by Rob Scott
‘If they aren’t taped inside, you may be out of luck. There’s one place you can look if you feel like taking the time.’
‘Where is that?’ Steven felt his hope rising.
‘In the keys to the known world,’ the older woman responded, adding nostalgically, ‘my father kept a jar of keys. Most of them don’t fit anything, but he liked to let children drop keys inside and make a wish. It was a fun way to keep them occupied while their parents browsed around. Sometimes children would come in by themselves just to drop off keys.’
The idea of picking through sixty years of discarded keys did not sound very appealing, but it was a sure-fire way to ensure he’d be around when Hannah returned from her morning errands.
‘Terrific,’ he said. ‘Point me to them and I’ll get started.’
The jar was actually an enormous glass container the size of a small barrel. It took him and Jennifer working together to lift it over to where he could sit and try out possible matches in the cabinet’s locks. He estimated there were some two or three thousand keys in the container; the task would take hours – but the longer he stayed at Meyers Antiques, the more courage he would summon to ask Hannah to dinner that evening.
By 11.00 a.m. Steven’s four-course breakfast was sitting in his stomach like a bag of wet cement, and he was now certain these were the keys to the known world. He had seen every imaginable size and style: skeleton keys, house keys, boat keys, even keys to an Edsel – he’d never seen an Edsel outside the movies, yet here he had found the keys for one. He tossed them into a pile at his feet.
He had a rough idea what he was looking for – a type of skeleton key with teeth on one side of a short barrel and a small hole in the end – which at least made searching a little easier.
Steven was both an avid hiker and a mountain cyclist, and he had memorised each turn and switchback of many of the routes in Rocky Mountain National Park. When work at the First National Bank of Idaho Springs began to feel like drudgery, he would drift off in quick, escapist daydreams, remembering fondly every detail of a great climb or a bike trip over the Continental Divide. He sometimes worried this escapist tendency was dangerous, part of his ongoing propensity to avoid living in the moment, but it helped him control stress, and reminded him there was an end to every boring task. Working through the keys, he found himself drifting back to a long climb he and Mark had completed several weeks earlier, along the Grey’s Peak trail just below Loveland Pass. He remembered the picturesque vistas and autumn aromas, and the feel of the earth beneath his boots. Before long he was immersed in his memories, absentmindedly checking the keys, but otherwise paying them little attention.
It was then he heard the voice, as if from outside, across the street, somewhere along South Broadway.
‘I said, are you having any luck?’ It was Hannah. Startled from his reverie, Steven jumped to his feet and in the process kicked a pile of rejects across the faded tile floor.
‘Oh, damnit, I’m sorry about that.’ He moved awkwardly to his hands and knees and began gathering up the scattered keys. ‘I’ll have them all together in just a second.’
‘Well, let me help you,’ she said, laughing, and joined him on the floor. ‘I take it you haven’t found any that fit the cabinet.’
‘No, not yet.’ Steven stopped and watched Hannah. In his mind, he heard himself saying over and over again, ‘ I ring the bells of Notre Dame. ’
She stopped as well and, on all fours between rows of mahogany and walnut china cabinets, said, ‘You know, you’re well over halfway through the jar. I can help you with the rest after we get these picked up.’
‘That would be nice of you.’ Steven allowed a long breath to escape his lungs. She was dressed similarly to the evening before, but this morning her hair hung loose about her face and across her shoulders.
‘Um-’ Now Hannah hesitated. ‘Are you free for lunch?’
‘Most days, yeah… unless of course Howard makes me go to Owen’s with him.’
Hannah giggled, then looked embarrassed. ‘No, silly, I meant today. Are you free for lunch today?’
Steven was stunned. She had taken him by surprise, and despite his heart bellowing a cacophonous, white-knuckle rhythm through his ears, he almost managed to control his voice when he replied, ‘I’d love to.’
