Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor

by Scott Johnson

Sheryl, kicking herself, automatically says, “All right.”

  Sterling enters full of apologies and romance like she hasn’t seen from him in years. She buys his explanation that he’s been feeling his own foreclosure pressures and went over the edge. He desperately wants her back, he says. Sweet-talking her, he promises that together they will solve all life’s problems. “Everything closing in on us now will be history in a month,” he predicts. “The lawyers are totally confident, good as gold.”

  “Finally?” she asks with a hint of hope. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve never been this close to being sure, even when I was sure.”

  Just as always before, for the moment this sounds so good to Sheryl. Especially in the current crisis mode engulfing her, she craves a little tenderness. The fantasy about long-sought success always seems to convince her to give him one last chance. Just thinking that perhaps Sterling is being sincere can justify much for her in a hurry. She’s acutely aware, though, of feeling vulnerable.

  Sterling seems to sense her wariness. In a thoughtful manner, he professes, “Life without you, my dear, is worthless. But unfortunately, I can’t afford to support you in the style you deserve. This is my shame and our dilemma.”

  While hearing his claim repeat like a scratched record, she racks her brain, wondering, What was I thinking a minute ago? Something about what? Darn! Success?

  Sterling looks pleased with himself. “Are you all right, Sheryl? You look a bit confused.”

  Her defenses hit high alert at the tone of his voice. She barely bats an eyelash before saying matter-of-factly, “My heart is an open sore, Sterling. It may never heal thanks to you.”

  “Sheryl, I could make similar complaints. I’ve never given myself so freely and openly before as I have with you, but all I have to show for it is rejection, by you and your family.”

  She’s too numb to laugh in his face. Instead, she remarks, “Well, I certainly reject you now—and the only one you’ve ever given yourself freely to is you.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Here I thought, all these years—”

  “Thought what?” she interjects. “Give it a rest, Sterling. You outed yourself the other night, remember?”

  “Oh yeah, well, you do recall I’m here to apologize, don’t you? Because I do apologize. I wrote that thing and said what I said out of not ever knowing where I stand with you.”

  “Oh, that’s rich.”

  “You’re so hostile.”

  “Listen, Sterling, let’s cut to the chase here. For the sake of discussion, it isn’t so much that I want to cut off ties. But I’m thinking I have to for self-preservation.”

  “What if I could come up with a way to prove that I mean to make amends, forever—as in always? Would you hear me out?” He seems so sincere.

  “Sterling, you’re poison to me. But I’ll hear you out.”

  “Well, as we were saying not so long ago, there’s something to be said about being a tragic couple—especially when the couple cements it, the two of them against the world, by going out together.”

  “What’s to be said about killing yourself?” Sheryl often has thoughts of suicide, but the idea of a suicide pact with anyone never has crossed her mind. Yet it almost sounds intriguing, especially once he continues with his pitch and starts talking of their being in the next plane with their child and mothers.

  Seemingly sincere, he asks her, “What stronger proof can there be of one’s love for another than to fully give up one’s own life?”

  “And vice versa, you say?”

  “Yes, and you have everything here we’d need.”

  Sheryl is shocked that it suddenly seems they’re having a real conversation about taking a suicide oath with each other. How insane! Crazy! But it also feels kind of romantic on a level Sheryl feels dangerously near. Certainly, she’s never been here before. But she has been close to committing such madness alone a couple of times, and she almost recognizes and can taste death in their midst, as though the grim reaper beckons with a friendly smile from across the room.

  “What’s the plan?” she asks. “Just for the sake of conversation, what are you proposing?”

  “Homemade poison.”

  “Simple as that?”

  “You got it.”

  Sterling references her miniwarehouse of drain cleaners, bleaches, polishes, cleansers, rodent traps, paint thinner, and more—all stashed beneath the kitchen sink or in the pantry. Sheryl had no idea how lethal her kitchen had become over the years.

