The Secret Friend

Written by Tom Fowler

Fred Foy’s wife passed away last year, leaving Fred a widower at age 65. Fred was grateful that his closest friends continued to include him in their social gatherings.

So, it was at breakfast one morning at a local pancake house that Fred shared something with the Bakers and Cokers he had never shared with anyone. Retrieving an object from his pocket, he began to speak, “You four are our closest friends (Fred always spoke as if Bumps, his pet name for his wife, was still with them). It’s time to clear out some old business. I should’ve done this last year when Bumps passed away. I wish to show you this.” He opened his large hand and showed them what he had fished out of his pocket. It was a large, old-fashioned skeleton key. The five of them studied it in silence for several awkward moments.

The key was impressive. Almost six inches long and plated with dullish gold, it was surprisingly light in weight. It was scratched in several places and was obviously very old. However, one of the friends knew its significance and what Fred was about to say.

As if reading the mind of the “guilty” person, Fred continued, “As you know, our daughter Sarah died of leukemia in December of 1980, just before Christmas. That hurt has never gone away. It’s worse than losing Bumps last year.” Losing 12-year-old Sarah had thrown Fred and his wife into long bouts with depression. But, he continued, “A couple of years before her death, Sarah and Bumps found a large, old-fashioned door knob at a flea market and Bumps bought it for Sarah. It took me almost a week to get it installed on her bedroom door.” The memory of this brought a faint smile to Fred’s lips, “Now, I know there are two keys to the lock and I only have one. One of you has the other.”

“What makes you think so, and why is it important?” asked Bill.

“Because one of you was Sarah’s secret friend. She gave you the key. During the last few weeks of her life, it gave her great comfort to have such a bond with an adult person.” Fred stopped for a moment to let his words sink in. “Besides, the holder of the other key did some unusual things. After she died, several times when Bumps and I were away, you entered her room and left messages. We always kept her door locked, because Sarah felt secure when she locked herself in her room. Among other things, we learned that a scholarship had been funded in her name, a memorial stone was placed in her honor at church and the expenses for her funeral had been made by, as the funeral home director told us, “an anonymous benefactor and holder of the key.” Fred paused to look at his friends and stated simply, “It is time that I look whoever has the key in the eye and thank you properly for all three of us.”

Nobody said a word until Lyn asked, “How did the person with the key get into your house?”

Long ago, the Bakers, Cokers and Foys all traded house keys. It made it easy for them to check on one another’s homes when any of the families happened to be away. Fred smiled, “Perhaps you have forgotten that all of us have keys to each of our three homes.”

Midge asked, “So, who do you think has the key?”

Fred answered, “I don’t know.” Looking at his friends, he added, “If you won’t own up to it, perhaps you will allow me to ask a few questions.”

“Ask away,” said Bill, as Harold nervously wiped his glasses with a red pocket cloth.

Fred responded, “First, let me explain some things. We noticed the key missing about a month before Sarah passed on. At first, we thought she had hidden it. But a week before her death she said, “I gave it to one of your friends. I have a secret friend now.” We didn’t think anything of this until the messages began to show up in her room – a room we always kept locked in her honor, unless we were in there to clean and dust. Now, one time we found a cigarette lighter on the floor. Another time a piece of tissue paper and still another time, a Robert’s Book Store business card. We also noticed the handwritten notes were written in an awkward script. That could be a clue or not, as the writer may have intentionally disguised his or her writing style.”

Fred paused to catch his breath as the waitress poured fresh cups of coffee.

Fred nodded and turned to Bill, “So, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“You know I am a smoker, but I’ve always used matches. I’m not Sarah’s secret friend, but would have liked to have been.”

Harold flashed a smile of appreciation to his old friend, but he knew that somebody was still hiding the truth. He said to Lyn, “Tell me why you cannot be Sarah’s friend?”

“Well, for one thing – I didn’t know you had a key to my house … I also didn’t know that we had a key to your house.”

Turning to her husband, he asked “Harold, have you ever been a smoker?” Fred could not recall ever seeing Harold smoke in all the years he had known him, but realized that really didn’t count for much. Harold answered, “Yes, but I quit early, before meeting you and Darlene. My allergies just will not tolerate it.”

Finally, Fred looked again at Midge and asked, “It seems to me that I recall you were a smoker.”

“I was,” she admitted, but that was a long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“Can’t remember for sure, but Ronald Reagan was president.” Fred didn’t need to ask more questions. He knew who his daughter’s secret friend was.