The Sixty-Eight Rooms

by Marianne Malone

  They’d also learned that after the museum was closed to the public a lot of activity still took place, like special fund-raising parties or the installation of new exhibitions. And they were told that sometimes those events lasted late into the night.

  It was still snowing by the time they left the museum. Jumping over snowdrifts, they made their way to the bus stop for the ride home. Even though they had not managed to get into the rooms on this trip, Ruthie knew they had gotten a step closer. Now they had to figure out their plan.

  THE PLAN

  RUTHIE STOMPED HER FEET HARD to shake the last chunks of snow off her boots before she entered her apartment. The heavy nuggets that had stuck to her hat, scarf and coat were beginning to melt, so she took the wet things off and left them in a lump in the hall. Opening the door, she noticed right away that the apartment sounded different. It was a little quieter than usual and she heard something that she ordinarily wouldn’t have heard: the sound of her mother crying softly in her bedroom. Claire appeared in the entryway to meet Ruthie.

  “Why’s Mom crying?” Ruthie was very concerned.

  “Her old professor from college—you know, the one she always talks about, from St. Louis—he died yesterday and she just got the phone call about an hour ago.”

  “Oh,” Ruthie uttered, relieved it wasn’t something really horrible. “That’s sad.” Mostly she was sad that her mother was sad. She’d never known the professor, even though her mom had kept in touch with him. She had called him her mentor.

  “You and I are gonna make dinner, okay?” Claire was taking charge. “Let’s be super good to Mom.” Ruthie agreed.

  Actually, it turned out to be nice, making dinner with her big sister—they so rarely did anything together without their parents. They made an easy dish—spaghetti—with Ruthie sitting on a kitchen stool reading the recipe while Claire did the actual cooking. With the blizzard roaring outside and the warm smells wafting through the air, Ruthie felt contentment—something she hadn’t felt much of since the discovery of the key. When their dad came home, they filled him in. He kissed them both on the forehead.

  Over dinner—which everyone agreed turned out to be not bad at all—Ruthie felt uncomfortable. She had never seen her mother in this state and it bothered her that she didn’t know what to say to make her feel better. Why couldn’t she be more like Claire in moments like this?

  “Mom,” her older sister began, “what is the thing you remember best about him?”

  The question made her mother brighten. “I guess it’s how he treated his students. He inspired me to become a teacher.”

  Her mother talked about her old professor for a while. Ruthie listened quietly.

  Then something surprising and fantastic occurred and Ruthie had a very hard time not acting overjoyed in the face of her mother’s sadness. Her parents had decided that they would go to the funeral in St. Louis—this weekend! Claire couldn’t go because of the SAT on Saturday morning.

  “Ruthie, what about you?” her father asked. “Do you want to come with us or keep Claire company? It will just be two nights.” Claire and Ruthie had stayed home alone together only once, several months earlier, when their parents went to a weekend conference. That had been a big deal, but they had proved they could be responsible.

  “I guess I’ll stay here,” she said. It was all she could do to stay in her chair and finish dinner. She couldn’t wait to tell Jack the news.

  As the week progressed, they made their plan. Ruthie’s parents were leaving for St. Louis right after school on Friday and would be gone until Sunday evening. The museum closed at four-thirty on Fridays—that didn’t give them enough time to get from school to home to the museum, and if for any reason her parents got a late start the whole thing could be thrown off. Their overnight would have to be Saturday night, which would mean that they could get their homework out of the way on Friday night. Ruthie would tell Claire that she was spending the night at Jack’s and Jack would tell his mom that he would be with Ruthie. She had already told her parents that Lydia had agreed to help out while they were away. They worked very hard at keeping the parents from actually talking to each other about the arrangements. They were absolutely confident it was going to work, for two reasons: Ruthie was sure Claire wasn’t really going to pay any attention to her this weekend and Jack had spent the night at Ruthie’s several times when his mom had to be out of town. But Ruthie felt guilty about lying to Lydia and her parents.

