Careful Steps Tread on Dangers

I did everything I could; I really did. First, I tried to reason with Mr. Whentley, then I pleaded, and finally I begged.

“It must be Wednesday, Samuel. That’s when they’ll be in town, and you know how valuable their time is. I will not make them wait.”

“But-but . . .” My protests were left in his wake as he strode from the room. Conversely, I was stuck to my place, reluctant to move as if doing so was a final admission that my protests had been quashed for good.

When I could finally accept the quashing, I returned to my cramped office and sought another way to ease the schedule. The plans for tomorrow glared back at me, threatening with their onslaught of responsibility: the elementary school’s field trip, the weekly visit from the old folk’s home, the testing and upgrading of our security systems. I groaned and dry-swallowed a benzo.

This morning, I arrived with sweat already slinking down my torso in solitary drops. Mr. Whentley was a whirlwind of preparation, but only for his responsibility of the day. Reviewing the benefactors’ favorite pieces, mapping out their personalized tour (with a finale at our treasured Rovikov Diamond, of course), reassuring himself that the finances are correct.

“Ah, Samuel, I’m glad you’re finally here. Please go back to my office and pull the admissions numbers from the past twelve months; Grenish sometimes asks for the full cycle report.”

“Mr. Whentley, I have to prepare for the—”

“Now, please, Samuel. I need time to review the numbers before they arrive.”

I rushed to do it, then rushed double-time to do my own preparations.

When the doors opened at nine, I felt as though the first visitor to enter may alone be enough to send me collapsing to the floor.

By some miracle, I made it through the first hour of open with no incident. The benefactors were due to arrive any moment, and I foolishly dared to believe the whole day may be as smooth as the first hour.

For just seconds later, I watched the doors pull open. As the crack of outside light spilled over the entryway, seeping in with it was an avalanche of noisy, dirty, wet schoolchildren. I was relieved when their chaperones entered with them, and then mortified to realize that these adults were far too gussied up for a couple of parents overseeing nine-year-olds.

I rushed over to guide our benefactors from the sea of adolescence, “Mr. Grenish, Mrs. Potsdam, Mr. Farid, it’s so nice to see you all again. Please, this way, Mr. Whentley will be with us in just—”

“My friends!” Mr. Whentley boomed, approaching and grasping my shoulder from behind, then lowering to whisper into my ear, “Get these kids under control, now.”

I nodded firmly, offered a departing smile to our benefactors, and hurried off. From behind me, Mr. Whentley’s voice boomed again, “Welcome! Let’s head in, shall we?”

Meanwhile, the buzzing group of children, teachers, and parents all dripped onto the delicate floor. The children meandered, teachers counted heads, parents yawned. I pulled the handkerchief from my pocket, dabbed my forehead, and organized them into their tour groups.

Once they were off, I dashed back to my office for a benzo and then returned to the gallery where I made my regular rounds, keeping an eye on the clock.

During a brief moment to myself to admire one of my favorite pieces, a shrieking chorus startled me from my appreciation. I rushed to the adjacent room just as the lights in it flipped back on, and the shrieking settled. The children chattered excitedly, nervously, and I asked the tour guide what had happened.

She shrugged, “Dunno, lights went out for a sec, I guess.”

“Why?”

“How would I know?” she monotoned. “Okay, kids, this painting is very old. It was painted back in 1645—that makes it older than some of your parents, I’d bet.” I had no time to admonish her unenthusiastic line delivery; I needed to visit our maintenance man.

On the way out, I doubled back at the sight in my peripheral, “Hey! Don’t touch!” The two children who had strayed from the group backed off the painting, though I didn’t like the look in their eyes. I turned to the tour guide and reminded her to make sure everyone stays with the group. She droned on.

I found Mason in the maintenance office, reclined in his aging office chair, snoring.

“Mason!”

“Huh, what,” he grumbled, rubbed his eyes and saw me clearly, “Oh, Mr. Samuel, sir. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yes, Mason, I gathered that. Did you know the lights just went out in 118?”

“118? Lights? No, uh, no I didn’t do that.” He leaned forward and studied something on his desktop, “Says here they’re up and running.”

“Correct, they’re back on now, but they were off. Can you tell why?”

“Well, they’re always off when we open up for the morning. Did you get in early today?”

I sighed, “This just happened. I’m not talking about earlier this morning. I’m asking why, just five minutes ago, the lights in 118 might have shut off and turned back on again.”

He thought for a moment, then offered, “Momentary power outage? Bit of weather out there today.”

“In one room? Can that happen?”

“One room? What do you mean?”

I sighed again, and opened my mouth to re-explain, then thought better of it. “Just . . . please keep a closer eye on electrical for the rest of the day, okay? Anything out of the ordinary, give me a buzz. Got it?”

“Got it boss.”

“Thanks, Mason.” As a preventative measure, I added, “I’ll be around in an hour to check in.”

