The Jewel and the Key (43 page)

“Loose floorboard?” Meg asked. “I never noticed there was one.” She squeezed Addie to her side for a moment. “But I'll see if I can find it.”

“Thanks.” Addie's voice drifted off as she watched Sadler's car drive away up the alley. It climbed until its bulk dwindled in the distance and became a small black flame disappearing over the summit of the hill. A dancing, flickering flame of darkness. And as it crested the hill, the flame just went out.

“Hey, you! Get up!

Addie groaned and dragged a pillow over her head, but Whaley kept pounding on her door. “I told Mrs. Powell we'd get there before the preservation society people arrive.” He cracked the door and stuck his head in. “You alive in there?”

“Uhn.”

“You've been sleeping forever, McNeal! What's wrong with you? It's morning.” When Addie didn't reply, he just said, “We're leaving in ten minutes.” And he shut the door again.

Addie rolled out of bed, limbs heavy, thoughts slow and reluctant.

That's the end of the story. He's gone.

And I guess I'm still here.

The antique skirt she'd worn yesterday lay in the corner of the room, fine and crumpled as a castoff snakeskin. Carefully, she picked it up, folded it, and started to get dressed. For a second, she forgot what she was doing and just stared out the window to where the Douglas fir stood shrouded in morning mist, looking ghostly and sad. She felt
empty.
She pressed her fingers between her ribs, trying to locate the ache inside her that she was afraid would never go away. It was a part of her now, like her hair and her teeth.

Her gamble hadn't paid off. She had to face it.

There was nothing to show the preservation committee.

After Sadler and Reg left last night, she'd returned to the Jewel with Meg, where the opening night cast party was in full swing and Emma Mae was anxiously waiting for them. She'd asked Meg if she could use the telephone in her office to call her father. But the minute she was alone, she pulled out the mirror. She'd wished that she could somehow manage to shift only a few days forward in time when Tom would have dropped off the article and the picture. There was no way she could have stayed in 1917 waiting for him to bring them by. She'd had no home to go to, and it was nearly midnight, but if perhaps she could have bent time to suit her purpose ... She'd fixed her mind on it, hoping, believing that it was the power in her that made it possible to travel through time in the first place.

But it hadn't worked.

Instead, she'd found herself back in her own time, in the dusty wreck of what used to be Megs office.

Why had she even attempted such a foolish thing? In a panic, she'd rushed to the closet to look under the loose floorboard. If she was lucky, maybe Meg would have just left the newspaper there.

But she'd found nothing. Only the torn spider webs.

Well, she'd known it was a long shot. Still, she'd kept searching. Maybe the boards hadn't been loose in Megs day. In that case, surely Meg would have found somewhere else to hide the newspaper?

She'd searched the whole office, squinting into the dark recesses of the closet, looking for hidden cabinets, pressing against the wood in the back, trying to slide or trigger something. But there were no secret panels. She'd worn herself out tramping around the dark, dank theater looking in every nook and cranny of every room where Meg might have hidden something. But all for naught.

Too many years had passed. Either Meg had never hidden the paper at all or Tom had never brought it to her or someone else had taken it. Who knows? Maybe the police had even confiscated it.

She'd had to face it: There was no copy of the newspaper. No pictures.

She had even, in desperation, picked up the mirror and tried to plunge back into Reg and Meg's world, but that, too, was in vain. And that scared her more than anything. It was as if she'd tried a key that normally worked in a lock and could not budge it.

A horrible feeling had engulfed her—the feeling that something had ended.

What if she could never go back? Had she left without a farewell to anyone or a word of encouragement to Frida? What if her goodbye to Reg was final? Did that mean there was no hope of ever seeing him again?

It was when she'd put the mirror back in her purse that she'd found Gustaf's union card.

She'd slipped it back into her bag and headed home. And she'd gone straight to sleep, even though it was barely seven in the evening. No wonder Whaley thought something was wrong with her. Because the passage of time in the past didn't register in her own time, her internal clock was confused. She was like a traveler with jet lag.

