The Jewel and the Key

by Louise Spiegler

  “No way, you little pyro! That’s all I need.” She snatched the box from his hand, took them over to the grill, and set about lighting the coals.

  A few minutes later, Almaz showed up, holding an enormous bowl of spicy lentils and grinning from ear to ear. “Dawit took over the cash register for me. Mom sent this.”

  Addie maneuvered the other dishes around to squeeze the bowl onto the table.

  “Thanks, Almaz. That looks great.”

  Almaz looked out toward the corner of the yard where Whaley was sliding a cymbal onto its pole. “Excellent! I forgot the band was playing!” She tossed the hem of her embroidered skirt. “Does this mean you’re doing the Cruella act—emceeing?”

  Addie slapped her forehead. “Oh, darn, I forgot. Whaley promised me I could, didn’t he?” She shook her head. “I guess it slipped my mind.”

  “Everything’s slipping your mind lately. Maybe you’ve run out of room in your in box,” Almaz teased. “What happened at that meeting you were so worried about?”

  “No idea! Mr. Rock Star over there can’t spare a minute to tell me anything.” Addie gave the half-empty bag of briquettes a vicious shake.

  “It’s tough being so cool.” Almaz smoothed her skirt with her hands and called across the yard, “Hey, Whaley! Addie wants to talk to you!”

  But he only waved in her direction and began fiddling with the amp.

  “See what I mean?”

  “Come on, I’ll help you with the rest of the food. And cheer up. Maybe that guy Reg will show.”

  Oh, if only, Addie thought. It was easy to picture Reg here. He’d be nowhere near as freaked out as she’d been in his time, she bet. Probably get along with everyone, too. Except Whaley, maybe.

  “Hey, your fire’s going out.” Almaz grabbed the newspaper that Addie had been absent-mindedly feeding in between the charcoal and stuffed in a long strip. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get the tongs.”

  The yard was filling up. Addie threw the salmon and chicken on once the coals were just right, and Almaz helped her man the grills. People loaded their plates. Enrique, Whaley, and Cam started their first set. Mrs. T. emerged from her house and lit the bonfire, using wood and kindling that Zack had carried for her. Its flames licked out against the suspended twilight.

  Addie didn’t get a break until the moon rose. Then she darted over to Mrs. T.’s side.

  “Did you get to the meeting today?”

  Mrs. T. shook her head. “No, darling. I’m really supposed to rest my foot if I want to start walking again in a day or two. After the march, I’m not taking any chances. I invited Becky to this shindig, but I haven’t seen her yet. Can’t Whaley tell you what happened?”

  Addie shrugged. “He’s kind of busy right now,” she said, and jerked her thumb toward where Whaley and Enrique were banging out a punk love song.

  Mrs. Turner chuckled. “He loves that, doesn’t he?”

  Smoke wafted from the barbecue, carried on the faint chilly breeze. Dad closed the till and locked up the store, and Zack and his friends put grapes in their mouths and spit them at each other. Addie got up and began wandering around among all the friends and well-wishers, searching for Becky Powell. If Whaley wouldn’t talk to her and Mrs. T. didn’t know anything, Mrs. Powell was the only person to ask.

  But she didn’t seem to be there yet. Giving up, Addie just plunked down on a bench next to Almaz, who had been dancing and was fanning herself despite the evening chill.

  “This is our last song, and it goes out to our very own Whaley Price,” Enrique was saying in that corny master-of-ceremonies voice he used onstage.

  “Someone should tell him how cheesy he is,” Addie said to Almaz. “It would help the band.”

  “True.” Almaz took a cherry tomato off a dish and delicately bit into it. “But I like Rico. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “Constructive criticism shouldn’t hurt his feelings,” Addie said, grabbing a slice of corn bread. “There are people who can do that.” People like Meg Turner, she thought.

  Meg. Wait a second.

  She sat bolt upright. This is Emma Mae’s office. Mine is down the hall.

  That was it. She’d told Reg and Tom that the photos were for Meg to use for publicity. What was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she searched Meg’s office at the Jewel? She’d been through half the stacks at the university and every website in the virtual universe, but she hadn’t even thought to look there. Oh, she had to tell Whaley. She leaped to her feet and waved to get his attention.

