“What?” Whaley shouted back.
Before she could get another word out, loud, high-pitched bird song burst from the cherry tree in Mrs. Turner’s backyard. Addie looked around, bemused.
And suddenly it wasn’t just birds. All over the neighborhood, dogs were howling; cats were crying. Frowning, Addie leaned out the window, half expecting to hear donkeys braying and elephants trumpeting.
Sparrows burst out of the baby green foliage, chirping like crazy. And then, just to add to the chaos, a truck drove by, rattling the window until it shook in its frame.
Uneasily, she spun around to see the walls of her bedroom rippling like a musical saw.
The door writhed in its frame, and the coffee cup she’d left on her dresser that morning crashed to the floor. Then the floor drew itself up like a cat arching its back. It stretched and sprang, once-solid floorboards flowing in waves under her feet. Framed photos on her desk followed the suicidal coffee cup. She looked out the window and saw Whaley sheltering his head under his arm as the gutters crashed around him.
The Douglas fir in their backyard thrashed in the bright windless sky, a giant trying to pull up its roots and run. Her books shuddered to the edges of the bookshelves and jumped.
Then something in Addie’s brain clicked, and every earthquake drill she’d ever been in flashed into her head. She sprang away from the window into the shelter of her door frame.
Stay put, the earthquake-drill voice told her.
But the black power lines were thrumming across the blue sky, and someone was yelling her name, and she flew from the door frame out into the hall and down the stairs.
The steps to the second floor boinged beneath her feet like rubber. She darted through the hall and down the bottom flight of stairs as the walls cracked and sheets of plaster crashed to the ground.
A brick from the chimney careened past her head as she ran into the yard. She looked up to see masonry give way and bricks crumble down the slope of the roof.
Whaley sprinted into the yard, yelling, “Is anyone inside?” His hair was flecked with the cherry blossoms that had been shaken off the boughs.
“No,” Addie croaked, realizing the shaking had stopped. Whaley ran his hand over her head and neck, feeling for broken bones.
“I’m fine!” Addie protested, examining him in turn. “Nothing hit you, did it?”
Whaley shook his head.
“Thank goodness. I’d better call Dad and see how he is.” Her voice caught. “And if Zack’s all right.” She reached into her pocket for her phone and then realized that, of course, she’d left it upstairs in her jeans pocket. All her hand closed around was the handle of the small mirror. “Darn it! I don’t have my cell.”
“I’ll call,” Whaley said, and started dialing.
Addie waited nervously as he stood with the phone pressed to his ear. “Any luck?”
He frowned and shook his head. “Nope. No signal.” He slipped the phone into his pocket. “Don’t worry. I’m going to check around the front of the store anyway, see what the damage is. Maybe someone else’s phone will be working.”
“Oh ... Okay. I’ll go next door and see if Mrs. Turners all right.” She suddenly realized she was shaking.
Whaley headed off around the side of the building, and Addie crossed into Mrs. T.’s backyard, examining her house to make sure nothing had collapsed. It looked all right, but you never knew....
Just then, a chicken burst out of the hen house and began running in circles, squawking. To Addie’s relief, Mrs. Turner dashed out of the house after it. “Messalina!” she called. “Come back here, you addle-brained girl!” Addie felt her face relax into a weak smile.
The hen was big and speckled and completely out of her mind. She ran into Addie’s yard and around the Douglas fir, white feathers flying, and then doubled back, bauck-baucking like a wind-up toy gone berserk. Mrs. Turner gave chase, swerving and feinting behind her, coaxing and scolding.
But then Mrs. T. ventured a full-out dive. Addie winced as Mrs. T’s shoe caught on a tree root and her body hit the ground with a thud. Addie rushed over and squatted down next to her. “Are you all right?”
Mrs. Turner blew a strand of pink hair out of her eye. “Catch her for me, sweetie. I’ve corkscrewed my ankle.”
Messalina wasn’t hard to catch, but holding on to her was like hugging a windmill. Her legs churned and her wings flapped until every feather stuck out in distress. A sharp peck from her little beak broke the skin on the back of Addie’s hand.
