Behind the heavy, gold-lettered volume of the third encyclopedia, my rag hit something hard and flat. It was not another book.
I pulled the volume forward and reached into the dark space behind it. My fingers closed on a small, rectangular book bound in blue leather, secured by an inexpensive brass lock that held the front cover tight to the back.
“Mom,” Clara called from the kitchen, her whisper reaching me through the doorway. “Did Dad leave his keys on the counter?”
I slid the blue ledger under my apron, pressing it against my ribs.
“No, sweetheart,” I said, stepping into the hallway. “He usually takes them with him to the office.”
“He was looking for them before he left,” Clara said, biting her lower lip. “He said he lost the small brass one.”
I went back to the living room and slipped the blue ledger under the stack of winter blankets in the cedar chest, my hands steady despite the cold weight in my chest.
At noon, the sun was high but thin, casting pale squares of light across the kitchen linoleum. Richard came through the back door, his tie loosened, carrying a white paper sack from the deli.
He sat at the table and began unwrapping a turkey sandwich, the paper crinkling in the quiet room.
“The oil in the sedan is low,” Richard said, not looking up as he lifted the top slice of bread to inspect the meat. “And the kitchen floor is sticky near the refrigerator.”
“I was planning to mop this afternoon,” I said, pouring him a glass of water.
“Planning is not doing,” Richard said. “A family does not need two managers, Martha, it needs one provider.”
He took a slow bite of his sandwich, his jaw working methodically. On the ring of keys sitting next to his plate, a tiny, duplicate brass key glinted in the noon light.
“I am doing what is necessary,” I said.
“What is necessary is for you to be here when the children come home,” Richard said. “This house is falling apart because you are looking elsewhere.”
He picked up his keys, the metal clinking as he slid them into his trousers pocket.