  “Look,” Jack said, “if we could tell them we would. Anybody would do the same thing.” Ruthie knew Jack was right but she still didn’t like it.

  They would go to the museum around four o’clock; that should give them enough time to get into the corridor. Then they would hide quietly until the museum closed at five. They knew they couldn’t bring backpacks through the museum, so they decided to load up their pockets with food in case they got hungry overnight. Ruthie wondered if her cell phone would work as a miniature. Jack was going to wear extra layers of clothes since he would be sleeping in the corridor. He could roll up a sweatshirt for a pillow and use his coat for a blanket. He was the kind of person who could sleep almost anywhere.

  By Thursday, Ruthie could hardly bear the waiting anymore. She went home with Jack after school so that they could work on a math assignment together. Lydia had made brownies for them; she said brownies helped to get homework done. They sat on the floor in Jack’s room. Ruthie hated story problems—which Jack didn’t mind—but was really good at equations and calculations. Between the two of them they could get it done fast. They put the finished assignment in their notebooks, shoved them into their backpacks and put school out of their minds. Ruthie pulled out the catalogue of rooms, which she’d been keeping in her backpack all week. She still hadn’t decided which room to sleep in.

  “Maybe I’ll just have to try out all the beds before I decide on one,” she mused out loud. Then she had a thought that had been nagging her all week but that she hadn’t dared bring up. “Jack, do you think there’s any chance that it might not work anymore?”

  “What do you mean? The key?”

  “Yeah. What if it was a one-time-only thing?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. I guess we’ll find out Saturday.”

  “Let’s try it now, just for a second.”

  “My mom might see—it’s too risky,” he answered, as though that were final.

  “No, it’s not. Besides, it’s not your decision alone, you know,” Ruthie said, a little annoyed.

  “Okay, okay; you’re right,” he reluctantly agreed.

  Jack reached under his couch and pulled out a plain shoe box. It was filled with odds and ends: shoelaces, cool markers and pens, a deck of playing cards, a whistle, some batteries. Jack had deliberately decided not to keep this very special key with the others in his key collection. He wanted to hide it in a place no one would ever look. He dug through the various objects and found the key. Ruthie wasn’t sure, and even though it still looked special compared to all the junk in the box, she thought she remembered that it had glowed more intensely the last time she saw it.

  “Wait a second,” Jack said, walking over to the window that looked out into the main loft. His mom was not in sight. “Okay, now—but just for a second or two, and then drop it. Promise?” He held the key tightly before handing it over.

  “I promise,” she said solemnly.

  Ruthie stayed sitting on the floor—that way if his mother came around the corner she wouldn’t see Ruthie. Jack opened his fist and let the key drop into her palm. Almost immediately she felt the familiar warmth spreading out to her fingers. Her hair began to move with the light breeze blowing only on her. They heard the odd sound of the metal creaking. But then the process stopped. She didn’t feel her clothes adjusting; she didn’t feel even an inch smaller. Her hair stopped moving and the key cooled off. They stared at each other. Ruthie had never felt more disappointed in her whole life.

  “It’s not working!” She almost
couldn’t get the words out. She handed him the key as if she never wanted to see it again.

  “Did you feel anything at all?”

  “I think so. I mean, the key warmed up in my hand like before and I felt that breeze. But that’s it. It just stopped!”

  “Here, try it again. Maybe you need to concentrate or something.” He handed her the key. The same thing happened. It was as if it were only working on half power, like when a flashlight’s battery is dying and the bulb slowly fades out.

  Just then the door buzzer sounded. Someone was coming up in the elevator. Jack grabbed the key, stashed it in the box and shoved the box back under the couch. After a minute someone knocked and his mother headed toward the door. She looked through the peephole and sighed before opening the door.

  “Hello, Lydia. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  “Hello, Frank. I guess I was expecting you.” Frank Murphy was their landlord. Jack got up and stood in the doorway of his room.

