The Key to Everything

by Alex Kimmell

  It comes from Jason first. The voice is guttural and dirty, drowning in mud. Like it is not moving any air to make the sound. He says, “You.”

  The next word comes from Emily. “Turn.”

  And finally Jeremy stands and reaches for you. “The Key.”

  The boy is flying across the room at you, fingers like claws outstretched, lunging for your face, when the alarm goes off. ”Open yourself for me, and let’s play for a little while…” a deep gravelly voice sings out of tune, as you fall off the bed and jump to your feet. Emily stands in the doorway of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand.

  “Everything ok?” She rustles a towel through her freshly washed hair. “Honey?”

  -6-

  Auden: Let's Play For A Little While

  The water is cold straight out of the tap, and you wipe your hand from the condensation on the glass. Hopefully three aspirin will help calm the throbbing in your temples. As if the bad dream weren’t enough, arguing with Emily for half an hour about going back to the doctor didn’t help things much. You hate to admit it, but she was right. You find the number in her book and make an appointment to see the doctor again tomorrow morning. Not only will that make her feel better, but your stomach seems to unclench some as well. Since she stormed out go for a walk with the boys, the quiet of the house has been calming. You’ll apologize when she gets home and ask her to come to the doctor’s office with you.

  Maybe give her a neck rub or something.

  Once again, nothing seems interesting to watch on TV. Switching it off, you walk over to the sliding glass door in the kitchen and look up at the sky. It’s a beautiful shade of bluish purple with a few wisps of clouds gliding slowly across the upper atmosphere. The trees are mostly still, but it looks pretty cold outside. Making up your mind, you grab your long-sleeved Led Zeppelin sweatshirt and take a seat outside on the patio.

  The last sip of your water is as cold as the first, and you circle your index finger absentmindedly at the ring of water forming around the bottom of the glass. Everything feels beautiful. The new place is coming together, and almost all of the boxes are unpacked or stacked in the garage. It’s not as cold as you thought, but the briskness of the air sends nice tingles up the hairs on your arms. Eyes closed, you breathe in deeply through your nose and exhale all the madness built up in your tense muscles. You blow out as far as you can, trying to empty every single last drop of air in your lungs. Feeling thinner now, there is a brief sharp pang just above your stomach, and you breathe back in the fresh air of the outside world.

  This is a good neighborhood. This is a good backyard. This is a good house. This is good.

  Everything is happening. You lean back in the wooden chair and interlock your fingers behind your head. At first you don’t notice the slow humming vibration on your leg. A small, contented smile pushes the dimples into your cheeks. Your right hand scratches at the back of your ear, maybe a fly or something. Your left leg feels like it’s been bouncing up and down for a long time now. It’s a small but rhythmic movement, like dancing.

  You see an old black-and-white movie of teenagers swaying back and forth in two parallel lines. The one on the left is all girls in poodle skirts and ponytails. On the right are the boys dressed either in sharp, shiny, skinny-tied suits or in rolled-up jeans and leather jackets over white t-shirts with packs of cigarettes stuffed in their back pockets. Every couple of seconds, the boy and the girl at the far end of the line move to each other and dance toward you, facing each other and leaning to the left, then spinning around with their backs facing each other, snapping their fingers in unison.

  “Open yourself for me and let’s play for a little while …” The music sounds warped. Like the record had been left melting in the interior of a hot car for hours before being placed back on the turntable. All the kids are mouthing the words and smiling. “Let’s play…” You sing aloud and feel your leg bounce along to the asymmetrical beat of the song.

