“She’s lived practically her whole life in the wrong century,” Ruthie added.
“She’d been handling it pretty well—her memories were getting clearer. But when she looked through the viewing glass and when we took her out in the corridor she seemed confused,” Jack explained.
“Perhaps it could have something to do with the reinstallation,” Mrs. McVittie suggested.
“The what?” Ruthie asked.
“Until the nineteen eighties the rooms were in a different part of the museum. It was a very dark and out-of-the-way space under a stairwell.”
“I didn’t know that,” Ruthie said. “When were they moved?”
“I can’t tell you precisely. But most of them were put in storage for a number of years. It’s possible that when they were reinstalled, changes may have been made to the dioramas.”
“So the corridor would have looked completely different in 1977? And the rooms wouldn’t even have been in Gallery 11?” Jack asked.
“That’s right,” Mrs. McVittie said.
“We have to find her brother, Oliver Brown,” Ruthie declared. “He must be in his forties now.”
“You’ll have to be very sensitive when you talk to him,” Mrs. McVittie advised.
“I was thinking about that,” Ruthie said. “I think we should ask Dr. Bell to help us.”
Dr. Bell’s childhood had been complicated not only by the loss of her mother when she was young but also by her visits to the rooms. The magic had produced thrilling adventures and destructive outcomes. She could guide them better than anyone.
“Good idea,” Jack said. “He’ll believe her; I’d believe her if I were in his place. We’ll ask her to come with us.”
Ruthie was finally able to take a small bite of sandwich. “If we find him.”
“WHO KNEW THERE WOULD BE so many people named Oliver Brown?” Jack moaned. They were at Jack’s house. Ruthie’s parents and sister, Claire, were out of town for the summer-abroad orientation, so she would be staying there for the next two nights. They had searched the name and hundreds of links came up. “And we don’t even know that he still lives around here. He could be in Alaska, or anywhere!”
“This might be impossible,” Ruthie worried. Just like the rooms, the digital world provided an endless number of connections in time and space. How could they possibly sort through them all?
“Too bad we don’t know his middle initial—that would narrow down some of the Oliver Browns. We could go back and ask Rivy.”
“Birth announcements!” Jack exclaimed, typing in a new search.
After a few minutes he cried, “Bingo!”
Under a newspaper listing of births in Chicago on March 3, 1970, they read:
OLIVER ZACHARY BROWN, A BOY,
WAS BORN TO MARJORIE AND ROBERT BROWN, 10:42 A.M., 8 LB., 2 OZ.
HE HAS A SISTER, REBECCA LILLY, AGE 8.
When they limited their search to the Chicago area, there were five Oliver Z. Browns. They searched those five and came up with an amazing amount of information. They found a picture that showed one to be African American, so they were able to check him off the list. Ruthie sighed in relief as the list got shorter.
Of the four remaining, they discovered a teacher, a CEO, an artist, and an accountant. The artist was the next to check off the list. They found his website, where his biography stated that he was the oldest of six children.
The teacher was definitely too young. The CEO was at a corporate headquarters downtown, and they were able to find pictures of him as well. He was about the right age. He didn’t look much like Rivy, but it wasn’t out of the question they could be related. The accountant had an office in the South Loop, but they didn’t find any pictures of him online, so he remained another possibility.
“Not bad for a couple of hours of research,” Jack said.
“What are you two working on?” Lydia asked, popping her head into Jack’s doorway. She had an extra pillow and blanket for Ruthie.
“Just following up some leads,” Jack answered. “We’ve been finding out all kinds of stuff.”
“For Mrs. McVittie?” Lydia asked.
Jack nodded noncommittally.
“It’s been really interesting,” Ruthie added, a touch of guilt creeping into her stomach; she knew they weren’t exactly answering Lydia’s questions. “Thanks for the blanket.”
“Probably would be a good time to hit the sack. If you want a bedtime snack, there are oatmeal cookies in the kitchen.”
