The Jewel and the Key

by Louise Spiegler

  An old man with a bluish five o’clock shadow who was being helped by the librarian glared at her from a neighboring microfiche machine.

  Think. Don’t panic. Maybe they had run the pictures and the article on another day?

  Addie spun the film forward into the week, to check.

  Nothing ... nothing ... wait a second.

  She stopped turning the knob, puzzled. Was it a fourday week?

  There wasn’t a holiday she’d forgotten about, was there? Memorial Day? No, that was the end of May, not the beginning. And was it even a holiday back then? May Day? No. Well, it didn’t matter. Maybe they’d held off until the day Macbeth opened. Friday, right? Where was it? Oh, yes, she saw it. But even on Macbeth’s opening night, there was nothing about the Jewel at all. What had happened to the photos, then? And why was this week so short?

  She counted back. Friday was here. Thursday, Wednesday.

  Addie looked more closely at the edition with the pictures of the Red Cross nurses in the quad. The lights above her head buzzed like irritated bees.

  The date on the masthead was Tuesday, May 1, 1917.

  She flopped back into the grainy plastic curve of her chair, folded her arms, and took a deep breath. There was no Monday edition.

  She needed help. Thankfully, the creepy old man seemed to have released the librarian. “Um, excuse me?”

  “Yes.” The librarian turned and walked over to Addie. The silk of her sari fluttered.

  “Why would an edition of the Daily be missing from the microfiche? Could it be lost?”

  “I hope not!” The librarian bent down to look at the screen. “What are you looking at, 1917? Wow. That long ago, anything is possible. Isn’t there a note? We usually flag it when a day is missing.”

  Addie scanned through. “No note,” she said.

  “Let me check.” Frowning, the librarian pulled up a chair and settled her glasses on her nose. “Mmm.” The frown deepened. “I transferred these images myself, a few months ago. You know—this is May, right?” She paused and tapped her pencil in a light rhythm. “I had a few copies of the Daily from that week, but none of them had the date you’re looking for. I remember thinking it was strange. There wasn’t any notice explaining why in the paper.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t think the issue was lost. I think it just wasn't published in the first place. It would be the one you’re looking for, wouldn’t it?”

  Numbly, Addie thanked her. She removed the microfiche, handed it back, and stumbled out of Suzzallo in a daze. Only vaguely aware of the crowds of students, the skateboarders, and the last lonely blossoms on the cherry trees, she slowly circled the library, trying to figure out what to do.

  The pictures weren’t there.

  Not only that, an entire edition of the paper was missing. Had the provost discovered the deception? Had he destroyed yet another pile of the papers? Had Tom’s film been ruined? Or maybe never developed?

  And then, finally, she thought, Did Reg chicken out? Maybe he’d decided it was too risky, that he really would get kicked out of school. Addie shook her head. She couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t the type to chicken out.

  Once again, she was thinking of him as though he were as real, as present in her own time, as Whaley.

  Whaley, who was going to be at the meeting tomorrow when Mrs. Powell showed up empty-handed.

  That couldn’t happen!

  She turned abruptly and pulled out her cell to call Almaz.

  Then she sat, deep in thought, on the library steps for half an hour until her friend finally appeared, wearing shin guards and her soccer uniform. She ran up the steps two at a time and grabbed Addie’s hands. “Don’t look like that!” She pulled Addie to her feet. “And don’t give up. You’re good at research, but I’m better when it comes to finding a needle in a haystack. I’ve got to get home by six, but I can help until then.”

  “Mybr ain’s dead-ending, Alm az.”

  “Yeah, and when I called Whaley he said you forgot to tell your dad where you were. They’re going nuts over there, getting the store ready for tomorrow. He told me to remind you about your Algebra II exam.”

  “Who cares about Algebra II?” Addie yanked the library door open. “I need to find these pictures. And there’s nothing in the microfiche of the Daily.”

  They stopped for a moment in the foyer, where the two great marble staircases coiled up to the second floor on each side.

