Chapter Twenty: Silence

Silence: create space, peace, and time to rest and recuperate from the noises and chattering outside…and inside your head.

Sam Killian enjoys the hard work of staying sober for the second extended time in his long career as a professional sot. Thirty days at a gentrified treatment center and he’s ready to change careers; he daydreams of becoming a lay preacher to the sick and weak, although he doesn’t hold The Gospel or The King James Version in high esteem. His Bible is The Blue Book, and Sam is a disciple. He also digs The Oxford Dictionary and Thesaurus, American Edition. His goal: memorize three new words each day. Crapulent, pixilated, and dipsomaniac are among the new words he passionately chooses to describe the old Sam, the Sam who lived on the outside, but was dead on the inside. The newly aware model burns with the fire of a resurrected alcoholic, but he knows the territory, knows the danger of viewing clouds behind rose-tinted glasses. Dark smoke covers pink clouds, as paper covers rock.
Playboy Magazine and the Moral Majority move on to hotter topics, but at least Sam receives a mention in Esquire’s Dubious Achievement Awards. Insurance covers the cost of reconstructing the beloved Firefly Restaurant, but Sam has no interest in maintaining ownership. Financially speaking, Sam knows a downtown restaurant owned by a chef of his caliber can’t survive without holding a liquor license, but he refuses to allow the demon lying dormant inside him to play in the Devil’s arena. The refurbished Firefly goes on the block. After much consideration and thoughtful meditation, Sam picks up the phone. “Mimi, hi this is Sam; how are you?”
Mimi considers hanging up, but curiosity gets the better of her. “Why are you calling?” Her tone is flat, her clear head suddenly full of static. Sam knows he can’t waste any time, and quickly breaks it down. “Mimi, I’m sober; I’ve been sober for one hundred forty-seven days.”
Mimi smiles, and Sam feels it through the phone. “Ah, Sam, that’s the best news I’ve heard lately. Congratulations!”
“Do you have time to meet me at the restaurant for a cup of coffee? I have a topic to discuss that may be of interest to you.” Mimi pauses. “Sam, I don’t think my attorney would consider that a smart move.”
“I understand, but I have a compromise that may put this entire lawsuit behind us; at least that’s my intention.” Fool me once, Mimi thinks. “Can you just tell me over the phone?”
“I’d rather see you in person; I owe you a lot, and I want to look at you when I tell you what I’m thinking. Please, I won’t keep you long.” Sam pauses long enough to give Mimi time to sort through her emotions, and hears her sigh before answering. “Will you make me a pot of decaf, and breakfast? Shrimp and grits?”
“Sure,” Sam says, laughing. “Some things never change, do they, old partner? Can you come now?” Mimi hears a renewed sense of purpose in Sam’s voice, and it enthralls her. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes, how’s that?”
“Perfect. I’ll be in the kitchen, so come to the front door.”