Back to the gallery I went, taking the quickest route through it to the foyer. Along the way, I spotted a child crouched behind one of the pillars on which a small statue sat. I went over and crouched next to him. “Hey buddy, what are you doing here? Where’s your group?”

“Shh!” He pressed his forefinger to his lips.

In a whisper, I repeated my question.

“We’re playing hide and seek. There’s so many places to hide in here!” His excitement turned his whisper into a loud hiss.

“I’m glad you’re having fun, but the museum has a no hide and seek rule. Let’s go find your group, okay?”

After getting the disappointed child back to the tour group—and again reminding the guide to keep everyone together—I reached the foyer and greeted the old folks’ group. Their presence was actually a relief, thankful to have a veteran group at the museum that wouldn’t cause trouble.

Still, the increasing population of the museum set my neck itching as I thought about our beautiful works and the risk they were all at. Incidents are extremely rare at any museum, but rare doesn’t mean never. I couldn’t shake the persistent worry that this distinction would be made all too clear here, today.

I continued my oversight of the museum with advanced caution, hawk eying every potential troublemaker. Mostly, I watched over the children, but here and there other patrons caught my eye.

Notably, the young man by his lonesome that sat in front of a Native American weaving for at least half an hour. No phone, no headphones, no sketchpad, just him staring at the piece like a trance. I ducked in and out of the Native American room as I continued my rounds, checking if he was still there and still fixated on this piece. By the fourth check my mind had conjured various worst-case scenarios, and I had to quell my stressful imagination.

I slid onto the bench next to him, “Quite magnificent, isn’t it?”

Silence.

“Scholars believe they’ve uncovered some of the meaning in the depictions, but much of it is likely lost to us forever. Only those who were there will ever understand its full significance.” I paused in between each sentence, waiting to gauge a reaction. None came. “I’ve always thought that though it’s sad for us, it’s also poetic. That the full scope will always belong to them alone.”

Still, the young man was a statue. I realized with horror that my worst-case scenario considerations hadn’t included death. Worried, almost shaking, I leaned forward to better glimpse his eyes, hoping for life in them. As I saw more of them, their glazed over appearance did not relax my worries; my pulse quickened.

“Ah! Jesus Christ!” With a start, the statuesque young man came to life. His shoulders jumped, his eyes widened, his body tensed, and finally he acknowledged me: “Holy shit, man, you scared the bejeezus out of me.”

As he regained his calm, I regained mine, “Sorry to startle you like that, I just noticed you’ve been appreciating this work for quite a while and thought you may want to learn more about it.”

His face twisted into confusion, “Oh, I’ve only been here a sec . . .” but he had pulled out his phone to check it and realized the truth, “Um . . .” he laughed awkwardly, “yeah it, uh, it’s a pretty cool piece. Um . . .” He side-eyed me like he wanted me to fill the silence, but then laughed again and leaned in toward me, “Can I be honest with you?”

I nodded.

“I got, um, maybe a little high before I came.” He giggled. “I just like to do it sometimes, on my days off. It makes me see the art in, like, a whole new way, um, as you saw.”

I did a quick risk analysis. Rather than do it in the museum, he got high beforehand, and all I’d seen him do was sit idly and appreciate a piece. Besides, marijuana is legal in the state now, so he’s not exactly breaking any laws. On a quieter day, perhaps I might’ve done more, but my plate was too full today. “I get it,” I assured him, though I’d never smoked, “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Just remember not to touch anything, okay?”

“Of course,” and from his expression I could tell he meant it, “I would never.”

I smiled and got up. Just then, from a few rooms down, the one word that shakes me more than any other came echoing: “THIEF!”

As I raced from the Native American room, past Art of Southern America and more, the word continued: “THIEF! THIEF! THIEF!!!!”

I arrived and found one of the schoolchildren tour groups, circled up around two children. The one parent with the group was watching but not acting, and the tour guide was doing neither. A sigh of relief escaped me.

“Give it back!” The little girl said to the boy.

“I don’t have it!” He responded, hands tucked behind his back.

“Yes, he does!” Another kid shouted from the crowd.

“THIEF! GIVE IT BACK!”

“Children, children!” I rushed in, “What’s going on here? Who’s the thief?”

“Xavier took my notebook and won’t give it back!”

“Why are you so worried about it?” Xavier teased back, “What’s in it that I can’t see?”

Finally, the chaperone of this group stepped in and ordered Xavier to return the notebook.

This freed me to scrutinize the man I’d noticed on a stepladder in the corner of the next room. He was reaching up for something I soon recognized as one of our cameras.

“Hello, there. Are you with the team upgrading our security?”

The man turned, startled, “Oh! Um, yes. Hi, yes, I’m, uh, with the team.”

