Arlene set the grocery sack down on the hall table and closed the door behind her. The doorknob lock clicked into position automatically. Second was the slider, located high up on the left hand side. A tiny woman, she strained to reach it. Below were two chains. At Arlene’s age, her manual dexterity wasn’t what it used to be, but she managed them, thank you kindly. Even at seventy-eight years, Arlene Dalberg was independent.

She still lived on her own, she reminded herself proudly. Maintained the tidy little apartment she had shared with her husband, Harold, for fifty-two years, the home in which they raised their two boys. For five decades, a deadbolt and a chain were enough, but when Harold died, Arlene invested in some extra security. Her sons lived with their own families now. Better safe than sorry.

Five deadbolts, in a nice straight column. One, two, three, four… When her fingers rested on the fifth, she paused. Harold installed this lock himself, half a century ago. Today, it turned just as smoothly as the day he put it in. “Good job, lovey,” she murmured. “You sure did take care of us.”

Now for the keypad. The code was easy, though pushing the buttons hurt her fingers, a little. Eighteen—that was chai, life—then thirty-six, double-chai—and seven, for luck. She pressed the last digit and heard the satisfying shhkt! that told her three steel bars hit home inside the wall.

Arlene smiled. Only three to go, now.

The first floor lock was the difficult one, a steel rod that slid down vertically into a shaft in the door frame when Arlene released the safety catch on the side and pushed the rod into place with her foot. It took all her weight to do this, and of all the locks she owned, this was the one she regretted. After several tries, the rod was in position and she could release the catch. Arlene paused for a moment to catch her breath.

The second floor lock was another steel rod, attached to the door by a metal plate and spring. Arlene simply pulled the rod down 135º on its spring so it met a plate on the floor.

And now for the final lock, the new one. Her son Joel, the lawyer, visited yesterday and told her to get rid of it. Arlene compromised by promising she wouldn’t install any new locks. After this one, she wouldn’t need any more.

It hardly counted as a lock at all. Just a two-by-six-inch steel bar that fit into brackets mounted on either side of the door. It took all Arlene’s strength to heave the bar up from the floor. As she tried to fit it into the brackets, the bar slipped from her hands, knocking her to the carpet and crushing her hip.

By the time the paramedics cut through the wall, Arlene was right—she wasn’t going to need any locks anymore.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.