Chapter 9
I went to kitchen drawer. Party noise stayed loud behind me. Wife had not followed. She stood at hallway mouth, arms crossed over green dress, watching.
Drawer stuck. I yanked. Silverware rattled. No screwdriver there. No hammer. We had moved last spring, toolbox still in garage behind stacked birthday boxes. I grabbed what existed. Butter knife from dish rack, quarter from counter beside three-tier cake. Pink tablecloth brushed my hand. Candle wax smelled sweet.
Daughter thumped once against white door. Soft thud. Inferred audio, not observed speech. I heard faint sniffle through wood.
I knelt at hinge side. White paneled door had three hinges, all painted over. Thick white paint sealed pins in place. Brass knob glinted above pink tinsel. Gold HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner reflected hall light.
Wife stepped closer. Heels clicked on tiled floor.
"Don't," she said.
I wedged quarter under bottom pin cap. Metal slipped. Paint cracked. White flakes fell to tiled floor.
"That coin won't do anything," wife said. Her voice stayed low, restrained. Guests laughed in living room. Someone lifted lid off soda.
I tried again. Pressed quarter hard. Pin did not move. Paint held like glue.
Wife leaned against beige wall. Framed couple portrait hung behind her. Man in red shirt, woman in yellow dress smiled frozen.
"See you cannot override me," she said. "Just wait ten more minutes. Party ends soon. Then she learns."
I switched to butter knife. Blade bent. I tapped pin with heel of hand. Pain shot through palm. Pin stayed stuck.
Ten more minutes felt endless. Daughter's birthday clock ticked inside that room. Red balloon tethered above door swayed from air vent.
Daughter heard scraping. Small voice came through door.
"Dad?" she said. "Are you leaving me?"
My chest tightened. Breath caught.
"No," I said. "I'm here. I'm right here at door."
Knife slipped again. I caught myself against white trim. Beige wall blurred close.
Wife crouched beside me. Green tiered wrap dress pooled on floor. Waist tie brushed my knee.
"You're scaring her more," she whispered. "Scraping like that. Stop."
"I need proper tool," I said. "Paint sealed hinges."
"We painted last fall," she said. "You helped."
I remembered. Roller handle in my hand, her laughing, daughter stepping in paint with bare feet. Now paint locked her in.
I tried middle hinge. Quarter edge dulled. Butter knife tip bent worse. I pried upward. Wood creaked. Door shuddered but pins held.
Daughter knocked again. Faster now.
"Dad, door won't open," she said. "Mom said stay till singing over. I don't want stay."
Wife closed eyes briefly. Micro-expression flickered. Jaw tightened.
"Tell her ten minutes," wife said to me. "Tell her be patient."
I ignored wife. Pressed forehead near door seam. Spoke through crack.
"I'm not leaving," I told daughter. "I'm trying hinge side now cause knob locked. Paint stuck, honey. I'm not going away."
Silence on other side. Then small breathing.
"Is tinsel still there?" daughter asked.
"Yes," I said. "Pink tinsel still on door. Banner still gold."
Wife stood. Smoothed dress.
"Enough," she said. "You tried. You cannot fix everything with coin and knife. Come back to party. Ten minutes. Then I unlock with key."
I kept kneeling. Knife fell from my hand, clattered on tile. Quarter left gray mark on hinge.
Pins held. All three. Paint won. My improvised tools failed.
I looked up at wife. Her expression was not triumph. It was fear wrapped as control. Light from party area made her face half bright, half dim.
"I can't wait ten minutes while she thinks I left," I said.
Daughter whispered through door.
"Dad, don't go to cake without me."
That broke something small in chest. I pressed palm flat against white paneled door. Wood felt cool.
"Never," I said. "Stay right there, baby. I'm staying right here too. We're figuring key, okay?"
May you like
Scraping stopped. Hallway went quiet except distant party murmur and soft inferred birthday music from living room. Red balloon string tapped door frame.
Hinge attempt failed. Daughter fear spiked. I had to return to key negotiation. Ten minutes was not answer she needed.
