The Locked Door

Aunt Vicky’s door was locked. When she called half an hour ago, she’d volunteered to
have it ajar for Tom. Tom wasn’t distraught. There didn’t seem to be a breeze, but it might
have blown shut.

Last week, Aunt Vicky had let him in, then on the way back to her third-floor apartment,
had to pause on every landing to catch her breath. Better for 90-year-old vanity to labor
up alone, he supposed, and be breathing serenely when her favorite nephew arrived.

Or she might have been distracted by something and forgotten. Tom pushed the no-
longer-black button of the old-fashioned round brass doorbell. It looked as old as the
house, which Uncle Steffen, a carpenter, had built as a wedding present for his bride.

The two of them raised him from maybe two years of age; Tom had no memory of his
parents. Uncle John was long gone. But she was an amazingly sturdy, disciplined
survivor: Victoria Carlsen, a retired schoolteacher, world traveler, a foster mother. He
both loved and admired her.

The doorbell hadn’t brought her; he had his cell phone dial her. He didn’t start counting
until maybe ten rings; after counting off another dozen, he gave up. Not yet really
worried, he went around to the backyard to see if she’d decided to weed the garden
while she waited for him.

No sign of her!

Maybe she’d just forgotten that he was coming, despite their brief phone conversation
less than an hour ago. He called Betsy. “Sweetie, could you look up locksmiths in the
Yellow Pages and see if there’s one nearby here?” Tom explained everything to Besty.

“Did she sound okay when you phoned this morning?” she asked. She also added, “I
don’t think you ought to go up there alone. Call the police. Who knows! If she is COVID
positive!”

“All right. But there’s no point there smashing the locked door down. Look in the phone
book and find me a locksmith.”

Tom then called the locksmith. The locksmith said he’d come right away. The locksmith,
a grey-haired black man who also wore a mask and gloves, said it wouldn’t take long.
However, when he came to know everything, he insisted on calling the police. So Tom
called the police. Two cops arrived, also masked and gloved. The cops warned to use
gloves and masks while entering the door because the locksmith had unlocked it.

There was Aunt Vicky, a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. Tom’s eyes began to
well up.

One of the cops brushed and felt for a pulse. “She’s alive!” he said. “Best call an
ambulance.”
 She opened her eyes and looked up. “Tommy!” she said. “I knew you’d come.”

He knelt down to take her in his arms, tucking her head over his shoulder so she
wouldn’t see him cry.