  The first couple has danced their way to the end of the line and taken their place next to the other kids. As they sway back into place, the next couple moves to the center and grooves back and forth on their way. The record skips and repeats. “Open yourself for me and let’s play for a little while …” Moving in slow motion, the couple in the center of the line turns back to back. All of the kids still in line stop dancing. The solo couple snaps their fingers, and both lines turn to look at you. You put your hand down to stop your leg from bouncing up and down. “Open yourself for me and let’s play for a little while …” No one is dancing anymore. None of their eyes are blinking. You feel your leg stop moving, but your hand is not resting on your pants. The screen blinks in your mind, and all of the dancer’s heads are now flipped to their sides at a stiff ninety-degree angle. Their mouths black holes at the bottom of their faces, filled with the static of bad antennae reception. You feel dry skin under your fingers. The dancers’ left arms slowly rise up and point toward you. “Open yourself for me and let’s play for a little while …”

  You open your eyes. Sunspots flicker before them. Your leg isn’t bouncing anymore, but the muscles in your foot and calf feel stretched and pushed to their limit. Reaching for your water glass, you remember it is empty. Not quite ready to stand up yet, your mouth is dry. It feels like you slept for hours, yet the light hasn’t changed enough in the sky for more than a couple of minutes to have passed. Pushing your leg forward and angling your foot straight out, you stretch. You reach down to catch the book falling off of your thigh, feeling the sun-warmed leather cracked and broken against your palm. You don’t remember bringing it out here with you. You don’t even remember when you last saw it.

  It feels good in your hand. Warm. Breathing. Alive.

  Not giving it a second thought, you slide your chair a little closer to the table and gently set the book down. Caressing the binding with your fingers, you trace the edge of the cover slowly from one end to the other. “This is my book,” you think. “It’s a nice afternoon for a little read.” Shrugging your shoulders, you ask yourself, “Why not?”

  You smell molding leaves as the cover opens.

  -7-

  Auden: Leaving

  The first page is devoid of words. You make out smudges of different-sized fingerprints at the edges of the page. A few are scattered around the top and the bottom, but most are along the right edge. All of them are a dark reddish-brown color. The center of the page is empty, but for a brief moment, it moves. Swirling. Drawing you down. You blink, grab the top right corner, and turn to the next page.

  Once again, you see no words. You move your fingers around the paper, trying to find out why it feels so real. It just feels so…right. A sharp stab, like a pinprick, hits the center of your finger, and you draw back quickly. No blood on your skin. No mark of any kind. You stare intently at the swirls and curves etched into the skin of your finger. They have always been there. You just never took the time to look at them so closely before. The phrase “I know it like the back of my own hand” springs to mind. But who has ever really memorized their own skin?

  Taking the corner of the page, you lift it free and gently turn it to the next. Not surprisingly, you see no words on the empty sheet. You allow your eyes to glance to the left, at the back of the previous page. You see it. But it shouldn’t be there. You just saw the same curved line a moment ago. You flip your hand over and place your finger next to its mirror on the paper. There is no denying it. The same lines and swirls in reddish brown. It doesn’t even look wet. Your fingerprint has been there for a long time. You’ve always been in there.

  Seasick and lost, you move along the path of dark curves. You feel yourself engraving into the grooves and patterns of your finger. At the same time, the ink forms letters that swim into words on the page opened before you. You don’t speak. Still, your voice etches itself into the old, decaying parchment. Suddenly there is no oxygen in the air around you. The smell of wet paper comes at you from everywhere.

  You begin to read the w
ords on the page…

  Seasick and lost, I move along the path of dark curves. I feel myself engraving into the grooves and patterns of my finger. At the same time, the ink forms letters that swim into words on the page opened before me. I don’t speak. Still, my voice etches itself into the old, decaying parchment. Suddenly there is no oxygen in the air around me. The smell of wet paper comes at me from everywhere.

  I begin to read the words on the page…

  I jump up from my

  chair and it tumbles over the side of the deck, onto the grass. The sky is still blue…the water glass is still empty…you hold your hands over your eyes and shake your head to bring things back into reality. You think about Jason and Jeremy, how much you will miss them. You think about Emily and hope she will be okay without you. You wonder why you think these things and

  realize that I am going away. I am leaving. I am crying now. I haven’t cried like this since I was a little boy. It’s an end-of-the-world kind of crying. Sucking-in-my-shuddering-bottom-lip, snot-running-down-my-nose-and-not-wiping-it-away kind of crying. I’m-afraid-of-dying crying. I don’t want to die. I think I’m dying. Is this what dying feels like? Who could tell me? Anyone who knows what it feels like is already dead.