The Firefly and The Phoenix sell for $465,000, including the entire inventory except the road weary, battery-powered Velvet Elvis clock that has traveled with Sam from town to town, restaurant to restaurant, for fourteen years; the deal seals an hour before Sam calls Mimi. After cleaning up borrower’s debt and turning over a liability-free operation to the new owners, effective one week from today, Sam’s take is a guaranteed $378,000 and change. And he wants to share. “Mimi, I know your half from me won’t amount to $250,000, but if you continue with this lawsuit you won’t get that anyway because your attorney gets, what, half of that or more?”
Mimi cautiously protects her hand. “It may be close enough if we can work this out,” she says.
“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make it fair for you. If I could buy Planet Earth and serve it up to you on a silver platter, woman, I’d do it; you deserve the best for putting up with all the shit I dished out.” Mimi looks around at her memories – pictures of past employees hanging on the wall near the kitchen, the unique hand-painted wine cabinets, art framed by her own hand. The place looks clean and cozy, and filled with old, bittersweet love. She is overwhelmed and can’t speak. “It’s true, Mimi,” Sam says quietly from across the table. “I apologize, but that’s not enough. What I’d like to do is give you half of the revenue from the sale of The Firefly, free and clear. Now, I know your attorney will expect something. I talked to Drew this morning and he thinks I’m crazy, but I want to pay your attorney fee. Drew will call Jim Morris as soon as I have your blessing, and I’ll cut Jim a check next week.”
Mimi raises her coffee cup halfway to her lips, but her trembling hand doesn’t make a connection; she slowly puts it down and looks at Sam’s smiling face. Mimi is confused, and not for the first time; repetitive experience with confusion does not an expert make. Mimi doesn’t smile back. “I don’t know what to say, Sam. I’m flabbergasted.”
“How does $189,000 sound to you? Can you live with that?”
“Is this a joke? If this is a joke, Sam, it’s a really bad one.”
“This is the truest thing I’ve said to you since the first day I told you I love you. That, by the way, hasn’t changed,” Sam says to a still-doubting Mimi. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to take me back; I know you’ve moved on. But, this is the one way I can show you what your love meant to me.” Sam leans back in his chair and studies the ceiling before beginning again. “I want to make it right between us, to do something I’m proud of, for you. I know you don’t trust Drew, but he’ll draw up an agreement and all you have to do is sign it. And he’ll make sure that Jim Morris signs it, too. Then, the money’s yours, without any holds or stipulations. Will you agree to that?”
“Oh, Sam. Sam Sam Sam Sam.” Mimi’s head bobs and shakes – first no, then yes. But there is only one right answer. She looks straight into Sam’s clear eyes, and sees his heart expanding. “Yes, yes, Sam, I’ll agree to that.” Sam grins and pounds his fist on the table. “Well, good; I was beginning to worry about you. Eat your breakfast now before it gets cold. I’ll call Drew and we’ll get the ball rolling.” Sam takes Mimi’s free hand and kisses it. “See, Mimi, sometimes even a crapulent drunkard is lucky enough to have an angel with a sober head for business sitting on his shoulder.”
At Mimi’s direction, Jim Morris begrudgingly drops the lawsuit against Sam Killian and accepts a $50,000 payout, but rewrites his future contracts to state that, if a case of this nature is dropped, regardless of circumstance, the disappointing client with whom he wasted so much precious time must pay him a minimum of one half the original agreed upon value of the suit. Crap shooting is not Jim’s idea of a good investment, but presenting $10,000 to his wife on her fiftieth birthday buys Jim three weeks of uninterrupted playtime with his new thirty-year-old secretary while his lovely, but somewhat chubby and clueless missus enjoys an extended-stay, all-inclusive trip to an Arizona health spa. Jim, a moderate conservative, always chooses the sure bet.
The media stalkers quickly tire of all things Sam and Mimi; there’s no story left. It’s just another partnership gone wrong, and there are plenty of other couples with more dysfunctional profundities to follow. Old news, Mimi and Sam. Only the former employees of The Firefly speak of them with occasional sentimentality, and Melvin writes a blues tune in Sam’s honor that receives a few weeks of local airplay before falling into obscurity; he calls it Fire Starter Blues.

My woman was a hot firestorm
My woman was a hot firestorm
The world caught fire when she was born

Lightning is her middle name
Lightning is her middle name
She strikes the ground and causes pain

Buried deep within my soul
Yeah, buried deep within my soul
A black heart roams, can find no home

Whiskey is my lightning rod
Whiskey is my lightning rod
When lightning strikes, my heart turns cold

