“Thank you.” She tapped her pencil against her teeth, thinking. “I’ll bet we could use it to move heavy things around, too.”
Designing and modifying dream homes was their favorite thing to do together. It had started at their old place, when the rent went up and his mom began looking for a cheaper apartment. When Reuben had asked if in the new apartment he would still have his own room, his mom had made a big theatrical fuss about how spoiled he was, wanting his own room of all things, and didn’t he realize that if he got his way, he would never stop wanting more? First two rooms, then a whole apartment, then a whole house? Somewhere in the midst of their pretend argument, Reuben had declared that he did want a whole house—a mansion, in fact—and he expected her to have it built for him.
“Fine!” she’d said, throwing her hands up in exasperated defeat. “Just show me what you want, Your Majesty!”
And so it had begun. The idea was that the mansion couldn’t be built until Reuben had made up his mind, which was proving to be an exceedingly difficult task, given all the possibilities. It might take years, he’d admitted. In the meantime, it wasn’t lost on him that his mom had spent weeks scouring the newspaper and making phone calls, trying to find a two-bedroom apartment they could afford.
Reuben worked awhile in silence. He usually did most of the drawing, with his mom offering input and colorful commentary. They had dozens of designs. The homes always had secret passages, doors hidden behind bookcases, trapdoors beneath rugs, fireman’s poles between floors. When situated in warmer climates, the houses typically had swimming pools with underwater entrances, high dives, and tunnel slides that descended from Reuben’s upstairs bedroom. The designers’ guiding principle was never to say no to any suggestion but rather to figure out how to make it work.
“There’s always another way,” his mom would say when Reuben got frustrated with some complication in his design. She also insisted on making even his most whimsical ideas practical in some way. His tunnel slide, for instance, might double as a laundry chute. The clothes hamper would be a sealed plastic container with handles that could be snagged with a shepherd’s hook kept poolside—a brilliant touch, in Reuben’s opinion, as it transformed a chore into a game.
They both liked to think they made a good team.
“Here’s a question for you,” Reuben said, after having worked quietly for a minute.
His mom gave a slight start. She’d begun to doze off. She blinked exaggeratedly and contorted her face, as if a bug had landed on her cheek. “What’s that?” she asked, trying to focus. She cleared her throat. “What’s the question?”
“I’ll ask you later. You should go to bed, Mom.”
She frowned and drew herself up straighter in her chair. “No way. I’m awake.” She pointed at her ponytail. “Look, I haven’t even let my hair out yet. What’s your question?”
Reuben shrugged. “I was just going to ask what you would do if you got a lot of money.”
“You mean other than build the mansion?”
“I mean really, if it really happened. Like, I don’t know, if a mysterious stranger sent you a box full of cash. To thank you for a long-forgotten kindness or something.”
“‘A long-forgotten kindness,’” his mom repeated, the corners of her lips twitching. “That’s a new one. Okay,” she said, crossing her arms to indicate seriousness, “a box full of cash. What would I do? Well, I would probably quit one or both jobs, depending on how much money it was, and take classes at the city college.”
Reuben looked at her askance. “Really?”
“Yes, really. That used to be the plan,” she said. “When you were a baby, that was the plan.”
Reuben knew what this meant, and he knew that it usually made his mom sad to think of that time when his father was still alive. But she wasn’t showing it, and he knew she wouldn’t.
Once, when he was much younger, he’d caught her crying and had gotten very upset himself. He’d pressed her to tell him what was wrong. Eventually she’d admitted that she missed his father, was sad that Reuben had never known him and even sadder that he hadn’t been given the chance to know Reuben. “He would have loved you so much,” she’d said, crying harder.
It had all been rather mysterious to Reuben, having been so young at the time, with no memory of his father. But he was distraught nonetheless, and his mom had struggled to pull herself together in order to comfort him. The next morning she was bright and smiling, offering no trace of the disconsolate person he’d glimpsed the night before. Studying his face, she told him that he didn’t need to worry about her, that she’d simply been overtired.
