Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor

by Scott Johnson

  “How cloak-and-dagger,” she says, unimpressed.

  “Listen,” he predicts, “we’ll take them all by surprise once this court stuff is over.”

  “Sounds fascinating but not too plausible. How long will this be in court?”

  “That’s hard to say, of course.”

  Sterling talks fast enough to get in promises of big titles, inflated salaries, and plenty of travel for them as a couple. Her days of having to work her way around the world, doing the bidding of others, would be done. Others would be doing her bidding from the highest level.

  Back in the present day, Sheryl sadly recalls how over time she began to believe some of Sterling’s blustery financial forecasts. Then there was one magical night of change, in Grant Park. It seemed the whole city was there as extras in the electrically charged atmosphere ushering in the new administration. Sterling’s promises of matrimony set her heart aflutter.

  Her scattered mind jumps to the memory of giving up Thomas Kearns’s big-time offer of a cushy position in Florida. It was what she’d dreamed of plenty of times, before Jamaica with Sterling. “Why, oh why? That would’ve changed everything.”

  She bums out over having allowed Sterling to kill her ambition and encourage that bad move, only later to have her time with him in Jamaica end in complete acrimony. Postabortion, she somehow allowed him back in her life with lovey-dovey talk about a ring and a child or two, to reflect their love for each other. Over time, he painted his marriage and family assurances as pledges to erase the tragedy of their aborted darling.

  “Whatever in the world did he mean by that? How can one erase such things? But I fell for it, every word. What bullshit!” She thinks about all the fine things he was going to buy her, someday, with all the millions finally brought in by their clothing company. She thinks about that maybe nonexistent company, she now realizes, into which he ultimately conned her to invest. “Stupid me!” She slaps her forehead, and her chin begins quivering again.

  Sheryl’s eyes bug out at her encroaching stuff. She laments, “It’s so hard to do anything around here when your heart is broken, totally broken for too many years.” The contrast with her lap-of-luxury lifestyle on the road, on the boss’s dime, hits hard. This is the dismal reality. That’s bad enough, sad enough, she thinks. But throw in day-to-day destitution for having lived beyond her meager means while helping cover Sterling’s monthly nut, and her life is a mess, driving her to solicit loans from long-unseen friends, even casual acquaintances. The whole situation is untenable. But of course, she tells herself, it’s nobody’s fault but my own for believing that asshole and his infinite fast talk. Lawyers and lawsuits!

  More than ever, she doubts this company exists. Those times he took me to court and had me wait in the lobby while he went into a courtroom, he could’ve been dealing with other issues—or just sitting there as a spectator! Sheryl’s stomach turns, again and again, not so unusual lately. How naive of me.

  She can hear Sterling now: “But honey, they have my corporate money all tied up. This stuff takes years. But the payoff will be immense! All we need now is another few months of carrying some of my bills.” Invariably, she has always succumbed to his needs.

  “Asshole,” she mumbles, knowing she’d likely advance cash from her dwindling line of credit if he came begging for money tomorrow. “It’s like a sickness! I’m sick!”

  Sheryl squeezes her way down a narrow living room path forged through countless objects, including a shrine to her now long-dead mother, Ruth. Photos from their Hawaiian trip dot the bookcase display, among other shots of Ruth spanning her lifetime. “Oh, Mom,” Sheryl groans sadly. “I need you, Mom.”

  She reaches the front side of a sofa that defines the living room section of her tiny abode. The sofa backs up to what would be a fine dining table and chairs given the proper setting. Wearily, Sheryl pushes aside overdue bills and dunning notices that cover the near end of the sofa. She flops onto the cleared corner cushion. The winter sun sets early, robbing all remaining natural light from the room. Sheryl reaches for a lamp on a crowded side table and turns it on low.

  Eerie shadows highlight mountainous accumulations of inconsequential material things. In the dimly lit room she glances at career-tracking photos with her on top of the world, in all corners of the world. Not in the mood for such reminders, she kills the light, wiping out the better-day images collectively staring her down. “Successful days they were,” she emotionally recalls. “Somehow, they should have led to a better now for me than this!”

