Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor

by Scott Johnson

  Astonished, she exclaims, “Sterling, how long has it been?”

  “Too long, Sheryl. Way too long.”

  He seems intent on giving her a hug, but Sheryl, mindful of being in her workplace and also thinking of his long disappearing act, puts out her hand for a businesslike shake. “Where have you been? What have you been up to?” she inquires flatly.

  “Where to begin?” he muses. Sterling runs through a quick tale of having fast-tracked through medical school with an internship that followed, leading to an Indiana residency at a hospital that closed its doors soon after his arrival, just over a month ago. While hanging with his cousins to regroup, he says he was flooded with memories of their summer together. “I just decided I wanted to try and track you down … see how you’re doing.”

  Sheryl glances over to the reception desk and notices Shannon pretending not to listen. She suggests to Sterling, “Let’s step into my office.”

  “Cool.”

  She leads him down a hallway away from the foyer—and Shannon—to a respectably sized office with a window. Sheryl sits proudly at her neatly arranged desk. Sterling takes a side chair, looking around with admiration at her awards and other trappings of success.

  “I knew you’d be doing well,” he says admiringly.

  “Thanks. I guess I’m doing okay for this point in my career—seeing the world, working for a great company. I’m overall fine. But tell me about you. And how did you track me down?”

  “As luck would have it, one of my cousins has a PI pal who’s good at finding people.”

  “Hmmm, and here you are,” quips Sheryl, still shocked to see him.

  “And here I am,” he mimics, producing a sealed envelope.

  “What’s this?” she asks as he hands it over to her.

  “Long-overdue payment of a debt I owe you. In fact, getting this into your hands is what inspired my tracking you down.”

  She opens the envelope to find five one-hundred-dollar bills. Suddenly, bad memories of her long-ago loan to Sterling for his cousin’s bail money flood her mind.

  “You’d have had the money sooner if I hadn’t gone off to Indiana for medical school.”

  “Well, thanks, I guess, although it seems kind of like blood money to me. Can’t say that I felt comfortable with it then and still don’t today.”

  “Sorry to have reminded you of it. Sorry …”

  She forces a dim smile. “So … why Indiana?”

  “I was ready for a change of scenery, not that Indianapolis offers much by way of scenery. But it broadened my horizons a bit, without having to drift too far from home. The whole medical school thing was under pressure from my uncle.”

  “The legendary Uncle Austin?”

  “The one and only. It was stuff about me being the first doctor in the family.”

  Sheryl tucks the money back into the envelope and slips it into a desk drawer. “Well, I give you credit for knuckling down and continuing to hit the books.”

  “Believe me—I surprised myself by getting through it. Wasn’t easy.”

  “I’m all for education, but by the time I had my BA in hand, I was ready to spread my wings and fly away.” Sheryl checks her watch, mindful of needing to return to Kearns’s office.

  Sterling notices her time-check. “So I should let you get back to work. How about dinner soon? It’d be great to catch up when there’s more time to talk.”

  “Sure, why not? But I leave for Jamaica in a couple days.”

  “Jamaica? Man, I love it down there.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Many times. It’s like home sweet home.”

  “Interesting,” she replies, wheels turning in her head.

  “My mother’s side came up from Jamaica in the forties, after the war. We used to vacation there when I was a kid. Loved it! But the trips ended after that car wreck. Everything ended.”

  “Listen,” says Sheryl, getting up, “hang loose here while I finish up a meeting with my boss. Shouldn’t take long. Maybe we can squeeze in a little dinner after work, as long as you’ve come this far in your quest.” She gives him her first genuine smile since finding him in the waiting area.

  “Cool, that works. Say no more.”

  Sheryl heads for Kearns’s office, surprised to be glad that Sterling suddenly is back in her life. Medical school does tend to take over peoples’ lives, she thinks, excusing his long absence. Suddenly, it seems like only days instead of years since she swore to walk away if she ever saw him again. She tells herself that his reappearance is divine providence. What better way to solve Kearns’s problem than to present him with someone who happens to be intimately familiar with the island and who also is in need of work and available immediately? And in the process, she can up her solution-solving reputation at work.