As they walked to the Mexican restaurant Hannah had chosen, she did most of the talking, chatting about her grandfather and the store. Steven was happy just to listen. He had managed to put his foot in his mouth so often since meeting her that he welcomed the reprieve. The restaurant was busy with a large Saturday lunch crowd, but Hannah located a booth near the back where they could enjoy the illusion of privacy. Although Steven was far from hungry – breakfast was still sitting a little heavy – he made certain to order enough to make lunch last as long as possible. He soon discovered Hannah needed little convincing; she appeared in no rush to get back to the shop.
Hannah was a full-time law student at the University of Denver. She had originally studied political science, then took a job with a charitable organisation, but after three years there decided she could better serve those in need as a lawyer. ‘I don’t expect to make much money at it, but in the long run, I hope to have a greater impact this way,’ she explained, stuffing shredded chicken and guacamole into a fajita.
When Steven tried, delicately, to broach the topic of other men, she told him she had recently broken off a long-distance relationship with a boyfriend from college who had moved to Atlanta.
‘Was it the distance that created problems for you?’ Steven asked, feeling encouraged.
‘No, I think it was more his tendency to engage in short-distance relationships while in a long-distance relationship with me.’ She took a bite of her fajita, then, with her mouth full, asked a muffled, ‘How about you?’
‘Me? Oh, God no. I haven’t been involved with anyone for the past three years. I finished my MBA, misplayed a couple decent job offers, partly because they were risks and partly because they were… well, mostly because they were risks. I’m not much of a risk taker,’ he said, folding and unfolding a corner of his napkin.
‘I know. I could tell. I mean, how many of those keys were you really going to examine before you talked to me? And your truck was outside the store before I arrived this morning. So I thought I’d take the gamble and help you out.’ She looked at Steven, waiting for a response. ‘Was that okay?’
‘Well, you did interrupt my carefully planned schedule of seven hours’ courage-building before twelve seconds of stumbling over myself and two hours of grovelling, but all things being equal, I’m glad you did.’ He grinned. ‘I’m really glad you did.’
‘So am I,’ she said as she reached across the table to take his hand. As before, Steven’s heart leaped as he felt her fingers wrap around his for a moment. Then, feeling awkward, as if she were moving too fast, Hannah pulled back, waved for their server and ordered a cup of coffee.
Steven changed the subject. ‘You know, I’m halfway through that jar. It’d be a shame to have those cabinet keys sitting there near the bottom, never to be reunited.’
‘Well, I look forward to helping you in your search,’ she told him. Steven watched as she stirred sugar into her coffee mug. She really was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but more than that, she was beautiful without trying. He was always disillusioned by the concept of supermodels and film stars who employed teams of specialists, spackling masons and airbrush artists to achieve that look of perfection. He imagined Hannah rolling out of bed, donning a sweatshirt to read the morning paper and still looking exquisite, her skin flawless and her hair cascading down her back. He wanted desperately to reach over and touch her face, but he was afraid he would scare her off. Surely he was the only man on earth to ever feel this level of insecurity and anxiety when trying to make an impression on a lovely woman. He would have to remember to ask Mark about it later.
Without pausing to think, he blurted out, matter-of-factly,
‘I have to see you again.’
Hannah stood, and Steven thought he should stand too, but he wasn’t certain that his legs would heed the command.
She smiled. ‘Let’s go find your keys and we’ll figure it out there.’
Walking back from the restaurant, Hannah held his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Steven talked this time, about living in the foothills, working at the bank and his plans to find a more rewarding career – if he could just figure out what that occupation should be. Prefacing his confession with: ‘No laughing,’ he even revealed his love for abstract maths.
Despite his warning, Hannah did laugh out loud, then asked, more seriously, ‘Why not become a mathematician?’
Steven kicked a discarded bottle-cap along the sidewalk. ‘Well, because there really is no money in maths, and because I’m not sure I’m very good at it. I love it, but I think – no, I’m certain – I’m quite slow. I have maths problems I’ve been trying to figure out for months now.’
Jennifer Sorenson did not seem to mind that her daughter had taken such a long lunch; she waved from across the showroom as they walked in.
