Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor

by Scott Johnson

  “Maybe it’s not too late,” she daydreams. “They say it’s never too late for true love, and we were that. That we were.” Even in her daze, though, she knows the odds are astronomical.

  Done with sightseeing, monkeys, and too many worrisome thoughts raised along the way, Sheryl splurges with her only nonfrozen credit card to buy a carryout pizza. Night falls as she hurries home with the pizza strapped atop her granny basket’s pile of important stuff.

  Entering at the rear service door with her key, she finds the service elevator is being monopolized by a family moving out of the building. Cautiously, not wanting to deal with any people, she ventures to the main elevators, avoiding the lobby. She’s in luck—nobody is around; however, the nearest elevator is eight floors up and for the moment isn’t moving. “Hurry down!” she blurts out under her breath.

  Finally, the elevator slowly descends, just as Sheryl’s neighbor from two floors below, Clara, a kind elderly widow with stockpiles of money in reserve, begins approaching from the lobby. Clara and the elevator arrive simultaneously.

  Sheryl flashes her famous smile. “Going up?” she pleasantly asks, as though in control of her faculties.

  “After you,” insists Clara to her younger pal.

  As the doors close in front of them, paranoia hits Sheryl. Her smile fades.

  Clara hits the buttons for floors seven and nine while observing the fear in her neighbor’s eyes. As the elevator stops at seven, Clara gently puts a supportive arm across Sheryl’s sagging shoulders. “Now, you just come with me, Sheryl. And I won’t take no for an answer.” Clara steers Sheryl off the elevator.

  Sheryl meekly agrees. “Okay.”

  “I’ll help you with that pizza,” laughs Clara.

  “Okay,” Sheryl repeats as though on automatic.

  Sheryl expects an overcrowded apartment, if not a mess like her own. The two have never visited one another’s units before, but Sheryl has based her opinion prejudicially on Clara’s advanced age, figuring the extra years would have multiplied accumulations for Clara. That’s how it seems to have been with me, thinks Sheryl.

  As it turns out, Clara keeps a neat and cozy habitat, with everything in its place. The layout is the same as Sheryl’s apartment two floors above, reminding her of how elegant and pristine her home once was many years ago—another reminder of how far she’s fallen.

  “Follow me,” says Clara, maintaining a slow but steady gait. She leads Sheryl to a dinette set that’s actually usable. “Make yourself comfortable, dear. I’ll get some green tea going.”

  “Okay,” responds Sheryl listlessly, putting down the pizza on the table. She takes off her coat and pulls up a chair.

  Perky Clara sets the table and opens the pizza box. She serves her guest water while the tea steeps. They dig into the pizza.

  Sheryl’s spirits rise as they eat. “I haven’t had a pizza party in years! This is nice, Clara. Thanks.”

  “You just relax, dear, and enjoy the pizza. It’s been a while for me too, and this is a good one. Later on, we’ll talk all night if you want to.”

  After dinner, relaxation, and some time mulling multitudes of things over tea, Sheryl does begin to feel like talking. This surprises her, until she realizes that Clara may know as much or more about her and Sterling as does anyone. She’s seen them coming and going for years, sometimes arguing but mostly businesslike in public, never openly lovey-dovey. That was their agreement as a couple: to keep it businesslike around others.

  Sheryl senses that Clara must know something and wonders what Clara’s observations through the years have detected about her life with Sterling. Maybe Clara’s been worried about me for a long time and by now could be thinking anything—most likely something bad. Sheryl abruptly catches herself thinking, Heck, she could be a spy for Sterling! She quickly beats back the thought. Can’t be, not sweet Clara, Sheryl concludes with certainty.

  More and more in the mood to deliver a soliloquy of sadness about her life with Sterling, Sheryl figures that as long as Clara already can tell trouble’s afoot, why not let go of the burden, right? Everyone needs counseling at some time, Sheryl thinks, and this is my time, with Clara so ready to listen.

