Hearing that name gave her the wobbles, and she couldn’t move any closer. Instead she stumbled over to some vending machines in an alcove to the right of the phones. Adele flopped against the plastic face of one machine so hard the candy bars shook in their silver coils.
Washburn.
Even though Lake had told her the rumor, she hadn’t truly believed it. Even when the Dean confirmed it, she’d remained suspect. But now, in this city, hearing Solomon say the name, Adele was surprised to find just how much power it held. All those months of working at Mr. Washburn’s Library had deeply affected her.
Old Mr. Washburn. What would he be like? She imagined Moses and Frederick Douglass rolled together. A stooped but powerful old man with a curly gray beard and a walking stick. Lightning bolts shooting from his mouth when he spoke. She realized she was thinking of Judah this whole time. She’d come across some wild ideas at the Library, but a two-hundred-fifty-year-old man was the wildest yet. It wasn’t possible. Was it?
Solomon hung up, and Adele stepped away from the vending machine, saw herself in the plastic’s reflection. Did she look right? She snapped the collar of her powder-blue box coat. She rubbed the shine off her forehead.
Washburn!
Despite the noise she’d made when she’d smacked against the candy machine, Solomon didn’t realize she stood so near. He couldn’t see around corners, after all. So after hanging up with Mr. Washburn, he made a second call. Spoke as loudly, as calmly, as he had during the first.
“Hello, sir,” he said. “I’m in Garland. Just now. No, she made it too.”
Adele heard him turn, the creaky sound of a metal phone cord stretching. Was he speaking to the Dean? Must be. Only the Dean or Mr. Washburn could coax respect out of Solomon Clay.
“She was bringing in the luggage. Now? Eating a snack, probably.” He laughed.
Adele stepped back and looked at herself reflected in plastic again. She patted her waist with both hands sympathetically. Then she squeezed the flesh so hard it hurt.
“I’ve just spoken to him. We’re getting picked up. Yes. Why do you need to know? Don’t you trust me? Okay. Okay! I’m taking Mr. Wash-burn to the Devil’s Well. That’s right. I believe I do know where it is. I didn’t tell you because you would’ve wanted to come too. It’s bad enough I’ve got this bitch with me.”
Solomon Clay cleared his throat. His voice quieted, but she could still hear.
“I’ll take him to the Devil’s Well. That’s where I’ll plead our case. Judah heard the Voice there. Maybe we will too.”
Adele didn’t have time to search for a pen, so she committed the words to memory: the Devil’s Well. She’d investigate. TheDevil’sWell. But where to start? TheDevilsWell.
Why this instant desire to remember these words? Sniff out their meaning? Why not just wait until Solomon Clay led them there? Or ask Mr. Washburn when he arrived? Adele remembered what the Dean had told her in his office. He didn’t trust Solomon. He didn’t trust Adele. Didn’t trust anyone. Considering the company, that seemed like the smart move. Who should Adele trust? Only herself. She would find her own answers, thank you.
“Window-shopping?” Mr. Clay asked. He stood behind her now. She watched him in the reflection. How long had he been there? Had she been repeating those words in her head or out loud? She’d been staring at the ground, trying to concentrate, but now she acted as though nothing could be more fascinating than the 3 Musketeers bar on bright display.
“You want something?” he asked as if she were a dog that wanted its bowl refilled.
She nodded. The Devil’s Well.
She repeated this to herself. It seemed like such an easy term to remember, but she didn’t entirely trust herself. Her drugs of choice back in the day? Amphetamine, dexamphetamine, and, of course, methamphetamine. All of which can have a negative effect on a person’s memory. Names and dates and places and faces.
Solomon went into one of his coat pockets and pulled out his wallet. Removed a dollar. But instead of giving it to her, he fed the bill to the machine and asked, “Which one?”
Adele imagined Mr. Washburn now as a man crippled by senility, a figure slouching in a tarnished wheelchair, his dirty gray beard just a matted mess. Who would protect this feeble codger? She tapped the glass lightly, mechanically.
Solomon Clay leaned forward. “CJ7.”
