The Key
It was a warm day. The sun beat down on Sandra's head as she walked along the street. Her palms were sweaty, and a knot was in her throat. She checked the small piece of paper she held carefully between her fingertips – it had been ripped from a blue envelope, and the ink was slightly smudged, but still fairly legible. She hadn't been to her father's new house in Louisiana where he had moved three months ago. He had often come to visit her where she lived in Alabama, but as a single mother with two children, visiting Louisiana was always a planned vacation that never happened. Now that her father had died, she regretted never making that trip. She wondered if he had been hurt by her not visiting. She had spent four years previous taking care of him everyday until he had decided to move into the retirement community. The scrap she held was from a letter her mother had written her the week before asking her to come down and be present for the reading of the will.
She walked up the stone path leading to the porch of a large white house. Her heels clicked on the rock as she approached the door. She avoided the evenly spaced cracks where the stones had been cemented in place. She'd been doing so ever since she was a child – just a silly superstition – but it was a habit she'd never broken. She reached the door, and paused in front of it. She took the large brass knocker engraved with the words Henry Pearson into her damp palms and knocked lightly. She adjusted her flowered skirt, and stood back from the door.
It opened a crack, and a bright, inquisitive eye surveyed her. A slight old man then pulled the door open entirely and beckoned for her to enter. She did so, nodding her head to him graciously, her earrings catching the sunlight filtering from a window positioned directly opposite her.
"Thank you, Ernie." She said, smiling slightly. "I didn't know that Dad brought you with him when he moved. How are you?"
Ernie grinned.
"Well, ma'am, it's been hard since Mr. Pearson passed away, seeing as I still have to take care of the grounds and all, but things are getting easier. Margaret – I mean your mother – has been treating me well."
"I'm glad. I didn't see you at the funeral. Were you unable to come?"
"I couldn't. My wife caught a cold that turned quite nasty, but Mr. Pearson would've understood, I think. How are the little ‘uns?"
"Oh, about the same. Tommy seems like he's ten feet tall, although he's really only four foot two. Abigail played in her first piano recital last week. She misses you."
Ernie nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets.
"We did get along well, didn't we? Maybe I'll come visit her soon."
"That would be nice. I'm sure she'd enjoy that."
Ernie smiled. Then, starting as if he had just remembered something, he lightly tapped his forehead and said:
"I'm sorry, Miss Freemont, everyone's waiting. I forgot that there was a time to start at and all. Why don't I show you the way?"
"Thank you," said Sandra, looking around. "I never had the chance to visit dad here. This is a beautiful house."
Ernie guided her past a large dining room with a crystal chandelier dangling over the ornate table, and past a library with oak shelves filled to the brim with all sorts of books. Soon she was guided into what seemed to be a living room, although it was large enough to be her entire apartment.
Sandra surveyed the room. She was surprised to discover that she and her mother were the only family members present. She walked over to her and gave her a hug. Her mother looked tired, although she was dressed neatly as always. Her white hair was neatly curled, and she wore a long black dress with a large silver brooch encasing a shining blue stone clasped at her throat. They sat and talked for several minutes, then her mother left to make tea.
Sandra looked at the other people in the room. Two men wore business suits with shining silk ties, and another man sat next to her, dressed in a white collared shirt and black dress pants. He wore suspenders of some sort of tropical print, and smelled strongly of cheap cologne.
The women were mostly dressed alike, except for one teenage girl. Sandra decided that she looked like a respectable young lady, although perhaps a bit naïve. The girl's cheeks were rosy, and her mascara was applied freely. She had bright red hair pulled into a loose braid at the nape of her neck, although a few strands fell into her face every so often and were brushed away by a delicate white hand.
No one spoke, and everyone seemed at ill ease. Sandra thought she recognized one nicely dressed man as the deacon from her father's church. She cleared her throat, intending to break the silence with a friendly word. Instead, she was stopped by a tall man with a clear voice who introduced himself briskly as he entered the room.
"Good morning. Thank you for coming on such a warm day as this. I know you're all busy, so I'll make this as short as possible. My name is Gavin Branderbuck, and I represent the late Henry Pearson. Today is the reading of the will, and he wished for you all to be present and to receive what is due to you. Let's begin immediately."