Not once since then had she complained to Reuben about anything truly serious. Not once. But he’d never forgotten that night.
“Classes,” he said, shaking his head. He flipped his pencil around to use the eraser. “If you got all that money, you would take classes.”
His mom raised her chin defiantly. “That’s right.”
“You can’t think of a more boring answer?” He bent over the paper and blew off the eraser rubble.
His mom covered a yawn. She shrugged. “After the classes I could get a better job. We’d have more money. I wouldn’t ever fall behind on the rent.”
“We’re behind on the rent?” Reuben looked up.
His mom’s expression grew suddenly alert. “No, I’m only saying that if I received this miraculous money, it would never happen. That’s all. The bigger thing, the main thing, is that I could be home with you more.”
Behind on the rent. So they were doing even worse than he’d thought. Pretending to let it go, Reuben pointed his pencil at her. “Okay, I grant you it’s a good answer. It’s still boring, but it’s a good answer.”
“Thank you. Of course, I’d also get a motorcycle.”
He chuckled. “Is that right?”
“I’d let you ride in the sidecar. We could paint flames on the side.”
“This motorcycle of yours has a sidecar?”
“Can you imagine not having one?”
“A sidecar,” Reuben murmured, nodding thoughtfully. He bent over his drawing again. “Now you’re talking sense.”
Soon they had to call it a night. His mom could scarcely keep her eyes open, and Reuben wasn’t doing much better. He was excited, though, and more than a little nervous. It had occurred to him what his next step with the watch would be, where he needed to take it and how to go about it, and as he got ready for bed, every yawn was followed by an involuntary tremor of anxious anticipation.
Today was a big day, he thought. But tomorrow would be bigger.
Late the next morning Reuben got off the subway at Brighton Street station, holding tightly to the straps of his backpack. He’d waited until after rush hour to avoid being seen on the train by any neighbors who might happen to work here in Middleton, the neighborhood in which New Umbra’s busiest retail district was located. Even so, the station platform was fairly crowded, and Reuben made his way up the steps into daylight along with a dozen other passengers. He stood with his backpack pressed to the station wall and looked up and down Brighton Street, where all the best shopping in New Umbra was done.
Everything about Brighton Street seemed to shine—the shop windows, the chrome on the passing cars, the clicking shoes of well-dressed pedestrians. Reuben was aware that even run-down cities have their share of wealthy people, their lawyers and doctors and factory owners, and in New Umbra such people did their shopping on Brighton Street. Though certainly not as fancy as some places Reuben had seen in movies, it nonetheless made the Lower Downs seem all the more squalid in comparison. Most of the people who shopped here, Reuben supposed, wouldn’t think his own neighborhood fit for human dwelling.
He was somewhat familiar with the area. He’d come here with his mom just a few months ago, when she’d needed new clothes for a job interview and had seen a big sale advertised. The outfit she bought, and the way she wore her hair with it, had made her look like someone who ran a compan
y or worked with the mayor. On the morning of the interview, Reuben felt intimidated just eating breakfast with her. But she hadn’t been hired for the position, because she had no experience.
“I thought I might win them over with my charm,” she’d said. “Evidently, they were immune. They must have cast some protective spell.” She spoke lightly, as if it were only one interview among many, and nothing to make a fuss about. She hadn’t been to any since then, however, and Reuben understood that she’d been forced to rethink her prospects.
Still, it was thanks to that shopping trip that he knew of all the jewelry and antiques stores in the Brighton Street area. He and his mom had poked around a couple of the latter places, trying to decide what sort of exotic cabinets and canopy beds they would want in their dream home, and had stopped to look into the display windows of a number of jewelry stores. (His mom wouldn’t enter those stores, though. She didn’t care to be coldly ignored by employees who would judge her—correctly, alas—as a browser only. Definitely not a buyer.)
