The Jewel and the Key (32 page)

She thought a moment. She'd still been angry with herself for losing track of Tom and Reg. She'd left—again!—without determining if the photos had been developed, without making sure she had them. But how could that have caused such a vivid and terrifying nightmare? Well, dreams didn't have to mean anything, did they? But even as she thought it, she didn't believe it. She'd believed Meg's story about her dream. A dream had introduced both of them to the Jewel before they'd even set foot there.... No. The dream was telling her something.

She shuddered and threw back the quilt. The cold seeped through the wood floor into the soles of her feet. Quickly, she pulled on a shirt, a sweater, and a pair of jeans, went to her chest of drawers, and picked up her brush. Mechanically she yanked through the tangles in her hair. Why was it
Reg's
war, not the one Whaley was so eager to join, that she was dreaming about?

Suddenly she remembered something Reg had said to Tom, something she'd barely even noticed at the time:
Who knows where we'll all be next year?

She frowned. What did he mean? She was pretty sure he wasn't graduating. He was too young to be finished with college.

Then something else clicked. The letter that had arrived for him. That had upset Emma Mae...

A draft notice?

She flew down the hall, past the closed doors of the bedrooms where Dad and Zack were still asleep. She took the steps two and three at a time, stopping just long enough by the coat stand to dip her hand into Dad's jacket pocket and pull out the bookstore keys. This time, she ignored the drama section and headed right toward the military history shelves.

No jest, lady
...

She gathered every book on World War I that she could carry and headed back up to the living room. Then she went back down for more.

Two hours later, she was still sitting at the big oak table, hunched over an open book, when Whaley wandered in, his hair standing up like a rooster's comb. He ran his hand through it and yawned loudly to get her attention.

“That's a good chunk of Mike's inventory you've got there. Grand reopening's tomorrow, you know. Better put it back before then.”

Addie's eyes didn't leave the page in front of her. “There's coffee in the pot.”

“Ow!” Whaley banged his leg on the table as he went back to the kitchen, then returned a few minutes later holding a steaming mug. “Want an omelet?”

“As long as it isn't tomato and sauerkraut.”

“Which was delicious, by the way. You need to expand your horizons.” He put down his mug and leaned over her shoulder. “What battle is that?” Of course he was interested. He loved military history. Addie was past feeling interested; she just felt sick. Whaley pointed at the photo. “There's an arm sticking out of the mud there.” He brought up his own arm, pretending to snap his fingers like a crab's claw at her. “Rising out of the trenches, the ghosts of the fallen battalion, coming to take their revenge.”

“Shut up, Whaley.”

“What is it, then?”

Addie read part of the caption out loud. “‘Hand-to-hand fighting. American troops at the Meuse-Argonne.'” She saw his blank look and explained, “World War One. Remember that war memorial in the park when we were walking to the Jewel?”

Whaley nodded.

“A lot of those guys died in that battle.”

Whaley examined her face with puzzled concern. “Why is
that
bothering you?” He looked at the caption under the photo. “It says here it was a victory. One of the final offensives of the war.”

“It also says a quarter of the American force was wiped out. Twenty-six thousand men were killed.” The sick feeling churned inside her again. She turned the page to a photo of a line of soldiers in greatcoats, their eyes wrapped in dirty linen, each with his hand on the shoulder of the man in front of him, the blind men following their injured leader to a casualty clearing station. “They used chemical weapons. The gas burned their eyes. A hundred times worse than what happened to Zack. And these guys were the lucky ones. It says here that mustard gas ate through lung tissue. Men would suffocate. And—”

Whaley shrugged. “Yeah, I know. We lost lots of people back then.” He looked at her more closely. “You're kidding, Addie. You're not about to cry, are you?”

“No.” She blinked hard.

“Come on, it's different now. We've got air superiority. Our weapons are more accurate. And if you're on the ground, you've got body armor.” He paused. “You're thinking about our war, aren't you? Not World War One.”

“I'm thinking about
both.”

