The Skeleton Key
by
Debra Waker
August 2023
Mike stopped part way up the path. He took a last drag on his cigarette. Looking up at the old house and its sloping roof, he wondered how much work it would involve. Jamie was standing by the open front door with the realtor, waiting for him. She did not like him smoking. He shrugged, flicked the stub onto the stone paving, stepped on it and walked up the path.
“Did you see the flowers? The hollyhocks and the poppies,” Jamie asked as he reached the door.
“You don’t like gardening,” he teased.
“I do. You shouldn’t listen to my mother.”
Her mother! She had been hard work; against him and the marriage from the start. Who could blame her, Mike chuckled to himself.
The front door opened into a small living room, too small for Mike’s liking. He noted the original painted floorboards and wooden cream-coloured wainscoting that reached waist level.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” Jamie said as she walked around the room. “So cozy.”
“Lots of character,” added the realtor.
“How long has it been standing empty?” The musty smell had hit Mike as soon as he had walked in.
“A couple of years. But a place like this is special. It requires the right owner,” the realtor asserted.
“It’s lovely,” said Jamie as she walked through into the next room. “The floorboards would look great polished with rugs on them,” she indicated to Mike who had followed her.
“You can’t polish this wood. Too rough. Need to paint it.” He went over and looked at the old sash widows and checked the wood moulding.
“I love it. Can we buy it?” she said taking hold of his arm.
“It’s going to take a lot of work.”
“Please,” she whispered.
Mike looked down at his young newly wed wife and kissed her on the nose. “Let’s check out the rest of the place.”
“The kitchen,” the realtor stating the obvious, “has great possibilities.”
Mike noted the old cupboards and no dishwasher. Jamie opened the larder door. “My granny had one of these,” she said. However quaint it was, it would all need updating. Money thought Mike
Wandering through the house, Jamie was enthralled as she observed the high ceilings and the latches on the doors. Mike felt the uneven floors beneath his feet and examined the patches of damp.
“I love it,” Jamie said as they re-entered the living room.
“Um,” Mike grunted.
“Oh come on Mike. It’s lovely.” She squeezed his arm. “I want it,” she whispered in his ear.
Mike smiled. He loved her enthusiasm, her childish pleasure in life, her innocence. It seemed such a long time since he had felt such simple delight. But then she had led a sheltered life. “It’s a lot of work.”
“I don’t want to change a thing. The windows, the high wainscot, the door latches, I want it all as it is.”
“It’s still a lot of work,” Mike laughed.
The realtor checked the time on his cell. He had another showing, a definite sale. He coughed. “We have to get going. But if you want to think about it, we can come back for another look tomorrow.”
Jamie nodded enthusiastically.
“We’ll let you know,” said Mike.
“But it might go while we think,” Jamie frowned.
”Come on,” Mike took her by the hand and followed the realtor out of the house.
“Wow,” said Jamie as the realtor took a large old skeleton key out of his pocket and inserted it into the lock.
Mike shivered. He put his hand on the wall to steady himself.
“You okay?” Jamie asked.
“Yeah,” he tried to smile. “Just feeling a little queasy. Must have been something I ate.”
“What did we have for lunch? I thought we both had the same thing,” Jamie continued to prattle as they walked down the path.
“Get in the front,” Mike snapped as he opened the rear door of the realtor’s Acura.
As they drove down the long drive way, Mike saw nothing except the skeleton key. He wrapped his arms around himself to stop the shivering, but he could still feel his teeth chattering. His mind went back to South America, the jailor’s jangling keys, and the cell door clanging shut behind him.
He couldn’t tell Jamie. He couldn’t tell anyone. He had been young. He didn’t know. It was an adventure. It was South America, for God-sake. He was hitchhiking. Everyone hitchhiked back then. But he was alone and had been set-up. Who would believe him? Three years he did. Three years of squalor and brutality with no-one to bail him out. Then one day the cell door swung open and he was free to go. Why? He would never know. But along with his old backpack and passport, they handed him money. He asked no questions, just got out as quickly as he could.
“You’re not listening,” Jamie complained.
Mike stared at her face, recognition coming slowly. He did not know how long it had been since she had turned round and started talking to him.
At the realtor’s office, Mike got out and headed straight for his truck.
“Let me know,” the realtor called over to him.
Jamie was hanging on to his arm as she skipped along beside him to keep up. “Wasn’t it great? Don’t you love it?” She was saying.
“No,” Mike burst out. “No, I can’t live in a place like that.”
Jamie got into the passenger seat of the Chevrolet and slammed the door. Mike slid in beside her.
“Didn’t you like the house?”
“No.”
“But you said you liked old houses.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” He turned the ignition.
They drove in silence.
In their small apartment, Mike went to the fridge and got a beer. Jamie followed him into the kitchen.
“I thought it was great. I love the old key,” Jamie said trying to find a way to persuade him.
No,” Mike yelled. “No.” He sank to the floor as he heard the cell door bang shut and the skeleton key turn in the lock.
©Debra Waker