Reuben started walking, unsure where to begin. He thought he might just go inside the first place he came to, which turned out to be a jewelry store about two blocks from the station. He stopped and stood outside the display window, trying to work up his nerve. Ten minutes later he was still standing there, seized by that familiar dread.
He frowned at his reflection in the glass. He needed to find out how much the watch was worth. He couldn’t guess how bad it was that they were behind on their rent—his mom tried to keep these things from him—but he knew it was bad enough. She already worked two jobs. What else was she supposed to do? If Reuben could sell the watch for enough money to keep them afloat, or maybe even put them ahead… well, he had to do it. He knew he did, and this was the first step.
Behind him in the reflection Reuben could see the cars and pedestrians coming and going. No one was paying him any attention at all. The tall buildings echoed with the sounds of horns honking, bus doors squealing open and closed, a thousand shoes clattering and shuffling on sidewalks.
It was just discomfort, he told himself. That was all it was. He had to push through it. Reuben pivoted on his heels. A bell above the door jingled invitingly as he entered. Then the door closed behind him and all was quiet.
The jewelry store was a small place, a single room with half a dozen display cases and a well-dressed young man leaning back against a counter at the rear. The man’s legs were crossed at the ankles, his weight on his heels. With his nice suit and glossy brown hair so artfully combed, he looked as if he might be posing for a fashion magazine. He was gazing at his fingernails with a bored expression that betrayed a faint amusement.
“Wondered if you were coming in,” the man said without looking up. “You’ve been out there long enough. I thought maybe you were planning a stickup. How about it? You here to rob me?”
Reuben felt his cheeks reddening.
The man yawned and looked up. “Don’t look so serious, kid, I’m only joking. So what is it, then? Looking to buy something for your sweetheart? Not sure we’d have anything in your range.”
Reuben took the pouch from his backpack and stepped forward. “I wondered if you could tell me how much this is worth.” He moved to set the pouch on one of the display cases.
The man straightened abruptly. “Don’t put that there,” he snapped. “I’ll have to clean the case.” He sighed and beckoned Reuben over to him. “Set it here on the counter. I’ll have a look.”
Reuben stood at the man’s elbow as he drew the bundle from the pouch and unwrapped it. At the sight of the handsome wooden case, the man pursed his lips but said nothing. Then he opened it and looked at the pocket watch and winding key for several seconds without moving. Reuben glanced back and forth between the man’s face and the beautiful objects in the box.
Presently the man took up the pocket watch and turned it in his hand. His thumbnail found the seam, and in a moment he had opened the cover to reveal the watch face. He made a small noise in his throat, the meaning of which was impossible to guess.
“You’re wanting to sell this?” he asked, without taking his eyes from the watch.
“Not me,” Reuben said. “And not today. It belongs to my uncle. He just told me to ask what it might be worth.”
The man’s eyes flicked in Reuben’s direction. “Your uncle, eh? Why didn’t he come himself?”
Reuben shrugged, trying to seem casual. “He’s working.”
“I see.” The man carefully returned the watch to its velvet compartment and examined the key. “Well, you can tell your uncle that what we have here is a sort of novelty item. Not much market for it, I’m afraid. A watch that looks like a ball? Missing its minute hand? It’s pretty, but then so is a lot of costume jewelry.” He put back the key, then pointed to the inscription inside the lid of the case. “This is a problem, too. Nobody wants to buy a case with someone else’s name inscribed in it. Honestly, this would be a hard sell, kid.”
“But the—but isn’t the metal alone—isn’t—?” Reuben stammered. He jabbed his finger toward the case, in his agitation almost poking it. “But surely it’s worth something, isn’t it?”
“Hey, take it easy.” The man bundled up the case and slid it back into its pouch. “Listen, kid, I don’t even know what the key and the watch are made out of. Not gold, if that’s what you were thinking. Not even copper.” He shook his head, sliding the pouch in Reuben’s direction, though only a few inches. “I can try to help you out, but I couldn’t do much.”
