Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor

by Scott Johnson

  “I’ll do a thousand,” Sheryl says, caving. “That’s it, no more. I’m better at bookkeeping than people think, and I’m telling you that taps me dry. Seriously. Totally.”

  “Of course,” he responds, extending his hand to shake on it. After a beat, he asks, “Well?”

  Sheryl, more distraught than ever, frowns at his callousness and reaches for her purse. She retrieves a promotional check from her last credit card and makes it out to Sterling for a grand. Wanting to be shed of him, she feels lethargy set in as Sterling insists on walking her home. She does not even question his sudden desire for exercise that takes them around a block to approach her building’s rear entrance. There, they scrutinize the building’s back side, including her own windows nine floors up. Under a bright full moon in the shadows of a tree along a fence running beside them, Sterling gets romantic.

  “Baby, you know I’m still in love with you.”

  “How should I know this?”

  “Just believe me, there’s never a moment I’m not thinking of you. I love you.”

  “And why should I care?”

  “You love me too, I can tell. I know.”

  She’s too listless to laugh. “That letter of yours is your idea of love?”

  “Let me take that back and shred it to pieces, so your eyes never fall upon it again.”

  “Yeah,” she responds, “I’ll bet you would.” Sheryl knows it would be best for her mental well-being to get it out of her sight. However, she might want to keep it around for any number of reasons.

  “Honey, please listen.”

  She interjects, “I’ll think about it.”

  Responding with soft but laser-like eye contact, he gently adds, “Despite some inglorious moments in our linked journey, it’s certainly been a one-of-a-kind trip. We’ve lived a lot of good times together if you just overlook a little bad.”

  “The bad outweighs the good, Sterling, by far. Face it. I have. And there’s nobody to blame but me, stupid love-struck head-in-the-clouds me.”

  “Oh, come on,” he intently intones, “we’re seen as the perfect couple in any number of places around town.”

  “Yeah, like here, for instance,” she says with disdain, referencing her building, “especially around the lobby. Throw in a few restaurants and a couple dance floors—big deal.”

  “Well, you can say what you like, but there have been many wonderful moments. We’re a great couple. Not everyone has our kind of connection,” he insists.

  “Right,” she says with a shrug, “lucky for them.”

  “The point is,” he perseveres, “we’re one of the great tragic couples.” His delivery and timing nudge a little smile from her. He presses on. “You have to admit many of the great couples in history have been tragic figures. That’s why they still remain so memorable.”

  “So we’re a Romeo and Juliet story that only the two of us could understand?”

  “You got it.”

  “Well, we are all-tragic, 24-7, that’s for sure—and memorable.”

  “No question,” he says as he pulls her into an embrace.

  Her half-smile slips into a full-moon grin. For a moment it feels like she’s being comforted. Quickly, though, she adds, “But I don’t understand. So slow down”—only words aside, she doesn’t squirm free from his arms. Sheryl wants to believe, still needs to believe, that years of love and placing faith in Sterling ultimately will be rewarded. As she stands in his embrace under the moon beneath a tree, anything seems possible, once again. Is it blind faith or blind love that blinds me to reality? she worries.

  “My dear,” he whispers close to her ear, interrupting her thoughts, “when the day comes, we should go out together. That would be our crowning poem.”

  She is creeped out yet touched at the same time. For a moment, the thought seems romantically solemn, maybe even worth considering. Surely, there must be less of a load on one’s shoulders in whatever world comes next compared to the here and now. Sheryl catches herself thinking about some of the world’s great couples going out together. Certainly, Romeo and Juliet fit the bill, not to mention Antony and Cleopatra. If it’s good enough for the Queen of the Nile, she nervously quips to herself, well, why not me? She answers, Because what’s to ensure that Sterling keeps his end of the deal?

  Her building’s back door pops open, as announced by a beam of light from inside. Someone throws some boxes into a compactor by the Dumpster and leaves the door open upon returning inside. The couple notices the open door.