  Outside Kearns’s office, Sheryl pauses for thought. Think fast, she orders herself, as doubts about the wisdom of accepting Sterling back with open arms quickly surface, undercutting her confidence. This could be a mistake! Entering Kearns’s office as he hangs up the phone looking frustrated, she wrestles with the nagging, negative thought pattern that cautions her: what if Sterling lets me down?

  Despite this authoritative voice of warning reverberating inside her head, once Kearns informs her that he’s had no luck in finding her an assistant, Sheryl finds herself suggesting he consider an old acquaintance of hers for the job. The fact that this acquaintance sits in her office with family ties to the island is all Kearns needs to hear.

  “Send him in for an interview!” he says.

  “Maybe we can resolve your headache right here and now,” responds Sheryl buoyantly.

  “You do vouch for the guy, right?”

  Forgetting all reservations about the proposal, she blurts out, “Of course!” A tingling rush of excitement overtakes inner doubts, and she’s convinced this is a good idea. Plus, hey, she needs an assistant, right? She suddenly remembers local sources for Jamaican residents trained in the hospitality business—the island is loaded with temps. Whatever, she rationalizes. This is a trusted acquaintance. And he’s overqualified!

  She rushes back to her office with the news.

  Shock and joy hit Sterling when he hears of the possibility that he will be on a plane to Jamaica with Sheryl in two days. Uncle Austin will be proud, he thinks, of how quickly he’s been able to reconnect with the North Shore mark he set up six years ago. Jamaica or not, Sheryl’s back in the fold. He has a good inner laugh. And what could be nicer than Jamaica? Great gig!

  The interview goes well, with Sterling bluffing his way through it with general observations of Jamaica gleaned from a long-ago slideshow of one of Uncle Austin’s trips. Kearns, in a pickle with little time to request other references from the applicant, relies solely upon Sterling’s word and Sheryl’s recommendation. Proceeding quickly, he offers Sterling the job.

  An hour later, Sheryl and Sterling celebrate their sudden unforeseen circumstances over a candlelit steak dinner at the clubby Rose Hill Restaurant near her office. Sheryl treats, diluting her unexpected supply of hundred-dollar bills in the envelope from Sterling.

  Two days later, they, along with a large contingency of Fighting Illini alumni, take off on a charter flight to Jamaica. Nothing in Sheryl’s life ever again will be quite the same.

  Chapter 7

  JA DREAMIN’, MON

  Time passes leisurely on the northern coast of Jamaica, although for tourists the chartered shuttle-bus rides out of Sangster International Airport can be a little hairy. From Montego Bay to Ocho Rios, a nearly shoulderless roadway runs through hilly scrub-jungle forest, and when the road is not twisting in lowlands, it is on blacktop ribbons rimming the sea. Despite many tense white knuckles aboard, a calming sense of getting-away-from-it-all-adventure permeates the shuttle cabins.

  One such shuttle deposits Sheryl’s Fighting
Illini group at the No Worries Beach Resort. No Worries is a laidback all-inclusive resort with a large private beach just outside Ocho Rios. Lushly landscaped, the sprawling property will be Sheryl’s headquarters for a string of KTC tours as Kearns rotates new groups in and out from Chicago.

  Sterling is her administrative assistant, a rare spreading of the workload for Sheryl that comes with good timing. She’s worn out from a series of round-trips to the Far East and in need of rest. For a change, she feels pleasantly anchored somewhere. The resort soon starts to feel like home.

  One fine day, Sheryl and Sterling walk the No Worries beach together, barefoot but on duty in matching shorts and KTC golf shirts. People all around them are either baking in the sun or cavorting about in the ocean. No worries fill the air.

  Sheryl says, “This is the life, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Can’t be beat,” Sterling confirms. “We’re lucky a couple of those bookings fell through. It’s more than ever like a paid vacation!”

