Addie pulled the earbud from her ear, fixing a quizzical look on her friend. “That speech ... Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’...Who is that?”
“It’s Robert Oppenheimer. The atom bomb guy. It’s what he said when they first tested the bomb out in the desert.” Almaz paused. “Oh, come on, why are you looking so worried? The band is the important thing. It’s Tackhead. Whaley loves them. He loaded the song for me.”
Addie shook her head. “It’s creeping me out. All this stuff about war all the time. I wish Whaley would get over it.”
“Don’t be silly. You know he loves that kind of thing.” Almaz pointed down the block to where Whaley was just rounding the corner, wearing a patched green sweatshirt and carrying his guitar. “There he is now. Gotta run. Call me later?” She squeezed Addie’s hand. “Let me know how it goes.”
She ran down the steps, slapping Whaley’s hand as she passed him, and then, when he wasn’t looking, she turned and gave him another glance. Uh-huh, Addie thought, and smiled to herself.
“Ready?” Whaley gave the school a glowering look. The streaks of purplish blue under his eye still stood out clearly. “I don’t want to hang out here.”
She hurried down to him. “Thanks for agreeing to help.”
“No problem. I didn’t think you and Mrs. T. could manage those crates alone. But I got to get to Rico's by five.” He lifted up his guitar case, the one with the initials W.P.P. engraved on it under a sticker that said This Machine Kills Fascists. “Band practice. And I got some errands to do on Broadway.”
Kirk brushed by, and Whaley flashed him a sardonic peace sign. Addie rolled her eyes. “Why is he still in school when you’re not?”
“Come on,” Whaley said. “Let’s get out of here. Want to walk?”
She looked up at the low, mottled clouds overhead. “Okay. But we hop a bus if it starts to pour. I don’t want to ruin this dress.”
“Some Seattle girl you are. What’s a little rain?” Whaley examined her with a faint, amused smile. “Why are you wearing that, anyway?”
“I just thought I should look nice. There’s a rehearsal at the Jewel, and Mrs. Powell said maybe she could find work for me.”
The smile disappeared. “Terrific. At least someone will be working.”
“What do you mean?” She looked at him more closely, loping along, kind of hunched over and closed in. Despite what Almaz said, Addie thought he had been a little down the past couple days. She knew he was anxious because he didn’t have any shifts to cover and he was supposed to be working. But he had to know that was out of his hands. Gently, she said, “Its only been two days since the earthquake. The store will reopen soon. You’ve got a lot of it cleaned up already.”
He wasn’t mollified. “It won’t be that soon. There still aren’t any windows. The walls need repair, and meanwhile, I’m not earning my keep. I feel like a leech.”
“Can’t you help fix the walls? You’re good at that kind of thing. And no one thinks you’re a leech!” She touched his shoulder. “Come on, Whaley. You’re part of the family, all right?”
Whaley didn’t respond. It was a familiar feeling, this ache she had in her heart for him. Like she would make his world better for him if he’d let her, but he never wanted her to.
Addie walked along beside him in silence, all the way down Fortieth and back up across University Bridge. The wind was cold here, whipping up whitecaps on the ship canal. Its really too long a walk, she thought. We should jump on a bus.
But already they were off the bridge, walking fast, climbing up Capitol Hill. She looked around and thought there was as much damage here as anywhere else in the city. Roof tiles littered people’s yards. There were boarded-up windows in the florist’s shop and the French bakery. Then again, this street wasn’t as high up as Fifteenth Avenue was, and the Powells’ house was much closer to Fifteenth, so perhaps it did make sense that there would be less damage up there. Still, a faint unrest crept into her mind once more.
They passed the big private school that was built like an Italian Renaissance villa, all brown stucco and tile roofs. The grass in the school’s playing field glowed in the silver pre-storm glare. One of those rare spring thunderstorms was brewing. The wind spat Addie’s hair into her eyes, and the electricity in the air made her skin crawl. Out of nowhere, the image of the angel’s stone wings rising over the yew hedge troubled her memory. “Whaley?”
