The Jewel and the Key

by Louise Spiegler

  “This is on you, Whaley. You owe me for that makeup job, even if it backfired.”

  “Man! Your dad’s right. I’m going to need a budget.”

  Addie laughed, turned the doorknob, and stepped inside.

  Immediately, she knew something was wrong.

  The place looked as cheerful as ever, with its honey-colored wooden tables and posters of upcoming concerts and plays on the walls. But no one was sitting around lazily chatting over coffee or clicking away on a laptop writing the great American novel. They were all watching the TV in the corner, which Addie had never seen turned on before. Even Mrs. Jambloski, the owner, was leaning her fleshy arms on the display case, craning her neck to see. Distractedly, she turned to Addie and Whaley. “Know what you want?”

  Whaley’s gaze was drawn to the set. “What’ll you have, Ads?”

  “Americano,” Addie said, finding her attention sucked over to the TV as well. Whaley ordered and paid, and they drifted closer to the screen.

  It was CNN showing a nighttime view of a city from the air. The place looked eerie and desolate. It bobbed in and out of focus as they watched. Addie could see concrete buildings and telephone poles. TV towers. An ugly city. No trees, no flowers, no shrubs.

  Then a flash streaked down from the sky, green and glowing. Dirt flew into the air. The side of a building caved in, crumbling soundlessly in a plume of smoke and debris.

  Addie frowned. “Already? Are those our planes?” Of course she knew they were, but still, she felt startled, seeing these images on television like this. So soon.

  Whaley folded his arms. “I didn’t think it would be long.”

  Addie kept watching. The city looked real enough. But the green flashes looked like computer graphics.

  “What time is it over there?” an old man asked. Addie recognized him from the bookstore. He had a white goatee, and a very old black miniature poodle sitting at his feet. “It’s dark but what time is it? Night? Morning? What?”

  “Does it matter?”

  The old man jabbed his finger at Whaley, a look of fury on his wizened face. “What do you mean, does it matter? We’re bombing a factory! It matters if there are people working in there.”

  “It’s probably a weapons factory,” Whaley retorted. “We’ve got no choice.”

  “No choice?” Addie said. “What do you mean?” Suddenly the whole thing filled her with revulsion. She hadn’t been paying a lot of attention to the media coverage or going to the debates about the war at school, but now that it was happening, what Mrs. Turner had been saying for a long time made sense to her. ‘A war doesn’t ‘just happen,’ like one of your fights, Whaley! I bet we had a choice.”

  “How would you know what’s a choice and what’s not?”

  Addie stared, startled by the anger in his voice.

  He put a hand on her arm. “Sorry, Ads. I didn’t mean that.” He gestured at the screen. “It’s just—I get it. I get why we’re bombing that city. Don’t you? I mean, you don’t want more terrorist attacks, do you?”

  “Of course not! But remember what Mrs. T. said? We’ve gone down this road before.”

  “Well, we haven’t gone far enough or we wouldn’t have to keep fighting!” Whaley exclaimed. “I wish I was over there!”

  Addie looked at him incredulously. “Aren’t there enough people for you to fight right here, Whaley? Look where that's got you.”

  “It got you out of a load of trouble once,” Whaley pointed out. “Remember that guy last year? What would have happened if I hadn’t come looking for you? You didn’t mind me bashing him.”

  “I know!” Why did Whaley have to mention that in such a loud voice? “But just because it was worthwhile once doesn’t mean you always need to fight!” she spluttered. She looked at her watch. “It’s nearly ten. Let’s go.”

  Whaley dragged his eyes away from the screen. They picked up their coffees and headed out.

  The wind had whipped up while they’d been inside. Leaves shivered in the high branches. Addie gazed up through the treetops at the blue-black clouds rolling in from the west like tanks.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of green and started.

  But it was only the cedar sprays, flicking to and fro in the quickening wind.

  4. Shifts

  Sunday morning, Mrs. Turner arrived out of breath, her face nearly as pink as her hair.

  “Why is it that no matter where you walk in this city, it’s always uphill?” she grumbled, fanning herself with her free hand. In the other she held a stack of flyers, which she plunked down on the table between the funny pages Zack was looking at and a review of a production of Angels in America that Addie was reading. “Good morning, all.”

