In The Box
The difference between this key and the cliche is that this key is very red, not a tarnished silver. A haunted crimson. It has depth, sex. You remove the key from the box. You get a sense of its weight, its balance. Both are as expected, so your only clue is the color, this infinite red.
You call your mother.
She doesn’t know very much about keys but she’s the only person you could think to call. “Happy Saturday,” she says. “Hi,” you answer: “Do you have a second?” “Sure, what’s going on?” “Do you remember that box you said grandpa was going to send me?” She says yes. You say, “Well, there was a key inside.” You pause for effect. “Okay,” she says. You continue, “Like one of those skeleton keys used to lock dungeons.” “Sounds interesting,” she says.
She asks whether that was the purpose of the key.
“Here’s the thing, mom: it’s a really weird color red.” After a pause, she says, “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” You say, “Think blood in a tube. That color.” You hear your mom pull the receiver from her face; then she says, “Actually grandpa is calling on the other line. Let me conference him and he can tell us — ” “No!” you shout: “I’ll figure it out. Never mind. I’ll call you later.” And then after a dramatic silence you add, “Tell grandpa I say hi.”
You hang up.
You decide to see what happens if you get the key wet. You fill a glass of water. It overflows and you watch the water turn the counter dark. The glass is large and now you must decide whether to drop the key into the glass or simply dip it. First you dip and when the metal touches the water, it begins to bubble. You laugh. A little more water spills from the glass. This water doesn’t disappear from the counter as fast. You drop the whole key into the glass. Bubbles flow off the sides of the key, the size of pinpricks. You tap against the cutting board with your thumb.
