The Jewel and the Key

by Louise Spiegler

  Perhaps she was too drawn to it. Too pulled toward all of them. Too in love with the Jewel as it was long ago. Perhaps she had to try harder to break away.

  She kept looking, focusing until her own face nearly disappeared.... Hoping, wishing...

  Then, in the corner of the glass, she saw the door creak open behind her.

  “Hey, girl!” It was Whaley.

  Addie nearly jumped out of her skin.

  It was all she could do not to drop the mirror. She slid it back into her pocket and swung around, steadying herself with a hand on the lip of the sink.

  He was carrying a jug of bleach in one hand and a sponge in the other, wrinkling his nose. “I think something may have died in that refrigerator.”

  “Is that what the bleach is for?” she asked faintly.

  Whaley shrugged. “You asked me to come. You were going to look for photos and stuff, right? I thought I’d get rid of some of the mold while you’re busy with that. Now that I think of it, maybe I’d better run around the corner and buy one of those five-gallon jugs of water.” He frowned. “What are you doing in this old apartment anyway?”

  “Making tea,” Addie said, and then wondered why she had told him that. Because of course, there were no packets of tea to be seen. No sacks of flour on the shelves, no bowls of cherries on the counter. The window that had been covered with pale muslin was boarded up, and only thin rays of grayish light filtered through the chinks.

  “How are you going to make tea without water? Didn’t that guy Hank say the pipes were cracked?”

  “Yeah,” Addie said faintly. “I guess so.”

  But her face was still damp.

  15. Rags of Time

  Mrs. Powell's off ice was piled high with the clothes and books and photos Addie had pulled out of the crates, and she sat on the floor, sifting through them bit by bit. She was trying to be organized and systematic, as if throwing herself into the work would force time to become logical and unified on one plane again, not layered and permeable.

  It was a vain hope. Sorting through those old objects, stored away so long, only led her back and forth between the two different planes on which she was living. Again and again she would pause, putting down this pair of shoes, that old magazine, to gaze off into space, and the wonder and terror of what had happened would flood through her. Then she’d try to shake it off and force herself to return to her task.

  Whaley had brought a radio and was listening to a news program out in the corridor as he scrubbed down the walls. She was glad for the noise. It helped distract her from what had just happened.

  Words drifted in: ‘An American bomb has leveled a hospital and surrounding buildings in a remote village....”

  Addie put down a pair of cracked leather boots and listened more closely.

  “Fifty-eight are confirmed dead. More than one hundred injured. An air force spokeswoman stated that the intended target was an insurgent training camp....”

  A small rural hospital? Addie could almost see the wards full of patients, some getting better, preparing to go home, mothers having babies.... All that hope and struggle, only for a misfired explosive to rip away their lives.

  She’d ignored a lot of news about the old war—the one the country had been fighting for so long that she couldn’t even remember when it started—and even about the buildup to this new one. But now that Whaley might enlist, that world across the ocean was suddenly real. Though it was still foggier to her than the world of the Jewel, nearly a hundred years ago.

  Out in the hallway, the radio continued to report the story, and a horrible thought struck her. If a trained pilot could mistake a hospital for a military target, what about Whaley? Would he be able to tell civilians from enemy combatants? The soldiers they were fighting didn’t wear uniforms, she knew that. She’d been worried about Whaley getting hurt. But what if he hurt an innocent person? What if he killed a civilian? It wasn’t like he was known for being careful or anything.

  She was glad she’d stolen his enlistment papers.

  They were still in her pocket. She had to get rid of them.

  Suddenly she didn’t hear the radio anymore. Whaley had switched it off. She could hear his footsteps approaching.

  Hurriedly piling up the photos she had assembled for Mrs. Powell, Addie carried them to the desk by the back wall. She shoved aside the old swivel chair and slid back the roll top. An old green blotting pad still covered the writing surface. She laid down the photos and pulled open the top drawer. She’d just managed to take the crumpled enlistment papers out of her pocket, stick them into the drawer, and jam it shut when Whaley came into the room.

  Bleach fumes streamed in behind him. “Mrs. Powell’s here.”