  “Hi, Mrs. T.” Addie looked up from the paper. “Ready to go through those boxes?”

  Dad got up from the overstuffed chair where he’d been tying his shoes. “Are those the posters? Let’s see.”

  Mrs. T. took a flier from the top of the pile and handed it to him. Addie went and looked over his shoulder. It showed a black cat hissing, back arched and fur on end, above the words Rally Against the War. Next Friday’s date was below that. “I picked them up from the printer this morning. And I posted a bunch after I dropped the car off to be serviced up by the U. District. But then I walked all the way home, and now I’m pooped. Do any of you want to take over for me?”

  “Looks like a Wobbly placard,” Dad said.

  “We stole the graphic from the IWW. And why not? This is a good old Wobbly town.”

  Addie leaned over to get a better look, intrigued by the stark image. “What’s a Wobbly?”

  “Who, not what,” Mrs. Turner said. “It’s a nickname for the Industrial Workers of the World. A bunch of union madmen who used to be thick on the ground around here. Not too in love with foreign wars, either. Their organization got crushed a long time ago, but they left behind a darned good songbook.”

  Dad pulled a few flyers off the top of the pile. “I’ll put one in our window. And talk to the other business owners in the neighborhood.”

  “I’ll post the rest for you, Mrs. T.,” Addie offered, surprising herself. The argument with Whaley had stuck with her. Everywhere she went, the war was always on the news, in the papers. She couldn’t stop seeing the TV images. People came into the shop and talked about it with Dad. And Whaley just couldn’t let it go.

  As if on cue, the door banged open and Whaley swept into the room, flannel shirt buttoned up wrong, toast and honey in one hand, the front page of the paper in the other. “‘Marines have gained control of the capital and of key mountain passes,’” he read. “‘The fighting is expected to shift soon from urban areas into tribal zones outside of government control.’” His expression was wistful. “If it weren’t going to be over in a few days, I’d get my butt over there.”

  “Good thing you have a store to run then.” Addie wished Whaley would stop being so fixated on the war.

  “And it won’t be over in a few days,” Mrs. Turner said grimly. “Believe me.”

  Dad pulled on his jacket. “Buying starts at eleven, Whaley. Don’t be a pushover. I don’t want junk I can’t get rid of.”

  “Mike, can you spare some of your gunpowder coffee?” Mrs. Turner yawned. “These late-night meetings are killing me!”

  “Help yourself. The cups are in the draining rack.” Dad turned to Zack. “I’ve got to find the address for that estate sale. You be ready to go when I come back.” Zack had his rocket science class every Sunday morning at the community center. Dad usually dropped him off and hit a book sale before picking him up again around noon.

  He left the room, Mrs. T. in his wake, and Whaley folded up the front page, dropping it on the table. “Whatcha doing today, Ads?”

  “Exploring that secret closet with Mrs. T. And I said I’d put up flyers.”

  “What flyers?” He picked up one and rolled his eyes. But to Addie's relief, he didn’t try to argue about it. Instead, he asked, “You don’t wa
nna help me with the store, do you? It’s my first time with book buys. All those people dragging in cartons of old books. I might not say no as much as I should.”

  “Well...” Addie hesitated. She had helped Dad on buy days before. But she didn’t want to be stuck working at the store all day.

  Then again, if she had too much free time on her hands, she’d just keep checking the drama website to see who’d been cast for the Peer Gynt scene. Which was silly, since names probably wouldn’t be up until Monday. Why bother anyway? There wouldn’t be a part for her. She’d be better off keeping busy. And Whaley was looking at her with such a hopeful expression. She sighed. He was trying.

  “Okay,” she said. Then a thought struck her and she flashed Whaley a wicked grin. “Buuut ... In exchange for my time, and expertise...”

  “Here it comes,” Whaley groaned.

  “I get to emcee your next all-ages show.”

  “What? You mean do that Cruella de Vil act introducing the songs?”

  Addie put on a stage-Russian accent. “But, of course, darlink. What, you think Cruella get old, get false teeth, go into retirement?” She lifted an imaginary cigarette holder to her lips and took a luxurious drag. Zack cracked up. They’d watched One Hundred and One Dalmatians again last week.