It took Reuben several uneasy moments to realize what was happening. The man wanted to buy the watch and the case. He wanted to pay less than they were worth, so he was making them out to be essentially worthless. Perhaps he didn’t believe Reuben’s story about an uncle.
Reuben slid the pouch closer to him, watching the man’s eyes, which were watching the pouch. “Like I said, I’m not here to sell anything. My uncle—”
“I can give you a hundred dollars for the whole package,” the man interrupted. “Case, watch, and key. Just to be nice. You seem like a good kid.”
“Thanks,” Reuben said, after a pause. A hundred dollars was more money than his mother made in a whole day of work. “I can’t sell it, but I’ll tell my uncle. Maybe he’ll want to.” He quickly took the pouch from the counter and stuffed it into his backpack.
“You know what?” said the man, taking hold of Reuben’s arm. He smiled in a friendly way. “Now that I think of it, I’ll bet I could find a collector who’d be interested. Wouldn’t be easy, might take me a while, but I could probably make a sale eventually. Which changes matters a bit. A minute ago, I figured I was doing you a favor. Now I’m realizing I might be able to make some money at some point. Not a lot, mind you, but a little. So how about this? I’ll give you two hundred dollars. Still probably more than any of it’s worth, but I’ll take the risk. What do you think? You can buy yourself a nice bike for that much and still have plenty left over. I noticed you were on foot.”
The man was still gripping his arm.
“May I use your phone?” Reuben asked with difficulty. His mouth had gone pasty. “I could call my uncle at work.”
Now the man laughed, letting go of Reuben to put his hands on his hips. “Are you really giving me more of this uncle business? Do we have to do that? Do I have to listen to you pretend to get permission on the phone? Can’t I just give you the two hundred dollars and be done with it, no hard feelings for lying to me?”
Reuben looked down at his feet.
“Oh, come on,” the man said teasingly. He was beaming now, excited. “How about I show you what two hundred dollars looks like, and then you can decide whether or not you need to use my phone.” He tousled Reuben’s hair and went behind the counter, where he stooped to take a handful of bills from a low drawer.
When the doorbell tinkled, he straightened with a start, as if he’d been caught committing a crime. But there was no one entering the store. In fact, there was no one in the store at
all, for Reuben was already out on the sidewalk and fast disappearing.
After this encounter with the crafty man at the jewelry store, Reuben took a long walk down Brighton Street to settle his jangling nerves. He would never forget the greedy gleam in the man’s eyes. What if he had simply taken the watch? What could Reuben have done about it? He needed to be craftier himself, he realized. The watch was obviously valuable—a fact that made it hard for him to calm down—and he was on his own.
He still had no idea of the watch’s true value, either. He would need to visit other places, and if they were anything like the last one, he might have to visit several before he received an honest assessment, to say nothing of the risk of losing the watch altogether. He decided that from then on he would always make sure other customers were present—and he would never allow anyone else to handle the watch.
And so, stoking up his courage, Reuben began again, stopping in at several of the jewelry stores and antiques dealers along Brighton Street. In some places he was treated with suspicion; in others, with courtesy or condescension. In one he got the impression that his life might be worth less than the watch in his hands, and from this place he made a hasty exit, followed by a lot of deep breaths. He needed a new plan.
Glancing around to make sure he wasn’t being followed, Reuben veered away from the bustle of Brighton Street. On the adjacent block the storefronts lost their gleaming façades, and within a couple of blocks they fell away altogether. He came to a small park. It was rather a sad park—a neglected patch of grass, a nonfunctioning fountain, and a handful of plane trees, one of which overhung a bench. But it was quiet and empty and therefore perfect. Reuben settled onto the bench in the shade.
He unzipped his backpack, unbundled the wooden case. He set it on his lap and stared probingly at it, as if it might contain the answer to his most pressing question: What now? He was just a kid. A kid couldn’t expect to get a fair price for some rare object he’d found; he’d learned that much, anyway. He couldn’t even find anyone to tell him the truth about its value.
The Secret Keepers Page 4