Chapter 8
The hallway felt narrower than it had an hour before. The pink tinsel on the white door shivered every time someone walked past in the living room, and the gold HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner had slipped a little on the right side so the Y hung lower than the rest. My wife stood with her hip against the door frame, her right hand tucked into the pocket of her green wrap dress. I could see the outline of the key through the fabric.
Her mother was right behind her, arms crossed, not touching anyone. From the dining area I could hear two of our neighbors talking in low voices and a kid asking for more juice. Nobody was singing anymore.
I looked at my wife and kept my voice even. It took effort not to raise it.
"Can you hand me the key?" I said. I made sure her mom could hear me. "Just hand it to me and we let her out. In front of your mom. No scene."
My wife didn't move her hand. Her jaw tightened the way it does when she thinks she's being cornered.
"Don't do this," she said. "You're undermining me in front of my own mother. In front of everyone."
She glanced toward the living room as she said it, then back at me. Her fingers curled tighter around whatever was in her pocket. I could see the knuckle press white against the green fabric.
"She's seven," I said. "She's been in there since we cut the cake. That's not parenting. That's locking her in."
"She ruined the table," my wife said. Her voice was flat now, rehearsed. "She knocked over the punch trying to be funny. I told her before the party if she acted up she'd sit out. You always do this. You swoop in and make me the bad guy."
Her mother shifted her weight. The floor tile creaked under her shoe.
"Jennifer," her mother said, quiet but clear. "Give him the key."
My wife flinched. "Mom, you don't know what she was like today."
"I know there's a child behind that door," her mother said. "That's enough."
For a second I thought it worked. My wife's shoulders dropped. Then she pressed her back harder against the wall, right next to the framed portrait of the two of them — her in that yellow dress, him in the red shirt — smiling in some studio portrait that had nothing to do with this hallway.
"No," she said to me. "If I give you that key, she learns she can scream until you cave. You teach her that."
The hallway was maybe four feet wide. I could have stepped forward and taken it. The key was right there in her pocket, thin metal against thin fabric. My hand actually lifted a few inches before I caught it. I thought about what that would look like — me grabbing at my wife's dress in front of her mother while our daughter thumped on the other side of a decorated door and our neighbors pretended not to listen from ten feet away.
I dropped my hand.
"I'm not going to grab you," I said. Her eyes flicked down to my hands and back up, surprised that I hadn't.
From inside the room, my daughter hit the door again — not a kick this time, just the flat of her palm, twice. Soft thuds that didn't even rattle the brass knob.
"Dad?" she called. Her voice was smaller now, hoarse. "Dad, are you still there?"
"I'm right here, honey," I said, not taking my eyes off my wife. "I'm not going anywhere."
My wife's mouth opened, then closed. Her mother reached out and put a hand on her forearm, not pulling, just resting it there.
I looked past my wife at the door itself. White panels, brass knob that wouldn't turn, pink tinsel taped along the edge. Then I looked at the side where the hinges were — three silver hinges set into the white trim, pins facing up, a little dark with old paint around the edges. In every rental we'd lived in, those pins lifted out with a screwdriver and a tap. I'd done it once in our first apartment when the bathroom door swelled shut in summer.
The tool box was in the laundry closet, maybe fifteen feet behind me, past the kitchen.
I took a half step back so I wasn't crowding her.
"I'm not touching your pocket," I said. "I'm going to get this door off another way."
My wife stared at me, hand still locked in her pocket. "You can't be serious."
"Watch me," I said. I turned to her mother. "Stay here. Make sure nobody locks anything else."
May you like
Her mother nodded once. She didn't let go of her daughter's arm.
I walked toward the laundry closet. Behind me I heard my wife say, "He's going to wreck the trim," and her mother answer, "Then let him wreck the trim." I didn't look back. Inside the room, my daughter knocked again, and I called over my shoulder, "Hang on, sweetheart. I'm getting you out without breaking anything I don't have to."