  “Why don’t you ask that Reg guy to help? I thought he was connected to the Jewel. Maybe he knows where some photos are.”

  “He’s helped a lot already,” Addie said quickly. It was all she could come up with.

  “Really? When do you ever see him?” Almaz asked curiously. “I’m beginning to wonder if he even exists.” Addie looked up at the huge chandelier hanging over her head, wishing she had never mentioned Reg in the first place. It wasn’t as if he would ever meet Almaz, or anyone she knew. Her stomach twisted. She had never kept secrets from Almaz before.

  “And why were you only looking through the Daily?” Almaz continued. “I don’t get that. Why wouldn’t you look in regular newspapers, or arts publications or something?” Addie opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it again. After all, she might have a point. Who knows? Maybe Reg and Tom had given the photos to Meg and they’d been published somewhere else. “Dawit’s girlfriend is in the drama department here, and she says the Daily only reviews student productions,” Almaz went on. Dawit was her older brother. “What years are you guys looking for, anyway?”

  “From the year the theater opened—1910, I think—until maybe the forties? But I read there was a good series taken in 1917, so I’ve been trying to track that down.”

  “Okay,” Almaz said briskly. “Tell you what. We’ll ask the reference librarian what the biggest arts publications were in the city. I’ll go through microfiche, or databases if anything’s online.”

  “Good idea.” Addie was starting to feel her optimism return.

  “Did you think of special collections? That’s all local history.” Almaz pointed to a library guide posted on a pillar beside them.

  “It is? I wish I'd known.”

  Once they’d gotten the list of probable publications from the reference desk, they split up. In the special collections room, where she had to take all pens out of her pockets before she was allowed to enter, Addie checked for primary sources from the Jewel: diaries, letters, published programs. But there weren’t any. She tried records from other theaters. There were a few mentions of the Jewel, but none with photos.

  At five thirty, Almaz came down to find her. She had a list of productions that had been advertised in local papers. “It’s spotty, but I copied some ads for performances at the Jewel.” She laid three dark Xeroxes in front of Addie, one for Antigone, one for The Corn Is Green, and one for The Tempest. None had an actual photo of a performance. Meg, Addie noticed with a pang, had directed Antigone in 1932.

  “There were reviews, too. But none of them have photos that are going to help us.” She put her hand on Addie's shoulder. “I wish I could tell you some good news, but that’s the best I could do.”

  “Don’t worry. You were a big help,” Addie assured her, trying to look cheerful. “You’d better get home.”

  “All right. And I’ll drop by your house at eight. You’re going to pass that test whether you want to or not.”

  Addie managed a faint smile. “All right.”

  After Almaz left, she ran to a nearby cafeteria, grabbed a slice of pizza, and ate it while walking back to the library. She phoned Dad and felt relieved when the answering machine picked up and she didn’t have to face his wrath about shirking the cleanup for the grand repening.

  Then she went back to the special collections room and continued her search.

  A picture of children gathered around a flower-strewn coffin made her catch her breath. Their mothers and fathers stood behind them in patched coats and black hats. Some of the men were holding up books with the
title IWW Songs on the covers. It was the funeral of someone named Felix Baran, an IWW member. The writing on the back of the photo said that he had died in the Everett massacre in 1916.

  One of Gustaf’s pals.

  She knew Gustaf and Frida were real, but to see the photo here, in a history archive ... how could any of this be? Should she call Dad and ask him to check her into an asylum?

  No. She was too busy.

  She glanced at the clock. Six thirty already. She should be home.

  But she plowed through photo after photo. There were pictures of soldiers leaving for France. Pictures of the university. Of other theaters. But none of the interior of the Jewel.

  Finally, a bell rang to tell her the special collections room was closing.

  And she gave up.

  25. Cenotaph

  The next morning, she knew she should tell Whaley she hadn’t found anything. He was going to see Mrs. Powell today, after all, and he should know all the details. But she only managed to mumble “No, not yet,” when he asked, and pretended to be very busy getting ready for school. Not yet, she told herself fiercely. Because she would find something. She didn’t know where. And maybe not in time for that meeting he was going to today. But soon, one way or another.

