The Chicken Ate My Keys!

An Interpretive Short Story

• Fiction
• Humour
• Short story
• Drama

								
Stuart Wolf loved Monday mornings. He was always up before the sun when he knew he got to go to work. After a long weekend of driving around his daughter, little Marianne, listening to his wife’s gossip, while out doing Sunday chores, he couldn’t wait for the sustainable isolation of his private office on 34th Street. There, he was king of the world. Other gentlemen would nod to him and give him handshakes, as if he was a main character from a Hollywood film.
Being at work also meant he could smoke cigars. His wife hated the smell. She claimed it caused her skin to break out. He never noticed that before, but since not smoking at home gave her peace and assured quiet in the house, he stopped and waited until the weekday to partake. He also loved lunch. All the other men in his department would sit in his office and laugh, or listen to president Eisenhower on the radio. He would contradict the president's point or tell them that his wife, Martha, was twice as beautiful as the first lady. Stuart Wolf loved waking up on Monday mornings.
His briefcase sat perfectly parallel to the door, where he always left it. His breakfast was already made by the time he dressed. This day however, his wife decided to sleep in, and he had to prepare his own toast. By the time he was done, it was covered in black scorch marks and tasted much worse than usual. Compounding the problem, he couldn’t find his fucking briefcase. 
Mr. Wolf, usually a subtle man, had to leave in ten minutes for work. All the paperwork necessary for the week was in the vanished case.
“Martha!” he yelled out to his wife, still sprawled in their bed. “Martha! Did you move my briefcase?” He heard a mumbled reply. How could she be so careless right now? His work paid for the damned house she lived in.
His heavy feet fell against laminated floors as he made his way to the bedroom, shoving open the door.
“Martha, did you move my briefcase?” Every word was heavy and filled with underlying threat. His wife sat up quickly and shuffled her feet into her slippers.
“No, I never touched it. I went to bed before you last night.” Stuart rolled his eyes. If he hadn’t touched it, she must’ve moved it while cleaning. It was the only explanation. 
“Yes, you did go to bed early, and still I had to wake up and make my own breakfast because you were too tired to get up.” He though he should feel a small twinge of guilt for snapping, but this was urgent, and all he wanted was to get to work. “You must’ve moved it while cleaning or something.”
“I didn’t! Why would I touch your briefcase?” She cooed softly, walking towards him now.
“Do you remember seeing it when we went to bed?” he asked. He couldn’t recall anything after the steak dinner and brandy, he never did.
“I think I remember seeing it there last night when I got up. Marianne was crying, and I passed the briefcase when I went to get her, just a few hours ago.” Stuart never heard his daughter crying. He definitely would’ve noticed his wife getting out of bed. Before he can snap again, little footsteps patted outside the room. 
“Mama!” Little Marianne crowed, her voice filled with sleep. Martha rushed out the door to comfort the ever needy child. Stuart followed, slowly and deeply annoyed. 
“Hey baby! Did you sleep good? Let me get you some breakfast.” 
Stuart wasn’t in the mood for coddling. He needed to find that briefcase, now. “Martha, you need to help me look!” 
His wife scurried around the kitchen, looking for something to give their daughter, a frantic smile on her face as she looked over her shoulder at him. “I will. Let me just grab her some food first.” 
His wife insisted their daughter still needed help with breakfast. She was almost seven, for God’s sake. 
Stuart began to pace, eyes scanning the room, looking for the auburn surface, the bronze handle. As his eyes drifted back to where their daughter was sitting at the dining table, her eyes held his. Her cheeks were slightly pink. She seemed to almost be swallowing a smile. Maybe his wife didn’t move the case.
“Marianne,” he tried to keep his voice light, “did you move my briefcase?” 
Martha seemed to perk up at this, giving her husband an incredulous look. “Don’t be ridiculous, Stuart! She wouldn’t do such a thing.” 
Not convinced, Stuart sat at the table, directly across from his daughter, like a cop questioning a lead suspect. Staring into her big brown eyes he repeated himself, “Did you move my briefcase?” His tone darkened. Marianne was smart enough to notice this and instantly changed her face from cheeky to completely flat, shaking her head so little blonde strands of hair stuck to her face.
“See, she didn’t do it.” Martha went back to fixing some toast, but Stuart needed to leave in five minutes, and his daughter knew it too.
“Marianne, you need to tell me right now what you did with the suitcase.” His voice was loud now. Martha’s heart rate picked up; she knew it was only a matter of seconds until he started to really yell. She had loved this man because of his gentle nature and intellectual tone, but living with anyone for long enough can change what version of them you know.
 “I didn’t move it!” The girl cried, her voice high and strained, begging her dad to drop the subject, and he wanted to, but he wanted to get to work more.
“I need to get to work right now and if you don’t tell me what you did with the briefcase, you’ll sleep outside with the chickens.” Marianne had heard this threat before, but this time her dad seemed serious and she knew it, but something inside her refused to speak up. She was too scared to talk back. “I’m going to count to ten, and if you don’t tell me where the case is, you’re sleeping outside.”
“Stuart!” 
He ignored his wife's call; he needed to leave this goddamn house. “one…two…three” Marianne’s eyes started to water as she shook her head. “I didn’t!” 
“four…five…six”  He raised his eyebrows and paused, waiting for her to cave. Nothing but a sniffle came from her. “seven…eight…nine” The little girl looked to her mom for help, but Martha knew there was nothing she could say, Stuart wasn't a man to forget. “...ten” The little girl's fate was set. 
Stuart stood up from the table, letting the anger sit right in the center of his chest. “I’m going to work.” He grabbed his car keys off the counter, shoving them in his suit-coat pocket. “If you find the case, call the office. I need those papers or they’ll chew me out.” He gave his wife one last empty look before walking to the can parked outside. A few of their chickens scattered themselves across the lawn at the sound of his footsteps. He heard the door open once again.
“Wait!” Her little voice was still shaky, but he turned around to look, trying not to let the tear stained cheeks affect him. “It’s… it’s under there.” She pointed back inside the house. He tried to stay calm, why didn’t she just say so? He followed his daughter back into the house. She stood by the liquor cabinet, not meeting his eyes, her finger pointing underneath the large, wooden furnishing.

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