The Jewel and the Key

by Louise Spiegler

  She passed her Algebra II test. She helped Dad and Whaley in the bookstore. She found herself crying at odd moments. Was there any way to stop it from happening? How could she? It seemed impossible. His name was already listed among the dead. She’d searched and searched for evidence of the past, evidence of its breathing life, and instead this was all she’d found: blunt proof of a life cut short. And yet she couldn’t help wishing, hoping...

  But all I can do, she thought, is try to change what happens now.

  No matter what, she would find those photos. And wait. Wait impatiently to get back to the Jewel.

  Why was there no Monday edition of the paper on microfiche? If it existed at all, she was sure the library would have had it somewhere. After all, Reg’s article was about the Everett massacre. That had to have historic value. You’d think it would have been preserved.

  She kept plowing through books about Pacific Northwest history and the IWW and Seattle theaters. Fearfully, she searched for references to a soldier named R. Powell who had died in World War I.

  But she found nothing.

  When Whaley listened to war news on the radio, she left the room. She didn’t ask him if he’d taken the army’s test, passed the physical. She only asked him to wait until Friday before he submitted his enlistment forms, until she had a chance to look for the photos at the theater. And she knew he wouldn’t have agreed at all, except that he was worried about her and probably thought it would make her feel better.

  Friday finally came. When the last bell rang, she slammed her locker shut and rushed home, wanting to leave immediately for the Jewel. But she got held up by Zack, who needed help with a science project. Then Dad wanted her to run a late bill to the post office.... To her frustration, it was nearly five when she finally got to the bus stop.

  At Third and Pine she jumped off the bus and raced around the corner to the Jewel. She bounded up the back steps, found the key, unlocked the door, and dashed along the hall to Meg Turner’s office.

  With single-minded determination, she flung open the wooden cabinets. They were thick with dust and speckled with black mold. She stuck her head inside, swept her hands along the wood.

  Nothing.

  She’d hoped there would be a desk, like in Emma Mae's office. But someone must have gotten rid of it. The only piece of furniture was a rocking chair. Card tables were folded in the corner. Empty cardboard boxes were piled up beside them. Moldering scripts and ancient bills lay in messy piles on the bookshelves. Addie flipped through all of them, but no newspaper clippings or photographs fell out.

  She opened a closet and found a mangy fur coat hanging on one of the knobs on the wall. But that was all, aside from rusty hangers. She even stepped inside to check the pockets of the coat and stubbed her toe against a loose floorboard in the process.

  “Ow!” Annoyed, she sat down on the floor, pulled off her thin shoe, and rubbed her toe. Then she noticed that the loose floorboard stuck up about a quarter of an inch from the others. The one next to it did, too.

  Wait a second. With a rush of excitement, she shifted onto her knees and started prying the board up. It lifted fairly easily. Nothing was underneath it, but—was the next one loose as well? A splinter ran into her finger as she jammed her fingertips under it. She didn’t know why she suddenly felt like she was onto something, but she did. Despite herself, she was murmuring, “Oh, please, please, please...”

  But there was nothing under the second board, either.

  Just cobwebs and two spiders frantically spinning.

  This was getting ridiculous! Who would store photos under a floorboard? What was she thinking? She stormed out of the office, banging the door as she went. “Damn it!” She kicked her foot against the cold radiator, making her toe throb even more. Then she sank down onto the floor and drew her knees to her chest.

  She’d failed in every conceivable way. Like the poor struggling angel, unable to save even one soldier, she couldn’t manage to find even a scrap of an old newspaper to save the Jewel.

  She put her head down on her knees, closed her eyes, and the dream was with her again—bombs and guns and gas, and the soldiers running straight into the machine-gun fire.

  A chill breeze, wafting in from a crack in the doorway, touched her neck with icy fingers.

  She lifted her head and opened her eyes. “Reg?”

  Of course not! She shivered, and suddenly her teeth were chattering. How stupid. As if he were a ghost. How could he be?

  But there was a small, cold fragment of her heart where she knew that a ghost was exactly what he was.

