breaking and entering

Colleen Markley

MY HUSBAND AND I HAVE DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES about keys. I hang mine on the hook by the door. Brian drops his wherever he tires of holding them. Once he found them wedged so far into the couch that he needed to tilt it sideways and use a hammer to pry them out from the frame. Later, when keys disappeared, our toddler donned his plastic construction helmet and faux toolbelt to search the couch cushions. 

I loved the idea of hiding a spare key, but I’m mindful of all the warnings against such amateur measures. 

“If you thought of it, so will the burglars,” our police chief friend told us. The grill? The drainpipe? A fake rock that looks like other rocks? The smattering of cops, firefighters, and ex-military in our family were adamant: nothing was secure enough for a determined delinquent. 

“My fear of burglary is bigger than my fear that you’ll forget your key,” I told Brian. He knows I get anxious and loves me enough to listen when I rank my fears. So I gave a spare key to a friend and hoped for the best. 

Neither of us were truly surprised, one freezing February night, when we did not have a house key after returning home from the airport at two a.m. 

I pulled out my phone to activate my backup plan. 

“We’re not bothering them at this hour,” Brian said. “I’ll get us in. I can break a window if I have to.” 

“No broken windows, please. It’s four degrees with a wind chill of minus four million.” 

In the backseat of our minivan, our kids were waking up. “Are we locked out?” our eleven-year-old asked. 

“No,” their dad lied. 

“Yes,” I corrected. 

“Not for long.” Brian left us in the car, determined to breach our three-bedroom abode. 

“Can we watch a movie?” our nine-year-old asked, unperturbed. I put on Harry Potter, kept the heat running, and locked the doors, taking the key fob with me. 

My cat-burglar husband was scouting the second floor from the backyard. Our bedroom has a little wooden Juliet balcony and an unlocked door handle that had broken before our trip. Brian had promised we’d fix it when we returned. His procrastination now seemed to be part of a divine plan. 

Jumping up and down to keep warm, I proposed, “If I climb on your shoulders, I can reach the balcony.” 

“That’s twenty feet high. You’re five-three. I’m six feet. Unless your arms are nine feet long, that math doesn’t work.” 

“I’m five-four when I stand really tall,” I reminded him. The frigid air prickled inside my nostrils. “Maybe we can bring the picnic table over and stand on that.” I added body heights, table heights, and arm lengths.… 

The table was apparently made of cement. We wrestled it into place like a pyramid stone, inching it one tiny step at a time, taking breaks for my arm muscles protesting the moonlit workout. Brian stood on the table, looking like a cartoon character reaching for a cookie jar on top of a fridge.

“We need the ladder,” I suggested. “The big one for cleaning the gutters.”

“We don’t have a big ladder,” Brian told me. “We have one short ladder.”

“When’s the last time we cleaned the gutters?” I wondered.

Ignoring me and the neglected gutters, Brian dragged the short ladder out of the shed, set it on top of the picnic table, and climbed up. Standing on the top step on his tippy toes, his fingers reached the middle of the railings.

“Perfect,” I said, climbing on top of the table. “Now put me on your shoulders and I’ll climb over.”

Brian climbed down and cupped my cheeks. His hands were slightly colder than my glacial face. I put my mittened hands on his to warm them.

“You know how you’re too afraid to leave a hidden key?” he asked me.

“Yes. I know that story.”

“I’m too afraid to let you climb on my shoulders while I stand on top of a ladder that is perched on top of a picnic table at two in the morning with the wind gusting. You’re not climbing anywhere.”

Aww. He was afraid for my safety. So romantic.

Brian returned to the shed and, this time, came back with the axe.

“I’m not breaking a window,” Brian promised, seeing my worried face. “I just need to get rid of one post. If we can’t get over the balcony, we can—”

“—go through the balcony.” A warmer, well-rested version of me might have protested. My freezing, exhausted self was desperate, and chopping through our balcony seemed like a logical plan. Brian climbed again, stabilizing himself on the almost top step. He then swung the axe at one of the skinny posts, over and over again, while standing on a ladder, on top of a table, in the middle of the night, in the blustery dark of February. After one last thunk he handed me the axe and the post, now in two pieces. I was so relieved his limbs and digits were intact. 

Brian took hold of the railings on each side of the hole he’d created. I put the axe and wooden souvenirs down and gripped the ladder. 

“One, two—” He pushed off the top step, his toes leaving the warning sticker. I held my frosty breath while he hoisted himself up, squeezing through the deck railings. The move was Olympic-worthy, and I clapped in frenzied appreciation. 

Brian twisted the door handle and walked inside, safe. I exhaled and returned to our kids. 

“Mom!” our nine-year-old complained when I paused the movie. “Harry was trying out wands!” I told our kids about the real magic their dad had just performed. 

“Cool,” said our eleven-year-old. “I’m next.” 

“What?” I asked. 

“I don’t want to climb the ladder.” Our youngest’s eyes widened with fear. 

“We’re both great at monkey bars,” our eldest explained. “This’ll be easy.” 

“No one’s climbing the ladder—Dad’s opening the front door. This was a one-time thing!” 

“Until you forget your key again. I claim next on ladder duty!” 

We still don’t have a hidden spare key. But I do have a new piece of art hanging next to our key hook. I framed the two pieces of wood Brian chopped off the balcony. It’s a great reminder to check for our keys. And a great reminder that sometimes love is magic, even when it looks like an ill-advised Olympic event. Or burglary.