  Once the words start pouring out, Sheryl gets into more detail than she can believe she’s sharing, while only distantly hearing disjointed bursts of her emotional voice sharing details of her pregnancy and abortion. That still haunts her. She also gets into the financial woes coming her way as a result of having invested in Sterling’s clothing company, despite his totally shaky collateral—nothing but possibly forged documents and stage-directed scenes, with her as the dupe. “Or so I fear,” Sheryl says, holding on to her last grain of hope.

  Clara, it turns out, is more a woman of the world than Sheryl would’ve guessed. The wise, most-tenured dweller in the building tells her just the right thoughts to consider. “This will not be the worst thing you will have to go through in your lifetime, Sheryl.”

  “That sounds so much like the thinking I grew up with.”

  “Then you grew up surrounded by common sense, young lady.”

  Sheryl feels like she’s discovered a comrade-in-arms. “I never really thought of it that way before, Clara, because I always felt it was our family’s religion that set the tone for us kids. But I guess pure common sense is kind of like the root of all religion.”

  “The religion of life,” chimes in Clara. “Whatever it was, your parents took you down the right path. And as they would tell you today, there’s always a path away from trouble.”

  “Wow. Your words are so helpful, Clara!” exclaims Sheryl. “Perfect timing for me.”

  Clara smiles tenderly and says, “Don’t give up on finding the way.”

  Clara’s words of concern sound motherly, as though they could be coming from Sheryl’s own dear late mother. It’s almost as if she is hearing her mom’s voice. Her mind reels, ethereally infused.

  At some point, she hears Clara asking, “Is your family aware of all this?”

  “Um, yes, just recently. They’re trying to help, but it’s hard because they have no idea how big this is. And truthfully, I’m ashamed they even found out about it. I … I don’t know.”

  “So how much is it in total, dear?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “In reference to your financial ruin.”

  Suddenly stunned with embarrassment at having possibly spoken too freely, Sheryl clams up; maintaining equilibrium becomes a struggle. She’s close to spinning out of control without having to move a muscle. How could she have spilled her guts like that? Now will the whole building know? As if, Sheryl has been worrying anyway, they don’t already know.

  Filled with paranoia and struggling to work up the nerve to make eye contact with patient Clara, who delivers nothing but warmth and compassion with her gentle smile, Sheryl finally answers. “I, uh, really don’t know what to say, Clara. I’m touched by your concern for me, but it’s all too much for me to bear, and I shouldn’t be getting you involved.”

  “You can, dear, you can. And I already am involved. We’re practically family. We’ve been neighbors for what seems like forever! Now if you can’t talk to me, who can you talk to?”

  Now Sheryl is really choked up, knowing that the kind woman makes sense and is reaching out, so she must reach back. “Sad to say, Clara, but it would take about half a million just to get square with the world and not lose my home.”

  “Oh, Sheryl, dear, in today’s politics a foreclosure can take years!”

  “I don’t know, Clara. There are two banks involved on two maxed-out lines of credit. I haven’t been working as much, and I’ve been living off credit cards that one by one have been getting shut down on me.”

  “Dear, I’m telling you, we’ll think of ways to forestall trouble. Don’t worry about that.”

  “Maybe, I suppose, I hope. And if you’re re
ally willing to help, there truly is hope!”

  “Sheryl, so few people are prepared for emergencies. You’ll be fine.”

  With a sigh of relief unknown to her in recent months, Sheryl hopes Clara is right.

  Clara adds, “We’re talking, Sheryl. That’s the first step. Is there anything else on the list?”

  “Um, I also may owe the government something, I think. Got some bad tax advice.”

  Clara chuckles. “That’s what lawyers are for, dear, and I know plenty. I can help you with any paperwork. My husband had me keep the books to his business for decades.”

  “Oh, Clara,” Sheryl cries. “You’re so kind, reaching out like this. I’m so lucky.”

  “You stop worrying yourself silly.”

  “Okay.”

  “I really don’t know what I’ll be able to do, but let me talk to my accountant. Let’s see what it adds up to. Maybe I can help some—not all, but something.”

  Sheryl can’t believe this good-luck turn of events. If Clara can help out as now hoped, Sheryl can resolve her major issues without the family looking over her shoulder. That’s maybe the biggest boost of all, a way to stop her life from being such an open book with them.