Groggily, she pulled on a black top, jeans, and a short corduroy jacket. Who cared what she looked like today? She picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder as she headed downstairs.

In the hallway on the second floor, she glanced at the familiar family photographs on the walls: Zack mugging with green finger paint smeared all over his face, herself twirling in Titanias fairy dress from
A Midsummer Nights Dream,
Dad crossing the finish line of the Seattle—Portland bike race. She was back in her own world. Perhaps for good. Boots and shoes were still bursting out of the tiny closet in the hallway. The smell of frying onions seeped from under the kitchen door, and the clatter of pans told her Whaley was cooking.

Despite this, her home felt nearly as strange to her as Meg Turner's had the night before. It had always been
her
house, her safe haven, but now ... now it was Meg's house, too. The house where Frida had taken refuge. The house Reg had disappeared from. The house where Meg had left crates full of costumes and even the treasured mirror that they somehow shared. It would always be haunted. Just as the Jewel would always be full of presences from the past ... as long as it survived, that was.

She took a deep breath. She had to think. Even if the paper wasn't in Meg's office, couldn't the actual photos still be somewhere? Old photos were on heavy card stock. They might have survived better than newsprint. It wasn't much, but it was the only thread of hope she had. If only she could go back. Now. Right this minute. Find Meg...

But the mirror might not do her bidding anymore. She almost couldn't bear to try and be so disappointed.

“Addie! Are you ready?”

There was no
time.
It was already so late, and they couldn't disappoint Mrs. Powell.
Maybe,
she thought without much conviction,
maybe it will go well with the preservation people anyway.
Maybe they'd agree to landmark status even without the pictures. It seemed unlikely. But you never knew.

She pushed open the kitchen door and stared in surprise. Whaley had actually shaved and possibly even dragged a comb through his bristly rust-colored hair. And he was wearing a plain white shirt, not one of his tacky bowling shirts or ripped flannels.

“You look nice.”

Whaley grunted. “Don't sound so shocked.” He dumped the eggs he'd been frying into a pita and twisted a section of the newspaper around it. “Just thought I'd make an effort. Here.” He shoved the sandwich into Addie's hand, made another for himself, grabbed the newspaper off the counter, and stuffed it under his arm. “Lets go.”

Zack appeared in the doorway, yawning and stretching. “Sing Addie that song you wrote last night, Whaley.”

“You wrote a new song?”

“Shut up, Zack,” Whaley said, pushing past him into the hall.

“Sing it to her. She'll
love
it.” Zack grinned.

Addie gave him a one-armed hug. “Stop teasing Whaley, you monkey.”

“Zacky, get moving!” Dad rumbled from downstairs. “Skagit County, here we come!” He emerged from the far end of the bookstore as Whaley and Addie reached the back door. Quickly, he put a hand on Addie's forehead. “You feeling all right, sweetheart? You look pale.”

“I'm
fine,
Dad.”

He frowned. “Well, eat up that sandwich. You didn't stay awake long enough to have dinner last night. And tell Becky Powell good luck.”

Addie nodded, bundled a raincoat into her arms, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and a few minutes later, she and Whaley headed out onto the damp, foggy streets. Whaley read the news out loud, sidestepping lampposts and fire hydrants without looking up.

There was intense fighting, he read, between U.S. forces and militias in the narrow streets of some city whose name neither of them could pronounce. A holy city, with a shrine, up high in the mountains.

“‘There has been no electricity at the hospital for the past week since a bomb destroyed its generator. People are afraid to go to work or send their children to school.'” Addie peered over Whaley's shoulder and saw a blurry photo of a woman cowering near a blown-out shop window. Underneath ran the caption
A local woman examines the damage to her family's business.
She remembered the jagged shards of glass in front of Victrola Books when the earthquake hit, and how upset she'd been. But she was lucky. Really lucky.

