The Jewel and the Key

by Louise Spiegler

The only answer was the wind rattling the papers as they spun down the alley behind her.

  Her heart sank. Should she just leave?

  But the thought of going home with nothing to show for the trip was way too depressing. And Mrs. T. had left the key, so she must be here somewhere. And Reg had said Tuesday, and here it was, Tuesday. They must be in the auditorium.

  All right, then. Addie stepped inside and eased the steel door shut behind her.

  Darkness enveloped her. A subterranean chill raised goose flesh on her arms. The place smelled ancient, like a crypt. She felt along the wall, found a light switch and flicked it, but nothing happened. Somewhere ahead of her in the darkness, a faint greenish light glowed. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out doorways with stippled-glass panes, recessed closets, crumbly walls. Carefully, she made her way down the gloomy corridor toward the light.

  The corridor led to another hallway, perpendicular to it. The light was seeping out from under a closed door at one end. As she approached, something screeched behind it and Addie nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Mrs. Turner?” She gulped.

  Oh, no, she thought. This is the part of the horror film where the heroine is expecting to find her friend in the creepy old house, but the guy who’s just escaped from the asylum jumps out instead....

  She glanced over her shoulder. Shouldn’t Whaley be getting here about now?

  “Mrs. T.?” she called, louder.

  “Addie?” a familiar husky voice called from within. “Is that you?”

  “Yes! Yes, I’m here.” Relieved, she flung the door open and found her neighbor leaning on one crutch trying to shove a threadbare pink love seat against the wall of a large, dusty office.

  “Just making room,” Mrs. Turner puffed.

  “For what? Let me do that!” Addie grabbed the arm of the love seat and yanked it into the corner.

  “Becky thought we could store the crates in here,” Mrs. T. explained as she lowered herself into a wooden swivel chair behind an old rolltop desk.

  “Oh, good. She’s here after all. I was starting to wonder.” Addie straightened up and brushed a cobweb off her jacket. Nervous excitement pumped through her once again. “Do you mind if I run out and tell her I made it?”

  “Go on. The stairs to the stage are just down the hall. I think she’s up there.”

  Addie left the room and dashed eagerly up the staircase, relieved that the lights were working in this part of the theater.

  “Mrs. Powell! I’m here!” She burst out into the wings at the top of the stairs, her heart thumping. But instantly she stopped short. No one was here. Puzzled, she looked around. The place was empty and silent. Lighting racks hung overhead in the gloom. The door leading backstage was open. She stepped through, but no one was there either. Old drops had been shoved against the cracked walls. Cans of dried-up paint had fallen off the shelves and been left on the floor. The air smelled like rotting wood.

  Frowning, she turned around, catching a glimpse of the big loading-dock doors. Now she was beginning to feel a bit unnerved. It all felt so old and empty. And just as rundown inside as it was out front.

  But there’s supposed to be a rehearsal going on, she thought. Where were the actors? The crew?

  Confused and disappointed, she went back into the wings and stepped through onto the stage. “Mrs. Powell?”

  No. No one was here, either.

  And yet...

  As she gazed into the airy depths of the auditorium, she felt a lifting, an expansion—that feeling that she got whenever she stepped into a theater, even if she was just in the audience, as if she were a bird about to take flight. A feeling of power, of potential, flooded through her.

  Now this was a real theater.

  But her elation was short-lived.

  When she looked closer she saw that the stage floor was gashed and paint-spattered. Her gaze traveled to rows of seats in the orchestra that had been unscrewed and dragged out of place, and then up to the dress circle. There was a little bit of decorative plasterwork on the balconies, the box seats, the pillars supporting the roof, but she couldn’t make out what most of it was, since what hadn’t sheered off in the earthquake had cracked or crumbled. The proscenium rose above her, and as she stepped to the very edge of the stage, it was clear that something—sculptures or carvings—had been jimmied off the top of it. The ceiling was surprisingly low and tiles had fallen out, leaving black gaps. A huge burlap sack hung from the center of it, trailing great nets of cobwebs. There were even holes in the walls where light fixtures had been ripped out.