He sat in a large wicker chair and began reading. The will began with settling matters such as her father's business (which was sold to the second well-dressed man and the profits to her mother) and items of a financial nature. Then matters of material possessions were settled. Her mother received much of what her father owned. The other people present in the room were given various items and small amounts of cash, although it didn't specify why. Sandra sat patiently, waiting for her name. Twenty minutes passed. The room grew stuffy. Her mother rose and opened several of the large windows surrounding the room.
"Elizabeth Grailey, are you present?"
The red-haired girl responded:
"Yes, I'm here."
"Mr. Pearson wished for you to have the books within his library, although he did specify that the encyclopedias should be kept in the public library."
Elizabeth grinned. She had met Sandra's father at the public library where he had volunteered since he had moved several years before. Since then, her hunger for reading had astonished Mr. Pearson. A friendship quickly formed and several afternoons a week were spent talking over various recent readings.
Sandra was slightly annoyed that her father had given the books away to a virtual stranger. She remembered all the nights she had spent curled up on her father's lap as he read to her from different novels. When she was older she would hide in his study, sitting under his desk reading. Those books were special to her, but that was fine. She continued waiting for her name. She cared only for her father's summer home in New Hampshire. She pictured its Victorian gables, the beautiful lavender shutters, and the brightly lit sun porch attached to the back, looking out onto an expansive backyard and a flower garden bursting with roses. They always used to joke about how that house would belong to her someday. She hoped with all her heart that it was going to be hers today.
Another half hour passed, and Mr. Branderbuck looked up. He adjusted his glasses and folded the papers he held then stuffed them into a large brown folder.
"And that's it." He said.
Sandra looked up taken aback. She shot her mother an inquisitive look, but she was looking at the man with the tropical tie as he pulled out a large pink handkerchief and sneezed repeatedly into it. The will had not mentioned the summer home at all.
She sat quietly as everyone milled about, chattering pleasantly to each other while finishing up cold cups of tea. Eventually the room was empty except for a few people. Sandra stood, picking up her purse as she did so, and turned to leave. A voice arrested her departure.
"Sandra! Wait one minute, please," her mother called.
She turned around. Her mother was walking towards her holding a small carved box.
"Come with me," she said, gesturing her into the study.
Sandra followed her into the room, where her mother softly closed the door.
"I want you to have this. I'm sure it's what your father would want." She held out the box.
Sandra looked at her mother then held out her hand. Her mother handed her the box. It was intricately carved, with dragons and fruit weaving across the lid. She opened it. A tarnished key lay within, snugly placed within the purple velvet lining. She snapped it shut angrily.
"I took care of him for four years." she said, "This isn't going to feed Tommy and Abigail. I have two children to support. I'm living in an apartment the size of your living room, and all I get is a key that doesn't belong to anything. I appreciate this, mother."
She left the house as quickly as possible, allowing the screen door to slam loudly behind her.
Her mind was in turmoil as she walked back to her car, parked halfway down the street. What was the meaning of giving her such an old object? She drove home thinking only of the house. Her mother, no doubt, would sell it.
Sandra reached her apartment and was greeted by her children who were happy to see her after her week's seperation. She smiled, and began to make dinner, although still inwardly seething at the will her father had left. After dinner was ended, she sent Tommy and Abigail to do their homework and began to unpack her suitcases. She hung the dark blue dress she had worn to the funeral in the walk-in closet, smoothing the wrinkles from it and fingering the soft silk sleeves. Her mother had made it many years ago, and she wore it only for special occasions. She continued to unpack until she reached the bottom of her suitcase. There lay the wooden box.
It was beautiful, that Sandra could not deny. It was carved from a cherry colored wood, and was polished so that it gleamed. Still, the very sight of it made her angry, despite its attractive face. She lifted the lid once again, hoping to find something to explain all that had happened. There was nothing. She tossed it onto her dresser and went to put her children to bed.