  He quips, “It’ll be like high school chemistry. I probably can find some pretty good recipes on my cell.” Sterling whips out his cell phone, does a voice-command search, and then sticks the phone in Sheryl’s face. “Here, check it out,” he brags, which strangely she finds intriguing.

  She scrolls through several elixirs possibly worth trying, it would seem, with ingredients to spare from her apparent armory. Feeling out of her body and out of her mind, Sheryl hears herself saying, “I say this one,” pointing out the recipe link of her choice. “I have this chocolate flavoring in my pantry.”

  “Well,” says Sterling with a grin, “all I can say is pity the poor fool who comes upon our expired, material bodies. Our shorts could be a little soiled, you know.”

  “At that point who cares?” she laughs, getting caught up in the planning.

  “You’re hilarious!” he laughs in reply.

  They chuckle over the premise a bit. Sheryl, though, feels a need to apply brakes, if she still has any left. “This is crazy talk, Sterling, and it has to stop now.”

  “Crazy, says who? We’re both responsible adults, right? No subject of conversation should be off-limits between us.”

  Sheryl chortles, “Is that what we’re being, responsible adults? You couldn’t prove it by what we’re talking about—truly, this is insane talk, Sterling.”

  “I’m just looking at it from the romantic point of view,” he rationalizes. “We’re star-crossed lovers who’ve been denied our rightful place in society. Plus here I find out today that my lawyers have no solution after all these years. It’s like the rug’s been pulled out from under me, and a rude awakening’s upon me.”

  “Upon you? What about us? What about me and all my money? Come on, you’ve always said your lawyers were sure you’d prevail in the end, no worries. What are you saying now?”

  “Ah,” he chuckles, “this isn’t even about my clothing company. There are some other longtime problems I have to deal with, you know.” He grins and adds, “You were there—those court appearances weren’t just about any one thing, that’s all. You just assumed, sitting out there in the lobbies, that it was always all about the clothing company, right?”

  Irritated anew, Sheryl snarls, “And this is how you sweet-talk me into killing myself, supposedly along with you—by bringing up all of your lies?”

  “That’s the whole point,” he says quickly.

  “What?”

  “Society forces us to most hurt those we love the most. Us, we came together on one plane of my existence, but I had a whole different plane of trouble going on before we ever met.”

  “Sterling, I’m way past worrying about how we got here, or if you have other saps like me keeping you afloat. But anyway we look at it, my life has become a living hell.”

  “Mine too! Tell me what is good about this seemingly better level of existence of ours. It’s nothing but debt and struggle, with only just a few ever climbing to the top.”

  “What seemingly better level of existence of ours?” counters Sheryl. “Specifically, I think you’re doing just fine.” Facetiously, she adds, “If nothing else, you’ve done a pretty good imitation of being at the top for years—on my money.”

  “Come on now, Sheryl, that’s a low blow, don’t you think?”

  “Says you. But what does it matter now?” Sheryl fights a big
yawn.

  “Tired, dear?”

  “You kidding? I hardly ever fall asleep before three—and rarely at all anymore without those pills you gave me.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes, but sometimes they make me paranoid and give me dark thoughts. So I try staying off them, only it’s tough.”

  “Strange. Those aren’t usual side effects. Hmm, when was the last time you took any?”

  “Last night, as mostly usual.”

  “You take one every night?”

  “Yes, doctor, except when I’m trying not to.”

  “You know what—that was a pretty weak dosage I gave you because you’re not used to taking medicines. You should double the dosage to get that straightened out. Try it now.”

  Nervous and wanting to make light of so much sadness, she asks, “What—take pills so that now I can take a nap instead of doing death’s song-and-dance with you?”

  “Come on, Sheryl, sometimes you say the craziest things. All I want is your happiness.”

  “Ha, that’s rich!”

  “Whatever, girl. Just take my advice as a doctor: doubling the dosage still leaves it relatively weak, but it will make a noticeable difference for you. Even if sleep comes slowly, you’ll level out your emotions and relax. You need it.”

