The Sixty-Eight Rooms (2 page)

“It’s okay, Ms. Biddle. I like this one,” Ruthie said as she drew the outline of a large animal head with five-foot antlers and shells for eyes.

“Me too.” Ms. Biddle smiled at her.

At lunchtime the class was herded downstairs to the children’s galleries and education center, where there was a room for eating lunch. Ruthie sat next to Jack and watched as everyone came over and oohed and aahed about Jack’s bento box.

“Tight!” said Ben Romero, the coolest kid in the class.

“Where did you buy that?” asked Kendra Connor, the girl in their class who had everything.

Jack’s mother sat with the other two parents and Ms. Biddle, paying only partial attention to the kids. Jack was nice enough to trade some Chinese party mix for half of Ruthie’s tuna sandwich. She had a health-food granola bar for dessert, so he gave her a few more M&M’s. When Jack’s mother saw him putting money in the vending machine to buy a soft drink, she rushed over to him. Ruthie couldn’t hear what they were saying, but for a minute it seemed pretty intense.

“Your mom didn’t want you drinking soda?” Ruthie asked when he came back to the table.

“Nah, she just thought I’d borrowed money from someone and she didn’t want me to do that,” he answered with a shrug.

“What’s wrong with borrowing drink money?”

Jack paused before he answered. “I guess she’s really worried about money right now. Our rent is due and her paintings aren’t selling very well.”

Ruthie thought about that for a minute. “Oh,” was her first reply. She knew Jack and his mom didn’t have much money, but she hadn’t realized that it was serious.

“My parents always worry about money too,” she offered. As she chewed her granola bar she thought about Jack’s apartment and how much she liked it. It wasn’t really an apartment; it was a big, open L-shaped space, with living areas built in one leg of the L and his mom’s studio around the corner in the other leg. They called it a loft. The building had been an old furniture factory and now all the tenants were artists. A large industrial elevator took visitors to their floor—Jack worked the controls himself. Some of his mom’s artist friends had helped build the rooms: a big kitchen area, two bedrooms and two bathrooms. The sinks and bathtubs and kitchen cabinets were all salvaged from other buildings that had been torn down. The windows were extra tall, and every room had views of the city. The floors were beat-up and scarred and the radiators banged. It was glorious. Whenever Ruthie
entered the space through the heavy metal factory door, she felt a sense of endless possibilities. After all, Jack’s mom had created a home out of something completely un-homelike. Ruthie’s own family’s apartment was predictable. There were probably thousands just like it in the city. But Jack’s was one of a kind!

“Okay, class. May I have your attention?” Ms. Biddle called out to everyone when lunch was over. “I was very pleased with your behavior this morning, so as a special reward—after you’ve all cleared your tables and made sure we won’t be leaving anything behind—we will visit the Thorne Rooms—”

Before she could finish her sentence the class applauded and cheered, saying, “Yes!” and “Thank God, no more boring stuff!”

“I’ve always wanted to see them,” Ruthie said to Jack as she threw away her lunch bag.

“You mean you’ve never been to the Thorne Rooms?” he asked, astonished. “I thought everyone had!”

“Well, not me. My parents say, ‘Why would you go to see some dollhouse rooms when you could see Monet or Picasso?’ ”

“Because they’re cool,” Jack responded. This view seemed to be held by her entire class as they hurried to gather their things and clean up. Ms. Biddle reminded them to stay together in groups of at least two and not to stray from the class. It was understood that Jack and Ruthie would be partners.

Ruthie was not prepared for what she was about to see—or for how she would react. She entered the exhibition space, Gallery 11. Unlike all the other galleries in the museum, it was completely carpeted, so the sound of the crowds was muffled. Three of her classmates were already running around and calling out to one another. She was curious as to why these girls, who usually acted very cool, seemed so openly enthusiastic about this exhibit. In an instant she knew why.