  Innocently, Addie stepped away from the desk. “Was she surprised you were cleaning the walls for her?”

  “Surprised?” Becky Powell’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “Delighted! Though I hate for you to work so hard when it might be love’s labor lost.” She stepped into the room, leaning on her cane. “Don’t mind me,” she added. “I’m a pessimist. It works out better that way. Hello, Addie.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Powell.” Addie cleared a path to let her cross the room. She noticed the cherry red silk scarf Becky Powell had wrapped artfully around her partly grown-back hair, and she felt a swell of admiration. Mrs. Powell was obviously weak, and yet she had taken on this huge project. How could someone who had battled through so much be a pessimist? Addie just didn’t believe it.

  “Did Mrs. Turner find out anything about the historical preservation people?” Addie asked, settling down again to her spot on the floor.

  “She did.” A smile lit Becky Powells drawn face as she lowered herself into the swivel chair. ‘And they do provide grants. I’m so glad you thought of that!”

  Addie smiled back at her.

  “You mean, like, million-dollar grants?” Whaley pulled off the rubber gloves he’d been wearing and cracked his knuckles.

  “Don’t do that,” Addie ordered.

  “Keeps my fingers supple.” He sat down on the floor beside her, cracking his knuckles one by one right under her nose. She shoved him away. “Whaley! It’s like nails on a chalkboard!”

  Mrs. Powell laughed. “Are you sure you two aren’t brother and sister?”

  “Definitely not! I’m sorry he’s so immature, Mrs. Powell. We’ve tried to train him....”

  Whaley put out his tongue and panted like a dog. Addie sputtered with laughter. “Do they give grants for millions of dollars, Mrs. Powell?”

  “Sometimes.” Becky Powell reached out and pulled the chain of an old glass-shaded lamp that sat on the desk. Nothing happened. “You have to present an investment plan, but I’m not worried about that.”

  “But that’s fabulous! Isn’t that what you’d hoped?”

  “Sure. But they only consider buildings for which the city’s granted landmark status. And to get that, we’ll need good documentation of the theaters original state. Have you found anything, Addie?”

  “Yes!” Addie bounced up from the floor. “See that pile on your right? It's all photos.” She went over to watch as Mrs. Powell shuffled through the pictures. Whaley got up and leaned over her shoulder. “Most of them are from the seventies and eighties. But this one—” Addie pointed at a black-and-white photo that showed the façade of the Jewel lit up with glaring electric bulbs against a night sky. A throng of people streamed in past the ticket booth and through the front doors. “I think it's from the twenties—see all the dropped waists on the womens dresses? They're like the flapper dress we found.”

  Mrs. Powell squinted. “Drat it, I wish there was a light bulb in this lamp. My vision isn't what it used to be.” She picked up the picture and held it so that its edge nearly touched her nose. “I think you're right! Are there more like this?”

  “A few.”

  “Any interior shots?”

  “Only pictures of performances, so mainly the actors. Not the architecture so much. And that's w
hat you need, isn't it? The carvings and the proscenium and the dome and the rest of it?”

  Mrs. Powell lowered the photo from in front of her eyes and examined Addie curiously. “What dome?”

  Addie started. “I—uh, I just thought there might be one,” she said uncomfortably. “You never know what a false ceiling conceals. Sorry. Maybe I'm confusing it with another theater. Doesn't the Neptune have one?”

  “Don't think so,” Whaley said.

  “Well, it’s an interesting thought, Addie. Very interesting. If only we could rip out that horrible ceiling! Wasn’t there anything else?”

  “Nothing useful.” The whole time Addie had been searching through the crates, she’d hoped to find some evidence of the Jewel back in Reg and Emma Mae’s time. But she hadn’t found anything. “Mostly costumes. Do they count?”

  Mrs. Powell shrugged. “Probably not. But you never know.”

  “Well, I’ve tried to separate them by decade, anyhow. There’s some great stuff.” A sudden inspiration hit her. “Hey! I know what you should do, Mrs. Powell. When the place reopens—”

  “If it reopens.”

