to store any of his father’s former things. Besides she didn’t like too many reminders of the man who had left them. Robbie, on the other hand, thought of his father all the time, wondering what the man was like. Those were the thoughts that kept him up at night.

“Whack!”

Robbie heard the crack of the baseball bat, followed by the shouts of the three boys playing baseball. Next, he heard the thwack of the ball as it landed on the ground next to him, right on top of his art case. He picked up the ball, and walked over to the fence to throw it out to the baseball players.

“Thanks Robbie” said the boy with freckles holding the bat.

Robbie waved at Fred and went back to his tree. Looking down at the ground, he dropped to his knees. Something was wrong! A piece of wood had broken off his fancy art case. In fact, one of the contours of the lion’s mane had chipped off and landed on the ground next to the case. Robbie examined the box carefully and saw that this was no ordinary break! Yes, a piece had come off the box, but this “chip” appeared to be the lid to a narrow cavity! And the hole was not empty! As Robbie tilted the box back and forth, a fat crayon fell out of the hole. Robbie picked up the crayon and examined it, but found it highly unusual. It was not a color exactly, but looked more like glitter with a silver hue.

Hmmm. Robbie thought. How unusual. He held the crayon up and drew a vertical line in the air.

He liked the weight of the crayon and the way it sat in his fingers. Next, he examined the hole, which was now empty, but looked as if it could hold more than the one crayon. He picked up the chip and fitted it carefully back over the hole. He played with it until he saw how it would slide back and forth over the cavity. Then he tucked the glitter crayon away and stood up to go home.

“Ouch!” he said aloud when his shoulder bumped into something sharp. He could not figure out what he bumped into. It appeared to be thin air! He reached his hand out and waved it around.

“What in the world?” he exclaimed when his hand touched something in the air. Something that could be felt, but not seen! Robbie used his fingers to explore this thing in the air. This thing was linear. It extended about 12 inches from top to bottom, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it felt an awfully lot like the fat line he had just drawn in the air.

To test his theory, Robbie pulled out that glitter crayon again and drew a small circle. He then reached out his hand to touch, and sure enough there it was—a small circle suspended in the air. He grabbed the circle in his hand and brought it closer to his face. He turned his hand every which way but could not see anything. But, he could feel it like a thin bracelet in his hand!

“This is weird!” Robbie said as he crawled right up to the line and bumped into it again. He stared right at where it should be, then crawled all the way around it studying where he thought it would be.

Then he stood up and looked again. The setting sun was peeking through the leaves of the oak tree and Robbie walked back and forth in front of the line. He thought he saw something! Fascinated, he moved his head this way and that until he could just make out shafts of light hitting glittering particles in the air in the shape of a line.

“Amazing!” Robbie reached out and grabbed the line. He turned it around in his hand like a baton. He knelt down and began to draw with this “stick” in the dirt. He wrote his name. Liking the feel of this new tool, he decided to draw a picture of his favorite oak tree in the dirt.

The sun was setting and he knew he had to get home before dark, so he placed the bracelet and the line in his art case and tucked the crayon into its secret cavity. He headed home confused but excited to tell his mother about the amazing new crayon he had found.