  Hesitantly, she reached into her handbag and pulled out the mirror.

  It was the only thing to do. But she was afraid. Afraid to step into a stream of time whose current she couldn’t slow, couldn’t divert or redirect. Or could she? It all sounded so simple—stop Reg from dying. Stop Whaley from going to war. But life was messy. A million impulses led in different directions. A million decisions, mistakes, and just plain accidents guided where it all ended up. And she knew already where Reg’s life ended. How could she know what it would take to change that?

  She ran her finger over the forms of the three Fates. Fates? Did they have to be Fates? Couldn’t they be Graces? Wasn’t that possible?

  Why had this thing come into her hands?

  She thought of her dream, of all the misery she’d seen. And she was trying to push it away, to hold off the terrible meaninglessness she’d felt in all that suffering. In Reg's name chiseled in stone. Was life just like that? Did terrible things just happen for no reason?

  Of course they did. She’d known that since her mother died.

  But there had to be another side to it, didn’t there? What she’d seen in the dream was real. The cruelty and the horror were beyond reason. And yet, the world was bigger than that. In the long run, in the bigger picture, everything had to have meaning. It had to. Even in putting on a play, every word, every gesture has to carry meaning, even if the audience can’t at first see what it is. If she ever, ever became a director, she would hold to that like iron. Why should the world be any different?

  But what if there’s no director, and everything is hurtling madly through the universe in absolute chaos?

  Addie shook her head. Slowly, she turned the mirror over and gazed at herself in the glass, feeling a conscious power at work.

  And it wasn’t fate or angels. She was sure of that. The power was in her.

  The power that takes people on a stage and turns them into a mirror of the world. The power that holds up a glass to every person in the audience. That’s what I’ve got. That’s why I have Meg Turner’s mirror. I’m meant to use it.

  No. Not yet. Suddenly she leaped up, her heart thumping. Dropping the mirror into her bag, she darted down the hall to Emma Mae’s office. She tore through the boxes and found a dress, boots, and a scarf like those she’d seen Meg wearing. She glanced at her vintage bag, which seemed timeless-looking enough to blend in. And after she changed, she ran back out into the hall and snatched up the mirror again.

  Then she stared into the glass, straining her eyes, willing herself back.

  For the longest time, there was nothing. Just cold and dark, and dust. But she held on. She didn’t break her gaze. No matter what, she wasn’t going to let there be nothing but all this ruin.

  She stared until her eyesight blurred. Until her head spun.

  And gradually, the light around her became brighter, the colors richer. The air warmed, and she could suddenly tell that the back door was open.

  A quiver ran up her spine. The breeze that wafted in was sweeter smelling than the dank odor of the alleyway she’d walked through to get here. The hallway was bright with lights from the sconces.

  And from the front of the theater, she could hear coughs and the shuffling of feet, and violins and violas. An oboe playing scales. The very air seemed to snap with energy. Opening night!

  The door slammed shut. She dropped the mirror into her purse and t
urned around.

  Reg was standing there, staring at her.

  Adrenaline surged through her.

  “Where have you been?” He looked startled. “You’re like a ghost, Addie!”

  In a second, she had crossed the space between them and grabbed his elbows. “No, I’m not. I’m not a ghost.”

  “I swear that no one was there a second ago, and then suddenly, Addie McNeal, out of her mysterious wanderings in the ether—”

  “I was here a second ago.” It seemed a stupid conversation when the important thing was that he was here, living and breathing.

  She pulled him closer, throwing her arms around his neck, blinking back the tears that were suddenly hot behind her eyelids.

  “What's this for?” He tilted her face up. “You’d think I’d returned from the Antarctic with Shackleton.”

  Then he slipped his arms around her waist, half lifted her off the ground, and kissed her softly on the lips. Addie hooked her arm tighter around his neck, held him so close the buttons on his jacket pressed into her body, and time, their enemy, slunk away like a scolded cur. All the misery and tension uncurled inside her, and all she could feel was the warmth of his body against hers. When Reg let her go, she just shook her head, smiled, and pulled him back to kiss him again. She stumbled as he released her a second time, and they stared at each other, rattled and uncomfortable and intrigued.