  Sheryl suggests, “Probably he’ll be back with more garbage. But that’s not right.”

  “Not cool at all, but let’s go for it,” suggests Sterling animatedly. “Why go around front? Who needs to know our comings and goings anyway, right?”

  “Right,” Sheryl quickly agrees. “But what’s the rush? I have a key.”

  “This is more fun.”

  Euphoric still from the moonlit moments and giggling like kids, they dash for the door. Sterling leads, but Sheryl slows for a second to glance at her windows way above and at what lies below, the Dumpster and compactor. She never really noticed before how very directly in line with them her apartment is.

  Inside, Sterling reaches a recyclables sorting area, from where he advances toward the elevator bank’s back side. Sheryl isn’t so lucky. Just as Sheryl comes up the handicap ramp to the door, William, the overnight doorman, appears to close it. Each startles the other. Sheryl suddenly remembers that there is a silent alarm on the back door that alerts security if the door is left open.

  William asks, “Out for a walk, Sheryl?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replies rather nervously. “Nothing special, William—just a little fresh air. It’s so nice outside with the change in the weather.”

  “That’s for sure. Good night now, Sheryl,” he says warmly.

  “Good night, William.”

  Sheryl finds Sterling holding an elevator for their laugh-filled escape upward. Once they are inside Sheryl’s apartment, Sterling’s carefree attitude immediately changes. He scowls, letting loose diatribes over her bad luck with running into William.

  She doesn’t get the annoyance and bites back, “What’s the big deal? I’ve lived here twenty years! It’s routine to talk with William.”

  “Forget about it,” he snarls.

  “I don’t have to worry about what doors I use or who I bring in with me. You’re acting strange yourself, Sterling, even for you.”

  He offers no snappy comeback.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she asks with an edge.

  Sterling gathers her in close and surprises her with his response. “Hey, baby, maybe you’re right. I’m making too much out of this. I’m sorry.”

  The one-eighty change sets Sheryl back on her heels, literally, as Sterling kisses her comfort-starved lips. Passions that have been on hold too long release in a rush. Never breaking their embrace, the two dance down her crowded halls to her bedroom, where they expand a clearing on her bed.

  Afterward, Sheryl sighs, “That was nice,” admittedly relaxed.

  “Yes, real nice it was,” agrees Sterling.

  “Are you going to stay the night?”

  “Uh, actually, no. I have a big day tomorrow in court. I need to get home and get a solid night’s sleep.”

  “Oh.” Sheryl already regrets her actions and suddenly feels lonely as Sterling dresses. She slips on a robe and slippers, following him back through the hallway paths to the door.

  At the door, Sterling says with concern in his voice, “Dear, I was noticing in your kitchen last time I was here that you have an awful lot of household chemicals under the sink that could be very dangerous—even hazardous to your health. You should get rid of them, seriously.”

  “Let’s face it,” Sheryl says, “there’s a lot I should be getting rid of—including you.”

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nbsp; “Then I’ll make that part easy. I was going to say something anyway. Truth is, your job is done. And you’re out of my life.”

  “What?”

  He repeats in a very deliberate fashion, “Your job is done. And you’re out of my life.”

  She drifts into a trancelike state of confusion. “Huh?”

  “Plus I’m out of yours—as you seem to want anyway—and as your family and lawyer also would wish. Everybody’s happy, right?”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I’ll make it simple,” he says. “One more time—your job is done. And you’re out of my life. Understand me: your job is done. And you’re out of my life. Do you understand?”

  Dejected and powerless, reeling on her feet, Sheryl manages to say yes.

  “Good. And your new orders are—shred, shred, shred till nothing’s left to be read. Understood?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh yeah, one last thing,” he snarls to a nearly paralyzed Sheryl. “Your family has been right all along. I’m no good for you, never was. Truth is, all the documents I ever gave you were phony, not worth a red cent. I cultivated you from the start.” He claps his hands near her ear and turns to the door.