‘I’ll go check to see if there’s anything she needs me to do,’ Hannah said, ‘while you get on with key-hunting.’
‘I’m going to find something else to buy so she sees it wasn’t time wasted,’ he called after her, and began searching the room for something outlandish he could buy for Mark or Howard. He soon located a vase that looked as if it had come from a 1920s speakeasy, blown glass moulded into the shape of a nude woman holding a top hat and cane. It was an absurdly ugly piece, perfect for Howard’s office.
‘I think I’ll call her Greta,’ Steven said, holding the vase aloft. ‘Howard will love her wide hips, and the way he can drink beer right from the top of her head.’
‘Please don’t feel obligated to buy anything else,’ Hannah told him. ‘My mother and I aren’t expecting to sell everything off during this sale.’
‘Are you kidding? Look at her: she’s pure kitsch, the perfect gift for a guy who has no taste. I’m not joking; Howard will love her.’
They spent the next hour talking while they went through the key jar, building up a pile of discards so enormous it blocked a whole aisle.
Eventually Hannah sighed and said, ‘Okay, that’s the end. I’m sorry they weren’t in there. That was a lot of work for nothing.’ She began returning handfuls of keys to the jar.
‘I wouldn’t say it was for nothing,’ he chided, and turned away, a little embarrassed.
‘No. I guess I wouldn’t either,’ she said, then kissed him quickly on the lips. ‘I’ll go and write up a receipt for the cabinet. You put the rest of these back in the jar.’
Steven swallowed his astonishment and called, ‘Don’t forget to add Greta to my bill. She’s coming with me.’ Then he sat on the floor in front of his sister’s china cabinet, still holding Greta. Hannah’s kiss had astounded him; he needed a few moments to regain his composure. He closed his eyes and ran two fingers across his lips, exhilarated – until he looked down at the floor and was reminded that a veritable mountain of orphan keys waited to be shovelled up and returned to the jar.
‘All right, let’s get you all back home. Keys to the known world, sure – I’d have been happy with just the keys to the damned cabinet.’
Then he saw it: a glimpse of a familiar shape with a familiar insignia. BIS. Shifting Greta to his left hand, Steven reached over and picked out the key. He turned it over. 17C. Greta fell from his hand and shattered on the tile floor, the broken pieces of breasts and buttocks strewn about in a confused, connect-the-dots pattern between the china cabinets.
‘Holy shit! It’s Higgins’s key,’ he whispered to himself, oblivious to the stares of customers startled by the crash. ‘How did it get here?’ He gaped down at it and repeated, ‘How the hell did it end up here?’ After another minute staring like a voyeur, Steven remembered where he was. He slipped the key into the pocket of his jacket, murmuring nervously, ‘What are you doing, Steven?’ Bending at the waist, an animated mannequin, he picked up the pieces of Howard’s nude figurine and went across to apologise to Jennifer.
Rob Scott
The Hickory Staff
THE ORCHARD
Versen Bier looked around before snapping the reins and driving the wagon into the street. Estrad was quiet this morning; the woodsman listened carefully as he checked for signs of Malakasian patrols. Behind him, Garec huddled in the wagon’s bed where he was ensuring the canvas tarpaulin covering their cargo remained in place. Running through a deep rut in the muddy street, the wagon lurched suddenly and one corner of the protective tarp fell away. Garec quickly replaced it, hoping no one had chanced to peer between the wooden slats at that moment. Their load was not farm produce, firewood or baled hay, but hundreds of swords, rapiers, shields, chain-mail vests and longbows. They were heading for the abandoned palace in the forbidden forest, and unless they drove through a nearby orchard, rather too suspicious a move for this time of day, this street was the only way to get such a heavily loaded wagon into the woods near the crumbling castle. Both men prayed silently they would not be stopped for inspection.
The punishment for possession of such a large supply of weapons would be swift, sharp and final. They would be driven to the nearest tree, hanged until dead, and then left there for a full Twinmoon: a vivid example to anyone else contemplating seditious activities. Garec had seen men killed this way; during the rainy season especially corpses decomposed rapidly and few hanged bodies ever lasted a full Twinmoon. Instead, the flesh around the neck and upper shoulders tore away and the body slowly stretched and ripped its way towards the ground.