  “What’s up?” Almaz was staring at her. “You look like you’re trying to summon a lifeboat.”

  Self-consciously, Addie dropped her hand. “I just realized—the photos—there’s another place at the theater where we might find them. The director had an office, too. Not just the manager. It’s a long shot, but if there’s still a desk or cabinets or something...”

  Almaz got up and put a hand on her arm. “I guess that’s an idea. But don’t get your hopes up. I mean, if all that searching last night didn’t turn up anything...”

  “I know! But our chances are slipping away and I have to keep trying.”

  At that moment, Whaley glanced in their direction. She waved again, but he didn’t register it. Then she realized it was Almaz he was looking at, an expression of surmise on his face and something else—a sort of hopefulness. Almaz was picking up paper plates. She looked beautiful, Addie thought. Tall and strong, with thin gold earrings setting off the lovely lines of her features. But she hadn’t seen the look Whaley sent her way.

  “Almaz...” Addie ventured, forgetting her own urgency for a second. But Almaz had already set off toward the side of the house to throw the plates in the compost bin. Oh, well. If Whaley had something to say to Almaz, she was sure he could say it himself. All she wanted was to catch him as soon as he got off the stage. But the band was attacking their instruments again, launching into “I Fought the Law.”

  During the chorus, Mrs. T. called out, “No jail time for Whaley!” The backyard resounded with cheers and whistles.

  Whaley bashed the song to an end, and Addie bounded across the yard to where he and Rico were leaning their instruments against the amps.

  “Sorry for not showing up this afternoon,” Whaley was saying. “I had to sign up for that test to join the army.”

  Addie froze.

  “I didn’t think you’d go through with that, man.” Rico’s voice was always slow, as if he were pondering what he said while he said it. “Don’t you have some project at that theater? I thought we were going to get a gig there.”

  “It doesn’t look like that’ll pan out.”

  Stunned, Addie slipped back into the darkness by the shed. So that was why he was avoiding her.

  “Besides, what if the war is over before I can get there? If there’s nothing going for me here, I don’t want to miss my chance.”

  “Gotta respect that.” Enrique clapped his big hand against Whaley’s shoulder. “But what about your trial? You can’t leave the state, right? And can you join the military if you’ve got a conviction?”

  “I won’t get convicted! And anyway, you can get a waiver—”

  Addie couldn’t listen to any more. It was all crumbling around her, the carefully constructed future she’d imagined. Whaley, the Jewel, a youth program ... a nd just because she hadn’t tracked down a few old photos.

  Disappointment bit into her. No. She couldn’t let this happen.

  Without a second thought, she dodged around the side of the shed and took off running. She ran out of the alley and onto the street and headed east, block after block, up and down hills. A bus was approaching. With a burst of speed she made it to the nearest stop and jumped on.

  As the bus crossed the University Bridge, she watched the ship canal gleaming like obsidian far below, remembering how it had looked from Reg’s flivver, crossing the bridge that no longer existed. She got off at the stop by the park but didn’t take
the shortcut through it. Not on her own at night. Instead, she walked all the way around to Salmon Bay Drive. There were no tulips blooming in front of the Powells’ house anymore, only straggly, unkempt rhododendrons.

  Taking a deep breath, she marched up the steps, trying not to feel shy as she rang the bell.

  The door was answered so immediately she startled. A man she had never seen before was standing there, wearing a dark gray pullover and jeans.

  “Hello,” she said uncertainly.

  “Hello.”

  “Um, I’m Addie McNeal. I’m sorry to bother you so late. I just wondered if I could have a word with Mrs. Powell.”

  “Oh, you’re the famous Addie.” The man gave her a tired smile, looking anxious, and sort of overworked, but friendly.

  Looking—Addie realized as he stepped into the pool of light from the porch lamp—a lot like Reg.

  For a second she had a sensation of free fall, like someone on the downhill drop of a roller coaster.