  Addie sighed.

  Still ... you could tell the Jewel had been grand in its day.

  She closed her eyes, and her imagination rolled crimson carpets along the aisles, applied shining paint to the walls, washed the grimy marble, and brightened the corners with huge vases of flowers. She could almost feel the warmth of the spots, could almost see women in sleek dresses and men in evening clothes shifting for a better view as the houselights dimmed.

  She opened her eyes again. What had Mrs. Powell said they were rehearsing? Oh, yes. Well, she hadn’t said it specifically because of that superstition. But there was only one play Addie knew of whose name must never be spoken for fear of catastrophe and bad luck.

  Kicking imaginary robes away from her feet, she advanced to center stage holding an invisible piece of paper—Macbeth’s letter to his wife, telling of his meeting with the witches and their incredible prediction of his rise to power. Addie pretended to scan the letter, reading and projecting to the back rows.

  They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfect'st report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge.... Then came missives from the king, who all-hailedme—

  She lifted her head, as if taken with the wonder of it.

  “Thane of Cawdor”; by which title, before, these Weird Sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with “Hail, king that shalt be!”

  She pressed the letter to her heart and turned suddenly, as if she’d been interrupted by Macbeth striding into the room. She ran toward him and threw her arms wide in greeting, letting her voice ring out across the auditorium.

  Great Glamis, worthy Cawdor!

  Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!

  Thy letters have transported me beyond

  This ignorant present, and I feel now

  The future in the instant.

  A guitar chord rang out behind her. Addie leaped half a yard across the stage and spun around.

  “Whaley! You frightened me!”

  He was sitting on the floor with his guitar on his lap. “Sorry, Ads. Mrs. T. let me in.” He bent his head and followed up the chord with a graceful but slightly eerie Elizabethan melody.

  Addie listened, enchanted. In all the years they’d been friends, the music Whaley coaxed out of his guitar had never ceased to astound her. “What was that?” she asked softly as the notes died away.

  “Don’t know. Made it up. Lady Macbeth music. That was Macbeth, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course it’s Macbeth,” Addie said, and then, remembering Mrs. Powell’s words, “or the Scottish play, if you’re—”

  A lone pair of hands clapping interrupted her.

  “Bravo!” a soft voice called. “Lovely music! Nice job, Lady M.”

  Addie’s face flamed as she peered into the gloom. Whaley put his guitar back in its case and came to stand next to her.

  “Mrs. Powell?” she called. But it clearly wasn’t her. Way in the back, near the exit, Addie made out a dim figure leaning on a cane.

  “That’s me.”

  The figure detached itself from the darkness, and Addie saw a small, wrenlike woman wearing a crisp white business blouse and a tweed jacket and skirt hobbling slowly toward them. Addie grabbed Whaley’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s not Mrs. Powell,” she whispered.

  “She says she is.” Whaley shook her hand gently off
his sleeve, crossed the stage to the wing, walked down the steps, and made his way into the central aisle. The woman shook his hand and started chatting with him. Hesitantly, Addie followed.

  When she reached them, the woman turned to her and held out her hand. “Becky Powell.”

  Addie shook her hand and introduced herself. But all the while her brain was reeling: Reg’s mother was Becky Powell, wasn’t she? She was tall and handsome and glowing with health. This Becky Powell was frail. She wore a silk scarf wrapped around her head with short wisps of hair peeking out from underneath. Her face was heart-shaped and drawn. Addie guessed her to be in her late forties or fifties. And though her left eye was perfectly normal, her right eye was dreamy and unfocused.

  A smile brought a ghost of prettiness to her face. “Margie's told me about you, Addie. I’m glad she invited you to come by.”

  “But Addie said you invited her to a rehearsal,” Whaley interjected.

  “A rehearsal?” Surprise flashed across the woman’s face. “Well, I certainly didn’t. Who invited you to a rehearsal at the Jewel?”

  Addie opened her mouth to respond, but something stopped her. “I think maybe I just misunderstood.”

  “Or someone was pulling your leg. There hasn’t been a rehearsal here for years.”

