The Jewel and the Key

  It was the issue of the Daily that had been pulled from the newsstands. On the front, she saw Toms sweeping shot of the façade of the Jewel. The shot he'd taken when he made Reg stand in the street to ward off traffic.

  “Ha!” She looked up at Almaz. Her own joy was reflected in her friends face. “Look! There’s more!” Below, between two scant bars of text, were three other shots. Of the dome, open like a flower, the chandelier hanging from its center. The box seats. The carvings of boats on the Nile. She opened the paper to where the article continued on another page.

  And then she caught her breath.

  It was a nearly all-encompassing shot of the auditorium, from the entrance to the proscenium arch. She sighed softly as she made out the Pharaoh staring sternly down, awaiting the gifts of his attendants. It took in the stage, and the orchestra pit, all the fabulous paintings of the Egyptian gods on the walls. But none of that was what made her shiver. It was the fuzzy, indistinct image of a girl in a dress and an apron walking up the left aisle, half turning in surprise. Startled by the explosion of the flash.

  Frida.

  She pressed her hands together in front of her mouth.

  “Awesome!” Almaz whooped. “This is what you’ve been looking for, isn’t it?”

  Addie nodded. “We have to get this down to the Jewel.” She grabbed Almaz's wrist. “I’ll call Whaley, but look—its almost nine. How are we going to get there in time?”

  Almaz didn’t hesitate. She rushed to the door. “I’ll get Dads car. He’ll let me. I’m sure. Just be ready. I’ll stop in front of the store and honk.”

  “Thanks!” Addie stood up and took out her phone. This time she made the call.

  “Whaley?”

  “Is that you, Addie? Listen, you’ve got to explain about the union card you gave me—”

  “It’s simple, Whaley. That card means you belong there. At the Jewel. Your great-great granddad left it for you. Its—it’s an heirloom.” She felt giddy with happiness. “But, listen, there’s something else: I’ve found pictures of the Jewel. From 1917.”

  “You did?”

  “I did. Are the preservation people there yet?”

  He sneezed into the phone. “Ugh. Dust. No, not yet.”

  “Can you tell Mrs. Powell? Tell her Almaz and I are on our way. We’re bringing the photos with us.”

  A rustling in the earpiece told her he had put the phone down or was holding it against his jacket or something. She heard him yell. “Yo, Mrs. T.! Addie found pictures for us! Where’s Mrs. Powell?” Then a second later: “Tell her it’s good news!”

  “Whaley!” Addie called. “Whaley! I’m still here.”

  His voice zoomed up close to her ear again. “Sorry, Ads. Anything else?”

  “It changes everything, Whaley. Do you understand? If this works—”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” He sounded happy. Reallyh appy.

  Then he hung up.

  Addie felt her whole body sag with relief. She’d found it. All of it.

  But then she realized there was more. Looking back down, she noticed a picture at the bottom of the metal box. Gently, she lifted it out and held it up to the light.

  It was a photo of the troll king and his court.

  A tide of excitement washed through her.

  It wasn’t the same performance as in the other photograph.

  It was the same scene, all right—the scene she’d helped direct on that long-ago afternoon when she’d danced with Reg. But in this photo, the troll king’s daughter was center stage. It was hard to tell because of the mask, but she didn’t think Hettie was playing the role. The actress, whoever she was, was holding Peer’s hand aloft and running her other hand through the air below his arm, as if plucking an instrument. Strike the Dovrë Harp. Peer was mugging at the audience like a henpecked husband. Addie examined him more closely. He wore no mask, so she could tell he wasn’t Andrew Lindstrom.

  Then, in the background of the photo, she made out the troll king himself. The mask concealing the lower half of his face was the same mask Meg had shown her.

  She leaned forward, straining her eyes to bring the upper half of the actor’s face into focus. She couldn’t have sworn to anything. Not in this ancient photograph. But he had smooth, dark hair. And was it just wishful thinking to imagine that the eyes above the mask were blue? They had that amused, ironic look in them....

  There was no way to tell for sure.

  But there was something about him.... Addie turned over the photo and found, in the same hand that had written R. before the mob on the photo up in her room, Veterans benefit—spring1919.

  Spring 1919.

  The war was over by then.

  The little moth of hope fluttered up again, pale and fragile, almost invisible in the bright sunlight.

  Had he survived? Her heart leaped. She pressed the picture to her chest in inutterable relief.

  But if he had, then what Whaley had seen really was Frida, weeping for her father.

  Addie put down the photo. Why did it have to be one or the other? Why?

  But something tugged at her. Drew her back to look one more time.

  She picked up the photograph again and turned it over once more. There was something else written on the back. She squinted at it. Oh, it was too faint to see! She held the picture right up under her nose.

  The writing was barely visible, and in a different hand—big looping letters, the ink turned gold with age. It said ... it said...

  I wish you had been here.

  The initial underneath was a sloping R.