Jack zoomed past the two of them and was pouring milk by the time Ruthie got there. Lydia headed back to her studio around the corner.
Jack dunked his cookie into his glass of milk and took a slurping bite. “You know,” he said with a full mouth, “we should call Dr. Bell tomorrow.”
Ruthie bit into the crispy-chewy round, still warm from the oven, and tried to imagine what they would say to Oliver Brown.
Dr. Bell picked Ruthie and Jack up at Mrs. McVittie’s shop a little before noon on Thursday and drove them the short distance to Oliver Brown’s office. They had decided that since the CEO didn’t look like Rivy, they might as well try the accountant first. Dr. Bell had agreed to help them and had called his office to make an appointment for a time when she could get away from her office.
“It will be a delicate thing, meeting this man,” Dr. Bell advised. “This is a very old and deep wound. You don’t know how people will react.”
Looking out the window, Ruthie thought about how Rivy had lived the majority of her life in the eighteenth century. Ruthie pondered the things Rivy had missed; besides historic events, she pictured things like birthdays, graduations, parties, and family trips, all the moments that make a life.
They arrived at a nondescript office building, all gray metal and glass. Inside, they read the wall directory: Oliver Z. Brown Associates, 15th floor.
The elevator opened to a long hallway, and the office they wanted was at the end. Dr. Bell opened the door and Ruthie and Jack followed her in.
A receptionist looked up from her computer. “May I help you?”
“Hello. I’m Dr. Caroline Bell and I have an appointment with Mr. Brown.”
The receptionist rose. “This way, please.”
When they entered his office, Oliver Brown stood to greet them. Ruthie wasn’t sure they’d come to the right place. Did he look like Rivy? Maybe a little around the eyes. Rivy’s hair had gone mostly gray; this man’s was still dark.
Dr. Bell introduced herself and said that Ruthie and Jack were friends who wanted to come along and learn a little of what accountants do. She kept her explanation simple and started by asking him about his qualifications as a way of finding out anything she could about him.
While they talked, Ruthie looked around the room for clues. The office was immaculate, with not a single piece of paper out of place. The walls were painted white, and the only decoration was a framed photo of the Chicago Water Tower. There were no family photos anywhere, not even of a pet dog or cat. He wore no wedding ring.
The shelves behind him held books on accounting and business, kept in place with plain metal bookends. Ruthie saw one unidentifiable greenish object, looking something like a small back scratcher, thin in the middle with two knobs on each end. On his desk sat a computer, an adding machine, a dozen perfectly sharpened pencils lined up, a brass paperweight in the shape of a pyramid, a letter opener, and an electric pencil sharpener.
Jack kicked Ruthie’s foot subtly and with a glance directed her eyes to the pyramid. Of course!
When there was a pause in the discussion of the tax code, Jack jumped in. “Nice pyramid. Where’d you get it?”
“Oh, that? When I was a kid, there was this great exhibition at the Field Museum about King Tut. My sister took me and bought me this as a souvenir.”
This time Ruthie’s foot nudged Jack’s—she could barely contain herself.
Dr. Bell caught the cue brilliantly. “My dad used to work at the Art Institute. I spent a lot of t
ime in that museum as a child.”
Oliver Brown didn’t respond but stared at the pyramid. He didn’t offer it to Jack for closer inspection, which surprised Ruthie. It wasn’t fragile, and most people would have let a kid take a closer look. But he picked it up as gently as if it were a crown jewel. He looked at it a little too long before he returned to tax talk.
When he set the pyramid back on the desk, Ruthie noted how precisely he did so, lining it up just right. Then he straightened a couple of pencils next to the letter opener.
The letter opener!
She hadn’t noticed it at first, but it appeared to be something much finer than a museum souvenir. It looked like sterling silver, very old and out of place amid the drab items on the desk.
“That’s a beautiful letter opener,” Ruthie said, reaching for it. She saw him tense as she did so, but she went ahead and picked it up. “Where did you get it?” she asked.