  Addie’s hands had gone ice cold. “For years?” she echoed faintly.

  “Though, maybe Margie told you that I’m trying to change that? Now that I’m better...” She hesitated. “Now that I have the time, I’m going to try to restore the Jewel to its former glory. It was an important theater once.”

  The door to the lobby opened and a guy in a plaid shirt thumped down the aisle toward them. He had heavy jowls, like a bulldog.

  “Hank! What news do you have for me?” Mrs. Powell called.

  “Good news first or bad?”

  “Bad. You know me.”

  He nodded at Whaley and Addie. “Beams and supports need replacing. And that plaster carving that survived the quake is in pretty bad shape. Original turn-of-the-century work, isn’t it?”

  Addie just listened to them. She felt stunned. This wasn’t right. None of it was right.

  Mrs. Powell nodded and sank into a seat. Dust poofed into the air around her. “I think there are more carvings. They’ve been plastered over or walled up or something.” She pointed upward. “And that’s definitely a false ceiling. The renters thought it would improve acoustics.”

  “Don’t worry about that now. You’ve just got to get it up to code. First thing, the plumbing needs to be overhauled. No way the city will issue a permit in the state it’s in now. Good thing the water’s not hooked up—the pipes are definitely cracked.”

  So this theater isn’t just a wreck; its not even functioning, Addie thought unhappily. And yet Mrs. Powell—the other Mrs. Powell—invited me here anyway! Why in the world did she do that?

  “What’s the good news?”

  “Foundation didn’t crack.”

  Mrs. Powell exhaled heavily. “Well, thank God for small favors.”

  “A sound foundation is not a small favor.”

  Mrs. Powell patted the seat in front of her. “Take a load off. Lets talk money.” She glanced at Whaley and Addie. “This can’t be interesting for you. Do you want to look around? I’ll join you and Margie once we’re done here.”

  “Sure,” Addie said. Her stomach fluttered as she trudged ahead of Whaley up to the stage. She felt ... confused. No. Worse than that. She realized that, for no good reason, she felt scared.

  Whaley poked her shoulder. “Now, that’s strange. How do you explain it?”

  “I don’t know!” She had to be rational. She couldn’t let her imagination get carried away. “Do you think I got the name of the theater wrong or something?” Even to her, this sounded weak.

  “You said you were going to the Jewel. Maybe the place is right, but those folks you met weren’t really talking about rehearsing—”

  “But that’s exactly what they said: a rehearsal! I even know what play.”

  Whaley shrugged. “I don’t know, Ads. It looks like they just stood you up.”

  Irritation washed over her. “Like you, you mean?”

  “I didn’t stand you up.” Whaley gave her a prickly look and picked up his guitar.

  “Sure you did. You ditched me and ran off to that army place. Couldn’t you have told me where you were going?”

  “Nah.”

  Addie glanced down into the auditorium to make sure Hank and Mrs. Powell weren’t listening to their argument. To her relief, they seemed absorbed in their own discussion. “Why not? Don’t you think it would have been good to talk about it first? To think about it?”

  “I have thought about it!” Suddenly everything about him was tight and defensive, from the set of his shoulders to his grip on the handle of the case.

  “You didn’t promise them anything, did you? Didn’t—whatchamacallit—enlist?”

  Whaley narrowed his eyes, turned, and stomped off into the wing.

  “Whaley! Wait!” She ran after him. Oh, she hadn’t meant to start a fight.

  Halfway down the stairs, he spun around. “It’s my decision, Addie, not yours. And for God’s sake, don’t tell Mike.”

  “Fine,” Addie spluttered.

  As they reached the bottom of the steps, Mrs. Turner emerged from the office, awkwardly negotiating the door on her crutches. “Whaley! Just the person I was looking for.”

  “Sorry. I’m leaving.” He pushed past her.

  “But you said you’d help with the crates!” Addie called after him.

  He stopped, but didn’t turn around.

  “If you could help, I’d appreciate it,” Mrs. Turner said, pretending not to notice Whaley’s mood. She handed a ring of keys to Addie. “Pull the van up to the loading dock, would you, sweetie? It’s hard to drive with my wonky ankle.”

