Edison's Gold (12 page)

7
:04 p.m. The first day with a new curfew, and they'd already blown it.

The kitchen door flew open, and a sweating Tom raced through, heading toward the basement door with Noodle and Colby close on his heels. It felt like they hadn't stopped sprinting since Brooklyn. Even though the trip home had taken them less than two hours, it felt to Tom like a couple of lifetimes ago. The anticipation of discovering what was inside those two packages had fueled him the entire way.

Passing his dad at the kitchen table, who bounced Rose on his lap while talking on the phone and perusing a heap of bills, Tom skidded on his heels. Amid all the excitement, he'd almost forgotten that he was still in hot—if
not boiling—water with his parents. Fortunately, though, his dad didn't seem to notice he'd missed curfew.

“How come you're late?” Mr. Edison glanced up from his checkbook with the phone still cradled to his ear. “I thought we had an agreement.”

So much for that theory.

“We were at Colby's and lost track of time.”

His dad's eyes focused on Tom, suspicious.

“It was all my fault, Mr. E,” said Noodle quickly, striking the perfect chord of regretful and sweet. “I asked Tom and Colb to help me with my demo CD for that NYU summer program. Remember the one I was telling you about?”

Mr. Edison hesitated a moment, before nodding slowly. “Oh, right. I remember.”

It was a perfect white lie. Specific, brief, and related to schoolish stuff, which all parents loved to hear.

“Do your mom and Colby's nana know you're both here?”

“Uh-huh,” said Noodle. “They just wanted you to call and make sure it was okay.” Which was true.

“All right, as soon as I'm off with these people.” Tom's
dad sifted through some papers, momentarily distracted. “Yes, I'll continue to hold,” he then said into the phone.

“Tommy play!” Rose held out her fat arms, and Tom scooped her up. He could never resist his sister, who smelled of equal parts applesauce, baby powder, and spit. He swung her into the air a couple of times, to her delight, then placed her on the kitchen floor, where she wobbled over to her half-finished wood-block building.

“Who're you on with?” Tom asked.

“Electric company.” His dad swept the bills up into a neat stack, just out of Tom's sight line.

Leaning against the basement door were three thick piles of flattened storage boxes, which Tom slid out of the way. A depressing reminder of their impending move. Not like he needed to be reminded.

“So we're gonna go downstairs and—”

“Yes, hi, I'm still here.” His father snapped to attention. “The name on the account is Thomas Edison. E-d-i-s-o-n.” Pause. “I'm his great-grandson, in fact.” Pause. “Sure, I guess there is a small irony to it.” Pause, followed by a frustrated rub of his bloodshot eyes. “I'm hopeful that I can get this check to you by Friday, and so I really have
to ask, and thanks in advance, if you'd please, please not shut off our electricity. This check is good, and I'll get it into the mail first thing in the morning. I promise.”

Noodle and Colby had already headed down to the basement, but Tom remained at the top of the stairs, listening to his father's conversation from behind the half-opened door. It was awful to hear his dad plead like that.

“E-d-s-n,” Rose mimicked, with a toothy grin, clapping two blocks together.

“Yes, I do realize that this is my third notice. And yes, I sincerely apologize for being so delinquent.”

Tom couldn't listen anymore. Sometime during the last ten minutes, all the excitement and adventure from the afternoon had drained out of him.

As he trudged down the stairs, an inexplicable feeling came over Tom all at once, a sweat-under-the-collar charge of pure, spiky defiance. He decided he was going risk anything and do whatever it took to keep his family in Yonkers. This was their home, where they were meant to be. They were going to stay. That was that. He didn't understand why, but he had never been so sure of anything.

Down in the basement, Tom flipped on the light,
dropped his backpack onto the desk, and pulled out the two disk-shaped packages.

Together, the three of them ripped the thick brown paper from the larger disk to reveal a wax record.

“That's what you two were so excited about?” said Noodle. “An old record? I thought it was gonna be way more cool and Edison-y.”

“Any century-old secret'll look a little dull and dusty at first,” said Tom.

“If you say so.”

Hoping for a better surprise, Noodle tore off the paper from the smaller package with a bit less reverence.

“Hmmmm.” He rotated the circular metal casing. “This one's slightly more interesting.” There was a small, rusty clasp along the gray case's edge, which Noodle unlocked, releasing a tiny burst of air.

Inside the case was a tightly wound roll of what appeared to be movie film. Tom grabbed it from Noodle and unspooled it up against the light.

“Do you realize we might be the only people alive to ever see this?” Goose bumps were running all along his arms as he tried to make out the small, shadowy figures imprinted on the frames.

“We're gonna need one of those old-timey projectors to watch whatever's on that film,” said Colby. “Maybe we can borrow one from school.”

“Or maybe there's a place to rent one?” offered Noodle.

Tom shook his head. Those options would either cost money, which none of them had, or come with too many grown-ups asking questions. Plus, somehow he knew this movie film wouldn't work on a regular projector. It felt too simple for the Sub Rosa.

“Maybe your pops can help us,” added Noodle. “Scientist-wise, I mean.”

“No parents,” Tom snapped. “We need another game plan.”

The truth was, he wanted to share this discovery with his dad more than anything, but he couldn't risk his parents ending their journey, or worse, handing these strange artifacts over to the police or a museum, neither of which could be trusted.

“No one else really uses film projectors anymore, except movie theaters.” Colby stuck a pencil through the center of the record and gave it a spin. “Not to mention we need to find an antique phonograph, too.”

“I
am
related to the guy who invented one of those, and I'm pretty sure I've seen some projector parts lying around here somewhere.”

