Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor

by Scott Johnson

  Clearly, Sterling’s presence in her life took her off-track from career and child-rearing ambitions. Even more sadly, she knows that the dominant role of her life has been her place in Sterling’s life, and it also has been her life’s most unheralded role. Virtually nobody outside a small circle has seen her play this part. Yet now everyone arriving late still is in time to witness the third act—wherever that is headed.

  “I’m fully exposed,” she tells herself, “and that’s kind of like being free.” She is fully free to imagine, as she often has before, what that child of hers would be up to these days if her one shot at mothering had gone another way; there will be no way of ever knowing.

  Releasing a therapeutic sigh, Sheryl awkwardly tosses and turns on the couch in frustration, jumping from half-thinking to half-dreaming and back again and again. Then it dawns on her that it’s nighttime and not a crime to call it a night. “Made it through another day,” she says, only half-jokingly congratulating herself.

  She shakes off the sofa’s REM world and struggles to her feet. “Time to hit the sack,” she decides, despite knowing her bed will need clearing. Padding along her cleared paths back to her little master suite, she’s doing all right till a mirror peeks out from behind a heavily cluttered vanity table, catching Sheryl’s eye. The glimpse she gets of herself is so scary that she breaks into tears, wondering, How will it end, God?

  She sobs, hyperventilates, and climbs into bed. She’s lost. With the lights out, insomnia familiarly rules. It hardly fazes her anymore. Moonlight drifts through sheer window curtains, highlighting an eight-by-ten glossy portrait on her vanity of her New Englander man, Jim.

  Now there’s the one that really got away, she thinks, as she does every time she sees that picture half-hidden by other memorabilia. Loving memories of Jim overwhelm her, as usual. She thinks back to how they met on a riverboat tour up the Seine. How ironic it was to meet the American man of her dreams in Europe! The tingles she felt during those moonlit nights spent together on the Seine have never been topped before or since—unless she counts that moonlit night they spent in a Jacuzzi high up in the Canadian Rockies. Now that was a night, she thinks. “None better,” she says aloud.

  However, that was life on the road—exciting, always new, in complete contrast to the life she lives at home. Jim also traveled for a living, and for every reunion they could arrange at far-flung corners of the world, a painful separation followed. It was not to be. Best to forget.

  Fluffing a pillow, she settles down onto her backside, throwing into motion a little restless leg syndrome to relax. Next, she tries meditation, prayers, counting sheep, and anything else that never has worked before but maybe will tonight. Flopping around and trying different positions can’t hide the fact that on top of everything else, her mattress is shot. Like so much of my stuff, she inwardly whines. Why do I keep all this stuff?

  Finally, as with so many nights before, she gets out of bed and trudges against her will to the bathroom medicine cabinet. There, she finds a bottle of sample sedatives foisted upon her by Sterling. Opening the bottle, she recalls how in a recent moment of weakness, she allowed Sterling to play doctor with her. Now she seems unable to sleep at all without a pill.

  Staring herself down in the bathroom mirror, she grumbles, “Here we go again.” She puts the pill down the hatch, thinking, Yes, this’ll help. Well, it does most of the time anyway. Let’s hope. We’ll see. I’m not getting anywhere without it.

  Returning to bed, she rolls onto her back. All her various relaxation and meditation attempts can’t get past factor number one: tinnitus. It roots around in her head, playing uncontrollable sounds that range from hearing-test tones to the electronic hum of high-tension wires overhead to whatever. In the quiet overnight hours, without daytime’s natural sounds and plentiful background noises to counter the tinnitus, the sounds in her head threaten her sanity.

  “I’ve got bats in me belfry!” she says, even trying humor to lessen her anxieties.

  Turning serious, she desperately wonders, And from what? The noisy jets I’m always on? Too many deafening nightclubs around the world, concerts? And don’t forget bombs bursting in air. She can’t help but chuckle as the sedative shows its first signs of arrival. Staring at ceiling shadows, she is mesmerized by the annoying ringing tones in her ears, but not enough to drift off to sleep. Finally, the tones shift to white noise.