  She jammed her shoes onto her feet. Why was it so hard to find evidence of people and places from the early twentieth century? It wasn’t like she was digging up relics of the Stone Age!

  There was only one solution: she’d need to go back. If only she could just whip out the mirror and do it now! Theoretically, she thought, yes, I could. But practically, no. She couldn’t end up on this end of town in 1917, with no money and no transportation, and expect to make her way to the theater to find Reg. Nor did it make sense to go over to the Powells’ house and start there. How could she explain simply turning up on his—their!—doorstep? The only place people were expecting to see her was at the Jewel. She needed to start there.

  Then that's what I'll do, right after school, she decided. If I can get hold of the key ...Oh, it was more complicated than she'd thought. She’d have to stop by the Powells’ after all, just to pick it up.

  All right, then. And she flew down the back steps.

  But when she opened the door, she ran straight into Dad, carrying grocery bags. Three whole salmon wrapped in paper were sticking out of one of them. “You see this?” Dad said, lifting up the bag.

  “That's a lot of fish.”

  “Darn tootin’. We’ve got a lot of people to feed tonight. And I can’t run the store and fire up the barbecues at the same time. So you need to come straight home after school. Do you hear me? No drifting off to the theater or wherever you get to.”

  The grand reopening. “Oh, God.” Why today of all days?

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Addie grumbled. But when she looked up at Dad in his rumpled corduroys and sand-colored sweater, she remembered that he had been working long into the nights, thumping around the bookstore, making calls, designing flyers....

  “I mean it, Addie. I need you here. It’s important for all of us.” He glanced up the stairs and added, “For Whaley, too.”

  “I know. I hear you, Dad.” She looked at his tired eyes and forced herself to sound less annoyed. “I mean, of course I’ll be here.” Her heart sank. “You can count on me.”

  But it was exasperating to have to come home and work at the store. And even worse to waste her time at school taking a test she didn’t care about. How could Algebra II possibly be important? Who cared? But she owed it to Almaz to try to pass, since she’d come over last night to help her study.

  A twinge of guilt hit her as she wrote her name on the test and settled into her seat. She hadn’t been such a great friend to Almaz lately, hadn’t gone to any of her games or dropped in on her shift at the grocery. Too busy obsessing about the Jewel and its inhabitants, living and—

  “You have the whole period,” Mr. Brent told the class. The prospect of handing out bad math grades made him happy and at peace with the world. You could almost see him rubbing his hands with glee. Addie forced herself to stop wondering what was happening at the meeting with the preservation society long enough to write equations that—she hoped—made sense. But as soon as she finished, the thoughts came rushing back.

  When she got home, she found the grand reopening in full swing. Through the brand-new plate-glass windows, she could see Dad behind the counter chatting with customers. Almaz’s dad was serving up Ethiopian dips and injera from a hot plate on the sidewalk in the shade of the red cedar. People were gobbling up the free food and basking in the bright, cool sunshine at the card tables and chairs they’d placed on the sidewalk in front of the store. Mrs. T. had stuck new anti-war posters in the windows.

  Despite itching to get away, she was glad to see the bookstore hopping with life again. Dad’s Victrola was back from the repair shop and in its place of honor on the shelf by the cash register. From the open doorway, Addie could hear an old Django Reinhardt recording spinning on the turntable. Gypsy jazz. It was one of Dads oldest and most treasured 78s. From 1929, she remembered him saying.

  She smiled to herself. Wouldn’t it be fun to swipe the album and play it for Reg? He wouldn’t even have heard of Django. Suddenly, she saw herself dancing with him to this music. Outside, on some green lawn. A late-night party. Fireflies...

  Don’t be an idiot.

  She crossed the street, pushed her way through the small crowd of people. The bell on the door jingled as she entered, and Dad looked up.

  “There she is now,” he remarked to Enrique's mom, Mrs. Paseo. Whaley and Rico were playing tonight, and Mrs. Paseo loyally turned up for most of their performances. She’d been to more shows than even Addie had.

