Keys
By Marty Politelli


The toilet clogged. I sloshed with my auger like a real plumber and snagged what you flushed down there.

“Here’s the culprit,” I said. I wrung out the handkerchief and held it up. Our plan commenced.

You made a point of accusing the old man in front of the housekeeper. You nearly convinced me he’d flushed it down there. He winced at the scolding. He stared at you without comprehension and asked about his keys.

“I threw out your keys because you wander,” you said. “What do you need with keys? Stop prattling about your keys.”

You instructed the housekeeper to give your overnight bag to the driver.

Keys wouldn’t do, anyway. The door unlocked from the outside. The heirs insisted on that as a precaution, lest he ramble and take a header off the nearby Cliff Walk onto the stony beach below.

“He’s too fit to die anytime soon,” you said as we walked to the car. “They’re afraid I’ll squander the estate. I meet with them tomorrow.”

“A deal?”

“I’ll make more as a widow.”

The driver put your bag in the trunk and drove you to your sister’s. I went home and wasted time.

He usually woke after midnight. I returned to wait in the dark. Something crashed to the floor and the light switched on. Probably a vase or a potted plant. He shuffled to the door he knew was locked and fussed with the knob.

He showed no interest in being outside. That’s assuming he realized he was outside. He stood for many minutes, shifting from foot to foot. You were right. He couldn’t be counted on to get anywhere without help.

I helped.

We parted company where the Ledge Road meets the Cliff Walk. The path meandered toward its terminus some distance ahead; here we overlooked the rugged Newport shore line cluttered with stones and boulders. I prodded him to go on alone.

Fog on the water shrouded the sharp rocks on the shore in shadow. His silhouette moved through the mist. He navigated the tricky footing of the path with some dexterity. Still it was only a matter of time.

What surprised me was he didn‘t stumble. I expected a misstep and a lurch. Maybe a weak cry or a desperate grasping. Something.

He proceeded to where the footing was less secure and after that to where there was no footing at all. I tried to read his mind. Did he expect to stroll in mid-air?

Over the side he plunged: down, and down some more. A seagull, surprised, took wing. I made my way nearer to the edge and peered down. I heard waves pounding. Most likely he bled to death rather than drowned.

I slipped your keys under the catalogues in the mailbox and pocketed the plane ticket. Montserrat’s an inspired choice. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to keep apart for a while.


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Marty Politelli lives in Warwick, Rhode Island with his wife and two sons. And an odd little dog named Lucky. He’s a title examiner by trade.