  Praying for sleep, she sarcastically considers, Maybe, just maybe, these crazy little sedatives are behind all this noise! I don’t remember it much from before! Sheryl worries, What other side effects might these pills have? The pill bottle’s warnings flash before her mind’s eye: anxiety, confusion, drowsiness, dizziness, depression, dry mouth, elevated heartbeat, thoughts of suicide, rashes. Nothing all that out of the ordinary, she thinks sardonically. Got ’em all! Paranoia rushes in amid her deteriorating mental state. Lord, help me! she prays.

  Finally, she falls asleep, or so she assumes. It’s hard to be sure, with stray brain waves nagging as they do in the backlot of her dreams. So it is every night for Sheryl. Occasionally, a pleasant dream or two provides some respite from what have become her bleak bedtime realities.

  Chapter 12

  ISTANBUL …

  The Arab Spring has become a secondary headline. Chicago’s own spring nears, soon to clear the air and the remaining piles of slush. One sunny day, Sterling lunches with his sister, Dottie, at his Lake Shore Drive condo with its Belmont Harbor view. It’s a quarterly family business meeting.

  Dottie remarks, “You’ll just have to work a little harder. Hell, you’ve been riding that handful of accounts so long, you forgot all about new business.”

  Sterling is annoyed. “No worries—I have some live wires in my sights. Solid stuff.”

  “Shit, you damn well better have because for sure one of your bread-and-butter gals won’t be on the books much longer. She’s heading for a fall, and you know who I mean.”

  “Do tell, like I don’t know.”

  “Face facts then—she’s toast, and hasn’t got a pot left to piss in either. Time for her to go.”

  “That’s a given.” His mood lightens. “But you gotta admit, I drained her good.”

  Dottie chuckles. “That you have, brother, I have to admit. Just get a replacement.”

  “Hey, like I wouldn’t think of that? I’m working on it. But each case is different, with unique headaches. Any day now, any day.”

  “Sterling, come on. Don’t you think I know one of your stall jobs when I hear one?”

  “This is no stall job! Believe me, sis, it’s no cakewalk dealing with all these women.”

  Dottie nearly gags on a mouthful. “Who are you kidding? You enjoy every one of these ladies in all the usual ways.”

  “Well, true enough.” A broad smile takes over his face.

  “Now, I know you like variety in your prospecting process, but narrow the focus. Time to cut wheat from chaff and put your hypnotic powers fully into play. They are amazing.”

  An eye to the lake, he pensively replies, “Good old Jamaica days, turning point of my life.”

  “For sure, they made your career. But those days are done.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, fact is I’m going in for the close tonight on my hottest prospect.”

  “Do tell.”

  Mischievously, he clarifies, “I mean to say, in the overnight hours I’ll be going for the close.”

  “That’s what we wanna hear,” she laughs. “Get with it and keep me posted.”

  “Right. So next … how about the Laundromats? What’s the report on them?”

  “Brother, you know there’s nothing to worry about there, the way I keep them purring. Gotta have some steady count-on money in the game,” she brags.

  “Keep it up, girl. It is appreciated, especially considering all your nursing hours too.”

  By midafternoon, do
wn Sheridan off Diversey, Sheryl is taking a service elevator to her building’s rear entrance, thus avoiding any process servers she imagines might be coming for her through the front door. She walks to Lincoln Park Zoo pulling a filled-to-the-brim granny basket. Since settling in from Cairo, she never leaves home without the rolling metal bin. It has become a companion of sorts, cradling things of alleged importance. These include Sterling’s probably worthless promissory notes and pension-plan paperwork, plus some precious mementoes, in case her home is robbed while she’s away. In other words, she laughs to herself, I’m paranoid! My life is an open book.

  Like an escaped prisoner on the lam taking in forgotten sights, sounds, and aromas, she senses a heady rush of optimism, thrilled at being away from the steady stream of overdue bills and dunning notices. But her rush is brief, like all rushes. A sudden and unwelcome recollection of scary foreclosure missives brings her back to actuality. Maybe I’m not so paranoid, she tepidly debates, because the noose is tightening.

