Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
I moved my hand lower and felt the cold, hard edge of a newly installed deadbolt. The wood around the lock felt raw, the sawdust swept away but the scent of shaved pine still lingering.
My husband had never locked a door inside our home in twenty-two years.
I stood in the dark corridor, my hand resting on the cold brass of the new lock. He had told me last month that the hinges were sticking, but this was a heavy commercial deadbolt.
I walked back to the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the linoleum.
The house was perfectly still, save for the hum of the refrigerator. I stood in the doorway of the walk-in pantry, where we kept the dry goods and the small wicker basket of household spares.
My fingers searched through the basket, moving past old curtain hooks and rusty picture nails.
Near the bottom, my fingernail caught on a small paper tag.
I pulled it up into the light of the small pantry bulb. It was a bright brass key, brand new, with a tiny paper label tied to the ring with a piece of dirty butcher’s twine.