“Um … I’ve always just had it. A family heirloom,” he answered unconvincingly.
Ruthie looked at him, but he dropped his eyes. She went back to inspecting the object.
It was shaped like a miniature dagger or sword, like Excalibur from the King Arthur stories. The pointed blade reflected a steely gray light, and set in the center of the carved handle, where the guard crossed the hilt, a milky moonstone glowed iridescently. It was about nine inches long. She found the hallmarks and announced, “It’s English sterling. Pretty old.”
“Ruthie and Jack have summer jobs working for an antiques dealer,” Dr. Bell explained.
“I’d say late seventeenth century. It reminds me of something—like I’ve seen it somewhere,” Ruthie continued. Oliver Brown sat mutely, almost frozen.
“Are you all right?” Dr. Bell asked. “Can I get you some water?”
“P-perfectly fine,” he stammered, and cleared his throat. “Now, where were we?”
Dr. Bell replied with something about tax deductions. Ruthie was trying to think of how to redirect him when she felt something warm on her leg. She had her messenger bag in her lap—the key and the rings inside—and heat began permeating the canvas, even the denim of her jeans. She reached in, but before she could find them, hot light was seeping through the fabric. With her right hand in the bag, touching the two pieces of metal, the letter opener in her left hand began warming even more, as though a circuit were being completed and she was the conduit.
Suddenly the old sterling silver erupted, emitting rays so intense they were impossible for Ruthie to conceal in her closed fist. She yanked her right hand from her bag, breaking the connection, and the letter opener—though still warm—quieted.
But it was too late. “What was that?” asked Oliver Brown.
The light show they had seen when Rivy held the key and the ring began again as soon as Ruthie took them from her bag.
Stunned, Oliver Brown stared at the flickers of light coming from the objects. “What is this …?”
“Have you ever seen these before?” Ruthie held the key and the two rings closer to him so he could get a good look.
He shook his head, but he appeared to be looking right through the objects to a distant point.
“Are you sure?” Jack coaxed.
Oliver Brown’s expression changed. He directed his focus on Dr. Bell as if to erase Jack and Ruthie from his field of vision. “Dr. Bell, I think we should set up another appointment. This … trick … is a distraction.”
“Ruthie, maybe you should put those away for now,” Dr. Bell said gently.
Oliver Brown stood up. His mouth was tight, and tiny beads of sweat formed on his upper lip.
Ruthie put the key and the rings in her bag and set the letter opener back on the desk, placing it exactly as it had been, its glow subsiding.
“Please ask my receptionist to reschedule,” Oliver Brown said to Dr. Bell, still ignoring the fact that something strange had just taken place in his office.
“Certainly,” she answered, rising. The three headed to the door, where Dr. Bell turned to him. “You know, I also had something in my office for many years—a beautiful antique silver box. I could barely remember where it came from. Ruthie and Jack helped me understand how I ended up with it.”
He looked at her blankly. But Ruthie saw something like pain or sorrow cross his face for an instant. He turned his eyes to the floor.
They left the office and walked to the elevator without speaking.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” Jack said in the lobby.
“I should have gone alone. Or prepared you two better. I was afraid this might happen,” Dr. Bell said.
They passed through the revolving doors and walked down the sidewalk, but as they turned the corner toward the parking lot they heard a shout.
“Wait! Wait! I’m sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
Mrs. McVittie put the Closed sign in the front window of her shop. Before leaving to go back to her office, Dr. Bell told Oliver Brown her story of how she had learned about the magic as a little girl. Mrs. McVittie did the same. Mr. Brown seemed dazed, maybe even numb, but he listened to every word.
Ruthie and Jack explained how they had found the key and discovered the shrinking magic, but also what Dr. Bell and Mrs. McVittie had not: that the rooms were portals to times past. “So that’s our story,” Ruthie concluded. She had arrived at the point where they’d found the ring that led them to the Belton House room.