In front of her, set into the walls at eye level, she saw the most amazing rooms she had ever seen in her life—better than any crummy old dollhouse by far. Looking through the glass fronts at these rooms (they were each about the size of two or three shoe boxes), Ruthie couldn’t get over how realistic they were—like enchanted little worlds. Some had high ceilings and elaborate woodwork, with finely carved furniture. Some looked like medieval castles; others looked cozy and inviting. There were miniature paintings, carpets, toys, books and musical instruments. Many of the rooms had doors through which you could peer into small side rooms and hallways. She could even see out the windows to street scenes and gardens complete with trees and flowers, or to painted landscapes beyond.

She looked at twenty or so rooms, thoroughly awestruck. Then she came to a portrait of the woman who had created these rooms. Her name was Mrs. Narcissa Thorne and she looked very posed and formal, like some of the women
whose portraits hung in other parts of the museum. The wall label explained that Mrs. Thorne had loved collecting miniatures as a child and had decided to create replicas of historic rooms after she had grown up and married. Ruthie read that everything in the rooms was made on a scale of one inch to one foot and that Mrs. Thorne had wanted every detail to be perfect, from the knobs on the doors to the candles in the candlesticks. She had hired skilled craftsmen to help her.

Ruthie continued along, looking at all the European Rooms, which were numbered E1 to E31, and then starting the American section, which was numbered A1 to A37. All together, there were sixty-eight rooms. She saw rooms that looked like simple houses from colonial times, and lavish rooms from plantations like those she’d seen in her school-books. The perfection of each tiny object made her feel as if she could actually live in these rooms. Ruthie had become so absorbed that she was unaware of everyone else around her—until she vaguely realized that Jack was talking to her.

“When I’m rich, I think I’ll build a castle! But with an electronic game room and pool tables! What’s your favorite, Ruthie? … Ruthie?”

She simply couldn’t talk.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Jack asked. But he wasn’t too concerned about her and ran ahead, saying, “I wonder how they’ve got these installed.” Ruthie was relieved. She wanted to enjoy this moment all by herself.

What she would give to be able to live in any one of
these rooms! And these were copies of real rooms of real people long ago. As she looked into a room with a tall canopy bed, she wondered what kind of girl had slept in it. If she had a room like that—
all to myself
, Ruthie thought—how different her life would be. She would have all the comfort and privacy she needed to make extraordinary plans that matched such wonderful surroundings. Room after room filled Ruthie’s head with similar feelings.

One room had a fancy stone bathtub sunk right in the middle of the floor; who lived like that? Another room was devoted solely to a grand, curving staircase. Next she saw a music room with a perfect miniature piano and a delicately made harp. How had they made the strings so fine? Doors with tiny hinges opened up to the most beautiful garden, complete with a fountain and birds in the trees. After that was a library filled with leather-covered books—her father would love that one.

By now Jack had made his way out of the exhibition and was looking to see if there was anything else he might be interested in. As Ruthie had often noticed, he never let grass grow under his feet. She stepped around the corner, near the last few rooms, where she could see Jack’s mom at the entrance to the Thorne Rooms. She had struck up a conversation with a guard, and Ruthie could hear them talking and laughing.

“Jack, this is Mr. Bell,” she said, introducing him to the museum guard. Mr. Bell was fairly tall and very lean, with close-cut black hair flecked with lots of gray at his temples.
It was difficult to tell his age; he appeared older than Lydia but not
old
old, as Ruthie and Jack often described people. They both found it hard to guess grown-ups’ ages precisely. Mr. Bell had a kind face, and the lines around his eyes showed that he smiled a lot, but there was also a kind of unhappy look in them.

“Hi,” Jack replied, holding out his hand to shake. Sometimes he had really good manners. “Do you know how they made the lighting work in those rooms? Are they all connected in the back? Are you the guy who takes care of them?” Jack rattled off questions.