  I am un-becoming myself. Not in the sense that I am acting in a manner that my mother would consider improper. I am becoming someone other. Not someone else, someone

  other. Not completely unpleasant, you don’t feel exactly good, but there is no pain. Not physically. It feels like you are squeezing through a crowd of people, shoving and pushing to get to the exit of a building, where you can smell smoke from the faint glow of a fire burning at the other side of the room. No panic yet, but close to the surface. The wave is about to crash, and someone has their fingers wrapped around the alarm lever.

  I can feel the page turning, moving me closer. The tide is pulling me toward a door up ahead. At least I think it’s a door. I can hear the rushing of water. Or is it the rustling of leaves? My head feels so small. I am a balloon in reverse. Something is sucking

  you out of yourself. You feel the crowd rushing faster now. Time is up. The fire brigade won’t make it in time to save everyone. You feel the floor turn soft and slippery and hear muffled

  screams under my feet. But it’s only me. There is no crowd. There is no fire. I am disappearing. I am leaving.

  -8-

  Emily: The Last Wind

  Emily and the boys come in through the garage door. She sends the boys upstairs to get ready for a bath while she puts the mail down on the table in the hallway. Checking her reflection in the mirror, she bristles at three crow’s feet that have appeared next to her eyes since the last time she really looked at herself closely. Puffing her cheeks and blowing out the last wind of her youth, she turns around, looking for Auden.

  She tried being understanding, but the way he acted this morning convinced her. He needs professional help. Tonight she will give Uncle Eddie a call. He’s a therapist. He’ll know what to do. They haven’t talked since the move, so there’s her excuse for the call right there. Where is Auden? The TV is off, and so are the lights in the living room. There is a little breeze coming from the kitchen, so she goes in to see if he might be making himself a sandwich.

  Odd…the glass door is open and the screen is closed, but she doesn’t see him in the backyard. She walks up to the screen, and one of the patio chairs is knocked over. The door squeaks a little on its rollers as she walks out into the cool afternoon. He left his glass on the table, too? She rights the chair and picks up an old leather-covered book, and turns back to the kitchen.

  The glass goes in the sink, and she can hear the boys fighting upstairs, so she drops the heavy book onto the bookshelf next to the fireplace. Auden’s probably upstairs taking a nap. Halfway up the stairs, she stops and almost turns around. Could’ve sworn she heard his voice just then. Must have been her ears playing tricks on her.

  -9-

  Auden: The Flattening

  I can’t see anything.

  My eyes have gone dark.

  No breeze or sound of any kind.

  I should need to breathe, but there is no air.

  No pain in my chest.

  No chest.

  Can’t feel my body.

  Emily?

  Can you see me?

  Can you hear me?

  Where am I?

  What am I?

  Am I still here?

  -10-

  Emily: The Ghosts of Bad Luck

  12:03 a.m. flashes in a dull, glowing blue on the VCR. Auden is still not here, and Emily is far beyond worried now. The panic set in about half an hour ago, and she hasn’t stopped pacing from the front window to the telephone since the kids went to bed. If they were back in their old apartment, she would have a crew of at least thirty people helping her look for him by now. But they don’t know anyone here yet.

  She picks up the phone to call 911 and stops before she finishes. Hanging up the receiver, she takes a deep breath. He’s probably out for a walk trying to clear his head. The move has been pretty rough on him. He acted so strangely the last few days… maybe the fresh air will do him some good.

  It’s a nice thought, but it doesn’t help her feel better. The last thing she needs is Auden having a nervous breakdown. It’s hard enough being in a new neighborhood with no friends. She needs her boat to be steady. She had better stop the rolling before they tip over and get washed out to sea.