The song the military band had been playing in King Street Station, “Over There,” came into her head. Everyone had seemed so revved up. So excited. All the kissing of soldiers and blaring of trumpets. But wars were always over there. Always far away.

Except for the names of the dead, Addie thought unhappily. Those stayed here forever.

Then the questions came back, the questions she'd been asking herself over and over:
Did Reg come back to Seattle and join the infantry? Did he go to France after all? Did he fight? Did he die?

She glanced at Whaley and felt a rush of warmth toward him. She felt herself forgive his stupid fights and the blindness with which he sometimes walked through life. Hadn't she learned how blind she could be herself? How little she understood?

“Hey,” she interrupted softly.

“Wha?” He lowered the paper. “Sort of depressing news. Maybe you don't want to hear it.”

“Mmm. But thanks for the egg pita.”

“Grows on you, doesn't it?”

“Grows something,” Addie agreed. “Sing me your song, Whaley.”

He hesitated. “All right. But promise me you won't get mad.”

“Why would I get mad?”

“Just promise.”

“Fine, I promise. What's it called?”

“‘Jailhouse Blues.'”

“Oooh,
that's
original.”

“See? You've got a bad attitude already. I don't know if I trust you.”

“Shut up and sing.”

“It's impossible to shut up
and
sing.”

“Whaley!”

He stuffed the paper in his jacket pocket and dumped the pita wrapping into an overflowing garbage can on a corner. Addie smiled. Of course. He needed both hands free to play air guitar. Without looking to see if anyone else would hear, he began singing.

 

I went to the jailhouse, baby, just to ease my mind....
Went to the jailhouse, baby, to get sentenced my time.
Judge said, Hey, Whaley,
you done committed a crime.

 

He shook his head intently over the blues chords on his air guitar. “Bah-bah, bah-bah, bah...”

“Uh, Whaley, has this got anything to do with—” “Shh.”

He threw his head back, and his bony Adam's apple bobbed.

 

Got in the courthouse, baby, Judge sitting up high.
Got in the courthouse, baby, she's just sitting up high.
She said, Explain yourself Whaley.
I said, Judge, I'm just fixing to die.

 

“So you went—”

“Any more interruptions from you, McNeal,” Whaley said sternly, “and I'm getting the bailiff to throw you out.”

Addie rolled her eyes.

 

I said, I was just looking after my gal, Addie.
Judge said that's no excuse.
I said, I was taking care of Addie;
She said that's no excuse.
I said, you sending me to jail, Judge?
She said, Whaley,
what would be the doggone use?

 

“Whaley.” Addie folded her arms and planted her feet firmly. “What happened?”

“Don't just stand there. Haul it, girl. I'll sing you the rest of the song.” He grabbed her elbow and propelled her up the steep incline of the sidewalk, singing loudly all the while.

 

Got the devil in my soul and I'm full of bad news.
Devil in my soul, mama, and full of bad news.
Four hundred bucks and community service...
I got them mean ol' jailhouse blues.

 

“Hey!” Addie flung out an arm to slow him down, but he just plowed on. “You don't know that, do you?”

“Sure I do.” He stepped into the street against the light and she flew after him, yanking him back as a bus barreled by. “Had my day in court. Got my sentence.”

“Had your day in court
when?”

“Yesterday.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Addie exploded.

“Got to stand on my own sometimes. Didn't even have a lawyer.”

Addie smacked her hand to her forehead. “But the court
gives
you a lawyer if you can't afford one.” She looked at Whaley and saw that she was wasting her breath. “Okay. So no lawyer. And now you've got a big fine to pay. Four hundred dollars! On top of what you owe Mrs. Powell, right?” She stopped, remembering what Whaley had told Enrique about enlisting with a conviction on his record. “The fine...” she said carefully, though she knew the answer perfectly well. “Does that mean you're guilty or innocent?”

Whaley looked at her as if she were a nitwit. “Duh! Guilty. They don't fine you if you're innocent.”