Jake plays his last local gig at The Phoenix during a driving rainstorm; Odessa is the featured vocalist, and just before Midnight she announces to the standing room only crowd that she and Jake leave in two weeks for a second European tour together. “Wish us luck,” she says, “we’ll be recording live shows from Amsterdam to the Black Sea Jazz Festival. But, we’ll be back in six months and believe me, we’ll make The Phoenix our first stop - this place is home base. Hit it, guys!” Odessa shouts, and the crowd goes wild as the band kicks into Watermelon Man.
But the fourth set bookmarks the last time Jake ever plays at The Phoenix. New owners believe a karaoke machine is a less expensive investment than a live quartet, and a DJ spinning beach music on weekends draws a mighty thirsty and hungry crowd. Thank you, goodnight, and God bless.
Mimi’s bank account gestates a big wad of cash, money round and pregnant with opportunity. Soon, she buys the little cottage with the deep front porch at the end of Jenkins Bottom Road and twenty adjoining acres, including a small, old growth apple orchard and a six acre pasture bordered by a meandering stream. Big hardwood trees and clean forest surround her cozy hideaway on all sides, and in the early evening, in the pink light of the setting sun, whitetail deer munch their way through the orchard and stop to drink peacefully, watchfully, before bedding down in the lush safety of tall grass. Every night before bedtime, Ben, dog of Buddha nature, barks to the east of him, to the north of him, to the west of him, to the south of him, offering up a late night lunar salutation and prayer for Mimi’s protection, for the continued companionship of his beautiful redheaded girlfriend, and for the safety of the deer. Ben is otherworldly; even the shy deer recognize him as a totem guide and have no fear as he patrols the perimeter.
Mimi and Jake spend hours walking the farm, naming the trees, talking. Not always though, sometimes eavesdropping instead on the conversations of wind and hawks, of flowing streams and shifting sand. On this particular day, Mimi and Jake remember the past and envision the future, with feet firmly grounded in the present. They sit in the orchard under a favorite tree, shoulder to shoulder, and Jake feels Mimi’s vibration. He must speak these words to her out loud before the moment passes. “Mimi, I love you; there is no other person in my life who has ever given me so much of themselves. You are one hundred percent love and truth – sometimes so much it scares me. I can never match you, nobody can.”
Mimi turns to Jake with questions in her eyes; she is on point. “Where is this going, Jake? You’re scaring me.” She turns her head to the ground and traces a tree root with her brown leather Redwing boots, then lifts a little wood spider from her pants and places it in the grass beside her.
Jake smiles; that simple gesture explains so much about Mimi. With his gentle hand, he palms her chin and turns her face to his. “No, listen to me. You were born special and the rest of us pale in your light. I think that’s why Sam tried so hard to take you down. You intimidated him without even knowing it, just like you intimidate me sometimes.” Mimi takes a deep breath and centers herself; she waits for something, but she doesn’t know what it is. She remains quiet for once while Jake gathers his strength to continue. “Stick with me here,” he says. “I’m not suggesting you change one silly millimeter of yourself. It’s just, well; all that honesty is very hard to match regardless of how hard the rest of us try.” Jake pauses before making his next statement. He looks away, sighs, and turns back to meet Mimi’s liquid hazel eyes. “You know, I never told you about the woman I slept with in Barcelona.”
“You didn’t have to, Jake.” Mimi stands up, stretches, and extends both hands to Jake. Sitting down through this conversation begins to feel way too heavy; he grabs them and she leans back, using his rising weight as ballast. They are a balancing act now, walking an emotional tightrope with the deftness and grace of the Flying Wallendas. “But you knew, didn’t you?” Jake asks, knowing the answer.
“Sure I knew,” Mimi says. Jake shakes his head. “See, how in the hell do you do that? How do women know these things?”
“We’re born with built-in shit detectors.” Mimi laughs and releases Jake’s hands. They turn toward the mossy path and slowly head toward home. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t know these things, and many times I’ve ignored the obvious, especially with Sam. I’ve had many opportunities to really open my eyes and view the truth up close, but sometimes I choose to shut them. With you, it’s different.”
Mimi stills her mind and lifts her eyes to the blue sky. She searches for the right words in the white mottled clouds overhead; clouds sometimes hold messages for her. Retaining a childlike fascination for messages in clouds has always helped soften Mimi’s hard-edged words. She speaks slowly, with kindness. “I see you clearly, and what I see is a man who loves me, but loves his music more. My eyes are open this time.” She takes Jake’s hand as they negotiate the flat creek rocks. Safely on the other side, she urges him to be patient while she gathers her thoughts. “Your music is the most precious thing about you. You are music; without it, you’d be dead. I’ll never be a jealous mistress to your muse. But, I’m also familiar with the lifestyle of single, handsome and sexy piano players. I watched you for five years, watched you interact with hundreds of women who would gladly have given up a body part just to have you fondle them one time.”