  The truth is, she’s a near mental case, adrift like a tourist in her own town, simply subbing the granny basket for a suitcase. For a moment, there’s a sense of imbalance to her step and a shadow of doubt in her mind as to which zoo this is she’s found. What am I doing out here? she wonders, confused.

  The answer is that earlier, against her increasingly fickle better judgment, she launched herself outdoors to flee fears that Sterling has little cameras all over her apartment, keeping eyes on her. Now it’s coming back to her, and she’s sure microphones are planted too—not to mention that little peephole in the bedroom closet that inexplicably peeks into her new neighbors’ closet, those neighbors being the very people she also suspects are spies for Sterling, with no particular justification. Just like lately she’s been thinking that Donald the doorman works for Sterling. Fear rules, she realizes, but she can’t push it aside.

  Losing herself in stare-downs with some monkeys, she sees the desperate circumstances of her life. And clearly those circumstances all are self-inflicted, no self-denial there. Beyond financial ruination, these bitter circumstances have robbed her of a sense of meaningful career accomplishments. She knows she’s done pretty well, but nowhere near what her initial potential promised. These monkeys, she figures, make as big a difference in the world as me. Make that bigger, she reasons, thinking in terms of dwindling primate populations and the importance of each surviving monkey. Futilely, she wishes to be as clutter-free as monkeys in the zoo.

  A thought surfaces about having had a beneficial influence over Carlita. At least I’ve done that, she thinks, choking on her emotions. But the burst of pride is short-lived. She notices she’s being watched. It’s not paranoia. One disturbed monkey stares at Sheryl while urinating in her direction, with twisted facial expressions, seeming to rub it in with relish. Sheryl is grossed out and disturbed at being disrespected by an animal, albeit a pretty parallel species. “Yuck!” she exclaims in the nasty monkey’s direction.

  Turning for the big-cat house, Sheryl fights guilt over having canceled another meeting with the bankruptcy attorney her family has provided. Although their heartfelt advice makes sense whenever they have her on the phone, it takes little to throw her off the paperwork assignments required for the lawyer’s ammunition. So what? she thinks, excusing herself. Another day won’t hurt.

  She can’t rationalize such procrastination any longer; it’s directly opposite the professionalism she’s known for on the job. The disconnect between her two worlds has only worsened over the years. She wonders how she’s been able to hold it together, taking people on tours around the world while always knowing another siege awaits at the home front.

  Staring at a king of beasts and thinking of a few occasions when she just barely did hold it together, she barely audibly utters, “It’s been a miracle! Oh my God, the close calls.” Tears well up, and her chin gets to quivering. She needs to get out of this building fast and does so, nearly gasping as she stumbles outside of the big-cat house with her granny basket. “Oh my God,” she cries aloud to herself.

  Sitting at a bench for a break to compose herself and enjoy the view a bit doesn’t last long. A disturbed mood persists, making her squirm for comfort, the more disturbed her thinking gets. She returns to guiltily dwelling on her failures for the lawyer. Not only did she just cancel yet another meeting, but as always, she did so at the last minute. She kind of thought she might at least get started this time. However, since the initial fact-finder, she’s canceled every appointment. “I’m incorrigible,” she upbraids herself.

  The cancellation game, though, will have to end soon. The family doesn’t seem to believe she’s almost done, and they’re right; she has barely dented the required documentation. They have been offering help if she needs it, so she just better get it done. She wants to get it done. It’s just, well, the cancellations most often have come after heated pleas from Sterling to buy him more time. His lawyers, he insists, finally almost have everything resolved. And I buy it! she thinks.

  Really, though, beyond buying his bull about the lawyers, it is Sterling’s bullying that keeps Sheryl procrastinating. He’s made his position clear: “There’s no way my name pops up in your bankruptcy proceedings. No way. It ain’t gonna happen.” Sterling has threatened violence against various Taylor family members if she pursues bankruptcy, the thought of which chills her to the bone. She knows he wouldn’t hesitate to harm anyone after his actions in Jamaica. Tiring of the zoo, Sheryl crosses over Lake Shore Drive via the Lincoln Park Passerelle, a pedestrian bridge to the beach, and tries to shake Sterling’s threats from her head.