  “I’m Dave, Becky's husband.” He shook her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  He was maybe fifty, with crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, wire-rimmed glasses, and a bit of a paunch. But there was something about the deep-set eyes and the very thick, dark hair. She’d known Becky Powell was married. Why had it never occurred to her that she was married to someone related to Reg? Her heartbeats seemed to speed up, and to her chagrin, she found herself blushing.

  She remembered the black-and-white photographs on the walls when she’d followed Reg into this house: babies in baptismal gowns, young men in graduation robes or soldiers’ uniforms, young women posing in their wedding dresses. She peered around the man in front of her, thinking, What would I see if he asked me in now?

  But he wasn’t asking her in; he was apologizing for keeping her out. “It’s been a long road for Becky. I’m afraid she’s already asleep. That meeting today took it out of her.”

  “I—I understand,” Addie faltered, guilty at forgetting that Becky Powell was still recovering from a grave illness. “I hope I didn’t wake her.”

  “No chance. Doorbell hardly rang. I haven’t dashed so fast to answer it since Julie was a baby.” Dave Powell looked at her very seriously. “There’s nothing worse than waking a sleeping baby.”

  He even sounded like Reg.

  Over his shoulder, Addie could see a girl’s graduation photo on the china cupboard in the foyer.

  “I’ll tell Becky you came by. Is there a message you want me to give her?”

  “I just wanted to ask how it went with the preservation people.” She dared to look him in the face again, and, now that the shock was over, she saw that he had kind eyes. Suddenly, she blurted out, “My friend Whaley was hoping to work for her. If it doesn’t work out here, he’s going to go off to fight in the war. I thought, if Mrs. Powell can save the Jewel...”

  “I know. Becky’s told me. But the preservation people weren’t too encouraging. They need clearer evidence of the original state, and we haven’t got that.” He looked at her sympathetically. “Still, she convinced them to come and look at the place on Saturday. So it’s not all over.”

  “Saturday?” It was like a reprieve. “We could find something before that! Would you mind if I went to the Jewel tomorrow, Mr. Powell? I thought of a place we haven’t looked yet.”

  “I’d be delighted for you to search around the Jewel. But not tomorrow. Or the next day either.” He laughed. “Becky’s having it fumigated! Did you know there’s a mouse problem?”

  “When’s the earliest I can go?”

  “Friday, I’m pretty sure.”

  “All right.” Addie tried to hide her disappointment.

  “I’ll tell Becky to leave the key for you when she goes to air it out.”

  “That’s great. Thank you. And please tell Mrs. Powell I hope she feels better.”

  “I will. Goodbye, Addie.”

  She walked down the steps and along the moon-dappled sidewalk, almost trembling with frustration. Three whole days before she could search the Jewel! Four before the inspectors came. And if she couldn’t search it, she couldn’t get over there to use the mirror.... Either way, she just had to wait. It was intolerable.

  The memory of Peer Gynt on Meg Turner’s stage came back to her, almost unbearably. She felt Reg’s hand on her waist, heard her own voice telling the actors how to dance, how to play the scene. Someday, Meg Turner had said, you’ll be sitting in my spot.

  Addie closed her eyes and wished hard that someday she really would be in Meg’s place. At the Jewel. And she wanted Whaley there, too. Playing his guitar here in Seattle, with her and Dad and Zack and Almaz and all the people they both loved, not across the world in the middle of a war. She tilted her head back, looked up into the sky with its skeins of gray clouds, speckled with stars like sequins in a thin black scarf. And in the blackness, time seemed to melt away, the different layers to merge into one.

  Her feet had automatically taken the familiar route back across the park. She was walking like someone in a dream, her steps muffled by the grass. It could be any time at all in here. The twenty-first century. The twentieth. Even earlier.

  As if following some long set-out path, she turned toward the yew hedge.

  The angel and the soldier were waiting for her, strangely unfamiliar in the patches of shadow and light, where the street lamps speckled them through the tree branches. The moon was reflected in the waters of the fountain at their feet, like a silver fish in a black, black sea.

  Addie crouched down in front of them, balancing herself with a hand on the pedestal, and read the words: DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE SEATTLE NATIVES WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE GREAT WAR. She leaned back thoughtfully, keeping a hand on the base, near the angel’s foot.

