The Jewel and the Key (7 page)

But he was gone. As her teasing words died away, Addie thought of the smashed-up bookshop and heard his muttered, “So much for my job,” and felt that everything was broken.

She made her way to the street through the narrow gap between their house and Mrs. Turner's, righting garbage cans as she went.
The buildings are all standing,
she thought, a bit dazed. Windows were smashed and chimneys had collapsed, but that was the worst of it. Roof tiles and bricks were scattered about. The sidewalk sparkled with shattered glass, and she had to pick her way carefully among the shards.

The girl with the fish tattooed on her biceps whom Addie often saw at the Brown Bear was wiping blood from the face of another girl. Addie went over to them and held up her first-aid kit. “Do you need bandages?”

“You got antibiotic ointment?”

She snapped open the lunch box and handed the girl a tube.

“Thanks.” She squeezed some of the cream onto her fingertip. “They're not very deep cuts,” she told her friend.

The other girl yelped as the cream touched the wound. “Doesn't mean they don't hurt!”

Addie cut off some gauze and tape for them, took back the tube, and snapped the kit shut. Lots of people were milling around in the street, but to her relief, no one else seemed to be injured.

People were clumped together in little groups everywhere, talking anxiously, examining their houses, fruitlessly trying to use their cell phones. Like Whaley, no one could get a signal. And Addie understood from a few overheard comments that the landlines were dead, too.

She headed to the bus stop, but after a few minutes, she couldn't stand waiting anymore. Would the buses even be running? It wasn't such a bad walk to upper Capitol Hill—kind of long, but under the circumstances, the wait for the bus might be longer. She made the decision and began walking east. After a block or two, she quickened her pace until she was almost running.

Beyond the houses and trees, she caught a glimpse of the ship canal; she saw, with relief, that the University Bridge was still standing. She got closer and then stopped and gazed along the canal. It sparkled, as blue as fresh paint; dotted along the shore were white trawlers and sailboats. To the east and west, she saw the ghostly white tops of the mountains; they looked peaceful, as if there had been no rending and grinding in their rocky hearts, no deep shift in their layers of time and sediment. As if nothing had been broken that couldn't be fixed.

Then she took off across the bridge and didn't stop all the way up Capitol Hill, turning off on Boston Street and rounding the bend in the road to Fifteenth. Almost panting, she continued past the cemetery until she reached Volunteer Park. Mrs. Turner had said that her friend lived on one of the streets bordering the south end of the park, so it made sense to cut through.

She walked along the road that wound toward the glass conservatory filled with tropical plants. But before she reached it, she turned and cut across the grass behind the Asian Art Museum, the imposing building disappearing from view behind the groves of giant oaks and maples and cedars as she pressed on, trying to keep up her pace as she headed toward the huge brick water tower at the south entrance. Tulips pushed up through the hard earth, petals still shut tight against the chill. By the time she reached the little yew hedge that surrounded the life-size statue of the angel, she was sweating and out of breath.

She dropped down on the marble bench at the angel's feet, gasping for air, and sat until her breathing slowed and her skin cooled down a bit.

She'd passed this statue so often, tucked away here among the trees, but she'd never really looked at it closely. Now, as Addie sat catching her breath, she noticed the tenderness in the angel's face as she gazed down at the dead soldier she was lifting in her arms. The sculptor had created the illusion that the angel was rising, her feet only barely touching the heavy base with its long list of names. They were carved under the words
DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE SEATTLE NATIVES WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE GREAT WAR
1917–1918.

Addie thought of the bombs hitting the factory that she'd seen on TV. She looked again at the beautiful, sad angel and the names from those long-ago battles.

Long ago ... She jumped off the bench and looked down at herself in dismay. The antique dress—she was still wearing it! And—oh, no. The hem was dirty from when she'd sat on the ground. The front was all right. But what about the back? She twisted around, trying to gauge the damage, but couldn't see.

Luckily, the little mirror was still in her pocket. She pulled it out and held it behind her to get a good look. There was some loose dirt along the skirt in back but no actual mud, thank goodness.