“Stop that!” She felt deeply moronic, yelling at a chicken.
The squawking bird tried to fly out of her arms, but Addie hung on. Pinned, Messalina stretched her neck and pecked frantically in the direction of Addie’s face. “Here.” Addie thrust the mass of bristling feathers at Mrs. Turner. “Heresy our—chicken!”
Once in Mrs. Turner’s arms, the hen folded herself up like a cat. The only remnant of her fit was a prolonged, muffled clucking.
“There, there. What an excitable girl! Watch out or you’ll stop laying.” Mrs. Turner looked up at Addie, shaking with laughter. “I’m sorry. She’s high-strung, Messalina.” She pushed herself up off the ground, but as she put pressure on her ankle, the color drained out of her face.
“You’re really hurt!” Addie exclaimed, quickly offering her arm for support.
Mrs. Turner gritted her teeth, and with Addie’s help, she lowered herself back down. Just then, Whaley came into the yard. “Sorry, Ads. I tried some other people’s phones, but you can’t get a signal anywhere. I think—”
“Mrs. T.’s hurt her ankle,” Addie interrupted. “Can you take a look? I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
She ran to the back door, but Whaley sprinted after her. “Stay out here. There could be aftershocks. I’ll get it.”
“Do you even know where it is? And if I can’t go in, why can you?” She dashed in after him. But when she caught a glimpse of the store through the half-opened back door, she froze. Then, fearfully, she entered.
Shelves were upended. Books were strewn all over the floor. Light fixtures had smashed, and tiny fragments of glass powdered the wreckage like confectioners’ sugar. Dust and plaster granules floated in the air. The bay windows, where she’d seen Zacky curled up with Magnesium just two nights ago, were nothing but empty frames. Addie stared.
Then she heard Whaley coming down the stairs and went into the hall to meet him. The first-aid kit was in his hands. It was an old metal lunch box that Zack had painted white and put a red cross on for a play they’d done in the backyard. But it had real bandages and medicine in it.
“Whaley, did you look in the store?”
“I looked.” He seemed almost angry. “So much for my job,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. C’mon. I’m not kidding about the aftershocks. Lets go.” They left the building and he handed her the first-aid kit. “You get Mrs. T.s ankle fixed. I’ll check on the neighbors.”
“Tell Almaz I’ll be over soon.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
Mrs. Turner was sitting on the tree root that had felled her, holding her twisted ankle. Messalina was calmly stalking around the yard, pecking at worms. Addie sat down beside Mrs. T. and took a roll of bandages and tape out of her kit. Gently, she propped Mrs. Turner’s foot on her lap, located the end of the bandage, and pressed it against her ankle.
“Pretty silly to survive an earthquake and get injured by a chicken,” Mrs. T. joked.
Suddenly, she jerked upright. “Becky! Oh, my God! I need to check on her!”
“Who’s Becky?” Then Addie remembered. “Your friend who owns the theater?” She got the tape into position and fastened the bandage. “Why do you need to check on her? Is she an old lady or something?”
Mrs. Turner gave her a look of mock irritation. “No, dear. I’m an old lady. Becky just isn’t well. She had an operation and it left her partially blind. And when I think of furniture falling and windows breaki
ng ... and Dave’s out of town.” Mrs. Turner stood up again, but winced as her weight came down on the injured ankle. “I’m going to go see her.” She stopped short. “Damn it! My car’s in the shop. I guess I’ll just have to hobble over on my own two hooves.”
Addie shut the first-aid kit. “You can't walk anywhere!”
“Well, I’ll have to. What if she’s pinned under a big mantelpiece, or a bit of machinery in the shed? Your family hikes. Don’t you have one of those hiking sticks? Loan me one of those.”
“I’m serious! Sit down!” Addie looked at her sternly. “I’ll go. Just tell me where she lives.”
Whaley came back into the yard. Addie jumped to her feet and whipped around. “Is Almaz all right?”
“She’s fine. Her dad’s giving out bottled water to everyone in case the pipes are burst.”
“Good. Listen, Mrs. Turner needs me to check on her friend. What’s her name again?” she asked, turning to Mrs. T.