He turned sharply, as if she’d startled him back from some faraway place, and suddenly she wished she hadn’t gotten his attention.
“What?”
The cold of the approaching downpour had gotten into her bones. It made her shiver. “You know the war memorial in Volunteer Park? The statue of the angel?”
He nodded.
“Last Sunday, when I was coming back from the Powells’, it wasn’t there anymore.”
Whaley raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, I saw it when I went to their house. But when I came back, it was gone. The fountain was there, the marble bench, and the hedge. But no angel.”
“So? Maybe a tree was in your way.”
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. Now she felt foolish.
But Whaley wasn’t making fun of her. “This happened on the way back from their house?” he asked. “After you met that guy who said there hadn’t been an earthquake?”
“Yes,” Addie said cautiously. Somehow she knew the two things were linked, but her mind shied away from examining it too closely.
Whaley frowned. “It’s just strange, isn’t it? He says something that happened didn’t. You say something that’s normally there wasn’t.”
They were passing St. Marks Cathedral. The clouds overhead were blue-black. The whole thing with the angel was too spooky. Why had she mentioned it? She didn’t want him to treat it as if it had really happened. What she wanted, she realized, was for him to convince her it hadn’t. “It doesn’t matter anyhow,” she said hurriedly. “When I looked again, there it was.”
“Maybe it was low blood sugar? From running all over town with nothing to eat?”
Yes! That could be it. But the bites of the lemon cake she'd had at the Powells’ were still vivid in her memory.
Whaley swerved around a barrier that a road crew had put up on the sidewalk. He and Addie crossed the street. “You mean that memorial with the list of names on it, right? Guys who died in—what was it? World War Two?”
“One,” Addie said. The park was only four blocks up along the next cross street. “Can I show you? You’re not in a hurry, are you?”
“I thought you were.”
“It’ll just take a minute,” she said, and they headed up the steep winding road that intersected Tenth, leading to the south entrance of the park. Near where the Powells li ved.
She led him into the park and through the trees to the yew hedge and they came to a halt in front of the monument. Then Addie walked right up to the statue and touched the outstretched stone wing. The clouds had thrown a shadow over the angel’s face. Her expression was unreadable.
She sat down on the bench and scanned the names on the statue’s base. Allen, Anderson, Bellows ...after every name was the same year: 1918. And next to the year, the names of battles: Belleau Wood, Meuse-Argonne, or, more infrequently, St. Mihiel Salient.
“Did you see the paper today?” Whaley said suddenly.
“No.”
“Well, I’ve had lots of time on my hands,” he said bitterly. “Just sitting around...”
“What about the paper?” Addie asked quickly.
“They published the names of soldiers who’ve died since the war started. Where they came from. How old they were.” He pointed at the memorial. “Sort of like this.”
“Oh, wait, I did see that.” Addie looked up at Whaley in his patched sweatshirt, huddled against a cold gust of wind. She’d read that article while she was having breakfast. It had mentioned a few soldiers from Fort Lewis, the big army camp near the city. One guy had graduate
d from Franklin two years ago. Another had been a lifeguard at Matthews Beach, where she and Almaz swam in the summer. Now he was dead.
She frowned. Mrs. Powells son Reg was thinking about joining up, wasn’t he?
“Doesn’t it make you mad?” she burst out. “All those soldiers killed already? When there’s no good reason.”
Whaley looked at her as if she were insane. “Yeah, I’m mad. But I’m mad at the people who killed them. It sounds to me like you and Mrs. T. are mad at our folks for standing up and fighting back.”
Addie opened her mouth to make a retort, but closed it again. She didn’t want to get him angry. Besides, being here, in this quiet place with all the names of the dead, made arguing seem pointless. Whaley wasn’t going to change her gut feelings about war, and she would never know enough about politics and strategy and boots on the ground and all that stuff that Whaley loved to convince him of anything. Instead, she just felt sad.