“Yeah, but I had my eyes on you, dear.” Jake’s dimples are deep enough to swim in; Mimi takes a dive. “The heck you say! You hid it very well.”
“Sam’s bigger than me, Mimi; he would have crushed me like a bug. You know, Julie had it figured out long before I did. She used to throw your name around every single time we had a fight.”
“I’m so sorry about that; I had no idea.” Jake extends his hand and helps Mimi climb over the split rail fence separating the deer pasture from the cottage. They are silent in their approach to the front porch, allowing space for Jake’s next thought to form. “Julie and I had a great run, or so I thought, for about four years. Double those years, you’ll have the sum total of the time we were a miserable duo. She was jealous, and couldn’t stand that music came first for me. She loved the doctor and hated the musician. That was my fault; I’ll never be a good husband to any woman.”
“I don’t want to marry you.” Mimi says this in the sweetest of ways; her words taste of freedom and commitment, all baked into one beautiful tart. Jake throws back his head and guffaws as he opens the front door. “Whew, glad that’s out of the way. You sure about that?”
“I’m sure. Sitting around wondering who you’re wrapping your legs around in Barcelona is not my idea of a healthy way to live.”
“You can always go with me,” Jake says, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a pitcher of hummingbird tea. Mimi grabs two artful glasses from her cabinet, fills them with crushed ice, and Jake fills them with the bright red liquid. “What do you think of that?” Mimi smiles at Jake’s question; he already knows. “My focus is building a nice little barn and round pen so I can bring Cajun here and find a buddy for him. I’m happy staying on the farm with Ben and Molly. But maybe when you and Odessa pick up a few days of rest, I’ll meet you at the big sand castle, or maybe Amsterdam.” Thinking of Jake’s travels reminds her of a certain gift he mailed. “Hey, what about that toothpaste? Should we brush our teeth with your special anti-cavity solution? No, wait. We can’t do that; it’s two o’clock in the afternoon. Can we?” Jake grins and heads to the sock drawer to retrieve his illicit goods. “It’s dark somewhere, and believe me, it doesn’t have to be dark in Amsterdam for the coffeehouses to be filled with smokers. Let’s do it!” Tube in hand, Jake digs in his shaving kit for a scalpel, then deftly performs delicate surgery as Mimi stands by, engrossed in the operation. She’s not quite sure what Jake’s holding, but it looks like a straw. “How’d that get in the toothpaste?”
“My friend Peter taught me a trick,” Jake says as he wipes the cylinder clean and carefully opens one end. “That’s some gooey toothpaste you have there, Doctor,” Mimi says. “Is it hash?”
“Yep,” says Jake. “And this, my dear, is a hash pipe. Got a light?” Mimi takes a small and gentle toke, holding it for a split second before releasing. She coughs a little, and her head immediately begins to buzz in a most delightful way. “Well, Jake, this is a fine treat,” she says, and moving to her CD collection, chooses Mozart. “It came from the Bluebird,” Jake says, “my favorite of all coffeehouses. I’ll bring home a menu next trip; you won’t believe it. Plus, they serve the best apple pie and ice cream I’ve ever tasted.” Jake fills his lungs with a generous hit of the sweet-smelling smoke, and hands the pipe back to Mimi, who studies it before carefully drawing once more. “Jake, guess what?”
“What?” Jake takes one more rolling hit before placing the pipe back in its hidey hole, along with the illicit black tar. Mimi giggles. “I’m really high; wait a minute. What did I just say?”
“I’m guessing something.” Jake closes his eyes and grooves on his altered brainwaves. “What are we talking about?” The Dance of the Mad Hatter begins in earnest. “Apple pie and ice cream,” answers Mimi. “Oh yeah, I made a treat for us, but you’ll have to wait a minute because my brain tickles and it feels so good.” She floats to the kitchen, laughing so hard she has to stop at the kitchen’s threshold and find her breath. Jake’s brain is dinging with happiness. “Mimi, you’re spizak to the mizzu. Dang, woman, you’re a cheap date.” Jake laughs deeply and his brain hums like a banjo frog.
“Apple pie and ice cream would be good, but we don’t have any.” Mimi makes her way to the oven, and as she opens it, the aroma of late summer wafts across the room. Jake’s prone on the heart pine floor, watching the ceiling fan circling, circling, circling; his stomach does a back flip as the scent of blackberry cobbler sneaks through the doorway. Mimi finds two spoons, secures a carton of French vanilla ice cream from the freezer, and slides to the kitchen floor with a pan of warm cobbler cradled on her lap. “If you want some of this, you’ll have to crawl on over here; I’m not moving.” Time stands still and time marches on, but Jake and Mimi are lost in the moment. The cobbler is warm and the ice cream melts, and then the cobbler is gone, all gone, even the crust around the edges is gone.
Molly and Ben share the vanilla puddle and lick the last of the goo from the sticky faces of their giggling, satiated masters. Jake and Mimi eventually make their way to the bathroom, wash up while kneeling by the tub because it just makes sense, then fall into a down-covered bed and dream in color until the deer bed down as Ben salutes the moon.