  Soon, outside nightlife backlights her apartment. Shadows different from before dance across the room. Out of nowhere, Sheryl reflexively text-messages Sterling. “Hello,” she types, not knowing why. Angry at herself for foolish knee-jerk texting, she stares blankly at the cell’s screen till it goes black. “Damn.” She continues staring at the dark cell phone.

  Shortly, with no response forthcoming, her shoulders sag. She buries her tired face against the sofa’s armrest, sinking deeper into despair. “This is the worst … oh God, just the worst.” Squinting through tears, she scans her smothering sea of materialism-gone-hoarder-mad. She is overwhelmed. The collective weight of everything sits more heavily than ever upon her weary shoulders, bringing pure misery and hopelessness while accentuating her loneliness; it feels like hell. “Sterling,” she cries aloud, writhing about in the sofa’s corner, “what have you done to me? And why—why me?” After hyperventilating for a minute, Sheryl slowly calms down, though the sense of hopelessness remains. “What’s the use?”

  With an affected onstage groan, she suddenly twitches into a figure of someone approaching the edge. Hyperventilating again, she moans herself slowly into a fitful sleep. Soon, rolling dreams take her one moment to New Zealand, the next somewhere else. A black-and-white kaleidoscopic mindscape opens a peephole into her life.

  “Get me out of here, Muhammad!” she mumbles in her sleep to her Cairo airfare connection. “I can’t take it anymore!”

  The night-vision jumble of images jumps back five months.

  Sheryl had recently convinced Gloria to front her a few thousand dollars, after being as effective in selling her sister on Sterling’s company as he earlier was in selling Sheryl. Gloria even met Sterling once in the process, at his charming best. However, lack of follow-up details on the investment has led to friction between the sisters.

  Yet just before leaving on a London tour, Sheryl, in need of emotional support from someone other than Sterling, tells Gloria about her destitute situation. Over burgers again at Heaven on Harms, she says, “In a nutshell, I’ve gone from having my condo paid off to having two maxed-out lines of credit on it. I’m broke and living under a pile of dunning notices.”

  “What happened? You were so proud at your mortgage-burning party!”

  “It’s a question without an easy answer.” The long story short, she explains, is that during the mortgage frenzy that led up to the big fall, under pressure from Sterling, she secured dual lines of credit. He was always running short and in need of help.

  “How could you even get all that credit on your condo?” asks Gloria, incredulous.

  “Sterling had some mortgage broker who made it all so easy,” Sheryl whimpers.

  “Unbelievable,” says Gloria. “Then again,” she quickly adds, “maybe not so much. The more I learn about him … well, let’s just say I’m not totally shocked.”

  Sheryl, on the verge of tears in public, nods in agreement. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Let me talk to Dad and Jon. We’ll figure out something. Meanwhile, just stay away from Sterling and don’t give him another dime.”

  After Sheryl returns from London, Gloria, Jon, and their father, Oliver, take Sheryl to meet with a bankruptcy attorney, who gives her homework for their next meeting. “Pull together as many records about your dealings with Dr. Jackson as you can,” he instructs. “And I wouldn’t
worry too much about losing your home just yet. Foreclosures are jamming the system, dragging everything out. And politics play against the banks right now for having given out so many shaky loans.”

  The family lunches after the meeting. Sheryl feels a little better already, although she’s plenty embarrassed to have all her dirty laundry out for display among her family. “Thank you, Dad, for finding this lawyer. He makes sense and gives me some hope.”

  “Of course, Sheryl—but the burden is on you to pull those records together for him. Otherwise, you’re handicapping him from doing his job.”

  “I understand. I’ll get to it.”

  Gloria says, “Think about letting me put you in touch with a great counselor I know. You should be talking about this with a professional too, not just us. These are mental games he’s been playing with you, and you really need help from an expert in that field.”

  Sheryl says, “I understand all that too. Let me think about it.”

