The Key to Her Heart

As soon as Janice entered the house, she knew she had to own it. Five months of open inspections, and finally this was it.  She placed her car keys on the table by the front door, as if the house were already hers.

A wide entrance hallway, with rooms to either side. Overhead, a plaster arch suggested Greek islands, temples, candle-lit dinners. A stairway led up to the right, the polished wooden banister gleaming in the afternoon light. Janice sighed deeply; people had been happy in this house, had loved and been loved. Just what she needed. 

Janice frowned at the other prospective buyers as if they were trespassing. A couple came down the stairs, exclaiming over the pressed-tin ceilings and stained-glass windows.  A dark-haired man stood quietly in the living room, as if listening to the walls.  Janice thought better of leaving her keys and went to retrieve them.

She walked slowly upstairs. About halfway along the hallway, there was a small wooden door, the sort that led to the hot-water service or a tangle of pipes.  Nevertheless, Janice pulled on the handle to open it.  Nothing happened; it was locked.  Then she noticed the keys still clutched in her left hand.  Not her keys at all. 

Janice tried a key in the lock.  Too big.  Another one.  Too small.  The third key fitted, and the lock turned smoothly.  She had to bend low to enter, but the ceiling rose to normal height as she climbed. She stepped out into an attic space, filled with light. Dust motes danced, and the silence seemed endless. She turned with arms outstretched, the air flowing over her like warm water.

The dark-haired man stepped into the room behind her.

With a glad cry, Janice ran into his arms.

"Oh, it's been so long," she said, kissing his neck and lips.

"Too long," he murmured, returning her kisses.

"Isn't it a wonderful house?"

"It is," he said. "Shall we buy it?"

"Oh, yes!"

They stayed in the attic, talking of the future, of the house, of the children who would fill it with life. Finally, they left to find the agent. 

Janice stepped out into the hallway first.  She walked away, looking into the bedrooms.  A dark-haired man walked past. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she ignored him.
She came again to the small door.  Once again she found the door locked and discovered the keys in her hand. She opened the door, climbed the narrow stairs, and stepped out into the light.

The dark-haired man came.

"It’s been so long," he said, nuzzling her hair.

They spoke again of the house and their life together. This time Janice waited while her beloved left to find the agent. When he did not return, she went to find him. She stepped out into the hallway, and the attic faded like a dream.

The agent was busy with a young couple.  Janice went back upstairs, feeling strangely melancholy. She noticed the small door, unlocked it, and climbed to the attic. The dust motes danced, but something was missing. 

The dark-haired man appeared. She ran to him, tears pouring down her cheeks.

"Why do we forget?" She lifted his hands, kissed his fingers.

He gathered her in his arms and stroked her hair. "Love fades so easily. Only here, in the light, do we see it dance."

They made a pact to leave the attic hand in hand, pausing at every step to remind each other of their love. By the time they found the agent, everyone else had gone. They bought the house.

#

They filled the rooms with fine furniture, books, music, flowers, and three children. The stained-glass sparkled, and laughter filled the air. They visited the attic less often, busy with children and work.

A time came when they forgot the attic completely. The children stopped laughing, and the glass no longer gleamed. The dust motes no longer danced in the light, and the walls whispered of loss and grief.  Martin packed a bag and went to live with his brother.

#

That night, Janice cried herself to sleep.  She woke to noises echoing through the house like small detonations. She got up and turned on all the lights, pushing away the shadows. The children slept soundly. No windows had been banging in the night breeze, no pictures falling off the wall; nothing at all to explain the dull thuds that had woken her.

Next day, the washing machine overflowed, the vacuum cleaner exploded, and all the light globes blew.  The children said the house was angry.

A few nights later, Janice was woken again by echoing thuds.  She stumbled into the hallway. The noise came from behind the small door to the attic. She pulled on the handle.  It was locked. Where was the key?

It used to hang on a hook in the hallway, a reminder of that first day.  When had they moved it?

Three days later she found the key in the bottom of the odd sock basket.  She opened the door and climbed the stairs.  A bone-deep longing filled her chest. The room was empty but for a stack of boxes in the corner. Boxes of baby clothes and old photos. Strange, how much we mean to remember, and how much we forget. 

Janice recalled her moments with Martin, from the first hello to the last goodbye; glimpses of dark hair, soft eyes, wide mouth.  How long had it been since they had been together in the attic?

The house groaned, a long, mournful sound like winter wind..

The hairs on Janice’s neck rippled. She turned slowly.

Martin stood at the top of the stairs.

“Jeremy called me. He said there were noises. That the house was angry.”

Janice nodded.

Martin waited on the threshold. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, Martin. Who else would I ever want here!”

“I’ve missed you,” he said, lifting her off her feet and kissing her on the lips.