  Realizing how late it’s become, Sheryl finally takes her leave to return to the ninth floor. Pizza-party vibes dissipate back home when she plays back a voice mail message from Sterling. When he left it, he was angry that she hadn’t picked up, unaware that she was not even home and in fact was busy spilling her beans to a neighbor. Sheryl turns ill at the unwelcome sound of his voice. The very thought of how she has allowed him to ruin her life makes her weep once again. Clearly, there are no good vibrations left to this day. She curls up in a ball on the corner of her sofa, her pity perch. “Been here, done this before,” she softly mumbles through tears.

  Her thoughts return to that awful day in the lobby, her family in a loud standoff with Sterling, Donald the doorman discreetly watching, ready to dial 911.

  As Sheryl rushes from her dad’s side over to Sterling, she notices that Jon is still recording everything on his cell phone. She steers Sterling through the foyer, defusing him as best she can. “Please, Sterling, don’t take this any further,” she pleads. “You’re a doctor. You can see what this is doing to my dad. Just back away, please.”

  Not looking pleased, he nevertheless replies, “The doctor in me will go along with what you ask of me, Sheryl. But the man in me will not forget this anytime soon.”

  “Thank you, Sterling,” she says, sending him away outside.

  Sheryl returns to the lobby. It’s a stilted Taylor family reunion, with everyone stunned from the unexpected and distasteful encounter. Donald still watches discreetly.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Sheryl suggests to her family with much trepidation. For the first time in seven or eight years, she has no choice but to ask her family up to her place. There’s no hiding any longer behind being on the road or saying she’s putting her place back together after unpacking. They need safe refuge upstairs, fast.

  Gloria tries to help with damage control, quipping, “Well, won’t this be the occasion?” She also steadies Oliver as he gets to his feet.

  Sheryl panics, realizing, Now they’ll know everything. For too many years she has worried about her hoarder’s lifestyle someday becoming common family knowledge. If only they knew, she often thought. Now that time has come.

  The Taylors solemnly wait for an elevator. One finally arrives. After the doors open, Clara steps out of the elevator car, looking somewhat taken aback by the large group. She and Sheryl exchange forced but friendly glances with nary a word beyond “hello.”

  The Taylor sisters help their irritated and exhausted father into the elevator. Jon brings up the rear. Riding upward, Sheryl dryly remarks, “Remember, I wasn’t expecting company. So my place could use a little tidying up.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” assures Jon. “We understand.”

  Oliver grumbles, “So far, I don’t understand any of this.”

  Gloria pats Sheryl’s back, trying to calm her. “Don’t worry, sis.”

  The elevator opens on nine. “Okay,” Sheryl says, trying for upbeat. Ever the guide, she brightly instructs, “Follow me.”

  Oliver is not amused. “It’s been a while, but I still remember the path to your door.”

  Sheryl stops at her door and faces the others. Her chin goes into overdrive, something no one in the family has ever seen before now, as she tries to stop the oncoming tears.

  Gloria takes Sheryl in her arms. “What’s wrong, Sheryl?”

  Sheryl feels out of control. Her inner core shivers along with her chin. “Oh,” she groans, summoning courage to open her door. “Well, here goes nothing. You won’t be too happy.”

  Oliver, hard of hearing, asks, “What’s she saying?”

  Suddenly unfazed, Sheryl stiffens her spine, unlocks the door, and struts inside to her domain. “Right this way!” she tells her unexpected guests.

  Sheryl’s feigned confidence fades quickly at the sight of shock and disbelief in everyone’s eyes. As her family scans the long and short of their newest nightmare, Oliver, overcome with heartbreak, groans, “Sheryl, what have you done? What’s going on here and for how long?”

  Jon clears Sheryl’s pity perch on the sofa and helps his dad take a seat. Oliver clearly is done in, out of words, but off his feet. He watches his brood snap at each other.

  Jon drills Sheryl, “How can you live like this?”

  No answer.

  Gloria asks, “Why didn’t you talk to me? We talk about everything else, or at least I always thought we did. We’re sisters, Sheryl. How could you hide this from me?”

