A Key in One's Palm

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A Key in One's Palm

         The key rested in the palm of my hand. Where had it come from? I lay there in my bed, trying to figure it out. My mind sorted through my dreams. The foglike images stretched out in strange mismatched fragments. Yet I couldn't remember any of them pertaining to a key. I decided that I probably wasn't awake yet.

         Then my cat licked my face. Yick! I pushed her away. "Bethsheba, stop that," I said. She purred, happy to have me awake. Turning around in circles, contented that I was sitting up and about to start my day, she curled up on my bed and prepared to nap while I was getting dressed.

         "Urg," I groaned. Saturday at five o'clock in the morning. Darn cat.

         Then I remembered the key. I'd been thinking about it when she woke me up, and its metal solidity was still clutched within my hand. Where had it come from? One doesn't just go to bed and wake up with an unfamiliar, golden-hued key glued to one's palm, yet as far as I could recall, that's exactly what had happened.

         I lay the key down on my chest of drawers and went into the bathroom to shower. I returned in about ten minutes, shivering from the chill of the early morning air. I slipped on my jeans and T-shirt, socks -- but no shoes, and bundled into my favorite sloppy navy-blue sweatshirt. Comfort time! Then I reached out to pick up the key. It was gone.

         Of course, I searched in my drawers and under the chest. In fact, I emptied out every drawer. I stripped my bed (cat included). I combed the carpet. The key had disappeared.

         Nothing wakes a person up faster than a mystery. That morning I was more than bright-eyed; I was bug-eyed. The darn key had melted into air. I was as irritated as a politician with laryngitis. But, I drank my coffee and forgot about the key. Like most passing irritants, sunshine and daily living replace them.

         But the next morning I woke up with that key in my hand again. Twice in two days was no joke. Nor was it something one could let slip away. I was intrigued.

         I showered, got dressed, and talked to the cat -- all with the key in my robe pocket. I wasn't taking chances that time. Then, after my cup of Java, I reached into my pocket. The key was gone. Again I searched. Once more the key had Houdinied.

         That night I hardly slept. I tossed throughout a dreamless blackness, wondering where the key had gone to, where it was from, and what it opened.

         In the morning, when I woke up dreary-eyed, I was once again clutching the key. However, half the mystery was solved. I had dreamed about the key: There was a chest in the attic. I had only to use the garage ladder, crawl up through the trapdoor in my hall closet, and I would discover whatever treasure was to be found.

         I didn't question the key's presence or having such a vivid dream. I just followed the directions. In my nightgown, I climbed my rickety old ladder. Cobwebs barred my entry. They didn't stop me. I brushed them aside and set foot on rafter. The key in one hand, a flashlight in the other, I turned to the right and walked twelve steps.

         I found the wooden chest quickly; it was almost cylindrical, but had sides at the bottom and golden metal clasps. My hands shook with excitement as I picked it up and placed it under my arm. I carried both the small chest and the key down the ladder. Upon reaching the ground, I galloped back to my bed and plopped the thing right beside my sleeping cat.

         "Aren't you curious about this, Bethsheba?"

         The cat opened one eye, glared at me, and snored on. I used the key on the chest. There should have been music -- trumpets or a drum roll. There was only the squeaky turn of the key and a click as the lock opened.

         Suddenly, the room turned to ice. I shivered and pulled a cover over my legs. The cat, disturbed and irritated with me for pulling the blanket out from under her, stood up, arched her back in a giant stretch, and started to lick her fur. Then she stopped and hissed at the box.

         "What's wrong with you?" I laughed.

         Bethsheba never hisses, and she never yowls. She did both, and then she hurled herself into the air and came down, landing on my legs with claws bared and sharp. In her scramble to flee, those claws raked my skin into shreds.

         I screamed and bolted up, the fire of the scratches hurling me away from the bed. It also thrust the chest down onto the floor, cracking it open so that it burst like a ripe and rotten melon. From its belly poured forth hand-sized scorpions. Of course, I screamed and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

         Poison control sent over an officer who bottled up the gruesome arachnids. He sprayed my room for the "just in case." It didn't matter. I didn't open my door or sleep in there for a good month. (Lucky thing I had overgrown my closet and filled the spare bedroom with clothing! It saved me from having to buy everything new)

         Thanks to Poison Control I have since learned that my particular infestation of scorpions was from South Africa. The Parabuthus granulatus Scorpion has a fatal sting. Currently there is no antidote.

         Some people enjoy mysteries. I no longer do. I have not been sleeping well and have put my house up for sale. I suppose it is a silly thing to do, but I no longer feel safe in it. One thing is sure. If I ever wake to find a key in my hand, I shall not ponder its meaning or explore its possibilities. Immediately, I will toss the darn thing into the garbage can and take off running.

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