Per Gwen:  ‘A Suitcase Who Refused to Open’

The maroon monstrosity had burrowed its way into their home last spring.  Jacob dragged it up the flight of stairs alone, his back taut like a beam about to snap, sweating and grunting, only to shove it in the closet.

“What in God’s name is IN there?” she asked.

“Some papers and some other stuff - I’m not exactly sure, but I know I need it. I lost the key, but I swear I’ll have that lock looked at soon. Just pretend it’s not there, Baby, Baby-Girl,” he’d said, and gave her a sweaty swirl around their new bedroom, lifting her toes from the floor. The curtains burst into the room with a breeze, and they were happy.

For a couple of months she ignored it, but by December it was making her mad. Under a creamy dust, the case festered like an egg sac. She pulled a wet rag over it and dragged it to the middle of their room to  make Jacob confront it.

“It’s taking up my shoe space,” she argued.

“Leave it!” he said, dragging it back into the closet. “Good Lord, woman, you have too many shoes anyway. If ¾ of a closet isn’t enough, maybe that’s a sign that you should purge your collection.” She ran her toe over the dimples it left in the carpeting as he pulled it back into the dark. He strained, pulling and pushing it back to its corner. “Just ignore it. It’s not in your way. And you know I can’t open it anyway.”

“Why don’t you call a locksmith and get it over with? Aren’t you worried there’s something important in there? Besides, it makes me nuts, it’s taking up too much room. And mice will hide around it,” she shuddered.

“Now THAT’s your imagination,” he’d said. “You work yourself all up about the silliest things.”

It was true, she thought. In the closet, brushed by the hems of her skinny skirts and party dresses, it was unobtrusive. And she wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t as though it occupied all of her waking thoughts. But on her more expulsatory days, cleaning and emptying her home like a Catholic in confession would their soul, the suitcase couldn’t be overlooked.

Other than that, 722 Wicker Drive was how she wanted it, big and full and shaded by a sugary Maple. She pretended sometimes that it sat upon a hill, like in a cartoon from her childhood.  Jacob gave her white shutters, a garden, two cats and a puppy that grew into a steady confidant. In her rocker, she could always drop a hand and run her fingers along the dog’s silky full and floppy ears, watching Jacob sit at his desk and work. She filled time reading novels. Mostly modern fiction, but occasionally she’d slip something classic in so as not to get too vacuous.

“You need something more to talk about at dinner parties than Kate Christensen, darling. Especially with the kind of company we keep,” Jacob would say.

“Snobs!” she’s squeal.

But some Dostoyevsy couldn’t hurt.

On a chilly evening, after a day of Jacob’s working absence and her nit-picking at the house, she found herself in her basement. ‘The way it collects around here,’ she whispered, pulling a finger over a dusty shelf. ‘You’d swear I never ran a cloth over anything.’  She opened drawers and cabinets, unsure of what she was looking for until she found it: a heavy hammer with a thick metal face.

Her heart was in her throat as she climbed the stairs. In the middle of the floor where she’d again dragged it, like a blood-covered mountain, the suitcase waited for her.  The hammer swung loose and heavy in her sweaty palms.  Trying to brace her flaccid arms, she realized that swinging hard enough to knock the case open would require all of her strength.  And there was the nature of the lock:  little bits of metal, pins and disks designed so perfectly, keeping closed the leather-covered plastic shell. Little pieces so tiny and weak that any one of them alone could be dismissed as nothing. Could be ground into gravel without feeling the impact on the sole of your shoe.

She almost felt ashamed. The curtains were still and dull against the dark sky outside, though she’d left windows open in hopes of a breeze.

“What are you doing?” Jacob’s voice startled her so that she dropped the hammer. She realized only her fingertips had been holding on.

“I just thought we could get it open, so we could get it out of here,” she stammered.

“Oh, Baby Girl…” he laughed. “I’ll call someone tomorrow, OK?” She watched as he scampered past her to the case and began dragging it back to the closet, matching the tracks its edges had made along the carpeting. His body looked childlike and bent as he pushed and pulled its weight back to the dark corner.

“OK,” she said, surprised to feel a twinge of relief. “I guess I  could just get rid of some shoes.”