The Sound of the Spare Key by Zenith Knox

I park Nate’s Mustang convertible on the darkest stretch of the bridge, far from the street lamps, where the wind hums an eerie tune through the rails and the thrashing current of the river drowns out any voice of reason. My cell phone shrieks and pierces the competing noises of the night. It’s him. I answer.

“Esther! Where the hell’s my car?”

My jaw clenches with regret at confiding in Nate. I glare into the rearview mirror, decorated with a dream catcher, that shows the road leading back to Nate and prom. Meanwhile, the empty bridge spans the river, a perfect place to discard Mark’s spare key forever. Glancing between the mirror and the river, I twist and twirl the cords of the dream catcher, my gift to Nate after our first kiss, a kiss I wish I could erase, then we’d just be friends and kids again.

Nate lets out an exasperated breath. “Talk to me.”

Shrills of dying cicadas fill the silence between us.

“At least tell me where you are, so I can pick up the car.”

“Rocky Point Bridge.”

“Why—”

I hang up. Here or there, I can’t escape his interrogation, his judgment. Why do you have Mark’s key?

I remove my wrist corsage from Nate to forget. Yet, in search of solace, I sink into the seat and sniff the wilted orchids. With every inhale, a key hidden in my bodice presses against my skin. I pull it out, letting the chain drape from my nape.

The image painted on the key—The Skull and Crossbones Nebula, an interstellar cloud of hot pink and neon yellow swirls—seems to sneer and mock me. Two clusters of stars peer through its dark eye sockets, watching me as Pastor Mark’s whispers float through the air, Keep the key, it’s my spare. Why didn’t I tell him it felt weird to have access to his apartment? Because he insisted? He insisted on a lot of things. He insisted that I visit weekly for lunch, that I hang out in his bedroom, that he cared for me like a big brother. I slam the corsage on the dashboard.

The cell phone rings again. I abandon the Mustang, and the trills fade as I creep toward the railing. The bowl of the Big Dipper, the hour hand of the celestial clock, shifts counterclockwise ever so slightly. I peek over the bridge at the northern lights reflecting on the river. The key dangles on its chain and grazes the guardrail. I clutch it, and the teeth dig into my palm, inducing pain, more tolerable than my turmoil. The key, an accomplice, belongs in the water. Or does it? Is it my witness, my cross to carry, my shame to bear? A congregation of voices in my head blame me. Dummy. Liar. Asking. For. It.

I rip off the chain, heart racing, body trembling. I doubt I’ll hear the key drop in the current. However, the sight of it falling into the reflection of the cosmos will look like a launch into space, a distraction of triumph and celebration. Unfortunately, the litter net will stop the key’s descent. I try to climb onto the guardrail for a better toss. The irony of crouching on the best spot for a jump doesn’t escape me, but the metal sends a chill through my hands. My head spins. I step back until the silhouettes of the cliffs and bluffs return to focus.

Then a gust blows through the air, and Mark’s whispers whip through my hair, I’m sorry for what I did to you. God will use this evil for good. His apology was worthless, worse than the earthy stink of the river that leaves a metallic taste in my mouth. I take a deep breath of Nate’s cologne lingering on my dress, but the smell of Mark’s sweat violates me instead.

The rumble of tires over the asphalt disrupts my spiraling thoughts. A car drops someone off behind the Mustang.

Nate, a statue-come-to-life in a tuxedo, approaches with the gait of a warrior sent by a king. Moonlight casts glints through his hair, framing a gaze that softens as it fixes on me. My eyes flood and blur him—I don’t deserve such a friend. My cheeks burn, as though the cross on Mark’s necklace is swinging at my face again, chipping away at the pedestal I’d placed Mark on. A weight crushes my shoulders and my chest tightens, over the last time I met Mark for lunch at his apartment, when the innocent girl in me, who once daydreamed about Nate and prom, drowned in her grief and died with her screams muffled by Mark’s hand.

Nate stares at my wrist, devoid of the corsage, or possibly my fist concealing our pastor’s key. As the wind mixes his cologne with my perfume, I catch a whiff of our shared fragrance between my sobs and say, “Your stupid car key, it’s in the Mustang.”

“I don’t care about that,” Nate brushes aside my curtain of bangs from my swollen eyes, “or about that asshole Mark. I didn’t mean to be a jerk.” He glows against the backdrop of the full moon. “You okay?”

“I…” my words tangle and mangle on my tongue.

“We’ll figure this out.”

“We?”

“Yeah. You and me.”

Nate draws me into a dance as wet streaks form and glisten on his cheeks. I lower my head against his shirt and pretend not to see. His chest rises and falls, rocking me to rest. My high heels shuffle over the latticed base of the bridge, crevices where the key may stick—or slip…

…my fingers loosen

          around the chain,

                     echoes of the

                              clinks wane,

                    only the murmur

          of the river

remains…

Zenith Knox

Image: A set of car keys with a plip style fob from Pixabay.com