  “Yeah, it was fun from the start, but this is over the top.”

  “Yeah, mon,” Sterling lazily agrees.

  “Too bad for Kearns, though,” reflects Sheryl. “This is tough on his budget. I’m sure he’s not thrilled about our little vacations.”

  “We’re lucky; he’s not—it all evens out,” quips Sterling.

  “Well, right now it all seems pretty stacked in our favor.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, especially for you. Think of how you’re always away at iconic vacation spots, but never on vacation. That must be tough, watching everyone else kick back and soak up the experience while you’re working.”

  “Oh, I think that kind of stuff often. Believe me.”

  “So you’ve earned these weeks off.”

  “Speaking of which, I can’t wait till next week.”

  The following week, Sterling begins talking with Sheryl about a future together. Heat, humidity, and fun in the sun over successive weeks have melted her common sense. She has lost track of her reservations about his character, first brought on years ago by his pitch for bail money and matter-of-fact talk of abortions. Yet she finds herself imagining them in a long-term relationship. Camouflaging the character questions about Sterling could be the fact that Jamaica, this time more than any previous trip here that Sheryl can recall, relaxes her to the core.

  On a secluded stretch of the No Worries beach, the two stroll at sunset. They walk completely alone as the sun dips closer to a wet turquoise horizon. Sterling gently pulls up the reins on their walk beneath a coconut palm and tests his luck beyond talk. As he presses in on their first kiss, Sheryl goes limp in his arms, pretty much ready for love. This doesn’t surprise her.

  When they come up for air, he asks, “Your first?”

  “First what?” she laughs. “First kiss? You kidding me?”

  “First with a black man.”

  “So what if it is? Opportunity has to knock sometime. In any case, for sure it’s not your first kiss with a white girl.”

  He softly chuckles. “Maybe so.”

  “Well, big shot,” she chuckles back, close to his face, “maybe the case is you’re not exactly my first man of color either, in the broad spectrum of things. So there.”

  “Touché.”

  Entwined in each other’s arms, they exchange the curiously locked-in glances of new lovers on the brink. Slowly but surely, they return to their passionate business at hand, which isn’t talking. They adroitly buckle their knees in unison, settling down in the sand without ever breaking their embrace. Evening falls upon them. A full moon replaces the sun.

  Mesmerized by the flow of moments, they lose track of time in the moonlight, becoming steamy bodies clinging together in the humid night air. Sheryl, partially disrobed but still a virgin after several close calls with Ilkin, feels worldly beyond her imagination. Exhilarated, she feels her heart thump beat-for-beat with Sterling’s. With a lump in her throat, she chokes back words; anything she might say seems inadequate for the moment. She wonders, Could this be love?

  So passes spring into early summer, by which time, more often than not, they sleep together in her room; they have come close to the real deal sexually, but with her always pulling back at the last moment. Fifteen years of Sunday-school training keep her from slipping over the brink.

  During their time together in Jamaica, Sterling has found himself captivated by Sheryl’s smile and energy. He dreams of ditching a life of crime in favor of life on the square. People do it all the time, he tries persuading himself.

  But going-straight delusions subside, and he begins to recover his priorities, despite remaining captivated by her smile. That smile, however, loses a little more of its power over him each night, during forced solo marches to his own quarters in the 4:00 a.m. hour. He doesn’t much like these overnight hikes and lets her know it, but he complies with her wishes.

  There comes a night, though—another brightly moonlit one at that—when he determines that all her pulling back must come to an end. This night, under their favorite coconut palm on that secluded beach with memories of their first kiss, Sterling hatches a plan to break through Sheryl’s moat of virginal defense. As they recline together on a sand dune admiring countless constellations, his thoughts are on a zipped-up bag stashed in the breast pocket of his No Worries beach shirt. It holds a finely rolled spliff of primo Jamaican ganja.

  Sheryl, unaware, sighs, “Another perfect night.”