  “When,” Addie insisted, laughing. “You should get some mannequins and display the costumes from Mrs. Turner’s crates.”

  Whaley squatted down by a pile and pulled out a purple paisley shirt with ruffled cuffs. “What do you think, Ads? British psychedelic band?” He held it against his chest.

  Addie wrinkled her nose. “You look like Syd Barrett. Don’t go there, Whaley.”

  “Hey, you know what else, Mrs. Powell? You should have benefit concerts here. It would be a quick way to raise funds.”

  “You and your band would play for free, wouldn’t you, Whaley?”

  “Sure thing. If Rico and Cam are up for it. But I know some of the Sub Pop bands, too. Maybe I could talk a few of them into it.”

  Addie gazed up at the green glass over the light fixture hanging from the ceiling, envisioning the musicians on the stage, and crowds dancing in the aisles. “That’s a great idea. We could have concerts leading up to the grand reopening. Tie them in to whatever the first play is going to be.” The living bustle of the Jewel came rushing back to her. What would Emma Mae and Meg do if they were about to launch a new theater? She thought a minute. “Something really exciting that everyone’s going to want to come and see. And there should be some big bash to celebrate.”

  Mrs. Powell pretended to be alarmed. “I’d better get that renovation grant. I don’t think I dare disappoint the two of you.” She turned to Addie. “Where else can we look for documentation? I’ve poked around at home, thinking Dave might have some family albums or scrapbooks, but no luck.”

  Addie frowned. She’d been through everything in the crates and in the desk already. Her gaze drifted over to the panelled walls. “I tried opening those cabinets there, but—”

  “Stuck. I know.” Mrs. Powell’s brow furrowed. “I don’t want to do more damage, but ... maybe we should just force them open. Would you like to try, Whaley? I don’t care if you bang things up a bit. The preservation people aren’t going to care about the offices.”

  Whaley went over and yanked on the black knob on the cabinet door. It didn’t budge. “You got a crowbar?” He punctuated the question with a sneeze.

  “Bless you. And yes, there’s one in a janitor’s closet in that little hallway down the stairs on the right side of the stage. There’s a door that opens to it. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  Addie’s eyes widened. Peterson’s hiding place.

  “Sure. I found a lot of the cleaning stuff back there.”

  As Whaley left, the “Ride of the Valkyries” burst from the tiny leather purse Mrs. Powell had thrown onto the desk. She grinned at Addie. “Must be Margie calling.” She retrieved her cell phone. “Yes? No, of course not, Margie. How can I?...All right, I’ll spread the word.” Then she glanced at Addie. “Yes, she’s here. Of course I’ll tell her.”

  She hung up. “She wanted to remind me about the demonstration against the war this Friday. As if I’m going to march across the city!” She shook her head. “I’ve known Marge for twenty years, and I can’t believe she’s never landed herself in jail. Oh, and she said to ask your dad if she can get a ride to the protest. She can't reach him. Is he likely to go?”

  “Definitely,” Addie said, glancing at the drawer where she had hidden the enlistment papers. “He feels pretty strongly about it. He already asked Whaley and me to cover the store and watch Zack for him.”

  “What, no school?”

  Addie shook her head. “Nope. Professional development day for the teachers.”

  She went over to the cabinet and ran her hand along it. ‘Are you sure you want Whaley ripping this open? It’s going to look pretty trashed. I can give it another try, if you like.”

  Mrs. Powell shrugged. “That’s thoughtful of you, but I think it’s been stuck for a long time. Be my guest, though.”

  Addie crouched down and braced herself, taking hold of the knob and pulling. It didn’t budge. She tried twisting and shaking it. Nothing. She stood up to give herself more leverage, bent over, grabbed the knob and strained back, until she felt like she was going to end up on the floor. “Geez!” She shook out her hand, which now had red streaks across the palm. “I give up.”

  Whaley reappeared with a crowbar in his hands. “Are you sure you want me to use this?”

  Addie and Mrs. Powell looked at each other. Mrs. Powell chuckled. “Definitely. Go right ahead.”

  With a splintering sound, a rich stream of expletives, and a halfhearted apology to Mrs. Powell, he soon had one door ajar.