  “Have you seen Whaley?” Addie asked.

  Dad shook his head. “He left for that meeting at the Jewel and I haven’t seen him since. Not that I haven’t needed him.”

  “Was he at your place, Mrs. Paseo?”

  “No. But Enrique was expecting him any minute.” She wagged her finger at Addie and said to Dad, “Like twins, those two, aren’t they? If they’re not together, they’re looking for each other.”

  Dad raised an eyebrow. “Well, since her twin has gone AWOL, Addie's in charge.” He jerked his thumb at the banner plastered on the wall behind the counter: GRAND REOPENING—BARBECUE AND DANCING TO FOLLOW. “Go, mistress of the festivities! Make our backyard festive.” He winked at Addie. “You know what to do.” He turned away to ring up a pile of books for an old man with a nervous black poodle on a leash. “Nice to see you again, Morris.”

  “Take more than an earthquake to keep me and Buñuel away,” Morris wheezed. Addie realized he was the man Whaley had argued with at the Brown Bear the other day. She bent down and patted the poodle, who snarled at her. She snatched her hand away and headed toward the backyard. Zack was loafing in the stacks and she dragged him outside with her.

  Nothing was ready. Oh, well. It didn’t matter. After years of backyard productions, she was pretty adept at pulling together cast parties. This would be the same sort of thing, but bigger. She rolled a large aluminum garbage can into the yard from the alley and dragged the recycling bins over. With Zack’s grudging help, she set up two big folding tables and wheeled out their barbecue grills. Then she pulled the fire pit out of the garage. Whaley had insisted that they needed a bonfire.

  Zack found the strings of chili lights she had used for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and they wrapped them around the trunk of the Douglas fir before plugging them into the outlet in the shed.

  Up in the kitchen, she discovered that someone—hopefully not Whaley—had marinated chicken kebabs and wrapped the salmon in foil. By the time she brought the food down, the neighbors had started to arrive with curries and bowls of potato salad and chips and coleslaw.

  Enrique's van suddenly squealed to a halt in the alley behind the house. Abandoning the cooler she was filling with drinks, Addie ran over to him. “Hey, Rico
! Where’s Whaley?”

  “I thought he was with you.” Rico climbed out. “Me and Cam had to load all the equipment ourselves.”

  “So where’s Cam?” Addie pressed her face against the window of the van, looking for the pimply drummer.

  “Pulled a muscle loading.” A grin split Rico's broad face and he punched Addie’s arm. “That leaves you and me to set up, Addiebelle!”

  “I’m in charge of everything already! Besides, I twisted my ankle the last time I tried to carry that hardware duffel, remember? Can’t you wait for Whaley?”

  “No way, friend. It’s late already. And it’s your party. You’re lucky you’re getting quality entertainment for free.”

  He was right. It would be ungrateful not to help. Addie sighed. “What’s the band name this time?”

  “Groovy Like a Pig,” Rico said proudly, opening the back door of the van. “Whaley wanted Whaley and the Chain Gang, but we said no.”

  They started unloading. Whaley still didn’t show up.

  By the time Addie had carried a few drums and helped Enrique lift the old Fender amp out of the car, she wasn’t just worried about Whaley—she was ready to kill him. He must know she was dying to hear how the meeting with the preservation commission had gone. Where was he?

  “I think you should leave that for Whaley,” she said, gazing unhappily at the duffel full of drum hardware in the back of the van.

  “Leave what?”

  She whirled around to find Whaley right behind her, standing by the shed. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ll get the rest of this,” he said, without meeting her eyes. “Come on, Rico.”

  “Yeah, thanks, big help,” Rico said sarcastically. “Poor Addie had to do the heavy lifting. She—”

  “Tell me what happened at the meeting, Whaley,” Addie interrupted. But Whaley just picked up the duffel and walked off to set up the PA.

  Just then Zack crashed into her, waving a box of camping matches over his head, a delirious grin on his face. He slid it open and pulled out a match, lit it, and threw it into the air. “Can I start the fire?”