  “I guess you’re not a ghost.”

  Addie found her footing and laughed up into his face, and the laugh felt like a bird flying into the treetops, sailing away from time and death and up into the sun. “You knew I wasn’t. Try another excuse.”

  Reg spread his hands wide and gave a feckless shrug. “Do you want me to apologize?”

  Addie shook her head, her lips twitching with giddy laughter.

  “What’s that then?” He let Macbeth creep into his voice. “What are you laughing about, darkling creature of the shadows?”

  “Nothing. You don’t have to apologize. Just do it again.”

  He did.

  “It comes with the territory, if that’s any excuse.” He was speaking into her hair, and his breath was warm on her ear. “Departing soldiers always get kisses.”

  Addie sprang out of his arms so fast she would have hit the wall if he hadn’t grabbed her. She’d been so overjoyed that she hadn’t noticed he was wearing an army uniform—an olive-drab jacket with square shoulders and a big belt, a stiff hat with a visor, and wide trouser legs stuffed into black boots.

  “Holy crap!”

  “Well, I don’t know what that means. But I don’t think it’s pious.”

  Addie clamped her free hand over her mouth. “You can’t ... you shouldn’t...”

  “Oh, don’t be a goose, Addie. I’m only going for training. I’ll be back before we ship out.”

  “Ship out? When?”

  “How do I know? Whenever they think we’re ready to go to France. The train leaves for the Presidio tonight.”

  “But”—she knew it was weak, but it was all she could think of—“isn’t it opening night?”

  The door to the women’s dressing room swung open, and teasing and hoots of laughter wafted out.

  “I’ll have to miss the performance.” He pulled her back toward him. “You’re not going to the show, are you? Not the night I’m leaving.” For a moment his expression was uncertain and Addie thought, He’s not sure of me. She felt a thrill of exultation, and at the same time, a terrible ache. She put out her hand and touched his fingers. “Even if I were Lady Macbeth, I’d skip the performance tonight.”

  “Strong words.”

  Addie thought of the angel in her dream and said, “Stronger than bombs.”

  They stood for a moment, just looking at each other. He ran his fingers down her spine, and she shivered.

  Reg was the one who broke the spell. “Are you game for an adventure before waving me tearfully off?”

  “What sort of adventure?” Things are already under way, she realized. The current is swift. I have to see if there’s anything I can grab on to—a branch over the water, an oar someone cast overboard—to try and slow it down.

  “I’ve got to get Gustaf Peterson across town. Want to come with me?”

  “Oh, I’ll do whatever you’re doing,” she said quickly. “Just don’t go, Reg.”

  “What? To the Daily Call office? Why not?”

  “No. Don’t go to the station. To the war.”

  “Addie. It isn't as though I have a choice. You can't just not show up.”

  “But”—she hesitated—“I know what will happen.” “Oh, come on, Addie!” There was a faint edge of harshness in his voice. “What? One of your magic-mirror tricks again?”

  Someone opened a door and a brighter light shone into the hall. Addie self-consciously stepped away from Reg. He straightened his jacket.

  Emma Mae came out of her office wearing a long blue dress, its bodice resplendent with azure beads. There was a boa of pale blue feathers around her neck, and crystal earrings dangled to her shoulders. Dazzled, Addie thought, She looks perfect. Exactly how she should look on opening night. When I’m a director... She paused. Where had that certainty come from? But she was certain. When I’m a director, I’ll always dress for opening night.

  Mrs. Powell pulled a round watch from her pocket. “Its a ten-thirty train, isn’t it, darling? Thank goodness! We should be past curtain by then. I can meet you at the station café. Do you think it’ll be overrun with doughboys?” She looked calm, but a brittleness in her voice betrayed her. “Oh, I’d imagine so.”

  Emma Mae touched Addie's shoulder. “I’m glad you made it for opening night. But where have you been all week?”