…

While music is not his passion, Sam, ever the savvy businessman, buys an established family restaurant down a dusty dirt road, a great-grandfathered farmhouse offering one unisex bathroom on the porch, a small but acoustically sound opera room, and two rusted out 1941 Chevy trucks in the front yard. Petunias grow in whitewashed tractor tires, and a granny butt directs traffic to the graveled parking lot near a small, but well stocked fishing pond. Thursday through Saturday, the Red Clay Ramblers play bluegrass as throngs emerge from a fifty mile radius to eat catfish, barbeque chicken and tender ribs accompanied by plenty of red cabbage slaw, cornbread or biscuits and ice tea thick with sugar, served family style for eight dollars a person, children under five free. The experience isn’t complete for the wait staff unless a city customer hears the call of nature, and asks, somewhat hurriedly, the following question: “Ma’am, where’s the bathroom?”
“Honey, go down this hallway here, turn right at the side door, and follow the porch to the end. Just hold the handle down for a count of three when you flush; our water pressure’s a bit low during the summer. That old hound dog down there? He don’t bite. Here,” she says, reaching into her apron pouch, “take him a piece a’ this here meat. His name’s Johnny; that’s because he showed up one day thinkin’ we needed a guard at the bathroom, and he never left. Just make sure the door closes behind you when you leave because Johnny likes to drink from the bowl.”
In the kitchen, working and sweating at Sam’s side, are two apt cooks: a boyish-looking man with a deformed ear, and a hippie who speaks in two word sentences. Watching over the three amigos is the one and only Velvet Elvis wearing a smile of understanding, a look of holy redemption, quietly ticking away the hours, then the minutes, until closing. After the band breaks down at ten p.m. on Saturday night, after all sated guests have flat-footed to the car and followed granny’s butt to the main road, Johnny leaves his perch by the bathroom and escorts Sam, Warren and the Hippie to the fishing pond, anxiously awaiting his treat of two fried bologna sandwiches thick with greasy mayonnaise. Even Johnny knows that catfish sometimes strike best when offered slick bait in the silence of a still moonlit night.

A short hour’s drive away in an apple orchard off Jenkins Bottom Road, Jake and Mimi view the same full moon. “I’m missing you already, Jake. Tomorrow comes too soon, doesn’t it?”
“Tomorrow is today, Mimi; can you believe it? I’ll miss you, dear woman; you are my heart.” Mimi settles into the crook of Jake’s neck. “What are you going to miss the most?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Jake says. “Everything. The way you spread mayonnaise on a tomato sandwich, with wild abandon, all the way to the corners. Or maybe the way you brush your teeth and dance at the same time. No, I’ll miss you in the mornings the most, that time before you’re completely awake, when you tell me your dreams. You have the most vivid dreams of anyone I know.” Jake hugs Mimi closer. “Look up; look at the stars. Now is the time we write a song from a star chart. How does the sky sound to you tonight? Do you see a pattern of notes?” Mimi gazes for a moment, then hums a few bars. “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. That’s what it looks like to me.”
“That’s because you were raised Baptist.”
“Sing me a song, Jake. Vocalize the sky for me.” The purest gift of love pours from the stars into Jake’s heart, and his heart is flush with music, not created by the dust from the stars, but from the essence, the birth, the beginning, the very moment of heavenly star creation, and it fills him. As he sings he watches the stars turn from white to red and he knows Julie guides his voice, but Mimi is the open vessel receiving all the stars she can capture and release; she is bathing in a galactic downpour of star energy, naked but for star essence, visible to all souls eternally born and reborn. A star shower rains pure love from the fourth dimension. The apples glow with star essence, and the coyotes’ eyes beam red across the meadow as if mesmerized by a heavenly cadence.
The silence is deafening.

THE END
PL Byrd, March 15, 2010