  Whaley came back and snatched the keys. “Addie failed her driving test. I'll do it.” Mrs. Turner raised her eyebrows at Addie, but Addie just shook her head.

  The rain was pelting by the time they brought the first crate into the theater. In a few minutes they were both soaked. They stumbled into the dark corridor, and again Addie was struck by its damp, earthy smell. She tried to catch Whaley’s eye as they carried the heavy boxes between them, ready to make a goofy face, a silly remark, anything to break through the haze of ill will. But he wouldn’t look at her.

  As they lowered the last crate onto the floor of the office, Becky Powell and Mrs. Turner burst in. Mrs. T. was saying, “Now, just wait a minute before you call Dave—” “No, I have to tell him. All that money! We’ll never get a loan for that much!”

  Addie looked from one to the other of the women in dismay. “What happened? Can't you renovate the Jewel after all?” Whaley leaned against the door frame, listening.

  “I don’t think I can.” Mrs. Powell shook her head in disbelief. ‘An earthquake cracking the walls on top of everything! Who would believe it? It’s like a sick joke....”

  Mrs. Turner maneuvered herself onto the love seat. “Can’t you do some creative financing?”

  “With what?” Mrs. Powell looked paler and more drawn than before. “My medical bills are eating up what’s left of Daves money. I can get investors, but I’ll have to sink a big chunk myself before they’ll be willing to part with their capital.”

  The sadness in Mrs. Powells voice went to Addie's heart. “Can I help somehow?” she asked. She knew it sounded silly, but she wanted to do something.

  “That’s kind. But I don’t know how.” Mrs. Powell slumped down on the arm of the love seat.

  Addie glanced at Whaley. He usually had ideas. For the first time since they’d started bringing in the crates, he met her eyes. But he only shrugged.

  “What about...” Addie paused, chasing a thought that had flickered through her mind. “Maybe this is nuts, but—remember, Mrs. Turner, you said your great-aunt worked at the Jewel a long time ago? Doesn’t that mean this place is hi
storic?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Well then, can’t the city declare it a historic landmark?”

  “I’m not sure how that would help,” Mrs. Powell said.

  But Mrs. T. gave Addie an encouraging look. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Remember that church on Queen Anne? The one the congregation had to sell to a developer because they couldn’t afford to fix it, but then they saved it? You took the pictures for the article, Mrs. T. The city helped fund the renovation because they proved it was a historic building.”

  “The city?” Mrs. Powell frowned. “I doubt it. They don’t have any money. Maybe a foundation or something.”

  Mrs. T. snapped her fingers. “That's right! If the city decides it’s a landmark, then it’s eligible for foundation money. Addie’s right. The deal is, you have to show you can restore the building to its original state. Do we know what that was?”

  Mrs. Powell looked skeptical. “There’s been a lot of remodeling. And a lot of damage. I’m not sure.”

  “I can find out for you!” Addie offered. “I could do a little research. I’m not bad at that.”

  “Well, there are some records somewhere, I’m sure. Some photos maybe. And”—she leaned over and touched the top of one of the crates—“was it only costumes you found in these?”

  “No. There were papers, too. And books and boxes. We haven’t really gone through them. But we could.” Addie paused. “I could. If it would help.”

  Mrs. Powell gave Addie a faint smile. “You’re starting to win me over.”

  Addie smiled back, thinking of the grand theater she’d imagined when she’d stepped onstage. “I could come back tomorrow after school.” She looked at Whaley. “D’you want to meet me here?”

  “Maybe. But there’s some things I got to do....”

  “Pleeease, Whaley?” Addie slapped on a sappy, pleading expression.

  Despite himself, he gave a small grunt of laughter. “Oh, all right.”

  A bit of animation had come back into Becky Powells face. “If you’re really serious, I can leave the key here for the two of you.” She hesitated. “But you’d better let me show you around first. I don’t want you to be under any illusions about the wreck I’ve got on my hands. Want to come along, Margie?”