  Feeling like she has just come out of a trance, Sheryl sees Sterling open the door and realizes she’s not really sure what he’s been saying. She does faintly hear him remind her to lock up behind him. She fantasizes about how she’d like to lock him up, all right, and chuck away the key forever. “Dream on,” Sheryl mutters miserably, mocking herself.

  Sterling dramatically pauses at the threshold to give her one last condescending glance as he delivers his parting remarks. “This comes not a moment too soon as far as I’m concerned. It’s been a real bore these past few years as you’ve gone deeper and deeper over the edge.”

  An elevator comes quickly, and he’s gone. As instructed, she locks the door behind him. His final comments have devastated Sheryl, contorting her face into a forlorn expression of doom. She already was scared to death that serious change was afoot. Now she knows it for sure.

  The next day, nearing the end of business hours, Sheryl has regained some composure after Sterling’s visit the night before—until her cell’s ringtone makes her jump. It’s the boss, Thomas Kearns. She’s been trying to get up the nerve to call him all day because only a week remains till she must be in Turkey. She fears answering but knows she can’t let things slide to the last day this time.

  Struggling with anxiety, she goes for it. “Oh, hi, Tom!”

  “Hi, Sheryl. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, better, that’s for sure. Still a little unsure of what to do.”

  Very warmly, he says, “Sheryl, I’ve said all along since Cairo, it’s totally understandable if you take extended time off from international trips. I can arrange local tour work for you to get your sea legs back, right here, with no travel pressure. What do you say?”

  That’s all Sheryl needs to hear. She throws in the towel on travel, officially; it can’t get more official. She says she’ll let him know when she’s ready for some local tours.

  Hanging up, she hyperventilates and can’t prevent sobbing. Sheryl’s sobs turn into a soft whimper as she melodically comforts herself, thinking again of how she has to stick around town anyway to safeguard all her possessions and keep them from being thrown out on the street. This will all be for the best! she decides. That is the only way she can look at it.

  Shortly, she realizes that her last-ditch fantasies about Ilkin possibly rescuing her are now fruitless—gone with her job down the drain. That hits her and hurts.

  Her whimpers fade as she hangs her head. Shoulders slouched, she sighs. “Anyway, sweet Ilkin, no way I can travel.”

  Chapter 13

  … OR BUST

  Time passes, and soon a week has gone by. Surprisingly, Sheryl has slept soundly of late, actually awakening refreshed on a couple of consecutive days. Inspired, she sets about gathering files on every one of her dealings with Sterling, old and new alike. She knows for sure that she hasn’t thrown away anything; finding the paperwork is just a matter of time. The monumental task takes all day and night over several days running. It gives her something to work at, a job long overdue, though not an easy one; sleep now comes in nap bursts of four to five hours, seemingly enough.

  Countless check registers dating back so many years unearth long-forgotten bad memories that don’t seem possible even as she stares at the undeniable proof. There are even some private loan agreements with Dad based on bloated income information she gave him under Sterling’s tutelage. The sheer volume of checks written to Sterling and their collective amounts astound her. It’s tough to see, tougher to swallow. She can’t believe all the lies that were told to get money, money ultimately wasted on Sterling. She figures she must have been asleep at some switch for an awfully long time.

  Incredulously, she asks herself, “And I wonder how things got so bad?” Seeing it all in black and white, she answers, “What’s to wonder? I walked right into it!”

  Unpleasant recollections continue unabated as she reviews piles of worthless promissory notes and pension-plan projections plus documents granting impressive job titles and promising windfall profits to come. Everything looks so legal and impressive. Taken together today, it all simply bears witness to years of disastrous decisions, many such decisions long forgotten till now. My bad, Lord, she thinks.