  “We’ve really got to do something about this problem you’re having,” Mr. Murphy said.

  “Yes, Frank, I’m aware of the problem. I need another month. I have a show coming up soon and I’m sure I’ll have the money for you then. And I have some paintings almost finished.” Mr. Murphy had been an artist himself but had given it up; he’d bought this building a long time ago and rented the floors out to artists. Usually he was pretty nice.

  “I can give you one more month, but then … To be fair, I want to tell you I’ve had offers for triple what you’re paying and I have to think about paying my bills. You know how it is.” Ruthie thought he sounded like he was feeling a little guilty.

  After he left, Lydia sighed again and looked at Jack. “Don’t worry, Jack, okay? It’s going to turn out fine,” she said. Ruthie thought the look in her eyes said something else.

  It was very quiet in the loft for several long minutes. Ruthie was unsure what to say—or if she should even say anything at all. In the past ten minutes her world had turned upside down: the key did not work as expected and Jack’s situation had taken a turn for the worse. But then the buzzer sounded again, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  “That must be my dad,” Ruthie said, trying to put a normal tone in her voice. “I still have to get my stuff together.”

  “Jack, go bring him up so he doesn’t have to wait in the cold,” Lydia suggested. Ruthie gathered her books and folders and put them in her backpack. She was just about finished by the time Jack and her dad came in. After the hellos and how-are-yous, another near disaster occurred that threatened the entire plan.

  “I was sorry to hear about Helen’s professor,” Lydia offered. “Please give her my condolences, Dan.”

  “Thank you, Lydia. I will. And thank you for helping out,” Ruthie’s dad said. She could tell he was about to open his mouth again and say something more specific about the weekend.

  “Jack!” Ruthie nearly shouted at him, even though he was right next to her. The two adults looked at her, surprised. “Did we do all the math? It’s due tomorrow, remember?” Ruthie was putting on a performance of a girl in a panic. “Dad, we have to go now! And I still have an hour’s worth of reading tonight. I am so stressed!”

  “Yeah, that’s right!” Jack said, playing along. “Ms. Biddle really piled it on tonight.”

  “I’ll say! C’mon, Dad,” she said, pulling him onto the waiting elevator. Jack hopped in and closed the door fast.

  As they rode down, Ruthie looked at Jack, wondering what he was thinking. They both knew Jack’s mom had more important worries on her mind tonight and wouldn’t give another thought to what Ruthie’s dad had just said. But it had been a close call.

  Ruthie felt overwhelmed. Her panic act had not been difficult to call up—although it had nothing at all to do with homework. Between the frustration of the key not working and the possibility of Jack having to move, she didn’t know how or what to feel. Walking home with her dad made her feel a little better. She reached for his hand to hold. He gave her hand a squeeze.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  She couldn’t tell him everything, of course. She couldn’t tell him about how she might never get to do the one thing she wanted to do most. She ached to talk to him about the magic key and the disappointment she was feeling right now. She was even beginning to wonder if she had imagined the whole thing. If it hadn’t been for Jack being her witness, she’d think she was going crazy. But she could tell her dad about Mr. Murphy and what she’d heard and how worried she was about Jack and Lydia.

  “That explains why Lydia seemed so preoccupied just now. I could tell something was bothering her,” he said when she’d finished.

  “It just doesn’t seem fair that Jack might have to move. Where would they go?” Then she added, “Can we do anything for them, Dad?”

  “That would be a shame if they had to give up their loft. It’s tricky to give help to people who aren’t asking for it, and Lydia hasn’t asked us.” Her dad was quiet for a few paces. “But maybe there is something we can do for them. I’ll give it some thought.” That was something her father said often—“I’ll give it some thought”—and it always made her feel better.

  MRS. MCVITTIE

  SATURDAY FINALLY ARRIVED AND RUTHIE got up early with Claire. She sat with her sister while she ate breakfast, and wished her good luck on the SAT. Their parents called to make sure the girls were okay, that Claire was up and ready, and to cheer her on. Claire was cranky and a little nervous, even though she was a really good student. As Ruthie cleared their breakfast dishes she reminded Claire that Jack was coming over to get her this afternoon and that she would be spending the night at his house.