“What's World War One got to do with anything?”

She wished she could tell Whaley. Maybe then he'd understand how she felt about his joining up. She wanted to tell him about Reg, about how he could be sent to a battle where one out of four American boys ended up dead. But what was so real to her would just be craziness to him. So what if a huge number of guys died so long ago?

“Whaley? Have you ever had a dream that was so real it was like it actually happened?”

“Hasn't everyone?”

“But I mean dreams that really
did
happen. Last night I dreamed
this.”
She pointed at the photo. “The men were jammed down in these trenches—the Germans on one side of the field, and the Allies on the other. They'd lob grenades or poisoned gas or there'd be huge artillery bombardments. And the officers would blow whistles and everyone would climb out and attack the trench on the other side while people fired machine guns at them.”

Whaley stretched and picked up his mug. “You had a dream like that?”

“Sort of. I was in a trench.... They were ordering us to attack.”

“C'mon, though. You studied it in American history, didn't you? The
Lusitania
and whatever.”

“Mrs. Reich skipped it. She liked the twenties better.” She gave him a wan smile. “Flappers, you know? Cute dresses?”

“Mrs. Reich!” Whaley pretended to stick his finger down his throat. “C'mon. If you want that omelet, I'd better get cooking.”

Addie closed and stacked the books, then followed Whaley to the kitchen. A weak morning light was coming in through the window over the sink.

Whaley opened the refrigerator and after a contemplative moment pulled out a jar of capers, wilted collard greens, and a sad-looking onion in a sandwich bag. He got a knife and started chopping with neat, decisive movements. “Maybe you saw a movie about it.”

“I've never seen those images before! How could my mind just dredge them up out of nowhere?” She glanced at the clock over the sink. “Oh, geez, it's almost six thirty. We'd better hurry.” She slid a knife out of the wooden block on the counter and began slicing the fibrous greens.

Whaley took out a frying pan, threw it on a burner, and dropped in a knob of butter. “Your mind can do amazing things. Like when I'm writing a song. My brain sucks up images. Like a taproot sucking nutrients up from the ground. Memories that don't even belong to me. And it all comes out as I play it.” He scraped the onions into the pan. They sizzled, filling the kitchen with their sweaty tang.

“It
was
like that. Like someone else's memories.” Addie pushed the sliced greens into the pan with the onions. “They were fixing bayonets on their guns. I didn't even know they fought with bayonets! It was so clear, I could do it right now if you handed me a rifle.” She put down her knife and reached for an invisible gun, making the twisting motion the soldiers had used to attach the sharp blades. “How do you explain that?”

Just for a moment, she was sure Whaley could see it as clearly as she did. But then his lip twisted. “That's pretty cool, Ads. If you have a dream that tells you how to fire an A Four, let me know so I can impress the sarg when I get to basic.”

“
When
you get to basic?”

“
If
,” Whaley said. “Don't freak on me.” He picked up the spatula and shoved the collards around the pan.

“Whaley, don't get mad. I just want to know. Why do you want to fight so much?” Her brain was tired, and she struggled to frame her thought in a way that wouldn't make him explode. “Is it because you don't feel like you're doing anything important in the real world?”

“The
real world?
What's not real about a war?”

“You know what I mean!” But the irony smacked her. Who was she to talk about the real world? She pulled out the egg carton and began cracking eggs into a bowl.

“It's a stupid question, Addie. You've watched me crash and burn all year.”

“You haven't! Everything was fine until you got expelled.” But she knew he was right.

Whaley took the bowl of eggs and started beating them with a fork, as if he were holding them personally responsible for his shortcomings. “Come on. We both know I wasn't going to graduate.”

“It's not like you couldn't! You're smart. You just don't care.”

“Got that in one, Sherlock.” He poured the eggs over the vegetables in the pan. “It just doesn't seem worthwhile.”

“Well, what
does,
for goodness' sake?”

Whaley leaned against the counter. “You know that bar I was working on yesterday?”

Addie nodded.

