The Jewel and the Key (23 page)

Almaz followed Addie's gaze and gave her drum a bash. “Testosterone,” she pronounced. “That's why men fight. They're slaves to their hormones. Women are the voices of reason.”

“Tell Whaley that!”

“Don't you worry. I will.”

They joined the demonstrators heading east toward Broadway under the swaying spring-green leaves, and Addie's heart lifted. There was such an energy running through the crowd. People laughing, greeting friends, chanting slogans, beating drums. What had she been worried about? It felt like a carnival. They moved past the stone mansions by the park, down onto Tenth and onward to the gaudy storefronts of Broadway. People came out of their houses to watch. A few shouted at them, but most people just gaped. Some clapped or waved.

The crowd grew thicker as people joined in. Ahead of her, Zack was holding up a sign one of the organizers had given him, and Almaz banged as loudly as she could on the djembe. Mrs. Turner limped along determinedly.

Soon they were heading into Pioneer Square. Addie glanced at the tall old buildings and felt a squeeze of longing. This whole part of town reminded her of the Jewel—not today's decrepit old theater, but the sparkling new one where the 1917 production of
Macbeth
was being mounted. These buildings had been here in Reg's time, too, she was sure of it. They were old and grime-encrusted now—taverns and bookshops across from the triangular park littered with bottles and whiskery men sleeping off their liquor. A restored streetcar trundled up the hill. She wondered if Reg had brought Frida up to Capitol Hill on it. But no. It only ran on a short track, for the tourists....

She caught herself. Again, for the hundredth time, she was thinking of Reg and Frida as if she could turn the corner and run into them, as if Frida might at any minute dart out of the butcher's shop on the corner with a big roast wrapped in paper. But of course, that was ridiculous.

Then, all of a sudden, onlookers were pressing in on all sides. Shouting matches were breaking out. Shoulders crushed against hers, elbows jostled. Addie stumbled forward into Almaz.

Her friend turned and put out a hand to steady her. “You okay?”

“Yeah. But it's getting—”

“Hairy. I know.”

“Have you been at a protest march before?”

“The one for immigrant rights. Remember? But I was with a big group from the East Africa Center. I didn't feel scared.” Almaz paused and admitted, “I do a little, now.”

Addie examined the thickening crowd ahead. Angry people on the sidewalks were shouting and shaking signs—it looked like a counterprotest.

Almaz nudged her. “See that lady over there?” Addie looked where she pointed, and her eyes met those of a slight old woman leaning on a young guy's arm—her grandson, maybe. The old lady held a picture of Martin Luther King Jr. and flashed her a peace sign. Addie sent her a grateful smile, pulled herself up tall, and pushed on. Almaz started beating the djembe again. The sounds of the crowd roared in her ears: showers of clapping and whoops from some, shouts and angry voices from others.

A guy their age was standing just a few feet away, shaking a hand-printed sign above his head that read
LEAVE OUR
COUNTRY
! “Traitors! You like those folks so much, you go live over there! This country is for pro-AmericaAm ericans.”

“Don't be stupid!” Almaz snapped. She broke away from the march and went to give him a piece of her mind. “First of all—” Addie heard her say. Of course Almaz would explain her reasoning, even to some jerk! But the guy just started yelling at her. Addie tried to reach Almaz and extricate her from the argument, but she found herself swept irresistibly forward by the current of the march.

Suddenly, a man in a baseball cap sprang into the thick of the demonstrators. He grabbed hold of a bearded guy right next to her, and hauled off and punched him.

“Hey!” Addie shouted. The bearded guy doubled over, holding his belly, and the other guy twisted his shirt around his neck, choking him. Then he slammed his fist into his face.

Furious, Addie grabbed the attacker by his shirt, trying to yank him away. He shook her roughly aside. She stumbled but managed to keep her balance.

Almaz was pushing through the crowd toward her. “Come away from here,” she called. “You can't stop them.”

Addie hesitated. She could see Dad far ahead, Zack clinging to his arm in a way he normally wouldn't be caught dead doing. The man in the baseball cap was still beating up the guy with the beard. Other people were trying to drag them apart, without success.