  Come the wee hours of the fourth morning, her bookkeeping assignments finally are completed. Sheryl takes pride in having pulled everything together. She never could’ve imagined getting this far along so fast. As a bonus, she even has taken a bunch of stuff to the Dumpster. “I guess I’m not totally out of it yet,” she laughs.

  She crashes and sleeps till noon. When she awakes, still worn out but pleasantly so, Sheryl spends much of her day recovering from the exhaustive bookkeeping and housekeeping projects, while admiring the orderly folders, files, and notes. She also enjoys seeing tangible results from her forced thinning of things that really had to go—and should have been gone years ago. She can see tabletops.

  At dusk, Sheryl retrieves a shredder from storage. She sets it up next to the dining table, which only days earlier she cleared of rubbish to make room for consolidating Sterling’s files. By the light of a table lamp, she puts the shredder to work eating up the orderly folders, files, and notes, all the while suppressing conflicting feelings. “Why am I doing this?” she asks herself.

  Over the next couple days, she shreds half a dozen large refuse bags’ worth of documents. What once looked clear-cut in black and white, on pages upon pages, now is nothing more than impossible paper-puzzles stuffed into oversized plastic sacks. It is mindless work that lets her keep obsessing over how foolish she is to be destroying the only evidence she has of the way Sterling swindled her so badly. Bewildered, she’s powerless to stop.

  Mentally adrift, she works. Jamaica flashes in her mind’s eye for a nanosecond. Next, she’s older but no wiser, mailing postcards all over Europe. Then she’s back in Jamaica again, turning down Kearns’s Florida offer. “Talk about being a fool,” she laments. “That was the mother of all the mistakes I ever made, all thanks to Sterling. Everything wrong and bad flowed after that.”

  Worst of all, she thinks, jumping back to the postcards, she has never even known what the alibi was supposed to cover. Any of several possibilities would be dark, dangerous, even deadly—assuming he did anything at all beyond play her, his specialty. “Deep trouble any way you look at it. Careless me.”

  On the third morning of the shredding marathon, Sheryl remembers that garbage pickup is the next day. She determines that today she’ll set shredding records, clearing out the last chronicles of her long-term lie of a life with Sterling, for good, however bad a thing that might be to do. The number of bags is astounding. More astounding is the story told by her bank records, which show her as p
retty much having supported him for ages on lines of credit.

  I can’t believe what I’ve done, she thinks while berating herself all day. I should burn him in court! That’s what he fears. But now that would be all the tougher a task for lack of a paper trail.

  Finally, the bagging up of destroyed evidence is complete. After a Dinty Moore dinner, Sheryl turns to the Bible. Of late, she’s been avoiding it, not feeling worthy—as a complete hypocrite should feel, in her mind, upon morphing into an unrepentant offender with sins too numerous to list. These acts presumably, or at least possibly, have included some illegal actions, along with many immoral missteps to be sure. She is convinced that hell awaits her.

  Try as she may to block such pain from her thoughts, there’s no forgetting her multiple woes. It’s impossible after Sterling’s cleverly timed reminders about everything else wrong in her life, beyond an obvious lack of money. She arrives at the brink of despair. “Those stupid postcards. I’m doomed.”

  Later, after dark, she schleps the bloated garbage bags via elevator to the compactor outside the back door, next to the Dumpster. Six round-trips of two huge bags each complete her task. A number of neighbors are doing similar garbage-night activities, everyone small-talking about all the latest signs of spring. Her neighbors aren’t making multiple trips, so Sheryl uses the same shtick with each group or individual. “Good night,” she says to someone new after each of her six trips.

  The next night, when the garbage all has been hauled away, Sterling shows up unannounced at her door.

  Sheryl, at the peephole, shouts, “How’d you get up here? Go away, Sterling!”

  “Just give me one minute, dear, and if you still want me to leave, I’ll leave. Promise.”

  Sheryl wants it to end right now, like countless times before. But as usual, he persists. From the other side of the door, he claims, “Sheryl, I was so out of line and need to apologize.”