He punched in the code, and a blocky Whatchamacallit bar plopped down. The plunk of coins echoed in the alcove. Solomon stuck one long finger into the proper slot and retrieved a dime and a nickel. He left Adele to stoop and fish out the candy.
Which she did because she was hungry as hell.
But forget asking about another dollar for that water now. She’d drink out of a bus toilet before begging Solomon Clay for anything. While they waited for their ride, Adele went upstairs to the ladies’ room and drank handfuls of water out of the tap at the sink. Then she took a length of brown paper towel and wrote the term she’d heard with her lilac liner pencil.
The Devil’s Well.
Could Judah’s story be real? Why did this idea scare her more than anything else ever had?
When Adele returned to the lobby, some big guy was swiping her suitcases.
She came down the stairs and found him running off with her things. Solomon Clay was nowhere near. He’d just left their bags unguarded! Now some dude, dressed like a dockworker, was robbing her. His silhouette was as massive as the Grand Teton, but Ms. Henry didn’t hesitate. Hell, no. She jumped his ass. Practically landed on his back.
“I will beat your ass, motherfucker!”
This is what the lady yelled.
And that is how she introduced herself to Mr. Washburn.
AFTER AN EXPLANATION, disentanglement, and mutual apologies, Adele and Mr. Washburn caught up to Solomon Clay. He waited for them out on San Pablo Avenue. A street that offered any of a dozen places for the poorest to flop: the Carson Arms, Sunshine Manor, By the Bay. Right now Adele Henry would’ve preferred to stay in any one of them rather than spend another millisecond in Mr. Washburn’s presence.
She was so embarrassed. Bum-rushing the boss. And using foul language too! All this because he’d been trying to carry her bags out to his car. After they’d cleared up the confusion, she wouldn’t let him touch her suitcases again, insisted on lifting them herself.
And now she stared at the ground, muttering, beating herself up even more. Putting down her own professionalism, her intelligence, her bad temper, even the way she wore her clothes.
How could you do that to Mr. Washburn? He’s going to send you back, and it’s all your fault. But you don’t deserve to be here anyway. You aren’t brave enough. And you’re just so stupid. Too violent. Too short. You’re no damn good at all. This is what she said to herself as they walked out to the car.
But Mr. Washburn didn’t seem to notice her turmoil. While Solomon Clay clearly didn’t care. Both men were too busy trying to fit three people and five suitcases inside a 1977 Mercedes-Benz 450 SLC Coupe. This wasn’t the slick roadster, that two-seater with lots of spirit, but its chunky cousin. A cheaper model, if we’re being blunt. Slightly roomier backseat, a little more headroom, but very little else to recommend it. A bit of a beanbag, as far as coupes go. Mr. Washburn opened the trunk and worked much more luggage in than physics should have allowed. Until finally only one suitcase remained, one of Adele’s.
“I can hold that on my lap,” she told him.
Mr. Washburn looked like a bear, but spoke softer than a child. His chubby face betrayed his age; he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Not the real Mr. Washburn. More like Mr. Washburn’s great-great-great grandson. There’s a tendency to think people who smile too much are dumb, but this boy wasn’t. His grin worked to balance out his small, intense eyes. They were as black as polished onyx, and just as brilliant.
He smiled at her. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Me?” she asked. Confused by what he’d said, but also by the fact that she fe
lt flattered.
Mr. Washburn winced, but recovered. “Well, yes, both of you.”
Solomon cut in. “We didn’t have time to let you know we were coming.”
“No,” Mr. Washburn said. “I guess you didn’t.”
Adele climbed in back, her last suitcase heavy in her lap. Solomon Clay moved into the passenger side of the car and pushed the seat as far back as it would go, then turned to the uncomfortable Adele Henry and said, “He doesn’t know we’re here to change his mind.”
“You don’t think he’s guessed?” she whispered.
“Why? He hasn’t told anyone he’s closing the Library yet.”
“Well, then, how’d the Dean find out?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“You mean that oracle bullshit?”
Solomon sneered. “Still think it’s bullshit?”
Mr. Washburn walked around the car, checking Solomon’s door, then the trunk, before getting inside. They needed to roll down the windows just so Mr. Washburn and Solomon Clay had room for their outer elbows. That car was packed tighter than a slave ship.
