An invitation to read
The Hook
and the Eye
The attic door is open, and I know the agent closed it, because I watched him do it.
That was back in the spring, at the walkthrough. It’s a skinny door at the end of the upstairs hall, painted the same white as the trim, with a hook-and-eye latch at shoulder height. The agent pressed it shut with the flat of his hand. “Humidity,” he said. “Old door.” Then he dropped the hook into the eye, and out of the whole tour, the granite and the water heater and the school district, that little metal click is the thing I remembered driving home.
The movers didn’t open it. There’s nothing up there to move.
I push it with two fingers. It swings a few inches and jams against the swollen frame without latching, and the air that comes out of the gap is cold. Basement cold, in an attic, in August. I stand there feeling it dry the sweat on my neck, and then I go back for more boxes, because the truck charges by the day and the house cost us everything we had, plus thirty years of money we haven’t made yet.
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