That afternoon I met her at the studio. Her hands were on her hips and she had a look that said, “You little rascal. So forgetful and careless in your varied and packed schedule. This is just like you. I bet you’re giving wrong keys all over the place.” She had the condescending smile, the head titled slightly; the only thing she was missing was the wagging finger, which I could have put in here because what do you know about this person, anyway?
All I could do was hate her. I didn’t make a habit out of carrying eight pounds of keys everywhere I went like I was some janitor or building superintendent. I have six keys on my ring; there was no way I gave her the wrong key. In fact I remember thinking I should not make a mistake and give this lunatic my house key, because she’d use it, just as a joke. She’s the kind of person who’d use it to make a point. She’d come crawling up the driveway in her rusty maroon two-door, dog hair covering the seats like fur. She’d knock, then put the key in and, surprisingly, open it smoothly on the first try, my wife and I stunned and frightened in our living room. She’ll open the door in a way that tells me she had planned it all along, that she might have even practiced a few times before pulling off what she thought was a hilarious and memorable gag on me.
“Give me the key,” I said to her. There are only two locks on the door: a deadbolt and the one on the doorknob. The deadbolt wasn’t engaged, wasn’t in place, didn’t breach the matching hole in the door frame. The deadbolt didn’t work. The key was meant for the doorknob lock, which made things even more mystifying. I put the key in the lock, turned it, with nary a jiggle, and opened the door.
She looked at me as if I had a trick key, hidden for this occasion.
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