As they pulled onto San Pablo, Adele felt the close quarters of the car as a clutch around her body. She felt a breeze slinking up the space between her skin and her clothes. When it reached her collar, it came out as a fetid breath. A voice, whispering into the crook of her neck.
You’re my special flower, aren’t you?
How much does that flower cost?
The memory of that voice, its flirtatious venom, agitated Adele. She must’ve looked tense to Mr. Washburn as he watched her in the rearview mirror. His small eyes showed concern.
“I know you must be tired, Adele. That bus trip is long.”
“Yes,” she said, absently.
“I’ll drive as quick as I can. There’s a nice bed waiting for you.”
Adele looked back at him in the rearview mirror now.
“Thank you,” she said.
THEY DROVE to the Washburn estate, but before Adele could register the grandeur of it, she’d been dropped off at her own cabin and told to rest until morning. It wasn’t her cabin for the night or the week, or even a month; it was hers. Mr. Washburn parked in her driveway, walked her bags inside, and showed her the paperwork sitting on the dining table: Adele Henry’s rent was one dollar a month, with a lease good for ninety-nine years. Best land deal in Northern California.
“Why are you giving this to me?” she asked.
“We appreciate your work for us, and we believe in repaying those kinds of debts.”
She smiled. “Don’t you think you should ask your father about this first?” Adele waved the lease, but didn’t let it go.
“My pop died when I was eleven. After he was gone, Mr. Clay was there for me, like an uncle, but I’m the head of this family.”
Adele set the paper down and clasped her hands.
“I didn’t meant to insult you, Mr. Washburn. I guess I’m not too good with people.”
He said, “My first name is Snooky. And you’re doing just fine with me.”
They stood quietly in the warmth of the living room, close to each other.
“Snooky Washburn,” she said.
“Snooky Washburn the third, actually.”
“Is there a fourth?”
“No. Not yet.”
He really did have a lovely smile, Adele felt. She offered one of her own.
“But my wife and I are trying,” he added quickly.
Adele experienced a coughing fit just then, call it the soundtrack of her embarrassment.
“Well, shit!” she shouted once the coughing stopped.
He sensed the awkwardness between them and stooped lower. He’d learned that trick that big men do, of folding themselves in half so others might reach them.
Adele couldn’t even look at him. She touched her face. “I always say the wrong thing.”
Snooky Washburn laughed, and it was so loud she felt it echo in her chest.
“You haven’t said the first thing wrong, Ms. Henry. Some of the things you say can be surprising, but the best thing about life is the surprises. Like I didn’t expect to meet someone as nice as you today.”
Adele grinned again, but he didn’t see this because she wasn’t looking at him.
“Okay,” she said. “But if I call you Snooky, then you have to start calling me Adele.”
He agreed and left through the kitchen door. She watched and waved as Snooky got into the car and backed out of the driveway. She didn’t laugh at herself, at her big old putty heart, until she was alone.
NO REST ALLOWED, however. After one thing’s done, there’s another waiting. If she didn’t get to it, who would? Where was the Devil’s Well? And what was it, really?
Adele’s cabin was big, three bedrooms big, generous beyond all reason, so much so that Adele wondered if she’d be getting roommates soon. She knew she wasn’t, but still feared she could. One closet even had a pair of men’s suits hanging in it. The last tenant’s, maybe. This suspicion forced her to get up and check the driveway every few minutes. Even in the middle of taking off her makeup. With cold cream daubed across her face she crept into the kitchen, expecting to see a van full of Unlikely Scholars arriving to invade a space she already considered her home. Hers alone.
One canopy bed stood assembled in a room now officially “the bedroom,” though it didn’t have a vanity as she’d have liked. She had to remove her foundation at the bathroom mirror. Without makeup she looked at her wide face, cheeks as round as tennis balls. Hair so brown it almost looked black. It was her mother’s face.