  Exiting the bridge, with her overloaded granny basket still in tow, Sheryl hikes with other pedestrian traffic to the Lakefront Trail intersection, where they duel cyclers and joggers in the crossing. A few rude remarks are lobbed regarding her granny basket, which speeders see as an unwelcome obstacle. Eventually, she reaches the still-frozen yet sandy beach. Even rock-hard, it promises that summer is on its way, a thought that triggers more fear.

  Wow, that’s right, she recalls as new worries attack. I have to make up my mind soon! She has to make a decision about returning to work, with two gigs coming up fast. Worse, they’re back-to-back. Sheryl senses that Kearns fears she’s gun-shy about travel after her Arab Spring break in Cairo. Sheryl won’t admit it, but she fears the same.

  On top of this, Kearns has no idea about her nearly debilitating financial worries and Sterling blues. Still, only yesterday she assured Kearns that she will be more than ready to get back to work by the first assignment, one of her annual favorites: Magic Pigment Paint’s annual convention in Hawaii. What great memories. No problem. Right! she thinks now, chastising herself for false bravado. She’s frightened beyond belief.

  Am I up to it? she asks herself, seeking internal guidance. That’s a good question, an inner voice answers. She tearfully cries, “Give me the answer, Lord, please!”

  Wind-driven Lake Michigan masks Sheryl’s mumbling with steadily crashing waves as she stages her drama near two strolling lovers whose bare feet push the season. Great for them, but Sheryl’s sighting of the happy couple only makes her lonely, lonelier than usual. Even still, she’s concurrently grateful to live in the neighborhood she loves the most of all among the city’s distinct neighborhoods. Its welcoming aura over the years, no matter the season, has saved her from the brink of despair more times than she’d care to recall. And thank God for that.

  Elsewhere in her brain, a work mentality struggles to revive itself. The beach, despite its remaining heaps of melting snow, has her thinking that in three days she’s supposed to leave for Hawaii. For the first time since being home from Cairo, the impending pressure to work overseas hits her as real and foreboding. Truthfully, how will I handle that? She goes into cheerleading mode. At least it’s just the paint convention. That’s a cakewalk compared to Cairo!

  Besides, she has done Magic Pigment’s Hawaiian convention twent
y-five times. She should be able to do the twenty-sixth standing on her head. Right? she wonders, looking for false bravado to gain a legitimate toehold. Just last year, Magic Pigment and the resort honored her longtime service. Thank God I found their twenty-fifth anniversary broach gift, she suddenly recollects. So even that’s covered. She says with growing confidence, “They’ll wanna see it. I have it.”

  At the water’s edge where cold foamy breakers die, Sheryl moves beyond thoughts of Hawaii. Another immediate concern is the quick one-week turnaround between her return to Chicago and her next departure, Turkey. That would be tough even for some of the younger tour directors who are still full of energy and not yet down on their luck. However, they’d be absolutely gutting it out and moving ahead without delay, no doubt. What the hell do they know? scoffs Sheryl. Give ’em time.

  Tears fall as she cries softly, “I’m not going anywhere. I can’t. I can’t go anywhere. My things would be out on the street when I get back!” She weeps, “This may not be Hawaii, but it is home.” All the while, visions of dunning notices dance in her head.

  Passersby on the frozen concrete-like beach aren’t so totally preoccupied with their own spring fevers that they don’t peripherally notice the disheveled Sheryl carrying on a self-contained conversation. She feels their stares and shoots back daggers, eyeballs bulging. “What’re you looking at?” she challenges one guy. “Move along! There’s nothing to be seen here.” Even while barking at him, she can’t believe she’s saying a thing.

  “Adios,” he says.

  Continuing up the beachfront in her own little world, Sheryl finds her thoughts returning to Turkey—and Ilkin, dearest Ilkin. What would he think if he knew she was coming to Istanbul? Maybe he could save her from everything, pay off every penny, clear her name. And then she’d be free to go—go with Ilkin, stay in Istanbul, forever. Leave everything else behind. Start over.