“Becky Powell.”
“She’s a blind lady or something. I think I should.”
Whaley frowned. “I don’t know. What if there’s an aftershock? Why don’t I go instead?”
“Whaley! I can manage. Besides, you should stay close to the store until Dad and Zack get back. I mean, the windows are all broken, and—”
“Okay.” He still sounded uneasy. “But if something looks unsafe—”
“I know, I know,” Addie said. She grinned mischievously. “Hey, it suits you.”
“What does?”
“Worrying.” Then, more seriously, “Caring.”
Whaley just made a face, turned, and headed toward the store.
“Try it more often!” Addie called after him. “Join the rest of the world!”
But he was gone. As her teasing words died away, Addie thought of the smashed-up bookshop and heard his muttered, “So much for my job,” and felt that everything was broken.
5. Reg
She made her way to the street through the narrow gap between their house and Mrs. Turner’s, righting garbage cans as she went. The buildings are all standing, she thought, a bit dazed. Windows were smashed and chimneys had collapsed, but that was the worst of it. Roof tiles and bricks were scattered about. The sidewalk sparkled with shattered glass, and she had to pick her way carefully among the shards.
The girl with the fish tattooed on her biceps whom Addie often saw at the Brown Bear was wiping blood from the face of another girl. Addie went over to them and held up her first-aid kit. “Do you need bandages?”
“You got antibiotic ointment?”
She snapped open the lunch box and handed the girl a tube.
“Thanks.” She squeezed some of the cream onto her fingertip. “They’re not very deep cuts,” she told her friend.
The other girl yelped as the cream touched the wound. “Doesn’t mean they don’t hurt!”
Addie cut off some gauze and tape for them, took back the tube, and snapped the kit shut. Lots of people were milling around in the street, but to her relief, no one else seemed to be injured.
People were clumped together in little groups everywhere, talking anxiously, examining their houses, fruitlessly trying to use their cell phones. Like Whaley, no one could get a signal. And Addie understood from a few overheard comments that the landlines were dead, too.
She headed to the bus stop, but after a few minutes, she couldn’t stand waiting anymore. Would the buses even be running? It wasn’t such a bad walk to upper Capitol Hill—kind of long, but under the circumstances, the wait for the bus might be longer. She made the decision and began walking east. After a block or two, she quickened her pace until she was almost running.
Beyond the houses and trees, she caught a glimpse of the ship canal; she saw, with relief, that the University Bridge was still standing. She got closer and then stopped and gazed along the canal. It sparkled, as blue as fresh paint; dotted along the shore were white trawlers and sailboats. To the east and west, she saw the ghostly white tops of the mountains; they looked peaceful, as if there had been no rending and grinding in their rocky hearts, no deep shift in their layers of time and sediment. As if nothing had been broken that couldn’t be fixed.
Then she took off across the bridge and didn’t stop all the way up Capitol Hill, turning off on Boston Street and rounding the bend in the road to Fifteenth. Almost panting, she continued past the cemetery until she reached Volunteer Park. Mrs. Turner had said that her friend lived on one of the streets bordering the south end of the park, so it made sense to cut through.
She walked along the road that wound toward the glass conservatory filled with tropical plants. But before she reached it, she turned and cut across the grass behind the Asian Art Museum, the imposing building disappearing from view behind the groves of giant oaks and maples and cedars as she pressed on, trying to keep up her pace as she headed toward the huge brick water tower at the south entrance. Tulips pushed up through the hard earth, petals still shut tight against the chill. By the time she reached the little yew hedge that surrounded the life-size statue of the angel, she was sweating and out of breath.
She dropped down on the marble bench at the angel’s feet, gasping for air, and sat until her breathing slowed and her skin cooled down a bit.
She’d passed this statue so often, tucked away here among the trees, but she’d never really looked at it closely. Now, as Addie sat catching her breath, she noticed the tenderness in the angel’s face as she gazed down at the dead soldier she was lifting in her arms. The sculptor had created the illusion that the angel was rising, her feet only barely touching the heavy base with its long list of names. They were carved under the words DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE SEATTLE NATIVES WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE GREAT WAR 1917–1918.