  She considers his point. “I am uptight, really uptight,” she confesses.

  “Dear, I hate to say it, but you’re a total fright. Chill now, catch up on relaxation. Sleep.”

  “You’re right,” Sheryl decides. “I do need it—some sleep.”

  “So get some,” he says pleasantly. “We’ll talk about this new idea of ours after we both get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Sure, Sterling, our new idea. Whatever you say. Good night.”

  “No rush. Why don’t you find your pills? I’ll stick around till you get a little drowsy, keep you company.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Leaving him in the kitchen, she steals away to find her robe. A pocket contains sedatives Sterling has provided. Although she is getting used to them by now, taking her first pill was a real challenge for her, as a lifelong avoider of pills. However, slippage in so many other ways paved the way for more slippage here. Sometimes she thinks she’s addicted to these little white pills. “And of course I am.”

  Downing two pills, a double dose, at her sink, Sheryl can’t avoid the mirror and catches sight of dark circles beneath her eyes; it looks like she has raccoon eyes. Her skin is pasty. She touches her normally luxuriant blonde hair, now dry with split ends. Her reflection is hard to recognize. This is the end, fears Sheryl more than ever before. How did it all come to this? she asks the Lord above, or whoever in another dimension might be listening.

  A partial answer comes quickly. However it came about, her inner voice says, it wasn’t overnight. It was like a growth apparently misdiagnosed as benign, morphing undetected into the raging cancer that’s become this life with Sterling.

  Turning to leave the bathroom, she feels dizzy and lowers herself onto the seat of her vintage toilet. “Only months ago, I was a hero,” she tearfully recollects. “Seems like years, though, now,” she mumbles, “except when it feels like moments ago.”

  The Arab Spring’s arrival in Tahrir Square starts peacefully enough while privileged partygoers enjoy drinks on the balcony of a grand hotel barely a block away. History, for better or worse, is in the making. Cairo, hub of organized protests across Egypt, buzzes with strident calls for President Hosni Mubarak’s resignation. Public-plaza optimists see change ahead for the good. Skeptics fear trouble from many quarters. Realists pulling strings play both for fools.

  Leaning against the hotel balcony, a paunchy American in his sixties chuckles, “If this doesn’t take you back.”

  “It takes you back to class, man!” a wise guy hoots. “Nobody ever saw you out on the streets.”

  Others in the alumni reunion group of gently aging campus hippies share laughs with the wise guy. Bummed, the onetime chuckler has no comeback. The Golden Bear gathering now digs deeply into reminiscences of their Berkeley protest days. Observing everything from the sliding door that leads inside is Sheryl, tour director for this Berkeley booking.

  Downwind, downtrodden masses form ever-growing throngs. Dutifully and enthusiastically, they shout rhythmic slogans, waving hope-filled signs while carrying colorful banners. The passionate protestors walk the peaceful-protest walk—till police riot squads suddenly show up, fully armed.

  Police release tear gas and open fire with water cannons. Obscenities explode, punctuated by solid strikes from thrown rocks. Both sides give it their all. The police, of course, have the edge, including masks allowing them to breathe. Quickly, they splinter the mob into isolated quadrants of desperate street-fighting resisters.

  “Holy shit!” bellows someone up on the Berkeley balcony. It dawns on the California set that the wild scene below quickly could escalate their way. Terrified yet transfixed, they watch live, in person. Some duck below railings for perceived safety reasons, but in truth, such efforts are meaningless. Nowhere in Cairo is safe.

  Sheryl shouts, “Don’t panic, but everyone, please go back to your rooms.” She ducks inside where a ballroom party rages, full of more Berkeley grads of flower-power days. Those dancing the Dirty Dog have no idea that trouble brews outside, homing in, as they are, on their partners with advanced yet subtle groping techniques. At the bar, big drinkers are too busy drinking to notice an overhead TV news update. Other oblivious revelers roam about gabbing and gazing at photos from back in the day.