  Addie colored. “I’ve ... My father needed me at the bookstore. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be unreliable!”

  She could see from Emma Mae’s expression that unreliable was exactly what she was. “Well, I’m just letting you know: Meg Turner is gunning for you. She started work on Peer Gynt, but no one could find you. Don’t you have a telephone?”

  The answer had to be no. She shook her head.

  “Well, I’d advise you to get one! It’s no use being a Luddite. Not if you want Meg to keep you on for Peer Gynt. And, speaking of that”—Emma Mae fixed a sharp eye on Reg—“what have you been doing to poor Andrew Lindstrom?”

  “Nothing, Mother.” Reg placed his hand on his heart. “I give you my word.”

  Emma Mae snorted. “Then how come he thinks you’re about to steal the lead from him? He came to my office all but accusing me of nepotism and contract breaking because you told him Meg wanted you to take over Peer when you’re home on leave.”

  “So I teased him a bit. Why not? It’s not my fault if he’s too stupid to realize I can’t just take his part away from him. Anyway, he’s been up my nose for months.” Reg gave his mother an angelic look. “Don’t I get to enjoy myself a little bit before bravely facing the Huns’ dastardly assaults?”

  “Don’t joke about it.” Emma Mae’s eyes darted around, and Addie thought she must be looking for wood to knock on. “Besides, at the moment, I think Andrew is likely to kill you before you even set foot on French soil.”

  “Kill me and rumple his costume? Nonsense!” A semblance of repentance crept into Reg’s voice. “I’m sure it will be a terrific opening, Ma. I wish I were going to see it.”

  Emma Mae dropped her voice. “You’ll be taking our friend where he needs to go?”

  “That’s right.”

  The noise of the orchestra swelled and fell away again. Emma Mae turned toward the sound. “I’d better check that everything’s in order—”

  The buzzer from the alleyway door made all three of them jump.

  “Oh, no,” Emma Mae groaned. “I forgot about that wretched APL man! Oh, Reg, why didn’t you and Peterson leave already? It’s been bad enough with him ghosting around pretending to be our janitor ever since Andrew stumbled onto him....”

  “Don’t worry, Ma.” The buzz
er went again. Reg frowned. “Wait a second. You don’t mean a four-minute man, do you?”

  “What’s a four-minute man?” Addie asked.

  “You know,” Reg said. “Four minutes before the curtain. The pitch for war bonds and patriotism and snitch on your neighbors if they don’t support the war? From Mr. Creels Committee on Public Information? The city’s crawling with them.”

  Mrs. Powell nodded. “This one is with the American Protective League.”

  “That’s what APL stands for? You must be joking. They’re thugs. Why did you ask him here?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake! You don’t ask them, Reg! They tell you.” She frowned. “Just, please, be careful not to be seen when you leave. God knows what will happen then.”

  “Isn’t he staying for the show? If you can hustle him out to the audience, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I’ll try. But you’ll have to move quickly, too.” Emma Mae went and opened the door. A thickset man in a white suit waddled in. He lifted his straw hat, revealing a slick of greased black hair. “Mrs. Powell? Mr. Humphries from the APL. You ready for us?”

  Addie glanced behind Mr. Humphries to see if “us” meant there were more APL men lurking in the alley. But apparently it only meant that Mr. Humphries thought of himself as plural.

  Addie would not have been able to tell Emma Mae’s smile was fake if she hadn’t known. “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Humphries. What good work you and the committee are doing!”

  “You’re doing good work yourself, raising money for our boys.”

  “My son is leaving for training tonight, so we thought it would be a nice gesture.”

  Mr. Humphries’s voice had an oily texture. “Very patriotic, ma’am. Is this your son?” The four-minute man held out his hand, and Reg shook it firmly. “I’d go myself,” Humphries added, “if it weren’t for these damned flatfeet.”

  Addie heard a clatter in the hall and looked up to see Andrew Lindstrom. He was flushed and nervous. “I heard we were having a visitor from the American Protective League,” he said. “Are you him?”