  Addie went over to peer into the dusty-smelling cabinet. Piles of programs, scrapbooks, ledgers, and scripts in varying stages of decrepitude were piled on the shelves.

  “Pay dirt.” Whaley grinned.

  “Let me see.” Mrs. Powell got up from the swivel chair and hobbled over.

  Addie picked up a playbill. “The Children’s Hour by Lillian Hellman—1936!”

  “We’ll need something older than that. But it’s a start.”

  They sorted through the papers excitedly. There were stacks of material from the 1980s and 1970s. But it thinned out in the 1950s, and there was even less from the ’40s. “Oh, look!” Addie cried. “Henry V ... Whaley, its from 1944. Isn’t that the same year Laurence Olivier made the movie we saw at the Neptune? Remember, you said it was made during the Battle of Britain or something? To boost morale?”

  “Closer to D-day,” Whaley said, and put on an unconvincing English accent. “‘We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets ... we shall never surrender!’”

  Addie rolled her eyes. “That’s not Shakespeare.”

  “It’s Winston Churchill, when his country looked like it was going to be invaded. Sometimes people actually need to fight, Addie.”

  We haven’t been invaded, Addie wanted to tell him, and you’re not Winston Churchill. But she kept her mouth shut. An argument would just get his back up. Instead, she returned to the cabinet and thumbed through every program, newspaper notice, and review while Whaley and Mrs. Powell sorted through the rest. Finally, she reached the bottom.

  “Is this everything?” she demanded in frustration. “What about the other cabinet? Whaley, can you open it?”

  “If Mrs. Powell says its okay.” Becky Powell nodded, hardly looking up from the old account ledger she’d found. Whaley pried open the other cabinet doors and they dove in.

  The papers on this side were older, mainly from the 1920s. Still, it wasn’t until she’d dug through a mountain of them that Addie found a leather-bound scrapbook, its corners black and soft with mold. She lifted it out and opened it gently, since the binding seemed fragile. Embossed on the outside of the book’s cover in gold ink were the initials E.M.P.

  “It’s Emma Mae’s.”

  She’d spoken softly, almost to herself, but Becky Powell looked up sh
arply. “Emma Mae Powell’s?”

  “Yes!” The wonder was quickly overtaken by excitement. “Oh, wow, look at this. Did she run the theater all the way up until 1942?”

  “Yep. Even kept it afloat throughout the Depression.” Becky Powell looked off into space for a moment. “And if she could do that...” She shook her head wonderingly. “Let me see that when you’re done, okay, Addie?”

  Addie nodded, already turning the pages carefully, feeling their stiff, easily crumbled paper, brown and stained with age.

  And a quarter of the way through, there it was: the program from Macbeth.

  The small hairs rose on the back of her neck. She opened it and read: Directed by Mrs. Margaret Turner. Starring Mr. Frederick Harrison. Her eyes flew to the cast list to check the understudies. Reg’s name wasn’t there. But then she remembered that Frederick Harrison had had a professional understudy, and Reg had only taken over temporarily.

  She flipped the pages. There were a few photos. Not from Macbeth, but from other productions. And none of them showed much of the theater’s interior. She had to remind herself to keep focused on that. But she couldn’t help searching for actors she would recognize, for a glimpse of Meg Turner or Emma Mae Powell, of Hettie or Andrew. Or Reg.

  And as she did, that other world shifted forward in her mind. She saw Meg assembling the actors back onstage once the police had left, calling for Addie to assist her—she’d be responsible for more than props, wouldn’t she? Wasn’t that what Meg had implied? What would Meg think when she found Addie had simply disappeared? And Frida and Reg—would it look as if she had abandoned them after learning their dangerous secret?

  Becky Powell clicked her tongue loudly. “Oh, dear. Nothing!”

  “Don’t give up yet,” Addie said. She forced herself back to her task. It felt so frustrating not to find even one black-and-white photo when she could still see the rich red curtains and the shining brass of the real thing. The survival of the Jewel now depended on finding evidence of the Jewel then. How ridiculous that a thin veil of time was all that separated them.