High above the heads of the crowd, she saw a mounted policeman.
Thank goodness!

“Over here!” she cried, waving her arm above her head.

The horse plowed straight toward her. She dodged out of its way. The policeman's face was hidden behind the visor of his riot helmet, and once in range, he struck out indiscriminately with his billy club, hitting both of the men. Addie could see blood oozing from the bearded guy's head. His attacker let go of him and bent over, sucking in his breath in great gasps.

“Not the guy with the beard!” she shouted. “He didn't do anything!”

But the policeman kept striking out. The bearded man had fallen to the ground. Stunned, Addie kept yelling until she was forced to scramble out of the cop's way as he backed his horse into the crowd. The surging crush of bodies had separated her from Almaz again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dad dragging Zack away. Mrs. Turner was struggling to keep up but clearly was having trouble maneuvering.

“Mrs. T.s in bad shape,” Almaz called. “I'd better go help her.”

“I'll be there in a second. I've got to tell the policeman what really happened—”

“Be quick,” Almaz shouted over her shoulder. She pushed her drum to one side of her body and disappeared into the chaos.

Then someone shoved Addie so hard she flew forward and crashed to the ground. Everything spilled out of her bag. To her horror, the silver mirror skidded along the pavement and stopped just out of reach.

“Oh, no!” She lurched forward, crawling between people's feet. After a second, she managed to grab hold of the strap of her bag. Her wallet was close by, her brush, her cell phone. Quickly she swept them back in. But where was the mirror? In a panic, she twisted her head this way and that, searching. Finally she caught sight of silver flashing here, then there, as the mirror was kicked farther and farther away. The horse's hooves clopped down close to it as the policeman tried to break out of the crowd. Lunging forward, Addie closed her fingers around the handle, pulled it close as she scrambled to her feet, and flipped it over to make sure it hadn't shattered.

Behind her in the glass she could see a tall, heavy woman standing on a wooden crate, haranguing the crowd. Her brown hair was gathered in an untidy knot, and her voice thundered like a church organ.

“Don't believe the lies they tell you,” she roared. “This isn't a war for democracy! English workers and French workers are fighting German workers to fill the coffers of the banks and the war industry! American workers, will you throw away your lives to join them? We say no!”

Somewhere in the background she could hear a brass band blaring a military march.

Panicking, Addie tore her eyes away from the mirror and spun around. “Dad? Where are you?”

The street was filled with marching men in uniform. Sailors in dress whites. Soldiers in khakis and round helmets and boots. Women in white aprons with red crosses sewn on the fronts. A familiar image on a poster on a nearby street lamp sprang out at her: the yowling cat of the Wobblies, behind bars and paired with the words
CLASS-WAR PRISONERS: WE ARE IN HERE FOR YOU. YOU ARE OUT THERE FOR US
!

Suddenly, a sailor ripped the poster from the lamppost and tore it up. A man who'd been listening to the speaker took off after him, yelling and shaking his fist.

That other time shimmered around her, and Addie fought against it with all her might.

She squeezed her eyes shut, closing it out.

Then, gathering her courage, she opened them again, stared fixedly into the mirror, and saw ... not the woman on the soapbox, but Whaley, of all people, shoving protesters out of his path. He was only a few feet away, but the crowd crushed in around them crazily.

“Addie! Where are you?”

She slipped the mirror into her bag and waved her arms above her head. “I'm here!”

He turned toward her voice, and relief flooded into his face. He reached over and grasped her hand so hard she could feel the bones in his fingers crushing hers.

“Oh, my God, Whaley, I'm so glad to see you. I thought you were back at the bookshop.”

Whaley looked over her head, surveying the scene. Addie's gaze followed his. The mounted policeman was gone, but other police officers in riot gear were heading their way. Fights were breaking out. For once, Addie was glad for Whaley's crazy haircut and the look he got, when he was angry, of being ready for a brawl.

“The radio said it was getting rough.” His hands clenched fiercely down on her shoulders, and he steered her ahead of him through the chaotic mass of people. “The cops are wearing riot gear, for chrissake. I'd better get you home. I'm sure that's where your dad's heading.”

