St. Anthony and the Keys - Part 2

She was sitting on something, and she did not know what it was. This was precisely the type of thing that she hated about taking the trains. Next time, she advised herself, she would use this experience as an argument when her husband was too busy to give her a ride down to the church. The idea of having an unfamiliar object pressed into her bottom was unsettling, but she could not stand up now; not with so many people on the train. Someone could sneak up and steal her seat, and then she would be stuck standing next to God knows what unpleasantness.

She tried to determine the shape of the object using her sense of touch, but there was too much flesh getting in the way. It was best to try and think of something else.

The train at rush hour should have provided enough distractions, but she could not find a place on which to fix her gaze. If she looked straight ahead, she would be looking at that young man’s crotch; down and she had to stare at the garbage on the floor. To her right, someone had written a swear word on the window, and to the left, well, she did not like the look of that man.

She remembered reading about a young woman who contracted AIDS from a hypodermic needle that someone had left in a vending machine. Whatever it was she was sitting on she was sure that it was sharp.

Her mind wandered from there. Around the time she was imagining the color of the lining of her casket, the train wobbled out of the subway tunnel, and her weight pushed the mysterious object deeper into her substantial thigh. Startled, she stood up.

The back of her thigh was hurt--that she was sure of--but she could not quite tell if it was serious. She was still too afraid to look, and, now that she was standing, she had no free hand to feel the wound. One hand was squeezing the pole, and the other hand was keeping her purse close to her kidneys. Next time she would take a taxi; she would even use her own money if necessary.

A black man, an old black man, squeezed his way through the crowd at the doors and grabbed on to the pole across from hers. She looked at him and thought maybe she should smile, but she was worried about her leg; to smile would be like lying. She turned her head away.

There were so many people on the train, girls with too much makeup, children who needed bathing, that rude man on his cell phone. A beer bottle rolled from under one of the front seats and smacked against a partition before rolling back. Maybe she had sat on a piece of glass. The man with the phone might be a doctor; she could turn, and he would notice if her leg was bleeding; maybe he had some antiseptic in that briefcase. A little bit of antiseptic would keep the germs out until she could get off of the train. She hoped that she would not have to go to the hospital.

The black man was looking at her. She looked at his wrinkled clothes. He was probably homeless. She looked at his eyes looking at her; even the whites of his eyes seemed to have some brown to them. He slid his eyes deliberately, pointing with them to the empty seat and then back up to her face. What did he see? Was he trying to warn her about something? No. His expression was tired and pleading. Maybe he wanted his needle back. She squeezed her purse more tightly and tried to look stern.

The pain in her leg was almost gone, she decided. The object, whatever it was, had most likely not broken the skin. Still, it was best to be safe. Besides she was so tired of standing. She rearranged her hands on the pole and looked over her shoulder. There was something there but it was not glass or a needle. It was not even all that sharp, just an ordinary looking set of keys. She could not imagine anyone getting sick from a set of keys and so she picked them up and reclaimed her seat.

She put the keys into the crevice between her legs and consulted the map above the door. There were still thirteen stops left, and so she passed the time by looking at each key and trying to guess what it opened. Most of the keys were ordinary, but one small key stood out; it looked like the key to the liquor cabinet where she now kept christmas decorations. Along with the keys there was a plastic bottle opener that advertised Southern Comfort. The name brought on memories of nausea and she let it fall.

The last thing on the key chain was a small plastic tab with a picture of a tomato and the name of a grocery store chain. There was one just like it on the key chain in her purse. Her fingers slid across the raised ink as she read the tiny print on the back:

"If found, drop into any mail box. Postage guaranteed."

She dropped them into her purse instead.