  “Cruella doesn’t talk like that,” Zack said.

  “So? I’m Cruella's cousin, Natasha. From Saint Petersburg.” She pointed to Magnesium, who was yawning and stretching under Zack’s feet. “Nice kitty for fur coat, yes?”

  Zack snatched up the cat in pretended outrage. Magnesium yowled and leaped out of his arms, scurrying out of the room.

  “Oh, all right, Natasha.” Whaley grinned.

  Dad came back into the room with a slip of paper in his hand. “Ready, Zack? Let’s go.”

  “I’ll catch you in a few,” Whaley told Addie. “I gotta go to the Peoples and pick up some milk.” Almaz's family owned the People’s Grocery, down the block. “Need anything, Mike?”

  “Bread. Canned tomatoes. Money’s in the jar. See you later.” Dad and Zack headed to the door, and Whaley followed them out.

  Mrs. Turner bustled back into the room, a cup of coffee steaming in her hands. “Come on, Addie,” she said. “We’ve got a mysterious cavern to explore.”

  Sunlight was streaming through the big plate-glass windows, warming the front of the store. In the back, it was still icy. Remembering how dark the closet was, Addie took a flashlight from the storage cupboard in the hallway and led the way to the drama shelves. Mrs. Turner put her coffee on a stool and helped Addie lever the bookcase away from the wall.

  She’d expected the door to stick again, but when she gave it a good yank, it flew open. She fell backwards and landed on her butt.

  “It’ll heal! Strongest muscle in the body!” Mrs. T. held out her hand and pulled Addie to her feet.

  “I thought that was the heart,” Addie said, rubbing her tailbone ruefully.

  The camphor and cedar smells enveloped her as she stepped inside. And no wonder: when she switched on the flashlight, she could see that the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling were paneled with golden-brown cedar. The crates were cedar as well. Only the narrow bench built into the wall looked like it was of some less sturdy wood, darkened and cracked.

  “Can we both fit?” Mrs. T. was peering in.

  “It’s pretty cramped. But maybe you can slide in onto the bench. Just don’t get a splinter in your strongest muscle.”

  Mrs. T. stepped in after her. “Well? What are we waiting for?”

  For a moment they grinned at each other conspiratorially. Then Addie pulled up the lid of the nearest crate. The hinges creaked. Addie’s eyes widened as she shined the flashlight in. “Wow!” She pulled out a glittering golden sheath and held it against her body. “Take a look at this! A flapper dress.”

  Mrs. T. stared, shaking her head in bemusement. “A flapper dress? Who knew?”

  Addie shook her hips to swoosh the skirt and make the beads jangle while Mrs. Turner fished out a mangy fur stole and held it at arm’s length, as if it might have fleas. “How bizarre that Aunt Meg kept all this stuff.”

  “Why wouldn’t she? It’s better than a vintage shop!”

  “Yes, but Meg couldn’t stand vintage clothes.”

  “You’re kidding.” Addie gave her an incredulous look. “Old clothes are fabulous.”

  Mrs. T. laughed and put the stole aside. “I can see you think so. But my aunt Meg wouldn’t agree. Her fashion sense was up to the minute. I mean, look at this smoking jacket. Who would wear it? Not Uncle Stan, that’s for sure.”

  “Why not?”Addie examined the stiff, shiny jacket with velvet lapels Mrs. T. was holding up.

  “Because Meg had that man under her thumb. She wouldn’t have seen him buried in anything this tacky!” She stopped and snapped her fingers. “Wait a second. I’ve just realized—you know what these are? They aren’t my great-aunts clothes. They’re costumes. From the Jewel.” At Addie's blank look, she added, “The theater downtown where Aunt Meg directed. My friend Becky owns it now.”

  “You’re probably right.” Addie folded the flapper dress and pulled out a lace mantilla. “I bet someone used this in a production.” She arranged it on top of her head. “What do you think? Carmen?”

  Mrs. Turner laughed. “You’re in heaven, aren’t you? Why don’t you take something up to your room and try it on? I know you’re dying to.”