  The turnaround time to her next tour, dearly loved Switzerland, is only a week. So no records get gathered right away. A month passes with Sheryl still accomplishing nothing in that arena. Plus, she breaks a firm appointment with the lawyer that was made specifically to push her into action. Shortly thereafter, she lets it slip over the phone to Sterling that her family now knows of her desperate finances and unsecured investments with him.

  Sterling is livid. “Why’d you tell them about our deals? With everything good going on in court and finally coming together, their uninformed interference is the last thing we need.”

  “Last thing we need or you need, Sterling? My patience’s wearing thin.”

  “I can understand your stress over a few bills, but keep the faith. Hang in there with me.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing—for years?”

  “Have you ever thought there might be things you’ve done, maybe slightly misrepresenting some facts here and there, that mean you should stay out of the spotlight? Bankers weren’t the only ones spinning yarns.”

  “Yeah, another fine mess you got me into with that broker buddy of yours.”

  “If I were you,” warns Sterling, “I’d be shredding records instead of turning them over to some lawyer you don’t know.”

  “Don’t be trying to turn the tables on me over this. I want my money. I need it—now.”

  “All right, I tell you what, how about you give me six months to make good on every penny you’ve ever loaned me, with interest? I’m that confident over things in court now.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I have to go.”

  “Last thought—are you sure you’d like them to know about our child in heaven? It was so tough on your mother. I think that was the slow beginning to the end of her time on earth.”

  Sheryl hangs up on him and breaks down crying, curled up in the corner of her sofa.

  Another week passes. She avoids Sterling’s calls and doesn’t return his messages, all the while procrastinating on the daunting task of pulling financial records and all the corporate paperwork on Sterling’s deals for the lawyer. Her filing system leaves much to be desired.

  At the first of the following week, Gloria calls on behalf of the family. “We’re doing our best, Sheryl, to give you support in all this stuff. But you need to let us dig in and really help.”

  “Dig into what?”

  “Let’s do lunch again and talk it all through. We’re thinking today, down by you.”

  Sheryl panics. No family or friends other than Sterling have been in her place for years. She’s adept at steering get-togethers elsewhere, quipping that her place is a mess on a short home layover between trips abroad. Well, that, plus it’s on the small side. Small, they all understand. Mess, they have no clue.

  Gloria continues, “Think of where you’d like to eat; we’ll be there at noon.”

  “Okay,” Sheryl responds involuntarily. “Text me when you get here. I’ll come down.”

  The call ends, and Sheryl immediately chastises herself. “Great! Now what am I going to do? What if they want to come up here? Damn it!” She looks at the clock: ten o’clock, two hours to go. “Oh boy.”

  Her cell rings again. It’s Sterling. For some reason she answers. He’s anxious to see her. She agrees that he can come by at noon; they’ll do lunch. “Wait for me downstairs,” she says, neglecting to mention there will be others for lunch.

  Sheryl is unexpectedly giddy over the prospect of her dad and Jon finally meeting Sterling. After all, how often has Sterling said that someday he wants to meet her whole family? He recently even said as much to Gloria when the three of them had tea at the Chicago History Museum. Now, it seems, fate will bring them all together come noon.

  This is Sterling’s last chance to prove he’s the man he wants me to think he is, Sheryl thinks, fantasizing about a long shot. Maybe, just maybe, this spontaneous encounter will be the thing to push him along, to make good in front of the family. Allegedly, he one day wants to join them. Seeing all this happen would be so superior, thinks Sheryl, to forever being labeled a sucker. There’s the illogic, she realizes, as to what keeps the abused coming back for more.

  Noon approaches. Sheryl receives a “hurry up” text from Sterling, who has reached the lobby. After texting him to relax with a magazine, Sheryl receives a text from Gloria: they are parking at her corner and will be right up. Sheryl replies, “I’ll meet you in the lobby!” She picks up her pace and gets out the door to an elevator.