Addie thought of the bombs hitting the factory that she’d seen on TV. She looked again at the beautiful, sad angel and the names from those long-ago battles.
Long ago ... She jumped off the bench and looked down at herself in dismay. The antique dress—she was still wearing it! And—oh, no. The hem was dirty from when she’d sat on the ground. The front was all right. But what about the back? She twisted around, trying to gauge the damage, but couldn’t see.
Luckily, the little mirror was still in her pocket. She pulled it out and held it behind her to get a good look. There was some loose dirt along the skirt in back but no actual mud, thank goodness.
She brushed it off, then quickly examined her face to see if she looked as much of a mess as she felt. No, she was all right. But as she gazed into the glass, another wave of dizziness caught her. For a moment she was afraid it might be an aftershock. Hastily, she dropped the mirror back into her pocket and looked around, balancing carefully on her feet to measure the movement of the earth.
If there had been another shift, it was over. Now she was really nervous. She worked her wristwatch free from under the tight sleeves: 11:49. Getting late. She’d better hurry. The sooner she got there, the sooner she could go home. She wanted to be there when Dad got back with Zack. She pulled the sleeve down over her watch and set off again.
The day seemed suddenly warmer. The air was full of hyacinth as she left the park and turned onto Salmon Bay Drive.
Mansions lined the street, hidden behind chestnut trees in their first white bloom. Low stone walls guarded gleaming lawns. She looked around in surprise. The houses were decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, as if for a Fourth of July parade. Odd, since it was only April. But stranger still was the quiet. No neighbors gathered in anxious groups. No traffic. Not even a car parked on the street.
She found number 65 and walked up a sweeping drive to a Craftsman-style house of dark wood and cut stone with a big chimney and gables. Big, latticed windows looked out on a comfortable porch. Addie stared, thinking of the jagged shards of glass in front of their store. Mrs. Powell was lucky her windows were in one piece. She glanced up. The chimney seemed to have survived as well.
She glided her hand along the iron raili
ng as she climbed the front steps. Then she crossed the porch and knocked at the door.
No one answered.
She waited and knocked again. When there was still no response, she walked over to a window and peered in through the pale muslin drapes. She saw a long mahogany dining table under a chandelier. A tall china cabinet with glass doors stood against the far wall. That hadn’t broken either! She frowned. Almaz had once told her that the effects of an earthquake could be different from one part of the city to another. The house was pretty high up on the hill. Maybe that explained it.
She hesitated before knocking a third time. It didn’t look as if there had been much damage, she reasoned, so Becky Powell was probably all right. If there was no answer, should she just leave?
But Mrs. Turner’s worry pricked her conscience. She’d said her friend was sick. And partially—or was it completely—blind? Addie couldn’t remember. In any case, it might take her a while to make her way through the house to answer the door.
“Say! Hello, there!” a voice called, and Addie jumped. “Are you looking for Mrs. Powell?”
She swung around to see a guy about Whaley’s age wearing a suit with the jacket tied around his waist. He was walking slowly up the sidewalk, carrying what looked like a large sack of laundry.
“Yes, I am.”
“My mothers not home, but I’m glad you’re here. I can't put her down, you see, and I’ll need you to unlock the door for me.”
He was coming up the drive now, and as he got closer, Addie realized that what he carried was not a sack of laundry but a girl. And she was unconscious.
Startled, Addie hurried down the steps toward them. The girl looked about thirteen or fourteen. A purple bruise mottled her forehead around a deep cut, and sticky-looking blood seamed the wound. Freckles stood out against her waxy skin. Strings of reddish-blond hair straggled across her forehead.
“Poor thing!” Instinctively, Addie put her arm under the girl’s back to help the guy support her weight. “She’s been hit hard.”
“As hard as she could be,” the guy returned in a disgusted tone. He was tall, though not in the gangly way Whaley was, and good-looking. His face was flushed, and his dark hair was sticking up in places and plastered down in others.
The Jewel and the Key Page 5