  “Always about you,” Sheryl mumbles. She’s numb. Everyone is numb.

  Gloria still manages to retort, “Oh yes, let’s turn this around on me.”

  Nobody knows what else to say. Stunned and silent, the guests scope a menagerie of unrelated items stuffed into nooks and crannies in all directions.

  Sheryl simply stares off into space. She lives it every day she’s not on the road, and she knows each square inch vividly. She understands that there’s really nothing legitimate to say. Shortly, the nervous hostess asks, “Anyone want anything to drink?”

  Jon breaks his stupor, admitting, “Sure, I could use something—anything cold.” Sheryl wonders if he’s actually thinking “anything strong.”

  “Make mine root beer, diet if you have it,” requests Oliver.

  Sheryl only hopes she now can deliver. Her refrigerator isn’t exactly well-stocked. Gloria joins her in the space-challenged kitchenette.

  “I’ll get some ice going,” offers Gloria.

  Sheryl remembers that she stocked some pop in her tiny pantry. “Great, thanks. I’ll get the pop!”

  Momentarily, the air lightens with the flurry of activity. Jon roots around and comes up with a couple folding chairs. He sets them up for his sisters in the living room opposite Dad. He clears a little extra floor space at the pathway and digs out a dinette set chair for himself.

  Sheryl, meanwhile, tries remembering exactly where she squirreled away the pop. “Hey, Dad,” she calls out from the pantry, “I have that diet root beer!”

  Her dad doesn’t hear her, and those who do don’t bother passing it along. It’s more than obvious her visitors are trying to wrap their minds around Sheryl’s surreal existence. How has it come to this? each seems to be silently asking.

  Gloria rations out what little ice she has found and pours the pop. Sheryl rummages through a cabinet until she finds a mixing bowl full of airline peanut samplers from around the world. There’s no telling how old some of this stuff is, but it’s handy. She puts it on a serving tray Gloria has found and already loaded with drinks. Sheryl adds some souvenir napkins to complete the snack package.

  Sheryl clears her throat, readyin
g to make a toast, and says with a practiced smile, “Here’s to family.” She adds, “Sorry you had to see me like this. But now that you’re here, I have to say I’m relieved I won’t have to hide this secret anymore.”

  Her dad asks, “Which secret is that, Sheryl—the one about your con artist boyfriend or the one about how you live like a vagrant?”

  Oliver’s bluntness stifles conversation. Jon and Gloria turn to snacks to avoid saying anything. Sheryl, forlorn in numerous ways, sits stiffly on her folding chair, eyes locked on the condo building across the street. She wonders if there are any dramas behind its windows comparable to that which is unfolding in her own little place. Doubtful, she silently concludes.

  Suddenly, Sheryl realizes that everyone’s gaze is zeroed in on a collection of shrine-like artifacts displayed within a nearly buried bookcase. Basically, they’ve discovered Sheryl’s shrine to her mom. Photos from all stages of Ruth’s tragically too-short life stare out at everyone, peering past unlit candles that overcrowd the shelves.

  Oliver is visibly upset and blurts out, “It’s a good thing your mother isn’t here to see all this. It would kill her.” His burst of candor breaks the uncomfortable silence for only those few seconds it takes him to deliver the message. After some moments of group silence, he groans and says, “I’m sorry, but this is too much for me right now. And I’ve lost my appetite for lunch.”

  “Are you ready to leave?” Jon asks.

  “Soon, yes. I just have nothing more to say.” With that, the party’s over.

  Tenderly, Gloria implores her kid sister, “Calm down, Sheryl. We’ll get through this together, whatever it takes. The lawyer is just the start. There’s counseling we can talk about, all kinds of things. Get this place cleared out, cleaned up, and back to normal for you.”

  Jon interjects, “Just get a good night’s sleep tonight.”

  “Okay,” agrees a shell of Sheryl. “Can I get anybody anything else before you leave?”

  “No, thanks,” they all say. Their little visit ends, and Sheryl’s siblings and father leave her apartment together.