  “So I’ll probably be gone by the time you get home. Call my cell phone if you need me, okay? Jack’s mom is using the phone a lot these days, so you might not be able to reach me if you call his house.” She hoped she sounded calm but responsible even though she was feeling the opposite of both.

  “Sure—although I can’t imagine what I’d need to call you for. I’m going to watch movies and veg out tonight and not think about tests anymore!” She said this while she zipped up her coat and headed to the door. “So I’ll see you tomorrow sometime, okay?”

  “Okay. Good luck!” Ruthie said.

  “Thanks,” Claire answered, and closed the door behind her.

  Now, what to do with the rest of the morning? She had thought the week went by slowly but today was pure torture. She went through her list of what to take with her, checking and rechecking, packing everything into the pockets of her oversized sweatshirt jacket and her coat and making sure she didn’t overlook anything she might need. Her house keys, cell phone, bus pass and five dollars were in an outside zippered pocket. She and Jack had only briefly discussed what they would bring for snacks: trail mix, Goldfish crackers, chips. She debated whether or not to bring in a drink box or two. Ruthie worried about what would happen if they got caught carrying liquids into the museum, but all these snacks might make them thirsty. She decided on one juice box to share. She looked at herself in the mirror a few times with her coat pockets stuffed to see if it looked obvious. No, she thought, no one will notice.

  She spent some time on the computer, put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher and made her bed. It was still only midmorning. She sat down on the couch with the Thorne Rooms catalogue and spent an hour or so trying to decide how she was going to use her time in the quiet overnight hours. The worst part of the waiting was the fact that she was still worried that the key might no longer work. If the magic failed, her disappointment would be made worse by the fact that she and Jack would have to spend the whole night stuck in that dismal corridor with the otherworldly lights from the rooms glowing down on them. She tried hard to put those thoughts out of her mind and focus on how awesome the adventure was going to be.

  As she sat there, her stomach in knots, the doorbell rang. Ruthie almost jumped out of her skin. She popped off the couch, ran to the door and pushed the b
utton on the intercom. The voice of an elderly woman came through the speaker. It belonged to Mrs. Minerva McVittie, an antiques dealer her father was friends with. Ruthie buzzed her in and waited for her at the door.

  “Hello, dear. Are you home alone?” Mrs. McVittie seemed to be about a hundred years old and had shrunk so much with age that she was the same height as Ruthie. She took her hat off as she crossed into the apartment, showing fine wisps of silver hair. She owned an antiques shop, but old and rare books were her specialty. She had been finding interesting books for Ruthie’s father for as long as Ruthie could remember. Sometimes she would show up at their apartment with a special one and she and Ruthie’s dad would pore over it like little kids at Christmas.

  “Yes, but just for a little while. Mom and Dad are in St. Louis for the weekend and Claire is taking the SAT today,” she answered.

  “Those tests! When I was a girl, people used to actually talk to each other to find out what they knew!” Mrs. McVittie often spoke about what it had been like when she was a girl. Ruthie thought maybe all old people did. “Did you have lunch?” Mrs. McVittie continued. “I’ll make you some soup.” Without waiting for an answer, she laid her coat on a chair and went to the kitchen. She acted like she was Ruthie’s grandmother sometimes.

  “Did my parents tell you to check on me?” Ruthie asked, worried that it might ruin her plans.

  “No, no. I thought your father was here—I brought a book for him.” She pointed to her coat. “In the pocket.” She was busy opening a can of soup and finding the right pot. Ruthie lifted the coat to find a small leather-bound book in the pocket. “Over one hundred years old,” Mrs. McVittie called from the kitchen. “A real find. It’s in French—I’ll help your father read it.” Mrs. McVittie spoke French and about five other languages.

  “Where did you get it?”