“There are so many names on this memorial,” she said. “And now the names are just starting to come in from this new war. How spooky is that?”
Whaley just turned and walked back toward the park entrance. After a moment, Addie followed him.
In silence, they made their way back down to Tenth and headed to where the street merged into Broadway, and suddenly shops and restaurants and bars replaced the quiet houses.
“Spare some change?” A homeless girl sitting in a doorway held out a cup. It was odd to see her here, Addie thought. Most homeless kids gravitated to the U. District. Maybe she was new in town. Her eyes were muddy, strung out. From Whaley she knew how easy it was to buy drugs just about anywhere in Seattle. He’d been mixed up in all of that before they became friends.
The girl’s fingernails were black, and she was wearing two jackets, one on top of the other. Whaley rummaged in his pocket and gave her a five-dollar bill. The girl didn’t thank him, just put her head on her knees and crooned a sad, wordless melody to herself.
Addie linked her arm through his. “You’re so generous, Whaley.”
“It all comes around. Who knows? I could end up like that again.”
“No you couldn’t!” Her vehemence surprised even her. “We’re not going to toss you out on the street. And for the last time, it’s not your fault there was an earthquake.” She gave him a playful shove. “Or is it? I mean, did you engineer a quake just so you could spend the week jamming with Enrique instead of working in the bookstore?” He didn’t laugh. “Oh, come on, Whaley. We want you to stay with us.”
For a moment, his expression was naked and uncertain. Then he squeezed her arm. “Man,” he said, “you are one of the five things that save me every day, Addie McNeal.”
Addie glowed. ‘Am I? What are the other four?”
“Jimi Hendrix, Leadbelly, Muddy Waters, your dad, and my guitar.”
“That’s five.”
He looked over his shoulder to where a bus had just rounded the corner. “Yeah? And guess what. There’s the nine. Want to take it the rest of the way?”
“Sure.” But the tone of his voice made warning bells go off inside her. There was something strange in it. Something grim. She wanted to find out what it was, but the first drops of rain were pelting their faces and they had to run to the Metro stop.
Addie jumped on the bus and began rooting through her purse. She needed to throw away some of the junk she lugged around! Finally she found a bill and some quarters, slipped them into the change machine, and turned to make a joke about it to Whaley.
But he was gone.
The doors closed and the bus swung away from the curb.
Where the heck was he? Addie grabbed a seat and looked out, only to see him striding away down the sidewalk. She pulled open the top window and yelled, “Hey! Where are you going?”
He waved. “I’ll catch the next bus. Break an arm.”
“Leg! And I’m not auditioning, anyway! Where are you going?”
But he either didn’t hear or was pretending not to. “Whaley!”
The other passengers stared at her—middle school kids with instrument cases, old ladies with grocery bags, homeless guys with big beards and all their belongings in sacks.
Fuming, Addie slid back into her seat.
Half a block farther, the bus wheezed to a stop, stuck behind a SUV trying to edge its way into a tiny parking space. Addie turned again, craning her neck to see where Whaley had gone.
She spotted him standing in front of an ugly stone building near the community college. His hand was reaching for the doorknob, but then he dropped it and just stood there, hesitating.
Posters were plastered on the windows: action figures, guys in camouflage running with guns at the ready. A video store?
Then she made out the sign over the door: ARMY RECRUITMENT CENTER.
“Hey!” She gathered her purse and her backpack and pushed her way to the front of the bus. “Can you let me off?” she asked the driver. “You’re stuck anyway.”
But the SUV had angled into the last inch of the parking space, and the bus driver leaned on his horn. “That’s it, buddy! Get outta my way!” He jolted past with less than an inch to spare. “Hate those goddamn monstermobiles.”
“Good thing we’re protecting the oil fields for people like him,” a guy with a laptop observed.
“That’s not why we’re fighting,” a woman snapped. She was carrying a toy terrier in a front pack. “I’m sick of hearing people like you—”
“Oh, shut the hell up,” someone else said, and it was on.
“Can’t you let me off? Please?” Addie repeated.