Years passed. Her anger seperated her from her mother. She didn't return the phone calls, didn't reply to the letters, and never looked at the photo albums of her family. They lay stacked beneath her bed collecting dust. The box held the same fate, serving as a decoration in her room. Although she resented it, it was the one possession her father had left her.
Tommy grew older and wanted to see his grandmother. Sandra allowed him to call her, always making sure she wasn't in the house when he placed the call. She often looked at the wooden box and rekindled her anger.
She changed jobs and began earning a higher income. She moved into a larger apartment, but when she repacked she found herself feeling strange without having the box unpacked. She placed it on the kitchen table, intending to put it in her bedroom, although months passed and it remained in the same location.
Sandra was about to leave for work one day when the phone rang. She set her keys down on a kitchen chair and ran to pick up the reciever. She rested it between her head and her shoulder and tried to disentangle her purse from her jacket.
"Hello?"
"Miss Freemont, my name is Claire Madden, and I'm the neighbor of your mother. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Margaret passed away last night."
Sandra slid to the ground, cradling the phone in her hands.
"How?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Well, we're not quite sure. The doctor said that her body just gave out. She wasn't in any pain – she died in her sleep."
Claire spoke to her for several minutes, then finally said goodbye. Sandra hung up the phone and stood. She blinked away the tears blurring her eyes and picked up her things, then walked out to her car. She stopped at the post office on the way to work to mail a letter. There was a small pink slip calling her attention to the fact she had a package. She stuffed it into her purse and drove to work, thinking of her mother only.
The right thing to do would be to take care of the funeral, she knew. She couldn't stand the idea of letting go of all the anger she had harbored for so long. She decided against it, and shoved the matter out of her head as much as she could. Whenever she thought of her mother, she only had to think of the will and her anger was rekindled. Several days passed and the remorse she felt was lessened so that she hardly thought about it.
As Sandra drove home from work one afternoon, she rummaged in her purse in search of money for the toll. She grasped a crumpled paper, thinking it was a bill, and pulled it out. Instead it was the package reminder. The pink had faded slightly and it was slightly dirty, but it was fine. She groaned. The post office only held packages for a week, and it had been three. She hoped they hadn't returned it. She pulled into the parking lot of the post office and ran from the rain into the outer room, shaking her umbrella and brushing her damp hair from her forehead. She walked up to the counter and rang the little bell. A young woman came out chewing a large wad of chewing gum.
"Yeah?" she asked.
Sandra handed her the slip.
"I know this is very late, but is there any possibility of receiving this package? I'm very sorry."
The girl looked at the slip and blew a large pink bubble, twirling her bleached hair around thin fingers with bright green manicured nails.
"Uh….I'm not sure. It's way too late. I'll check I guess."
The girl walked into a separate room for several minutes. Sandra checked her watch. Her kids would be getting home soon, and she needed to start dinner. The girl came back with a package in her hands. She dumped it onto the counter and tapped it with a neon nail.
"We charge for things like this. We couldn't send it back ‘cause it didn't have a return address. That's six bucks."
Sandra pulled out the money and shook her head. She picked up the package, and walked out to her car.
Once she got home she opened the package. Inside were four worn books. One was her father's journal, two were works of fiction, and one was a biography of Martin Luther. A letter fluttered from the wrapping as she grabbed it to throw it away. She tossed the wrapping in the garbage and opened the letter.
Dear Miss Freemont,
I found these in several boxes stored in the public library. Your father left them to me several years ago, although I wasn't able to look through them all. These were rubber-banded together with your name written on them. I think your father would want you to have them. I'm sorry it took me so long to send them.
Sincerily,
Elizabeth Grailey
She looked at the journal. She had often seen her father writing in it late at night when she took care of him. It was green and worn. She opened it, and read the last entry.
I just finished my will. It seems like a pity to not put Sandra into it, but matters are so complicated sometimes with all that legal rubbish that I thought it would just be easier to give her what she wanted most without having to deal with those nasty lawyers. I wish she had visited me here – it's so peaceful. I think she'd be surprised that Ernie's still around. He followed me all the way from Alabama! Anyway, I'm just going to give her the key to the summer house and leave the deed in her name.
11.21.02
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