November 1
Laura called from Connecticut yesterday telling me she desparately needed a few days in Vermont, and she asked whether this was a good time for a visit. I told her anytime is a good time for my dearest friend and as long as she didn't mind stacking a load of firewood, or at least supervising while I did, she was welcome to come on up.
She arrived this afternoon just before dinner time. I didn't hear her come in but nearly jumped off the floor when she dropped her keys on the kitchen table. They landed with such a loud bang that I was sure they left a scar on my pine table.
After our greetings and embraces Laura slid into a chair near the table. "I'm really wiped out," she said. "Got any coffee?"
I moved her purse to make room for a mug and lifted her keys from the table. They jingled in the air like a musical instrument. I dangled them in front of her face. "It's no wonder you're exhausted. Hauling this ball and chain around can take a lot out of a person."
There were more than a dozen keys circling the silver ring, plus not one, but two of those car alarm remote controls and a small plastic card, like a credit card.
She chuckled. "C'mon," she said, "it's not that bad. I know people with twice that many."
"What's this one for?" I asked singling out a gold one.
"That's to the downstairs door of my building. The other gold one right next to it and the little silver one are to my apartment," she said.
I flipped past a matched set of car keys, one for the ignition, another for the doors and trunk. "And this one?"
"Laundry room."
"And this?"
We went around the ring and she recited the purpose of each key: restroom at work; parking garage; health club locker. I learned that the plastic card let her in and out of anywhere she was allowed to be in her office building. There was one she couldn't identify at all. That's when it occured to me that she saw each of them as a sort of trophy, awarded to her for being so accomplished and responsible.
When I asked why she had two car alarm remotes I was hoping to hear that she was in a relationship that had reached the key-swapping stage, but instead she admitted the second one was really pepper spray.
I put the keys back down on the table and turned to fetch the coffee pot. "They weigh a ton."
"Nah. They're not that heavy," she insisted.
But her solemn eyes and serious brow hinted to me that taken in total they might be heavier than she realized. It can't be good for a person's spirit when so much of her life needs locking up.
As I poured the coffee into her cup I was certain my car key was in the
ignition, where it would be most useful but I couldn't remember where the
key to the house was. I know I've got one, but I just haven't seen it in
a while.
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