Throw Away the Key

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive

BY: Deborah Shouse

Locks keep out only the honest.
~Jewish Proverb

My godparents Bel and Max met in England during World War II. They became mess hall friends for nutrition's sake: Max liked only meat and Bel liked only vegetables. They began their relationship by swapping foods from their mess trays. Soon they were sharing other parts of their lives.

When they moved into a rickety old house in Berkeley, California, Max carried Bel across the threshold. Then he said, "Hand me your house key."

She did, and he took both their keys and threw them out into the yard.

"I want to live in a home that's open to whoever needs it," he declared.

And so they did. Their home was never locked. Friends wandered in and out, stopping for dinner, taking a cold chicken leg from the refrigerator or curling up in an easy chair for a quiet read. Supper time was always a mish mash of opinions and people: the Kurdish student and the Israeli dissident, the Dallas lawyer and the manufacturer's rep from Denver, the rabbi without a congregation from Brooklyn and the priest with the small church in Santa Fe.

Still, Bel had grown up in Chicago and knew well the value of locked doors.

The unlocked house both exhilarated and terrified her. Sometimes she would lie awake in bed, expecting what her mother would have called "the worst." Robbery, rape and death raced through her mind. And all because her meshuggeneh husband refused to lock the doors.

One Friday night, well past midnight, Bel heard a door open. She heard footsteps and then stumbling. Her hands turned icy and she clutched the covers. She wanted to scream, but her voice dried up in her throat. Then she wanted to be quiet, so the robber would take what he wanted and leave. Downstairs, the furniture scraped and a drawer opened. She nudged Max, but he didn't wake up. She pushed the covers into her mouth so she wouldn't cry out. Then she heard the squeak of the screen door and the closing of the outer door. She shook Max's shoulder. "Max, someone was just downstairs. I think we've been robbed."

"Are we all right?" Max asked sleepily.

"Yes," Bel said.

"Then let's go back to sleep. We'll assess the damage in the morning."

The next morning, Bel could hardly bear to go downstairs. She took one cautious glance at the living room and saw only its familiar rumpled sofas and stack of papers beside the easy chair. The kitchen drawers were all intact; the refrigerator still stocked with leftovers. The Friday night candlesticks were still on the dining room table, her grandmother's sterling was still in the sideboard. Only one thing was out of place: a fresh loaf of challah bread rested on a doily in the center of the dining room table.

"Max, did you buy that challah?"

Max shook his head.

As they settled at the table and drank their morning coffee, Bel said, "Max, we have to lock the house. Something bad could happen to us."

"Or, something good," Max said, as he bit into a piece of fresh buttered bread.

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