“Some parts of it were so beat up, they looked like driftwood. But when I filled it in, sanded it down, and put the wax on, it came to life. I swear, it was like I could hear people sitting at the barstools and having drinks.”

“You could?”

“Not really.” He grinned at her. “I'm not as spooky as you. What I mean was, I felt like John Hammond must've with Robert Johnson.”

“Like
who?”

“That blues guitarist from the twenties. The guy who supposedly went to the crossroads and sold his soul to the devil to play guitar better than anyone in the world?” His voice warmed as it always did when he talked about his old bluesmen. Delicately, Addie nudged the edge of the omelet with the spatula, almost holding her breath. “Remember, his recordings were so damaged that his music almost disappeared? But then John Hammond remastered them. It's like that. If someone really cares and tries to preserve something, they can stop it from disappearing for good. That's worth doing. Besides,” he added, “I really owe Mrs. Powell.”

Addie sighed. “Then
why
would you join the army? When you have so much worthwhile stuff to do right here?”

“Because ... come on, Addie. I told you. I doubt Mrs.
Powell is ever going to get the money she needs. And besides, this war ... it isn't like that mess you were reading about. World War One. This war really
will
make the world safe for democracy. Isn't that what they said back in the day? Believe it or not, that's another thing I care about.” He looked at her. “One day, even Mike will thank me for it. And you will, too. I'll set the table. You've got to wolf that down if you want to get to school on time.”

“There's enough for three people here. You want some?”

He grinned. “Does the bear—”

“Yes, it does. Shut up.”

Zack rushed in, still in his pajamas, and nearly collided with Whaley, who was on his way out with the plates and forks. He took one look at the omelet and said, “I want a waffle.”

“Philistine,” Whaley grumbled, and disappeared into the hallway.

Where'd he get that word?
Addie wondered. He sounded like Emma Mae.

Dad came into the kitchen close on Zack's heels. “Hup, two, three. I want everyone out of this house in twenty minutes.”

“Not me!” Zack protested. “School starts at nine thirty.”

“He means me,” Addie said, carrying the omelet out to the table. School
did
seem irrelevant this morning. It was the closest she'd ever come to Whaley's point of view. “Bring the cups, Zack.”

She moved the books off the table and perched them on the mantel. Then she put the pan down on a red place mat. Whaley returned and dished out their breakfast. “Did you know Mrs. Powell's got a meeting at the Preservation Commission office tomorrow morning?” he said.

“
Tomorrow?
But she hasn't got the interior photos yet! She needs them.”

“We couldn't find anything, remember? There probably aren't any.”

Addie groaned.
But I bet there were,
she thought.
I just don't have them now!
“Are you going to see her today?”

“Yeah.” He looked a little embarrassed. “I said I'd go over and sort of estimate how much of the place I could fix myself, so she won't need to pay a contractor for that bit. If it's a go-ahead for remodeling, I mean. Like a work plan.”

“Good.” Addie plopped down in a chair and took a bite of the omelet, hardly noticing the rubbery texture of the undercooked collards. “Listen. When you see Mrs. Powell, tell her to let them know we're still looking for evidence of the theater's previous state.” He opened his mouth to object, but she rushed on. “I
am,
Whaley. I'm still looking. Maybe I should come with you today.”

“Maybe you should go to school,” Dad said, carrying in a waffle for Zack, who had put his head down on the table. “Though I tremble to ask, Adeline: Would I be correct in assuming you'll pass your Algebra II test tomorrow?”

“I'll call Almaz. She's good at research,” Addie continued, talking to Whaley. “Tell Mrs. Powell.”

“Did you hear me?” Dad's voice heated up. He leaned over the table toward her.

“Algebra II, yes.” Addie smiled brightly at her father,
who scowled at her. “Almaz's helping me study tonight. She promised.”

She took another bite and looked up at the clock. Seven. She turned back to Whaley. “Tell Mrs. Powell I'll definitely find something before her meeting tomorrow. I'll bring it over tonight.”