Keys to Yesterday

This story centers around two siblings cleaning out their childhood home after the death of their father.

“Are you just going to stand there holding that box all day?”

“I’m thinking. Give me a second.”

“Thinking about what? It’s just old junk. Put it in the donate pile.”

“Dad never threw anything away. Maybe there’s something important in here.”

“It’s a shoebox full of keys. None of them are labeled.”

“They might open something.”

“What, like a secret room? This isn’t a mystery novel.”

“I’m just saying. He was always locking things up. Remember the garage?”

“Yeah, and then he forgot which key opened which lock. That’s why there’s a bolt cutter hanging by the door.”

“Don’t you want to look, at least?”

“If you want to waste an afternoon testing keys, be my guest. I’ll keep sorting.”

“You don’t have to be so—”

“So what?”

“Efficient.”

“Somebody has to be.”

“I know. I just, never mind. Hey, look at this one. It’s tiny.”

“Probably for that suitcase he kept under the bed.”

“You never wondered what was in it?”

“Of course I did. I was twelve and nosy. He said it was ‘private business.’”

“Bet it’s still there.”

“Bet it isn’t. He was paranoid. Probably burned whatever was inside.”

“Should we check?”

“If you want to crawl under there, be my guest.”

“Can you hold this flashlight?”

“Are you really doing this?”

“Just for a minute. Okay, I see it. Still has that ugly sticker on it. ‘Property of S. Becker.’”

“Try your key.”

“It fits, but it’s stuck.”

“Twist harder. Here, let me.”

“Don’t break it”

“There.”

“It’s just papers. And an envelope.”

“Is it addressed to someone?”

“Yeah. It says my name. And another one for you.”

“Are you going to open it?”

“I yeah. I guess.”

“Well?”

“It’s... a letter. ‘If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone.’ Great. He always was dramatic.”

“Keep reading.”

“‘I wasn’t much for talking. I know that. I hope you both can forgive me for the things I left unsaid. There are things I wish I could explain, but maybe it’s better you never had to know. I love you both. Dad.’ That’s it. What does yours say?”

“Pretty much the same. And a check. For ten thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Folded inside.”

“Mine too.”

“Do you think it’s real?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s from the insurance.”

“He never said anything.”

“He never said anything about anything.”

“Guess that’s his way of saying sorry.”

“Do you feel any different?”

“No. Do you?”

“No. Maybe a little. Like... I don’t know. Like something just ended, but I’m not sure what.”

“We should probably keep cleaning.”

“Yeah. Hey, do you want Dad’s old radio?”

“That thing barely works.”

“It still plays the ballgames if you smack it.”

“Fine. I’ll take it. For old times’ sake.”

“Remember when he’d tune in the static on purpose and pretend it was music?”

“He was weird.”

“Yeah. He was.”

“Are we weird, too?”

“Probably.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“Me too.”

“Let’s finish up. I don’t want to be here after dark.”

“Me either. Pass me another box?”

“Here. This one’s heavier.”

“Figures. He always put the heavy stuff on top.”

“He never did make things easy.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Pizza?”

“Only if you let me pick the toppings this time.”

“No mushrooms.”

“No promises.”

“Fine. But I’m driving.”

“Suit yourself. Last one out locks up.”

“Don’t forget your letter.”

“I won’t.”