She brushed it off, then quickly examined her face to see if she looked as much of a mess as she felt. No, she was all right. But as she gazed into the glass, another wave of dizziness caught her. For a moment she was afraid it might be an aftershock. Hastily, she dropped the mirror back into her pocket and looked around, balancing carefully on her feet to measure the movement of the earth.

If there had been another shift, it was over. Now she was really nervous. She worked her wristwatch free from under the tight sleeves: 11:49. Getting late. She'd better hurry. The sooner she got there, the sooner she could go home. She wanted to be there when Dad got back with Zack. She pulled the sleeve down over her watch and set off again.

The day seemed suddenly warmer. The air was full of hyacinth as she left the park and turned onto Salmon Bay Drive.

Mansions lined the street, hidden behind chestnut trees in their first white bloom. Low stone walls guarded gleaming lawns. She looked around in surprise. The houses were decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, as if for a Fourth of July parade. Odd, since it was only April. But stranger still was the quiet. No neighbors gathered in anxious groups. No traffic. Not even a car parked on the street.

She found number 65 and walked up a sweeping drive to a Craftsman-style house of dark wood and cut stone with a big chimney and gables. Big, latticed windows looked out on a comfortable porch. Addie stared, thinking of the jagged shards of glass in front of their store. Mrs. Powell was lucky her windows were in one piece. She glanced up. The chimney seemed to have survived as well.

She glided her hand along the iron railing as she climbed the front steps. Then she crossed the porch and knocked at the door.

No one answered.

She waited and knocked again. When there was still no response, she walked over to a window and peered in through the pale muslin drapes. She saw a long mahogany dining table under a chandelier. A tall china cabinet with glass doors stood against the far wall. That hadn't broken either! She frowned. Almaz had once told her that the effects of an earthquake could be different from one part of the city to another. The house was pretty high up on the hill. Maybe that explained it.

She hesitated before knocking a third time. It didn't look as if there had been much damage, she reasoned, so Becky Powell was probably all right. If there was no answer, should she just leave?

But Mrs. Turner's worry pricked her conscience. She'd said her friend was sick. And partially—or was it completely—blind? Addie couldn't remember. In any case, it might take her a while to make her way through the house to answer the door.

“Say! Hello, there!” a voice called, and Addie jumped. “Are you looking for Mrs. Powell?”

She swung around to see a guy about Whaley's age wearing a suit with the jacket tied around his waist. He was walking slowly up the sidewalk, carrying what looked like a large sack of laundry.

“Yes, I am.”

“My mothers not home, but I'm glad you're here. I can't put her down, you see, and I'll need you to unlock the door for me.”

He was coming up the drive now, and as he got closer, Addie realized that what he carried was not a sack of laundry but a girl. And she was unconscious.

Startled, Addie hurried down the steps toward them. The girl looked about thirteen or fourteen. A purple bruise mottled her forehead around a deep cut, and sticky-looking blood seamed the wound. Freckles stood out against her waxy skin. Strings of reddish-blond hair straggled across her forehead.

“Poor thing!” Instinctively, Addie put her arm under the girl's back to help the guy support her weight. “She's been hit hard.”

“As hard as she could be,” the guy returned in a disgusted tone. He was tall, though not in the gangly way Whaley was, and good-looking. His face was flushed, and his dark hair was sticking up in places and plastered down in others.

“Where are you bringing her from?”

“Downtown, by the jail.”

“Downtown!” Addie frowned. “Why didn't you take her to Swedish?”

“It didn't seem right to leave her at a hospital all by herself. I can telephone Dr. Wald. He'll come by.” His blue eyes clouded with worry. “But you're right. I probably shouldn't have dragged her so far. Its just that its crazy down there with the demonstration and everything.”

“What demonstration?” But even as she asked, Addie remembered Mrs. Turner's posters. “I thought it was next week.”

“It's today. The crowds turned out to support the Wobblies.”

The Wobblies? Addie vaguely remembered Mrs. Turner talking about them. “What happened?” She looked more closely at the girl, alarmed by the shallow sound of her breathing.