  It was cold all of a sudden. She huddled into the light sweater she had thrown on earlier in the evening and let her eyes rest on the list of names on the base, wandering from A down the alphabet, as if reading a poem.

  And then her blood went cold and sluggish in her veins.

  There, carved in the marble, was the name R. Powell.

  26. Four-Minute Man

  Addie didn't know how long she stayed in the garden. She lay on the frigid white marble bench and cried until the stinging in her eyelids was as bad as the tear gas.

  Time had been her friend. She’d crossed its borders and found the Jewel, the living, breathing home of her heart. She’d found Reg and Meg. She’d found her calling.

  But now she’d found out too much.

  So time was her enemy, and it was an enemy no one could fight. Not with a Lewis gun or an A4 or a hundred yards of microfiche.

  When she got back home, Dad was furious at her for disappearing without a word. Whaley was worried, but she didn’t even want to talk to him. She raced upstairs, locked her door, and pulled the photo of the Peer Gynt performance out of the frame of her dresser mirror where she’d stuck it. Once again, she read the faint, pointy script: R. before the mob.

  And the realization hit her: R. was certainly Reg. But the mob didn’t mean the audience.

  It meant “the mobilization.”

  Someone had written that after he’d left for the war.

  She got into bed, but the clock dragged its hands around like a ball and chain. Sleep fled from her as thoughts looped through her brain. He died in 1918.... But maybe it isn’t him.... His name is right there on the monument.... But R could be Robert. Or Ron. Or Ross.... How did he die? Artillery fire? Or gas? Or ... no, he couldn’t have ... he couldn’t have.... But its right there. On the monument....

  The words dissolved and she was sitting on the marble bench beside the cenotaph. The stone angel looked down at her. The feathers on her wings stirred.

  The earth was hurtling around on its axis under an electric blue sky. She could actually feel it spinning. Mountains, plains, and oceans flashed by like time-lapse photography, a film speeding over time zones, flashing over longitudes. The air sizzled above a dese
rt landscape. Far away, the sound of women wailing. A fighter jet swooped in at unbelievable speed. Monuments to ancient kings exploded and were gone.

  Then the world was spinning faster, and a vast snowy steppe spread out before her, tanks and trucks bogged down in the drifts. Horses hitched to big guns frozen where they’d fallen. Across a frigid river stood a city of factories and brick apartment buildings. Frightened eyes were peering out, watching, as the army slowly advanced, leaving behind their dead animals, their frozen jeeps, pushing on toward the river.

  The snow melted into a lush field of poppies, flaming orange in tall grass, farmhouses in the distance. The poppies dissolved into churned mud, and Addie saw gashes in the earth where men writhed like worms, packs on their backs and guns useless in their hands. Gas hung in the thick, choking air.

  She couldn’t look. She jerked her head up to see a sky lashed with white tongues of cloud. The sun burned through them, showering the muddy fields with gold. A biplane dived like a hawk, wings rattling with speed. A second plane rose to meet it. Sprays of bullets flew from beneath the wings, and the first plane spiraled down in a swirl of black smoke and the reek of gasoline.

  The angel’s wings beat, powerful eagle wings churning the air. But she couldn’t rise. She strained and sweated, holding the soldier’s motionless form, and Addie understood that he was as heavy as wet earth and clay, while the angel was frail flesh and bone. She hovered over the pedestal, struggling, wings thrashing. The tip of her foot barely left the ground.

  Addie grabbed the angel’s foot, tried to fling her up into the heavens. The winged girl tripped into the sky, but still hovered low. Addie climbed up onto the empty pedestal, banging her knees and scraping her hands. She grabbed the heel of the soldier’s boot, to push him up, too. Cold bit her hand like a serpent.

  The angel shook her head. “I can only raise them one at a time,” she whispered, “while they cut down thousands.”

  Addie jerked out of bed, ran to the bathroom, and threw up.

  Her next days were leaden. She could barely push herself through the hours. Almaz kept asking what was wrong, what had happened the night of the party. Nothing, Addie said. Nothing. What could she say? She couldn’t confide in her or Whaley, and that hurt, but it wasn’t anything compared to what she was feeling about Reg.