  For a moment she couldn’t move. Her eyes ran back again and again over the flowing curves of the script and she stared until her vision blurred. Then she drew in a ragged breath, turned the photo over, and looked back at the troll king’s eyes, love and remorse and sorrow and joy all fighting inside of her, churning up a storm.

  From her pocket, she pulled out the mirror and looked at its cracked surface. If only ... oh, if only it could be the key to turn that lock again.

  Slowly, deliberately, she tucked the mirror into her purse and, with even greater care, slipped the photo of Peer Gynt in with it. She would try again. Even though she doubted it would work, she had to try one more time. But not now.

  And even if she could never return—s he swallowed hard, trying not to weigh the sense of her loss if that was true—even so, they were all a part of her now. Nothing could take that away.

  Outside, a car horn honked. Addie looked up and waved to Almaz. She put aside the turmoil in her heart and smiled as she thought of Whaley hammering up molding and mending the cracks in the walls, bringing the Jewel back to life. And farther into the future, so far she could hardly envision it, she saw herself on the stage, the mirror in her pocket and her book of notes in her hand, directing her cast.

  She stood and picked up the precious box with the copy of the Daily inside it. She stepped out of the bookstore and locked the door behind her.

  And suddenly she had that taste on her tongue again, just as she had the day she’d sat on the loading dock with Reg in the sunlight. The taste of her real life stretching out in front of her.

  Author's Note

  This is a work of fiction. However, readers will notice that I’ve populated my imaginary world with many real events, people, and places.

  Seattle readers will detect and, I hope, forgive, a few instances of poetic license. Most strikingly, there is no theater called the Jewel in downtown Seattle. And although there is a Lincoln High School building, there is no actual high school in it. Finally, though the story about Katharine Cornell's late night/early morning performance of Christmas 1933 is true, it took place at the Metropolitan Theatre, which is sadly no more. You can find Cornell’s actual account of this—rather than the account I attribute to her—in her autobiography, I Wanted to Be an Actress.

  The Industrial Workers of the World, also known as the Wobblies or the IWW, were a progressive labor union and political movement most
active in the early twentieth century. Unlike most other unions of the time, they believed in “one big union” and organized workers regardless of race, ethnicity, gender, immigration status, or skill. They believed in the power of ordinary people to improve their lives through solidarity, education, and collective action. Many Wobblies actively opposed World War I.

  The Everett massacre really did occur in November of 1916; it was a violent reaction by the Snohomish County Sheriffs Department to the IWW's free speech campaign in Everett, Washington. Seventy-four IWW men were jailed. Though Gustaf Peterson is a fictional character, Tom Tracy was indeed the first of the Wobblies to go on trial, and Felix Baran and Abraham Rabinowitz (among others) were killed by sheriff’s deputies. Tracy was acquitted on May 5, 1917, and all the others soon thereafter.

  Though they never organized the escape of a fugitive, Sam Sadler and Louise Olivereau were also real people. In 1917, Olivereau was arrested under the Espionage Act. Her crime was sending circulars through the mail encouraging young men to become conscientious objectors rather than fight in World War I. During her trial, she demanded, “Will those in power never learn that ideas can never be imprisoned?” She was sentenced to ten years in jail and served twenty-eight months before being paroled. Sam Sadler served two years in the McNeil Island penitentiary in connection with publishing pamphlets opposing the military draft. During and immediately after World War I, hundreds of IWW members were arrested and incarcerated.

  November 1916 funeral of Felix Baran, IWW member killed in the Everett massacre. (University of Washington Libraries, Special Collections, Social Issues Files Dc/i. neg. #11504.)

  Although the IWW still exists today, by the early 1920s, the backbone of the movement had been broken by government crackdowns and vigilante violence. But as Louise Olivereau said, their ideas could not be imprisoned, and their rabble-rousing spirit lives on.

  Acknowledgments

  Creating the world of the Jewel required digging into the past. I appreciate all those who helped in this endeavor.

  I am grateful to Paula Becker for sharing her deep knowledge of local history; to Michelle Sadlier and Paul Robertshaw for enriching my understanding of early twentieth-century theaters; and to Gregory Hagge, the acting curator of the Fort Lewis Military Museum, for answering questions about all things military in World War I—era Seattle. I am also thankful to Debora Pontillo and her students for welcoming me into their drama classes, to Matt DePies for sharing his military experience, and to all the wonderful librarians at the University of Washington, Bothell.

  Thanks also go to Chris Eboch for generously reviewing the entire manuscript, and to Molly Blaisdell, Conrad Wesselheoft, Susan Greenway, Cathy Benson, and Megan Bilder for their close reading. Do Peterson; Wendy Asplin; Natalie Pret; Lisa Citron; Laurie Blackburn; Carol, Robert, Eric, and Peter Spiegler; Mike Panitz; Debbie Bermet; Panos Hatziandreas; and many others kindly answered a variety of odd and often unexplained questions. And, as always, nothing would have been accomplished without the love and support of Richard, Levi, and Joseph.