The Jewel and the Key (28 page)

He met her eyes in amusement and buttoned the collar himself. “What have you realized, Addie?”

It was the first time he'd called her by her given name,
she realized, astonished by the rush of pleasure she felt at such a small thing. “I auditioned for a part in
Peer Gynt
with ... a nother troupe. And I didn't get it. Did I tell you that?”

“What part?”

“The troll king's daughter.”

“Ha! You're joking. The Green-Clad One? Wraithlike creature of the shadows ... Why in the world didn't you get it? You'd be perfect.”

“Yes, but the director didn't think so.” She turned it over in her head for a moment. “And it really gnawed at me. I felt like I'd been cheated out of something. But, now I think ... I wasn't. Not really.” She hesitated, not wanting to remind him of the mirror. But it couldn't be helped. She wanted to explain. “Do you remember the first time I saw you acting? In
Macbeth?
I knew then. I just knew I would never be as good as you were.”

“What are you talking about?” He sat up straighter and somehow it was as if he'd moved away from her.

“Come on, Reg!” she exclaimed. “You're a real actor. You
must
know that. Everyone else does.” Her voice softened. “I do.”

“Maybe,” he said uncomfortably. He picked up her empty glass and rolled it between his hands so it caught the light. “Though it's too ... easy. And even if I am,” he gave his head a dismissive shake, “why would it mean you're not?”

“Don't you see? I
thought
I was. But I don't anymore. Because when Meg put me in charge just now”—a rush of excitement caught her. “I belonged there!” The echo of the words from her dream of the troll king made her laugh in sudden delight. “I'm a ... director.” She said the word softly, tasting it in her mouth. Then, more firmly, added, “That's what I am.”

“A director?” He craned his neck and pretended to scrutinize her from different angles. “Ah yes, I
can
see it, now that you mention it. Commanding. Dictatorial...”

“Oh, thanks!”

“You're welcome.” He bowed slightly and put the glass down on the concrete. “So, now that you're Meg's disciple, what's next? Long scarves? Painting your face?”

“She's just dramatizing herself. Maybe I'll do the same when I'm in her position.”

“Don't bother with the face paint.” He put his head to one side. “Why try to improve what nature did right the first time?”

That shut her up.

After a moment, she reached out and lightly touched the lapel of his jacket. Her fingertips brushed the rough interlocking tweed. She wanted to touch his smooth black hair, his earlobe, the warmth of his neck, but the moment was too delicate. She held back, savoring it, wanting only to be anchored in the here and now, not aware of any other time.

He reached out and took her hand, curling his fingers around hers. She looked away, and the desire to tell him absolutely everything was suddenly overwhelming.

But then he let go of her hand and the moment was gone. “Can I ask you something?”

“Maybe.”

“Why do you disappear and reappear all the time, like Hamlet's father's ghost?”

“I—” What had she told Meg? Oh, she didn't know. Somehow she felt he wouldn't buy some made-up excuse.

He frowned. “It shouldn't be
that
hard to answer. You were here when the police came, and then suddenly you were gone. No one knew where. And I still have no idea where you live.”

“I told you where,” she protested, but she knew she was being disingenuous. He deserved some sort of explanation.

“Do you live with anyone? Other than that fellow you mentioned?”

“What fellow? Whaley? I'm not
living
with him like”—she groped for a phrase he'd understand—“like living in sin or something. He's more of a ... foster brother.”
All right,
she thought. If she was careful, she could tell him at least some of the truth. “I have a real brother, too. A lot younger. He's ten. And a father. He runs a bookstore,” she added, as if this would make him more real to Reg.

“What about your mother?”

“She died a long time ago.” Oh, it felt strange to tell him this. It flashed into her head that her mother hadn't even been born yet. From this point in time, she still had her whole life to live.... Oh, my God. She caught herself, too scared to continue that train of thought.

“Me, too. My dad died when I was twelve.” Reg looked away, his dark eyes focused on something at the other end of the alley. “But he's still here, all the time. Still real to me.”