Garec forced the image from his mind; he would rather die at the end of a Malakasian sword than the end of a rope. Versen felt the same way: they would fight to the death if caught by a passing patrol. Both Garec and Versen were deadly with a bow, but today, to keep from drawing attention to themselves, neither man was armed. Longbows were conspicuous and although they trained with swords and battle-axes, both found them cumbersome weapons; if they had to fight today, it would end badly. Garec closed his eyes, waiting to feel the wagon’s wheels leave the muddy street for the relative protection of the forest.
Versen spoke, interrupting his anxious thoughts. ‘It’s getting too busy out here. I don’t have a good feeling about this.’ The street was growing steadily more crowded, despite the early aven.
‘Let’s take a side street and cut through the orchard,’ Garec replied. ‘At least we’ll get some protection behind the buildings that way.’
‘I’m worried it’s too light out for that. Why would a wagon go through the orchard unless there was something to hide?’ Versen’s face was grim. ‘If anyone sees us go, we’re as good as dead.’
‘We just have to make it to the corner,’ Garec replied nervously. ‘We’ll check the window above Mika’s and then decide.’ As they approached a crossroads, Garec stared straight ahead and whispered, ‘You do it. We can’t look up there at the same time: anyone watching us would find that suspicious.’ They didn’t know if spies were actively searching for partisan groups in Estrad, but they were determined to take as few chances as possible.
Versen glanced up, casually, and reported, ‘One taper, not lit.’
‘Get us out of here quick,’ Garec said into cupped hands, ostensibly warming them against the morning chill.
Jacrys Marseth watched from the window of a local merchant’s stop as the wagon turned slowly down a side street towards an apple orchard that flanked the neighbourhood. When they disappeared from view, he motioned to a Malakasian soldier waiting quietly in an adjacent room and whispered, ‘Two streets down. Take them now.’
The soldier hurried out of the back of the shop to join the remainder of his patrol. He leaped into the saddle and led a small group of heavily armed men into the crowded street. Their horses pounded through the morning mud, parallelling the wagon’s path, and then turned
quickly to cut off the two suspected partisans. Bursting into the orchard, the small patrol briskly surrounded the wagon and forced them to a stop.
‘Step down,’ a ruddy-faced corporal directed.
‘We’re unarmed,’ Versen answered, slowly raising his hands above his head. Garec did the same and moved quickly from the wagon.
‘Kneel down,’ the soldier commanded, ‘there in front of the horses.’ Both men did exactly as they had been ordered. Garec felt his hands shaking uncontrollably and put them firmly on top of his head, tightly gripping two handfuls of hair as an anchor.
‘We’re farmers,’ he said, ‘just taking this morning’s load to the village market.’ He heard his voice crack and decided to remain silent unless absolutely necessary.
‘Check it,’ the corporal ordered a nearby soldier who dismounted and began unfastening ropes that held down one corner of the large canvas tarp. Finding an unruly knot, the soldier drew a knife from his belt and sliced through the cloth in a long gash that exposed the wagon’s cargo. Garec sneaked a glance at Versen, who gave his friend a conspiratorial grin.
‘Apples, corporal,’ the soldier called. ‘It’s just apples.’
147 TENTH STREET
‘Why do you suppose they call it a trash receptacle?’ Mark Jenkins wrestled to fit a large pizza box into their kitchen garbage can. ‘I mean, as much rubbish as goes into this thing eventually comes out again, right? So it’s not really a receptacle as much as it is a holding centre.’ He bent the box in half against his knee as if he were breaking up kindling wood for a fireplace. ‘I say we start changing the way people refer to it. We can call it the trash holding centre.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘That really doesn’t work, does it?’
Steven Taylor wasn’t listening. He sat at one end of the sofa in their living room turning Higgins’s safe deposit box key over in his hands.