On sick days, when Adele had stayed home from school, Maxine Henry had cooked up Spanish omelets as a special breakfast treat for her girl. Two eggs beaten and poured into a pan; minutes later a puffy yellow disc slid onto a plate. While the eggs cooked, Adele’s mother chopped onions and tomatoes, green peppers and mushrooms, then dropped them all into a second pan of crackling corn oil. Maxine would fry those vegetables until they’d browned and the onions took on a sugary taste. And finally, the magic ingredient, add teaspoons of ketchup to the nearly finished pan. The ketchup turned the corn oil into thick gravy. Pour that pan onto the cooled eggs and fold the omelet in half. As the thick oil soaked through the eggs and across the plate, Adele would dip a finger to taste. Perfection.
Then, while Adele ate, Maxine Henry would run around the house yelling, “Where are my keys? Where are my keys?” because preparing this breakfast always made Maxine late for work. The sight of her frantic mother made young Adele giggle, so her mom would shout even louder just to make her baby howl. Adele might try to mimic her mom, but the words all rushed together until they became another language. Wherearemykeys! ’Rarmykeys!
Eventually Maxine would find them and go to work. Adele was a little young to be left home alone, but there weren’t any other options. Adele had memorized the number for her mother’s job and knew how to dial 911. Beyond that, Maxine simply had to have faith her daughter would be okay.
As Adele looked into the mirror now, at her naked face, her mother felt incredibly near.
Guess what? Do you know where I am? California. Can you beat that?
Maxine Henry. Only a few thousand miles away. As close as a phone call. Except Adele had been refused the new number. Accessible by mail if only Adele’s mother had been willing to give her the new address.
AFTER A BATH Adele brought the suitcases into the bedroom and laid them flat in a corner, opened both, and hung all the clothes. She changed out of the box coat and skirt and put on a cotton crêpe kimono. Now she checked the kitchen, searching the cabinets. Yes! They’d stocked her cabin with the important provision. Liquor. Maybe the Washburns didn’t teetotal quite as vehemently as the Dean. She made a gin rickey, full of ice, and drank it reclining in the lounge.
Then she poured one more.
Adele walked through the house, her house, and touched all her walls and every window. By the time she’d made the circuit, she was ready for on
e more glass.
Eventually she took off her kimono, put on a khaki two-piece riding suit, and her most comfortable shoes, four-buckled gaiters. She stood on the edge of the tub in the bathroom so she could see the outfit in the mirror. She looked courageous. Strong. If you asked her to go into the bush and kill a rhino, she could do it. With her hands.
Time to work.
She found a bike in the garage behind her cabin. Leaning against one wall. This big silver monstrosity. Fifty soup cans molded to resemble a Pashley Roadster, but warped. The bike looked like it had just survived a collision with the fourth dimension. She pulled it out and checked the mildly rusted chain, bounced up and down in the lopsided seat, even dropped it on its side; she was flawed, but she was sturdy. Adele took the bike along the small path, back around to the front of the house, popped the kickstand, and went inside for a hat.
While she’d been rummaging in the garage someone had come along and flipped an envelope under her front door. Periwinkle paper with writing on the face. It read: “Per Diem—$50.” She opened it and found four hundred dollars inside.
She washed the glass she’d used (sipping at the last drops of gin rickey first), then grabbed her green purse and a newsboy cap. She walked around the cabin to be sure the windows were shut. Looked to see if she’d left any lights on by mistake. She’d really developed the home owner’s mind-set right away.
Adele Henry quick study.
Adele Henry pedaling fast.
ADELE HENRY COASTED DOWN MacArthur Boulevard in that two-piece riding suit, on that battered bike, but had no idea where to go. She had one phrase, but no sense of its value. She’d decided the Devil’s Well was a place, maybe a famous landmark. A location she could find. So she stopped her bike in front of a coffee shop, went inside, and asked to see a phone book.
The coffee shop felt like a grotto. Cozy and warm, the deep brown walls hugging close, and even the tabletops were made of stone. Since the smaller tables were already occupied, Adele sat at the one great table nearby, big enough for a dozen chairs. Six were already in use. She took a vacant corner and opened the phone book, leafed through the pages, and listened to them flap. She was waiting for the coffee she’d ordered. When they called her name, she took everything up there with her, her purse and coat, even the bulky phone book. She trusted no one.
Big Machine Page 27