For a few seconds neither of them spoke. But it was a good silence. Not awkward.

Then, after a moment, Reg said, “Last question. What about that mirror of yours?”

Addie pressed her hands against her temples. “No. I
can't
answer that. I barely know myself. But I'm not ... I'm not a charlatan or whatever you thought I was. You can see that, can't you?”

“I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. That was pretty caddish. I'm just not used to occult visitations.” He grinned. “Unless that's what you are. Then maybe I could get used to it.”

She smiled back, then the memory jolted her. “Occult visitations! I ... I think I had one. At the jail.”

“The
jail?
What were you doing there?”

“Trying to get Whaley out of the lockup. There was a demonstration against the war—”
Oops.

But Reg only looked amused. “Why is everyone I meet nowadays some sort of mad radical?”

“I'm not! I just don't believe in this war.” She paused. “You're not still going to go fight, are you?”

Reg shrugged. “It's out of my hands, isn't it? The conscription bills already in the House. I expect I'll be hearing from Uncle Sam soon enough.”

Addie stared at him. Conscription? A
draft?
That hadn't occurred to her. No one got drafted anymore, she thought. No one even talked about it.

“Though I still might enlist under my own steam,” he added. “But that's neither here nor there. Tell me what happened at the jail.”

A black crow swooped down into the alley, cawing, and perched on the edge of an open garbage can. Addie watched it, uneasily. “I was there for ages, waiting to bail Whaley out. And I had this ... dream. About you.”

“You
dreamed
about me?” He took a lock of her hair and rolled it between his fingers. Addie pretended not to notice, though for a moment it felt as if her whole being was concentrated on the slow twisting of his thumb and forefinger on that one coil of hair.

“It's my turn to ask the questions.” She pressed on, trying to keep her focus. “Did you interview those men in jail?”

“Yes.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It was true what Gustaf said. The sheriffs men fired first. The fellows in prison confirmed that. The dockworkers in Everett did, too.”

Now Addie looked over her shoulder as well. Behind them, the kitchen window in the apartment was cracked open. The yeasty smell of baking was even stronger than before. She dropped her voice. “What will happen to Frida's dad?”

“We're going to have to move him. It's not safe here.” He looked thoughtful. “Actually, I think Peterson might have made a mistake, running. His buddy's trial is going to end soon—Tom Tracy's. If he's convicted, the other fellows are likely to be as well. But the IWW lawyer is pretty good. People are talking acquittal. Even if the other fellows get off, though Gustaf can't come out of hiding and get acquitted with them. I think he's shot himself in the foot, really.” He shook his head. “All we can do is make sure he gets safely out of town.”

Addie thought this over. Reg was right. She did understand why Gustaf had run away. She actually admired him for it. But now it was a gamble that might not pay off. “Have you published your article about it yet?”

Reg grinned. “It'll be in tomorrows issue of the
Daily.
That reminds me—” He let go of the strand of Addie's hair and got to his feet. “The fellow who usually delivers the papers to the newsstands is sick. I told Tom I'd help him do it.”

“Who's Tom?”

“Tom Buchanan. Our printer. He takes the pictures, too.” He held out his hand to Addie. “Want to come with me?”

She let him pull her to her feet. “Come with you where?”

“To the
Daily
office. You could help me deliver the papers.” He looked awkward suddenly. “I mean, if you like. I could buy you dinner. If you don't mind the kind of hash houses that are near campus.”

Addie hesitated. She was here at the Jewel in 1917; she could cope with that. But somehow, the thought of venturing out into the broader world, even with Reg, was frightening.

Then a thought struck her. “Would your friend Tom have a camera at the newspaper office?”

“I doubt it. But he'll be there, and his lodgings are pretty close by if you need a camera.” He looked at her quizzically. “Do you?”

She nodded, hope flaring in her again. Maybe she
could
get the pictures she'd come for after all. But what could she tell him they were for? What made sense?