  She folds her arms on top of the fireplace bricks and exhales hard. Resting her head on her forearms, she absentmindedly begins kicking bricks with the toe of her white tennis shoe. She can hear the muffled thud of each concussion reverberate through her bones. There isn’t enough pain caused by the action to prevent her from continuing, just enough to keep her awake and aware of everything so she doesn’t fall into her own pit of worry and despair.

  “Come on, Auden,” she says through clenched teeth. “Where the fuck are you?”

  Emily pushes away from the fireplace and, in doing so, knocks a few pictures off the mantel. She wants to scream in frustration, but that would only wake the kids. Every muscle in her body tightens and shakes violently for a few seconds. She grinds her teeth and whips her arms through the air, punching at the ghosts of bad luck or at inanimate objects, or because of her missing husband.

  Putting her hands to her face, she lets out a muted cry, takes a deep breath, and kneels down to pick up the fallen photographs. The first one is a small, unadorned wooden frame surrounding a picture of Jason and Jeremy riding the swings in her parents’ backyard. It was only taken a few months ago, but they look like completely different human beings now. No longer the babies they were then, swinging through the air, laughing hysterically.

  The second one is a black-and-white silhouette that Auden took of her when she was pregnant with Jeremy. She was changing into her nightgown in front of the window. The full moon hung directly behind her head like a halo, and its light illuminated the edges of her naked body, making her frame appear solid black. The image of her round belly only a few days away from giving birth made her ache to be pregnant again. Originally she hated the picture, but Auden framed it anyway. She’s glad he did.

  Lastly she picks up the picture from their wedding. The silver frame surrounds what would typically be a photo of a bride and groom holding hands and smiling as they run off toward their honeymoon through showers of rice. Since their friends are a bit eccentric, they threw buckets of water instead. Caught mid-air, just before the happy couple realizes they are about to get soaked, dozens of arches of water hover inches above their heads, about to splash down. Everyone smiles and points as Auden and Emily wave obliviously to the crowd.

  She smiles at the memory and places the frame back on the top of the mantel. Luckily, the glass is still intact in all of them. She brushes some old ash off the bricks with her index finger and turns to look at the silent phone, willing it to ring. A motion on the mantle runs across the corner of her periphera
l vision, and she turns back. The pictures have all changed. Jeremy and Jason are standing in front of the swings instead of riding them. The newlyweds are no longer in the rear of the photo smiling and waving, but now stand front and center in the frame.

  What captures her attention the most, however, is the silhouette. The moon is still hanging high in the window frame, but the shadow woman is no longer standing in its light. She now faces the camera and walks slowly into the center of the room. She floats out of the moonlight’s glare as her image begins to gain definition. The black drains away from her full, curved shape to reveal pale flesh. Her swollen breasts bounce gently with each step. Her fingers interlaced over her ripe belly untangle and rise up into the air.

  Emily wants to close her eyes and not see this. She wants to be in bed dreaming this, nightmaring this. But this is real. It is happening, and she must keep her eyes open to see. She sees her little boys’ mouths open wide into silent Os. The newlyweds are now filling up the entire frame, opening mouths eerily stretched beyond all possibility. The silhouette has moved to the edge of the room, and all at once the five heads snap to the right, bending at an angle the human neck was never meant to.

  Emily jumps back, bumping into the coffee table, and almost loses her balance. Without taking her eyes off of the three pictures, she tries to regain her composure. She screams as a hand presses into the small of her back, pushing her forward again toward the fireplace. She fights against it, but it is so strong.

  The open mouths are moving now. The lips are staying still, but the inside of the dark cavities are filled with static. Emily hears the white noise sound of an old television tuned to a station whose signal has been disconnected. The noise is rolling at her in waves. She feels bile rising in her throat. The noise is deafening now, this hiss, the wash.