Tom took off to a corner of the basement lab known as the scrap heap, where everything from a barely used metronome to a collection of discarded toaster-oven coils lay in a messy heap of randomness. He immediately grabbed a kitchen funnel, a thingamabob, and a lead pipe from the pile, then tried to fit all sorts of different parts to one another—a trumpet to a pipe, a speaker to a magnet—but quickly realized none of those components were going to work. In fact, he had absolutely zero idea how to construct either a phonograph or a movie projector.

“Guess my family connection doesn't count for much,” Tom admitted as he returned to the others, unable to let go of the funnel and pipe in case fleeting inspiration struck.

“What about Snert?” Colby snapped her fingers. “Not only can he fix anything, but I bet you next week's allowance he's watching a movie right now.”

“Snert!” Noodle said. “He's like the original AV geek.”

“Snert,” Tom echoed.

Nicholas Snert. The weirdest kid in the sixth grade. He
was a year younger than Tom, Noodle, and Colby—but he was enrolled in so many advanced classes, it was like he was two grades higher. He stood on the highest plane of geekdom and collected everything from bugs to bugles. His real passion, though, was movies.

“That could be the best idea, or possibly the worst,” Tom determined. “And I'm not that excited about bringing someone else in on our secret.”

“Who said anything about bringing him in? We'll invite him to watch movies. We just won't tell him what kind. I say best idea,” said Noodle.

“I say best, too,” Colby added. “Only because we're running out of options. And time.”

T
he following morning, the round, freckled bowling ball also known as Snert was standing in the middle of Tom's basement looking like he'd just returned from a lost weekend with rogue clowns. His socks didn't match, his hair was a bird's nest, and there was a light orange film of Cheez Doodle dust on his upper lip.

On the positive side, the boy genius had made good on his promise, and a large portion of what looked to be an obsolete movie projector rested by his feet.

Snert had sounded excited when they'd spoken on the phone the night before and didn't mind interrupting his own fifteen-hour
Lord of the Rings
marathon to help out. “I've done this marathon like seven times already,” said Snert. “Guess that makes me Lord of the Marathon. And
I think I can get my hands on what you're talking about. A classic Kodascope projector that could play a sixteen-millimeter reel? Yup, I just might be your man.”

Tom's mom had seemed a tiny bit suspicious when Snert showed up on their doorstep right after breakfast, but once again Noodle had saved the day, informing Mrs. Edison that Snert was lending his film expertise to help them put together a music video for his NYU summer program.

“Anything to separate me from all the other bozo applicants,” he'd told her.

And when Tom's mom had wondered why the three of them weren't spending their time away from school relaxing and riding bikes like all the other neighborhood kids, Noodle had responded with a sly wink. “Because all that time I spend at school is interfering with my real education, Mrs. E.”

Tom couldn't tell if she'd bought his line or not, but he'd charmed her in classic Noodle style.

Now Snert was acting like he owned the place. “We'll have to make a couple of minor adjustments to this old clunker. Whip up what we don't have,” he asserted, then immediately began directing the kids like a traffic cop.
“First, a base for the projector. And the stock's too wide for these spools. We'll need something to thread the film. What're ya standing around for?” His pudgy hands clapped. “We need to move, people! Time is money!”

“Snert, you might be a genius, but you're still only twelve,” Colby reminded him, tweaking his ear as she passed.

Fortunately, Tom's basement was a promised land of widgets, gadgets, and discarded whatchamacallits, so even if they couldn't find the exact part Snert needed, there was always a close approximation lying somewhere nearby.

Snert showed Noodle how to feed the old film over and under four empty spools, while Colby had to glue a flashlight to the inside of the old projector to replace its gray-filmed, blown-out bulb. The phonograph, however, proved to be a much easier machine to assemble. They constructed its spinning base as a group project, by sticking a pencil through a pizza tray then hammering it to a bicycle wheel. In a final blaze of Snertspiration, the sixth-grade wonder fastened a large kitchen funnel to serve as the record player's amplifier.

It only took three hours, including a quick scramble upstairs for turkey-and-Swiss sandwiches, until the crew
was ready for the Sub Rosa short film world premiere.

“We ask that you please turn off all cell phones and pagers,” said Noodle, crouching behind the movie projector, his index finger positioned over one of the wooden spools that had been screwed into its side.

“What if it's, like, the first Dracula movie ever?” Snert grabbed a handful of microwave butter-flavored popcorn as Colby snapped off the overhead lights. “Like, pre-
Nosferatu
. If so, I think I deserve a distribution cut, okay?”

“How about this instead?” Noodle thwopped the back of Snert's neck. “You make me glad to be an only child.”

“Okay, folks.” Tom flicked on the projector's flashlight and took a seat next to Colby, while Noodle powered on the machine. They watched in silence as the film was pulled quickly past a magnifying glass that had been glued to the front of the projector to replace its cracked lens.

On the hanging white bedsheet they'd rigged up as an improvised movie screen, a blurred image took shape.

It didn't look like much of anything.

“It doesn't look like much of anything,” said Tom.

“Easy fix!” Snert hopped up from his crate seat and
moved the magnifying glass a little farther … and farther from the film, until the picture on the wall slowly, wobblingly, shifted into focus.

“I see something,” squeaked Colby. “Maybe. No.”

“Yes, you do see something, 'cause I see it, too,” said Noodle. “It's … two old people … doing some kinda waltz?”

The grainy film continued to flicker, and the image of a slender, elderly woman in a long satin ball gown and a gentleman with slicked silvery-toned hair performing a simple but graceful three-step took hold through the scratchy film.