But the bus was already whizzing down Broadway. “No unposted stops,” the driver said, accelerating so fast Addie pitched forward and nearly fell. “It’s not safe.”
She grabbed one of the poles and held on for dear life. “Where’s the next stop?”
“Third and Broadway.” They eased to a halt. “Sit down, miss. No passengers in front of the yellow line.”
Addie threw herself into the closest seat and glared at him, imagining her eyes emitting cartoonish thunderbolts that would ignite the back of his head. Though even if he had let her off, it wouldn’t have done any good. She knew Whaley. Rushing in after him, shouting, No, don’t do it! wouldn’t stop him.
Maybe he’s just checking it out, she told herself.
“Third and Broadway,” the driver announced.
Light burst in the sky as she got off the bus. Nervously, she jerked her head up, remembering the green bomb flashes on TV. The storm clouds had parted for a moment, and a sunbeam had glinted off the black edge of the Columbia Tower; that was all. In the clearing, she saw a thin vapor trail slice across the dome of the sky.
And then the light was gone, swallowed up in black thunderheads rumbling in from Puget Sound.
She hesitated. Should she go to the Jewel? Or should she jump on the next bus back to Capitol Hill, find Whaley, and bodily pull him out of the recruitment center?
She actually felt as if she might throw up. On one hand, what if Whaley really did sign up and went over to fight and for the rest of her life she regretted not stopping him? On the other hand, what if, because of Whaley, she insulted Mrs. Powell by not showing up at the Jewel? She couldn’t mess up her chance to work in a real, professional theater, could she?
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
No. She couldn’t miss this chance.
She pulled her jacket tighter around her and headed to the Jewel.
9. The Jewel
Addie stared up at the theater's dirty gray façade in utter disappointment.
Rain was spattering the pavement as she stepped back to take it all in. The ticket booth windows were shrouded in dust. Boards blocked up the doorways. Lights were smashed, and the terra-cotta façade was filthy. But this wasn’t just earthquake damage. There must have been decades of dirt embedded in the walls and coating the windows.
Maybe, Addie thought hopefully, maybe she had come to the wrong place?
But above the central doorway, in a big decorative arch, she spied a carving of a faceted diamond, and underneath, blackened by pollution, was the inscription THE JEWEL—EST. 1910.
It was a mess. Yet, Mrs. Powell had spoken of it with such pride, as if it were busy and successful. And maybe it was. After all, Mrs. T. had said they were renovating. Despite this, Addie felt that familiar disquiet.
It doesn’t make any difference. No matter what the outside of the theater looked like, inside, the Powells were expecting her. Rehearsals were under way. That was the important thing.
The spark of excitement that had burned inside her all day rekindled. She'd better find that key and let herself in.
Leaving behind the dilapidated façade, she headed around the side of the building and followed the sidewalk toward the back of the theater. There was a loading dock with a ramp and a garage-size steel door. But she didn’t see any regular door through which she could enter. Hadn’t Mrs. T. said the loading dock entrance was in the back?
She continued on and turned right into the narrow alley behind the theater. The reek of garbage and decay nearly made her gag. A few motorcycles were parked here, but she didn’t see Dads book van. Maybe it was just too cramped. She saw a second loading dock halfway down the alley, and as she approached it, noticed a man with a tobacco-stained beard rummaging through a dumpster right next to it.
Hastily, she bounded up the steps of the loading dock, keeping her eye on the man, who didn’t seem to notice her, and slipped her hand into the rusty mailbox. The key was there, as Mrs. Turner had promised. Addie jangled it in the keyhole, turned the knob, and heaved open the steel door.
“Mrs. Powell?” Propping the door open with one foot, she peered into the darkness. A dim passage stretched out before her.
“Mrs. T.?” Addie glanced over her shoulder. The man was pulling a pizza box out of the dumpster now, muttering to himself as newspapers and Styrofoam containers cascaded in its wake.
“Is anyone there?” she called more loudly.
The Jewel and the Key Page 9