Oliver Brown said nothing. He held the pyramid and letter opener in each hand, knuckles white from his tight grip. He sat rigidly in his chair, like a stone pillar, in contrast to the sagging comfort of everything in the cozy shop.
Finally he leaned forward. “And did you go back in time through the Belton room? Did you meet someone … named Becky?”
“Yes,” Ruthie answered.
He swallowed hard. “Is she … was she …”
“She’s fine,” Jack reassured him. “She asked us to find you.”
Carefully, like crossing a swift river by stepping on slippery stones, they filled him in on Rivy’s—Becky’s—life. They didn’t want to go too fast and risk upsetting him.
“It’s been a long time,” he said. “Almost forty years.” Ruthie could see his posture slacken, his hands relaxing. “I remember how exciting the day had been. We went to see the King Tut show. I was seven years old, captivated by the mummies and the gold. Then Becky took me to the Art Institute. I can’t quite remember what happened next; Becky told me to close my eyes and she grabbed my hand, I think. The next thing I knew, we were running in a huge, even darker place. We started climbing something that looked like giant pushpins stuck into the wall at intervals—handles to grab hold of and step on. It was difficult, and Becky told me not to look down.”
“Cool idea!” Jack interjected.
“That led to some kind of scaffolding, which we climbed like playground equipment. We made our way through a wooden framework and into very fancy rooms.”
They spent a couple of hours listening as Oliver Brown remembered more and more about that day with his sister. He recalled quick visits to a few rooms, and pocketing a jade carving from one. “I still have that,” he added, sounding apologetic. He had pestered Becky to see the fascinating objects she kept in her pocket: the old key, and the two rings. “I was especially interested in the mood ring,” he explained.
They went to room E4, and then through a door and into an enclosed patio. He had no idea whatsoever that they had gone back in time. When they approached the real Belton House, he wasn’t interested in a “boring old house” and ran off, back to the patio door and into the room. On the desk in the room he spied the letter opener, which he thought was a dagger. “I had to have it, so I grabbed it and ran out of the room,” he told them.
Ruthie and Jack understood the significance of this; the letter opener was most certainly the animator. Ruthie jumped in. “Did you take anything else from that room?”
“That was the only thing,” he answered
defensively. “I promise. I poked my head in a few more rooms, fiddling with the mood ring all the while. Until I got bored with it and dropped it in a big wooden box in one of the rooms. I thought it looked like a jewelry box. I think I dropped the other ring in the box too.”
Jack looked at Ruthie, and she gave him a subtle nod.
Oliver continued. “I ran around in the framework behind the rooms, trying to climb it like the monkey I was, while I waited for my sister. I remember standing on a very high ledge, looking down, and then …”
He choked up and for a moment couldn’t speak.
“What?” Ruthie prompted.
“I dropped my sister’s key to see how long it would take to reach the bottom. I didn’t know it was magic. I remember hearing the clinking sound.”
“Then what happened?” Jack asked.
“I waited and waited, and she never came back for me. I remember getting hungry and cold and tired. I managed to climb down the same way we had climbed up. Somehow I made my way under a door. I was crying by then. The museum was deserted, and it seemed so colossal. I was still tiny and I felt dizzy and utterly confused. What I remember is that somehow I just grew big again. It was terrifying.”
“You poor child,” Mrs. McVittie said.
“A guard found me crying for my sister. The police showed up, and I was asked all kinds of questions. I’m sure I made no sense at all.”
“Did you ever try to go back?” Jack asked.
He sighed heavily. “I’ve been back hundreds of times, just to look at that room … hoping … I don’t know what I expected would happen.” He shook his head, and the deep line that had run across his forehead began to soften. “But tell me: if my sister is well … why didn’t she ever come back?”
Ruthie had been dreading this: telling Oliver the reason she could not return.
She told him how she and Jack had stumbled on the key and its magic and gently explained how the shrinking works only if a girl holds the key.
“Your sister didn’t know that either,” Jack added quickly. “She also didn’t know about the animators.”
The Secret of the Key Page 10