“Well, I’m not the curator in charge but I am the senior staff member down here and oversee the maintenance of the rooms. They’re one of our most popular exhibits,” Mr. Bell said. “In answer to your question, they are all connected—there’s a small corridor behind them for access. You passed by doors in there and probably didn’t notice.”

“Could you show me?” Jack was never shy about asking for something.

“Sure, I can show you,” Mr. Bell answered. “Follow me.” He led Jack and his mom back into the exhibition; to the left there was a small alcove with a door, much closer to where Ruthie stood looking at a Japanese room.

“So that’s how you get back there?” Jack asked.

“That’s right. But we don’t have reason to go back there very often. The rooms don’t require very much maintenance, just an occasional dusting or a new lightbulb.”

“Can I look?” Jack asked eagerly.

“Jack, I’m sure Mr. Bell can’t open that door for museum visitors!” Lydia exclaimed.

“I don’t believe I’ve been asked before.” Mr. Bell seemed to be having fun as he looked around to make sure there wasn’t a large crowd of kids nearby. The other guard was around the corner, out of eyeshot. Mr. Bell pulled his key ring out of his pocket. It held a mixture of keys: home, car and about three or four clearly labeled
AIC
, with a different number on each. The door itself had no knob and could be opened only with a key. “C’mere,” Mr. Bell said somewhat slyly as he put the key in the lock and opened the door a crack. He had a twinkle in his eye. “Take a peek.”

As Jack peered in, Mr. Bell turned his attention back to Lydia and explained that the doors were always kept locked even though the museum wasn’t really worried about theft. “Nobody has ever tried to steal anything from these rooms. Unlike the artwork upstairs, these rooms are only valuable all together. No one would steal just a single item. Besides, someone would have a hard time getting their hands through the small openings in the back. We have another set of keys to open the glass windows from the front when repairs have to be made.”

While Mr. Bell continued to talk to Jack’s mom, Ruthie watched as Jack took the opportunity to slip just inside the door to the corridor. If Jack was expecting to see something spectacular he was disappointed. There were only some cleaning supplies, a chair, some stacked boxes and
beyond those a narrow corridor dimly lit by the light coming from the back of the room displays. It looked like the backstage area of a theater. He came out again. His mom and Mr. Bell hadn’t stopped their conversation and didn’t even seem to notice that Jack had gone in and out of the corridor.

“That was neat. Thanks,” he said.

“Lucky!” was Ruthie’s somewhat frustrated reply when Jack came over to her and told her what he’d seen.

“C’mon. Maybe you can look too,” he said, pulling at her sleeve. By now most of their class was nearly finished viewing all sixty-eight rooms and was congregating out in the hall near the entrance.

Jack led her back over to the alcove where the two grown-ups still stood chatting.

“This is my friend Ruthie. Can she look too?” Jack asked without a second’s hesitation.

“I can’t be showing your whole class, now can I?” Mr. Bell replied at first. Then he observed Ruthie’s disappointed face. Glancing around to see that most everyone in the exhibit had moved on, he added, “Well … Ruthie, is it? I suppose one more look won’t hurt. But just a real quick one.” He had not yet relocked the door, so as he stood facing out into the gallery, he reached behind him. With a subtle movement he opened the door.

Ruthie couldn’t help feeling a little let down by what she saw—kind of like how she’d felt the first time she saw
The Wizard of Oz
and Toto pulled back the curtain so that
everyone saw the mechanism that controlled the wizard. It spoiled the experience in a way, even though she knew that this corridor had to exist and that ordinary lightbulbs must create the “sunlight” for the tiny rooms. She liked the front view so much more.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Mr. Bell said as he walked a few feet away to gently stop a young child with very sticky fingers from leaving fingerprints all over the glass windows of the rooms.

Ruthie’s eyes had barely adjusted to the dim light of the corridor, but Jack, in that same minute and a half, had found something on the floor in the darkened corner behind a stack of boxes and stashed it in his pocket.