  “Can I?” Addie dug through the crate, playing the flashlight along the rich fabrics and sparkling buttons. She hesitated. “Really? Aren’t you worried about their getting damaged?”

  “Not by you. You know how to take care of old clothes.”

  Addie smiled and went back to picking through the costumes. She felt like a spoiled kid on Christmas. There was just too much. Finally she pulled out a pale, goldish dress and stepped out of the closet, cradling it against her body.

  “Oh, now, that’s lovely with your chestnut hair,” Mrs. T. said. She bent forward and looked more closely. “I’ll bet its nearly a hundred years old. Amazing it isn’t in shreds.” She pulled out some grainy, dark gold-colored material that had been folded beneath it and stepped out of the closet as well. “This shawl goes with it. It’s heavy. Maybe there’s a clasp or something inside.” Addie held out a hand and gently touched the fine material. “Go on,” Mrs. Turner urged. “Give it a try.”

  “All right.” Addie took it from her. She was right; the shawl was heavy. “I'll be quick.” She turned to go, but Mrs. T. stopped her. “We’d better put this all back first.” She glanced at her watch. “I promised Becky I’d drop by. And I’ve got to stop by the hen house and feed the girls before I leave.”

  “You go, then. I’ll take care of it. And I’ll put the dress back when I’m done.”

  “All right. Bye, then.” And Mrs. T. hurried off toward the back door.

  Addie hung the dress carefully over the rolling ladder, laid the folded-up shawl down on a chair, and packed the costumes back into their crates. Then she ran up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom, the vintage clothes clutched in her arms.

  She stripped off her T-shirt and jeans and pulled the dress over her head. The fabric rustled stiffly as she worked her arms into the sleeves and then smoothed down the skirt. It had a tight bodice and a sash. This couldn’t have been a costume, she thought. It had the feel of a well-loved, much-worn dress. A springtime dress—not too heavy, but not light either. Addie examined herself in the mirror on her dresser and was surprised at the way the material hugged her body. Funny. It was so old-fashioned, but somehow it really suited her. She pulled on her ankle boots. Maybe wearing it would make the book buy more fun.

  Then, just as she got up to head downstairs, she remembered the shawl. She sat down again and began unfolding the fabric in her lap. It was some sort of silk. Whatever was wrapped up inside it was round and smooth and felt like metal.

  In a moment, the shawl was shimmering in folds on the ground, and she was holdi
ng a small silver mirror. The glass was clear in some places, dimmed with age in others, but before she could really look in it, she noticed there was something engraved on the other side. She turned it over and gasped.

  Three dancers wearing long flowing dresses were etched in the tarnished silver. Their hair was bound and wreathed like Greek goddesses’, and the silversmith had sketched a grove of laurel and olive trees behind them. It was one of the loveliest things she had ever seen.

  Were the women the three Graces? Or the Muses? Or the Fates? They looked so graceful and fresh in the giddiness of their dance. What a perfect image. In her imagination, it burst into life. She saw the women onstage, dancing under greenish-silver branches. Now that would work in the scene in Peer Gynt.

  Putting the mirror down, she lifted her arms above her head and spun, letting the dress bell out around her calves. Oh, yes, that was perfect....

  Then she stopped. I won’t be in Peer Gynt, she reminded herself.

  She closed her eyes and saw herself twirling around the stage in this dress, turning and facing the troll king. His question from her dream echoed in her memory: “What is she doing here?”

  But this time Addie was ready with an answer.

  I belong here.

  Opening her eyes, she picked up the mirror and slid it into the pocket of the dress. A wave of dizziness hit her.

  That was odd. Why was she dizzy all of a sudden? She went to the back window and threw it open to get some fresh air. A breeze swept in, bearing a faint scent of wisteria. The day was clear and bright, and she could see for blocks from her third-floor perch. In the alley, Whaley was strolling home from the grocery, a bag in his hand.

  “Whaley!” Addie leaned out and shouted. “What time is it?”

  He squinted up at her and called back, “Almost time to open. What are you doing up there?”

  “You’ll never guess what we found!” But a mayhem of clucking swelled from Mrs. Turner’s chicken coops and drowned her out.