  “That it is, my dear. Couldn’t be finer … well, maybe.” He leaves her hanging with a devilish look on his face.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he chuckles. “Forget it—nothing, really.”

  She screws up her nose to make a funny face, feigning frustration. “Come on, what could make it finer than this?”

  “Well, this is Jamaica, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” Apparently, she doesn’t know.

  “You know, ‘when in Rome’ and all that stuff. You’re the world traveler—you know what I mean. Like how this is Jamaica, mon. Know what I mean?”

  “No, mon, I don’t know what you mean. Tell me.”

  “I remember your talking about having tried a little drink now and then during your college days back in Germany. You said it was just kind of the thing to do in Germany, you know, a little beer, maybe a shot of schnapps—experimentation in keeping with your surroundings.”

  “What, you want to have a drink? Go ahead. I won’t mind or make any judgments. People drink around me all the time. But I’m not in college anymore. It’s out of my system.”

  “Cool, but that’s not it—kind of close, but no cigar.”

  There is a moment of silence as they both look up to the brilliant night sky.

  “Okay,” remarks Sheryl, “I get it, Sterling—you’re talking about pot.”

  He laughs. “Well, yeah. We’re kind of in the motherland of pot. And this ganja they have down here … well, suffice to say it’s way beyond whatever floated around your campus.”

  “I’m not totally ignorant, you know. I’ve heard the stories.”

  “Have you also heard it’s a religion down here? There’s a whole movement revolving around it—Rastafarianism.”

  “So I’ve heard—the Rastas, mon.” She laughs, and he joins her.

  “Right,” confirms Sterling, “and I know from our first real date how interested you are in all religions. Heck, you took me on a tour of the Baha’i Temple, remember?”

  “Oh, I see where this is headed. Of course I remember. So I don’t suppose you happen to have some of this religious pot—or ganja—handy by any chance, do you?”

  “Well,” says Sterling smoothly, “it just so happens I do. Wanna give it a try?”

  Sheryl smiles tightly and looks out over the ocean, catching the faint lights of a distant vessel making passage through the n
ight. Sterling gives her space as she weighs the pros and cons of compromising her lifelong convictions regarding sobriety. For her it’s no little thing.

  She rationalizes aloud, “True, I’ve sipped a drink or two on larks and suffered no lasting ill effects, at least as far as I know. So one could say maybe this just is a chance to explore something similar that’d be of no real harm.”

  “That’s it, you got it,” Sterling insists, glad to hear her upbeat tone.

  But she wavers, countering, “Or would it be more along the lines of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, bound to bring nothing but trouble?”

  “You got me there, Sheryl. Really, maybe each person’s answer is totally unique. So it boils down to what do you think?”

  “Oh, what the heck! Why not? Like you say, when in Rome, eh?”

  “That’s the spirit!” Sterling grins mischievously. “Okay, so let’s give it a go together. I have to admit, I’m not too experienced at this either.”

  “Oh, right,” Sheryl cynically replies, “I’m sure of that.”

  Sterling reaches inside his shirt pocket for the bagged spliff. It’s an expertly rolled conical cigarette, considerably wider at one end than the other.

  “If you’re such a rookie, where’d you get it?” asks Sheryl.

  Sterling spins a tale about a tourist recently having foisted a bag of ganja upon him at the No Worries beach. “And no,” he chuckles, “don’t worry—he wasn’t with a KTC tour!”

  “He better not have been.”

  “Rest easy, girl. He was just some random tourist.”

  “Why did he approach you?”

  “Who knows? He’d bought more than was needed for his vacation, was heading home, and didn’t want it to go to waste.” Sterling opens the bag and extracts the pungent joint.

  Sheryl winces at its odorous kick. “Man, that’s some stinky stuff,” she remarks.

  He chuckles. “You’re telling me. But listen, even though I haven’t smoked more than just a few joints in my life, nothing compares to this stuff. And that tourist—man, he was like a pro at rolling a Jamaican spliff. The shape is unlike any joint I’ve ever seen.”