“The bricks started flying and she got hit.”

Addie thought of the bricks flying off the chimney at home and winced as she imagined one of them smashing into someone's skull, the explosion of pain. She touched the girl's arm gently.

“Should I hold her while you open the door?”

“It's not worth the jostling. Any little jolt hurts like flaming devils. When she's awake, that is.” The guys face was open and good-natured. “Listen, I know it's not really the thing, but under the circumstances ... could you reach into my jacket pocket and fish out the keys?” He jerked his head to indicate the jacket tied around his waist. The pockets dangled down near his knees.

“Sure.” Addie bent down and reached into one. To her surprise, it was lined with silk. Below the cuff of his trousers, his shoes were polished leather. She wondered what he was so dressed up for.

The key was heavy, a long finger of iron with prongs. Addie held it up. “I don't think I've ever used one like this before.” She studied the door. “Where's the keyhole?”

“Under the brass plate.”

A moan escaped from the lips of the unconscious girl.

“She's coming around. Can you be quick about it?”

Addie flipped open the little oval of brass and slid the key into the lock. But she couldn't get it to catch. There seemed to be acres of space inside the keyhole. She fumbled around, turning the key this way and that, while the guy stood sweating with the dead weight of the girl in his arms.

Finally, she jammed it into the hole as hard as she could, muttering, “Go in, darn you.”

It worked. The locking device clasped the key tight,
and Addie turned it until it clicked. “Aha!” she exclaimed. “Our heroine saves the day!” She turned the knob and opened the door. The guy raised an eyebrow and stepped past her. No one, Addie understood his look to say, had ever had so much difficulty with a key before.

She followed him into a grand entrance hall. A large gilt-framed mirror on the wall reflected them. Addie caught a glimpse of herself and was startled. Once again, she'd forgotten that she was wearing the antique dress. The guy must have thought she was a nut, dressed like this. Though his clothes were fairly out of the ordinary, too. It made her feel a little less out of place.

The injured girl murmured something unintelligible.

“Shh, now,” the guy told her quietly. Addie followed him through the dining room she'd seen from the window. Then they were in a narrow corridor. Photos in silver frames lined the walls: black-and-white pictures of babies being christened, men and women in their wedding clothes.

“Papa?” the girl murmured.

The guy looked over his shoulder at Addie and said, “Could you open that door at the end of the hall?” He stepped aside to let her go ahead.

Addie opened it and they entered a bright, comfortable room. French doors in the back wall let in the brilliant sunlight. They were shut now, but Addie saw that they opened onto a stone porch with wrought-iron lawn furniture and, beyond that, a garden full of cherry trees in bloom. The room was cluttered and inelegant compared to the rest of the house, but that only made it more welcoming. There was an old writing desk against one wall, its cubbyholes overflowing with papers. A red couch was pushed against the other wall, with a low coffee table on which someone had left a cake with white icing and shavings of lemon peel, along with a few glasses and plates. A dressmaker's dummy with emerald fabric slung over its shoulder stood in one corner, and a wheeled croquet set in another.

“Rake Mothers trash off the sofa. I'll lay her down there.”

But it wasn't trash on the sofa, Addie saw immediately. It was stacks of theater programs with some sort of bold black and white design on it—maybe a period drama. She studied the guy with greater interest. She'd forgotten. His mother owned a theater. Maybe that was why he was dressed like that. Getting ready for an opening night or something.

She cleared off the couch and helped him lower the girl down to it, easing her head onto a throw pillow. She sank into the cushions with a groan.

Addie knelt beside her. Lightly, she lifted the girls hair away from her forehead to get a better look at the injury. The blood had already dried, but she still needed to clean it. “Do you have a damp cloth?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“Sure.” He left and returned a few minutes later with a warm, moist cloth. Addie took it and dabbed gently at the wound, careful not to open it again. Some blood had dripped onto the girl's blouse, which was frayed at the buttonholes and smelled oddly of fresh-cut wood.