But the march bottled up and she and Whaley were squashed between the protestors who had stopped in front and marchers coming up from behind.

“They're blocking the road!” a girl yelled. Addie peered ahead to the intersection and into a police barricade of glittering plexiglass shields.

One officer stepped out in front of the line of riot police and spoke, his voice crackling through the megaphone: “You have exceeded the limits of the protest zone. Disperse now.”

“What protest zone?” an old woman shouted. “There's no protest zone!”

“Go home now, or we will disperse you!”

“What the
hell
were you thinking, Addie McNeal, coming out into this mess?” Whaley released her shoulder and gripped her hand again, yanking her toward the sidewalk.

“I'm trying to stop the war, Whaley!
That's
what I was thinking!”

Whaley made an exasperated noise in his throat and pulled harder. But before they could break free, a wave of panic swept through the crowd.

“Someone threw a rock!”

A man tripped over Addie's foot. A woman with two children clinging to her elbowed people aside. One of the kids was wailing, and the sound was the wail of the child in Addie's dream. Protesters surged forward, shouting, and suddenly it was like swimming against a deep current.

“You can't stop a legal demonstration!”

A resounding slap, and then a thud.

“Disperse now! This is your last warning!”

Suddenly, there was a loud report, like a gun going off. Black smoke billowed up and wafted through the crowd. Addie's eyelids burned. Her throat stung as if she'd swallowed something caustic.

“Tear gas!”
Whaley yelled through the commotion. “Cover your eyes!”

The skin on her cheeks was blistering. Tears flowed from her stinging eyes. She pulled open her bag and jumbled through bus transfers, keys, lipstick. Finally, her fingers closed around a bandanna.

“Here!” She thrust it at Whaley through the rising fumes, but he pushed it away.

“You put it on! I'm okay!”

Addie tied it over her eyes in a single layer, so she could just manage to see through the thin fabric. Choking, they clawed their way to the sidewalk. Her heart thumped in her ears; her feet itched to sprint, but too many people blocked their way. The voice was still crackling through the megaphone. “Your time is up!”

They were caught in a tidal wave of people running, darting down the side streets, dodging into bars, barbershops, anywhere a doorway beckoned or an escape route opened up.

She spied a narrow alley between two buildings. “Whaley! This way! Over here!”

But he was gone.

She searched up and down the street as well as she could through her own tears and the red fabric of the bandanna. And then suddenly she heard Whaley's voice behind her.

“I'm not demonstrating!” She whirled around to see him spluttering with fury as a police officer pinned his arms behind his back. “I'm
enlisting,
for chrissake.”

The cop was clicking handcuffs around Whaley's wrists. With the riot helmet on his head and gas mask on his face, he looked like an insect. But he was even taller than Whaley and had a huge club and a gun hanging from his belt.

“I'm not protesting!” Whaley repeated.

“He's not!” Addie shouted.

The faceless officer ignored them. To Addie's horror, he simply swung Whaley around and frog-marched him up the block.

Then another cloud of tear gas exploded and she could see nothing at all.

“Sorry, I didn't see you there.” The woman at the sink in the bathroom of the doughnut shop looked up at Addie. She had short black hair in a jagged cut and was wearing a plaid flannel shirt. Her eyes were bloodshot, the skin puffy and damaged around the lids. “Here. I'm almost done.”

Addie nodded numbly. The woman moved aside, and Addie took her place, turning the spigot and splashing cold water into her stinging eyes. It was hard not to blink, but she knew she had to wash out the chemicals.

She'd kept running once she'd broken free of the crowd and finally ended up in this skeevy doughnut shop where a bunch of people from the demonstration had taken shelter. There'd been no sign of Dad or the others. More than anything, she wanted to go home. But she couldn't. She was the only one who knew what happened to Whaley, and she had to help him. After all, if it hadn't been for her, he'd be free right now.

The woman who had spoken to her was wiping her face with a paper towel. ‘Are you okay?”

Addie nodded. “But my friend was arrested, so I probably need to get over to the jail.”