  Sheryl approaches the DJ and asks him to bring down the music and let her borrow the mic. “Sorry to interrupt,” she announces to an annoyed crowd, “but you need to be aware that today’s protests are turning ugly outside.”

  That gets their attention.

  “Though there is nothing to panic about, I’ve asked everyone on the balcony to return to their rooms for now. I advise that you all do the same. We will be discontinuing the music, but the food already is laid out, so if you really want to stay here, at least be on the alert. But speaking for Kearns Travel Company, this party, unfortunately, has officially ended.”

  Someone shouts, “Hey, what about the bar?” A few in the background snicker.

  She answers, “That’s the hotel manager’s decision. I’ll check fast and let you know.”

  “Thank you, Sheryl,” one woman shouts to a round of applause.

  Sheryl already has returned the DJ’s mic, so she waves acknowledgment through the crowd and gets upstairs to her junior suite. Standing at her balcony door, with an eye on the riotous ruckus below, she texts the hotel manager about the bar. He replies that the hotel is safe and authorizes the bartender to stay on duty servicing guests.

  With that off her list and knowing time is of the essence, Sheryl calls a trusted ticket agent about changing exit flight plans for her clients. Nothing is available. Disappointed, she calms herself by remembering that this is not her first panic attack in Cairo, having once narrowly missed injury in a minor bomb incident near the pyramids. Additionally, she has been accosted twice on busy streets by roving pickpocket gangs. She knows trouble in Cairo when she sees it. It’s here.

  As events continue unfolding, daily confrontations at Tahrir Square create unruly crowds at Cairo International Airport. Flights are getting canceled in both directions. Planes on the ground have become scarce. Before long, it’s February with no end in sight. For the Berkeley crowd lying low at the hotel, some days run tenser than others, but it’s never calm. Power is sketchy; nerves are frayed.

  Finally, the US State Department advises all Americans to exit, as if by now the whole world already doesn’t know that tourists should leave. Sheryl has known all along. When not working to keep her flock calm, she continues working her cell, seeking flights. One day, she meets with success. “Don’t worry, Muhammad!
We’ll be ready! And thanks!”

  She has gained outbound seats for most of her group. The only ones without reservations are those who insisted on making their own arrangements. Some melt into tears as more fortunate ones board an airport shuttle bus. Sheryl counsels the weepers being left behind. “I’m so sorry. Keep trying! And I’ll see what I can do at the airport. Something will turn up, don’t worry.” Privately, disdainfully, she thinks, Serves you right! She completes the head-counting of those boarding the bus and climbs aboard after them. Ironically, she herself is one of the unlucky ones without a flight, not that she could leave before the last of her charges anyway. That goes without saying.

  En route to the airport, she is praying for a demonstration of God’s deliverance from evil when abruptly an incoming call from Muhammad reveals that they have scored two additional plane tickets. Privately praising God, she’s nevertheless highly upset over finding no tickets in it for her and the few remaining others from the alumni excursion. She fights discouragement.

  Predictably, it’s a long day at Cairo International for Sheryl, who is constantly directing some action or other when not busy interpreting. Shepherding her clients, who are nearly shitting in their pants, drains her to exhaustion. At long last, her final nervous Nellie and arthritic faux-hippie for the day clears airport security. The ashen guy waves appreciatively and disappears from her life.

  Amid the vast, stressed crowd, Sheryl stands totally alone. A tour to remember, she reflects, overpoweringly saddened, or forget. Momentarily unencumbered by responsibility, she wants to collapse in a heap. Yet much remains to be done. She has two tickets to deliver and others to secure.

  Back at the hotel, she prays all night. Come morning, there is deliverance again. She secures tickets for the last of the Berkeley crowd, all of whom wisely returned full responsibilities to her able hands the day before. There is still nothing for Sheryl, but ever optimistic—outwardly at least—she boards the bus as chaperone toting her walk-on bag, in hopes that something will pop up before day’s end. In transit, she requests, Meet my needs, Lord. Please meet my needs. She maintains full faith.