Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor

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Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor Page 25

by Scott Johnson


  These ringing voices bring more bystanders to observe this developing drama. Sheryl, not wanting to fall, carefully rises from her crouch to stiffly force herself into a standing position. She leans back against the upper window, looking down across the courtyard to a neighboring high-rise from where the first shouts came.

  An elderly woman on a lower balcony frantically waves hello. “Please,” she begs of Sheryl, “go back inside! There is help for you. I will find help for you!” The woman pauses before sweetly saying, “Now go back inside, dear. You will be so glad that you did.”

  Sheryl is numb. Her brain is fumbling over what to do next. Nervously, she kneels down and slowly backs up into her bedroom.

  Down below across the courtyard, the elderly woman joyously shouts inside to give someone an update for 911. On the street, a cop car pulls up, attracted by the commotion. Leaving his car double-parked with all lights flashing, he joins the little clot of pedestrians and runners that has formed near Sheryl’s window. Word filters around that a crisis has been averted, so most get back on their way to somewhere. The cop, of course, sticks around and calls the precinct for paramedics.

  Inside her bedroom, Sheryl thinks, Okay, I’m back inside, but now what? Blood and other internal fluids, some of which may once have been solids, continue oozing out of her. Intolerable pain runs rampant. No getting around it—I have to jump. Embarrassment alone over this public scene would be icing on an insane cake if she were to survive. She wants no part of it. It’s that simple. End of discussion. “I’m out of here,” she announces.

  Experienced now, she’s back outside on top of the air conditioner in a standing position before she knows it. It’s a long way down, but maybe not that long. The question remains: Will this even work? Her new mantra: “Lead with the head.” Thinking now of rumors—there are so many rumors on this subject—she wonders, will she black out just before the end, escaping pain as some claim? From where Sheryl stands, certainly there will be pain.

  Interrupting her thoughts from below, the cop hollers at the top of his lungs, “Don’t do it! It’s not worth it!” From the crowd someone adds, “Please don’t jump!” The balcony lady returns outside, horror-struck, but refrains from shouting, probably in fear of overloading her nervous neighbor.

  Suddenly, the air conditioner shifts under its heavy load. Sheryl’s balance swings beyond control. Reflexive instincts kick in, and she uses her last millisecond of contact with the AC unit to fool herself into thinking she’s retained footing on something, anything.

  But no, this is the end; she knows it within the next millisecond. The springing liftoff has sent her plummeting headfirst toward earth. Leading with her head is a wish fulfillment.

  For all to hear, she shrieks, “Oh my God!” A territorial warble from a red-winged blackbird echoes her shriek, sparking a flashback to bungee jumping at New Zealand’s Kawarau Bridge. Talk about total déjà vu. Her mind frees itself from fear, knowing only exhilaration from this dark tie to happier days down under.

  But somehow in slow motion the utility room roof looms ever closer for Sheryl. Take your time, she hopes against hope, wishing she could reverse her position, getting her legs into play for the landing. Maybe then she’d stave off death, giving medical science a shot at building some sort of gastrointestinal tract for her. It’s a fleeting thought pinched for time. The flashback spell is broken.

  Sheryl utters a sorrowful “Oh boy,” followed by a last inner quip—Bummer, no tether to the rescue here. She’ll take whatever the point of impact gives. No blacking out as per urban legend. It won’t be pretty. Well, she’d feared this would be the case.

  Her head thuds onto the utility room’s flat roof, bouncing up like a ball, and she loses the ability to think. The weight of her lower body flips her over for the last stage of descent, and she lands at the foot of the compactor one floor down, splat on the ground, no rebound, only nothingness. That fast, over and done.

  “Oh no!” someone screams from the sidewalk. Other onlookers also scream in horror or choke up at a loss for words. The balcony lady faints. Her husband appears outside to attend to her needs. Sirens approach fast in the background. They’ll be way late and unable to put Sheryl back together again.

  Witnesses stand stunned from what’s just happened before their morning eyes. One grizzled cop who thought he’d seen it all knows that neither the images nor the spine-tingling soundtrack ever will vanish from his mind. He shakes in his shoes as he calls the precinct with surface details. Detectives soon will conclude unassisted suicide, despite lack of a note. Her door having been locked from inside is all they will need to see—an open-and-shut case. The event is heartbreaking, but no bold headlines will be found in back pages.

  Meanwhile, out over Lake Michigan, the heavens’ brilliant metronome continues its rapturous ascent, its rising glory reflecting off mirror-still waters. Sadly, few in the big city even see it. Whether they see it or not, for many Chicagoans a promising day to come still hangs hopefully in hallowed air.

  Sheryl, however, who knew sunrises here better than anyone, has no clue about this one, no admiring input about its amazing visuals. She has no place in this world anymore, evermore. The world, however, survives without her.

  But that is not to say it will be quite the same.

 

 

 


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