The Locked Door

                                                    The Locked Door

Dorothy, aka Dottie or Dot or Deetee, depending on who was speaking to her, had enough of Lance. She’d spent all day, well not all, but she told herself was a considerable amount of the day tidying. The bags of books were ready to be donated to the little libraries that had been constructed on corners in towns. She thought them charming.

Her mother, whose name was Dorothy, refused any of the nicknames for her daughter. Dorothy was proud to have named her only daughter after herself, never mind that it was long out of fashion, at least in some circles. She’d told her daughter fine names never died. When Deetee (what Lance had called her last night, their last night together because she found him a drip) asked her what she’d be up to the next day, she said she’d be sorting books to take to one of those cute little portable book houses that had sprung up like crocuses all about their town, a quaint burg  

“What a sweet thing to do,” Lance said as he dressed with haste because he had to meet his buddies at the gym which Deetee thought absurd during a pandemic. Not dressing with haste, but going to the fitness center with all those sweaty people. She’d told him this before she considered him a drip, but he said “omicron likes bars better than gyms and we distance.”

Deetee had not responded to this inanity and was glad the phone had sung while Lance was tying the string on his sweatpants that were violet-colored. Further evidence of the term drip. It was Kath who called her Dottie. Kath, whose name was Kathleen Bernadette Sullivan, talk about being labeled, called to say that since both of them were boosted and she was bored she’d come and help.

“Dottie, it would be my greatest pleasure to come over and help you with getting rid of, poor choice of words, donating some of those relics to some of those adorable libraries. There’s one on my corner. I found a “Lolita” there the other day. I’d never read it. Not as risqué as some of the stuff out there today. Have you read it?”

“Way back when. I think it’s here among what you call the relics. Paperback. I’d donate it unless I decide when I find it I ought to read it again.”

“Not a good omen for donating, thinking you might want to re-read. You have got to let go, Dottie.”

“Speaking of letting go, Lance is now a no-go, gone with the wind, gone girl, drip that he’s become or always has been. He doesn’t know this, but he’s going to find a locked door here when he comes calling, if he does. I am done with Lance, kaput, finished, over and out. Full of cliches today.”

“You forgot done, as in Lance is done. See you within the hour. I’ve got to start layering. It might take an hour.”

“Layering? Oh, clothes. Me too, Kath. Tee, turtleneck, cashmere cardigan from some old beau. I’m plugging in the stainless-steel thing that Dad said was a coffee pot but looks like a toy cannon. Do you want a flavor? There’s these tiny bags of flavors – raspberry, blueberry, caramel, butterscotch.”

“Straight up, Dot, straight up.”

The long morning turned into afternoon then dusk, and the women had placed books into 18 paper bags to take to the portable libraries. Twice Lance had called, and both times Dorothy had looked at the screen, shaken her head no and resumed sorting. Piles of books in corners and atop tables were dwindling. Kath said this was a good thing, that tidiness was next to cleanliness, that neatness was, she struggled for a word, nifty. Kath had published some but not much poetry in her 44 years of writing rhymes. She’d been told at workshops that with her name she could become a famed Irish woman poet, but that hadn’t happened. Yet.

Caffeine had done its job. The women talked and talked, bounced about the full of stuff apartment and cleaned the kitchen counter along with all the sorting. Dottie had not found “Lolita.” At four o’clock, when the gray afternoon got to the color of old steel, she announced she was “done for the day. We’d better go find the little libraries before dark.”

The one at the corner of Dorothy’s street had a combination lock on it. Through the glass they counted seven books. There was room for more, but the door was locked.

“What is this?” Kath said. A locked library. An oxymoron. Maybe Lance did this to spite you. After all, you’ve locked him out. Rejection is hard to take, even for drips.”

“There’s one outside the Free Public Library which of course is locked because of the pandemic. But the portable one surely won’t be locked or what’s the use?”

But it was locked. There was a keyhole. They felt around for a key. No key. Dorothy called her mother who’d told her of these little places where people could donate and take books. Her mother had said, with tact, it would be a good thing to do on a winter’s Saturday to “start sorting.”

“They’re locked, Mom. We’re walking now, Kath and me, down to Town Hall where there’s no one because it’s Saturday. Didn’t you say there was a little library outside the side door?”

“Yes, it’s pink with a shingled roof. Charming. I found a Nabokov the other day.”

“Well, we’re here and it’s locked with a chain. Ridiculous. They’re all locked, and we’re done. It’s cold. We’re layered but it’s cold and it’s getting dark. I’ve got a back seat full of bags of books and no place for them. Maybe it’s an omen of some kind.”

When they got back to the apartment, there was Lance in the living room, shoes off, feet on a box of books, newspaper spread on his lap.

“Tried calling, no answer. Knew you were out donating. Knew I had a key somewhere, and here I am.

                                                                          end