  When the elevator reaches the lobby, the doors open, and Sheryl steps out, suddenly afraid of the challenge ahead in bringing Sterling together with her family unannounced. She spots Sterling sitting in a stuffed chair, topcoat off, with his banker’s pinstriped suit in full display as he reads a magazine. He looks impatient and hasn’t noticed her yet. Sheryl then sees Donald the doorman buzzing in her family. The buzzer catches Sterling’s attention, and he looks up at the door just as Jon enters the lobby. Sheryl watches as her dad enters next, and she can tell that Sterling doesn’t realize who they are. But once Gloria enters, Sterling’s expression turns to stupefaction.

  Gloria looks equally stunned. “Sterling,” she says, “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

  “You sure of that?”

  Jon steps up directly to Sterling and stretches out his right hand, which Sterling takes reflexively. “Hello, Sterling,” snarls Jon with a firm grip. “I hear you’ve been looking forward to meeting the family. Well, here we are. I’m Jon. Can’t say I’m all that thrilled to meet you.”

  Sterling suddenly rails against Jon, full of street venom. “How dare you call me that, you racist son of a bitch!” he shouts, likely looking to plant thoughts in the doorman’s mind.

  “Nice try,” Jon replies as he begins videotaping the interaction with his cell. “Please be sure to speak clearly so we all know exactly what it is you have in mind. Now,” he intones, “what was it you claimed I said?”

  Sheryl, momentarily dumbstruck at the elevator bank, sees Sterling ignore Jon and switch his attention to Oliver, who is slowly approaching, his gait unsteady. Sterling taunts him, “So, old man, how does it feel to have been such a racist bastard all your life?”

  “What?” asks the hearing-impaired Oliver.

  Sheryl jumps into the middle of the fray and loudly demands, “What’s going on here?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on here,” says Sterling. “Your family is crucifying me!”

  “Yeah, right,” says Jon.

  Sterling is cornered, outnumbered, and obviously unhappy about the newfound scrutiny from Sheryl’s family. He brushes past her seemingly intent on going on the offensive. He threatens Oliver’s space by getting in close to his face, snarling, “You’ll rot in hell for it too.”

  Oliver stumbles backward, away from the threatening affront. He makes a fortunate fall into the stuffed side chair Sterling once oc
cupied.

  Jon, seeing that his father is shaken but safe, spits, “What a con man!” to Sterling’s face.

  “What did you say?” Sterling screams, splattering spittle.

  Gloria tries playing peacemaker. “Come on, Sterling. Let’s not take this somewhere that we’ll all live to regret.”

  Jon steps back to allow his sister space in approaching Sterling.

  “You’ve got nerve,” claims Sterling with an eye to Gloria.

  Gloria angrily tells her sister, “Your friend Sterling is out of control.”

  “If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is!” Sterling shouts. “I’ll have you all arrested before today is over!” Sterling starts pacing back and forth, mumbling, “Here we are again—plain intimidation of a black man in full view of witnesses, with no justice in sight!”

  Jon keeps filming. Gloria and Sheryl check on their dad, who seems all right, aside from being shocked and speechless. His face is ashen, his eyes bewildered and sad. Gloria looks to be restraining herself from unleashing a tirade against her sister.

  “Dad,” whispers Sheryl, crouching low. “Are you okay?”

  Oliver looks into her eyes, detached. Gloria fights tears. Everyone else in the most public space of Sheryl’s longtime communal home fights tears too, except for Sterling. He paces. Donald the doorman maintains his cool.

  “So it was,” recollects Sheryl, now half-awake, sinking deeper into the sofa’s corner.

  Outside nightlife still backlights her living room with dancing shadows that mix inside and outside material goods. She groans from exhaustion. Still almost dozing, the conscious half of her current state realizes that things never again will be the same between her and her family.

  “Things already aren’t the same,” Sheryl says groggily, remembering the aftermath of the infamous lobby scene. “And will I ever see any of my money?” she wonders. “No!” she realizes without a doubt. “I can’t believe what a fool I’ve been! Such a fool … and worse, now everybody knows. What a joke! On me.”