She had it. “For publicity shots for
Macbeth.
What if we got your friend to come back to the Jewel with us? He could take some pictures and Meg could use them to promote the show.” Yes! Perfect!

Reg whistled. “And I thought
Andrew
was burning with ambition. You're set on impressing Meg, aren't you?”

She didn't know if this was a compliment or a criticism. “I just thought it would be helpful.”

“All right. Though it will mean coming back here before rehearsal.” He looked a little disappointed, and Addie felt a throb of dismay as well. She would have loved to have dinner with him. Even at a hash house, whatever that was. “Oh, well,” he said. “Follow me. The motor's around the corner.”

The “motor” proved to be an ancient contraption of a car, the kind she saw in the Greenwood vintage car parade every summer. It was parked with one skinny wheel up on the sidewalk, and its windows were wide open to the world. Or—no, it wasn't that the windows were open; there were no windows. The only glass was the windshield.

Addie examined it doubtfully. “Is it yours?”

“Mother and I share it. She wanted a Pierce-Arrow, but I thought we'd get more use out of a flivver.”

“Flivver?”

Reg laughed. “Tin Lizzie. Ford Model T. What world do you come from, Addie McNeal?” He opened the passenger door and helped her in. Addie slid onto the leather upholstery and searched in vain for a seat belt.

He closed the door for her, went around in front of the car, and started fiddling with something attached to the grille.

“Why don't you get in?”

“I'm cranking the engine! Don't tell me you've never been in a motorcar before.”

Not like this,
she thought.

The engine caught, and Reg jumped into the driver's seat and pulled away from the curb. Addie felt as if she might fly through the roof if she bounced any higher; the thin tires did nothing to insulate them from bumps. She could feel every pebble in the road.

It was hard to talk except in yells. There were no traffic signals. Oncoming traffic swerved toward them and away again. Addie focused on the city flowing by, which looked, at first, so much the same as in her own time it was uncanny: brick buildings with arched windows and fire escapes running down their sides. The white marble walrus heads stuck out from between the windows on the Arctic Building, just as they always did. But no hundred years of smog and soot gummed up the terra cotta. The marble gleamed white, and the iron rails were black and shiny.

“Are we going the wrong way?” she shouted.

Reg shook his head and yelled, “Detour! We'll turn around up ahead!”

Every few blocks, she saw men swinging hand bells and holding out buckets for donations next to placards that read
BUY WAR BONDS! EVERY PENNY COUNTS
! Passersby threw money in. Women in long dresses and hats held the hands of children coming home from school. Girls her own age, with pencils tucked behind their ears, emerged from office buildings. They were hanging on each other's arms and giggling. People who had lived out their days and come to the end of them long ago ... She glanced at Reg and quickly away, shoving the thought aside.

By habit, she turned and looked south of the city, and there was the mountain. Fourteen hundred feet above them, the snows of Rainier gleamed white and ghostly and dearly familiar. Now
there
was a place where a hundred years, give or take, made no difference at all. She wished they could turn the car around and head out. If they were hiking there, on her favorite trail to the Alpine Lakes, it would be as if there really were no difference between them, nothing separating her world from his.

But then Addie's eyes were drawn to a poster plastered to a brick wall across the street.

The face on it was Gustaf Peterson's.

The drawing was rough, but accurate. And underneath Peterson's face was the word
WANTED
.

She turned to see if Reg had noticed, but, of course, his eyes were fixed on the road.

How many of those posters were there around town? Did anyone look closely and think,
I'll be the one to turn him in?
Suddenly, she couldn't believe the risk Reg had taken by hiding him at the theater.

But then she thought of the demonstration she'd gone to—only yesterday!—and felt glad that he had. Peterson's arrest was as unfair as Whaley's had been. She was sure Frida's dad hadn't shot anyone. Thank goodness that, in their different times, Becky Powell and Reg had both been willing to help. What would have happened to Gustaf and Whaley otherwise?