With his body still facing the corner, I could only make out about half of his face. Still, I’d personally vetted the security company and reviewed their personnel, yet I didn’t recognize this man. “Are you new?”

“Um, yes. Just joined last week. First job.” He laughed nervously.

“Okay, what are you working on right now?”

“Just, um, testing the equipment. Making sure it’s good to go.” He dropped something into a small toolbelt on his hip, then descended from the ladder and folded it up, “This one looks to be set.” He smiled, nodded at me, and left.

I checked my watch; it had been almost an hour since I’d seen Mason.

Back through the gallery I weaved, detouring to the Native American exhibit for a checkup on our resident stoner. He was no longer on the bench in front of the weaving, but I glimpsed his back as he transitioned into the next room. Able to both keep better track of him and reach the maintenance office through his chosen room, I followed.

But just through the room, he turned again and ducked into the small hallway leading to a set of bathrooms. No reason to follow him there, I continued.

On this trip to maintenance, I found Mason not reclined but slumped over his desk, lights out.

“Mason!”

“Huh? What! Huh?” He wiped the drool off his bottom lip. “Oh, Mr. Samuel, back so soon.”

“Yes, Mason,” I sighed, “I just—” My eyes fell on the monitor on the shelf above. “What’s that?”

“What?” He followed my eyes, “Oh, those are the camera feeds. Security and all that.”

“I know, why is one of them black?”

“Black?” He looked back up, “Oh, weird.” He tapped a few keys, moved the mouse around, brought the black screen to full scale. Nothing seemed to clarify the issue, but upon making it full screen I noticed the number in the bottom right corner.

“Mason, is that number the room number?”

“Which numb—Oh, yes, that one? Yes, room number. This one is . . .”

Mason’s voice faded into the background as the blood pounded in my ears. I didn’t need him to tell me the room. I could see it in big, red font: 118.

My palms started sweating. The same room in which the lights went out. My mouth went dry. The same room the “security team member” had been working in. Every muscle in my body felt like gelatin. The same room in which we keep the Rovikov Diamond.

I raced out of maintenance, back into the gallery as I pulled the radio from my belt and urged Mr. Whentley to initiate any lockdown procedures and come to 118 as soon as possible. The radio crackled back with replies I paid no mind about me being crazy and everything being perfect for the benefactors.

Flying across the gallery, I hoped and prayed the Diamond would still be in its rightful place on the pedestal. As I crossed in from 117, my heart lifted with the sight of the sparkling masterpiece. Approaching the pedestal at a more measured pace, each step felt lighter.

And then there was darkness. In an instant, the lights of 118—and each of its surrounding rooms—were out. The only light guiding my path was that of the terribly faint red emergency light underneath the pedestal.

With no sight of Mr. Whentley, I had to act fast. If the Diamond was taken, my career would be done. The museum possibly done with it. The only way to protect it would be to take it into possession.

I hurried to the glass case, pulled the ring of keys from my belt and held them close, finding the right one. Still using physical keys for things like this is why we’re upgrading the security system, but in this instance, I was thankful for the rudimentary protection. I jammed the key in the lock, twisted, and freed the case, settling it carefully on the floor. With the set of gloves I keep in my back pocket, I eased the diamond off the stand, tucking it into my care.

No sooner did I take it into possession than an alarm began to blare throughout the museum. No time to think, I acted. Fearing for the safety of the diamond, I took off in a sprint back to my offices, but just then the lights roared back on. Lifting my arm to shield my eyes on instinct, I didn’t see the crouched child, hiding from his seekers.

I ran smack into him and his low stance. Before I knew it, my feet were above my head, and my hands were reaching out to cushion my fall. I saw them before me. Empty.

In slow-motion, I watched the Diamond fly away from me. Sailing through the air, it reflected the renewed light of the museum in its final moments of completeness, one last brilliant shining performance before its curtain would close forever. I watched my museum, my career, my life shatter before my eyes as the Diamond reached the floor and exploded across it.

I watched the shattered pieces tumble and dance around the museum floor until they came to a stop. Once they did, I looked up to a crowd of parents, teachers, children, old timers, and others staring in a mix of awe and horror. Through them pushed Mr. Whentley, followed by the benefactors. Behind them all, I thought I saw our appreciator of Native American art slink from the bathroom leaving behind a thin cloud of smoke.

Mr. Whentley’s eyes said it all. I was a disappointment, a failure. Worst of all, I was a thief. In trying to prevent a crime, I had perpetrated one. If a crime had been intended to occur, then I had indeed thwarted it, but in doing so erased any evidence for the necessity of my attempted heroics. I was also without explanation for my rash strategy of crime prevention.

From my position on the floor, I looked up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whentley.” I laid my face flat on the floor, the shame too much to bear.

From above, I heard an approaching rattle and the stomping of work boots. The boots came to a halt, and a gruff voice said, “I’m here to upgrade the security system. Where should I start?”