Unplayed Melodies

"Garage Sale," said the flier stapled to a telephone pole on the wind-swept Brooklyn street.

On a whim, the tall, light-haired man followed the directions cited on the sheet of looseleaf. The driveway adjacent to the two story house led into a backyard of decaying cement, where a dilapidated garage stood at the rear. Items were aligned outside and inside. As he approached, a white-haired woman bundled in an old overcoat rose to greet him.

"Hello," she said nervously, wringing her hands, which, despite the cold, were gloveless. "You're my first customer. I guess the house is scaring people off."

It was in dire need of repair. The items on display were old and unattractive. He regretted having come, especially as it was freezing. He lacked the resolve to leave, however.

"I was curious," he said uncomfortably.

The woman stared as if mesmerized. Regaining her senses, she apologized. "I expected you to speak with an accent. Seems like everybody who moves into the neighborhood nowadays is Russian."

"I am Russian. My parents came over when I was a baby."

"Just like me when mine came from Italy. Seems like the more things change, the more they stay the same."

He smiled, his light complexion taking on an even more reddish glow than the cold had given it.

"You live on the block, don't you?"

"Yes. I - we bought into the co-op across the street."

"Let me know if you see anything you like."

Although he was certain he would not, he gave the items a scan. He didn't want to hurt the woman's feelings. He suspected she was in dire straits. He would purchase something to help her out.

She switched on the light as he entered the garage. The day was dark and gloomy. Although the wattage of the bulb was minimal, its rays alit on an item hidden behind others in a corner. He chuckled to himself.

Had he found it, or had it found him?

"Can I see the guitar?" he said, turning to the woman.

Tension came to her face. "It wouldn't do you any good. It has a hole in it."

"Maybe I can do something with it. I'm a musician."

"I know. I've seen you with yours from my window. It always reminds me of my son."

Had the son abandoned her or, perhaps, O.D.'d? he wondered.

The instrument, stringless, was covered with dust. His heart was racing as he wiped the head clean with the fingers of a glove. As he'd suspected, it was a Gibson.

"Do you have any idea what this is worth?"

"What it was worth, you mean," said the woman somberly.

There was a small circular hole through the body.

"I'd like to have it as a souvenir. It's a classic. How much do you want for it?"

"Oh, no," said the woman with dread, "I couldn't take any mony for it. That would be 'infamia,' as my mother used to say."

He gazed at her, puzzled. She looked away.

"A mugger killed my son for it. He wouldn't give the damn thing up. He was only twenty. I should've burned it a long time ago."

Her voice cracked. There was a lump in his throat. She had tapped into his greatest fear in bringing a child into this troubled world - its premature death. How did someone survive such a thing?

"It happened ten years ago, but it seems like yesterday. He was such a good boy, always ready to help people. It killed my poor husband's soul. He regretted buying that guitar 'til the day he died."

It seemed her soul had perished too. That explained the condition of the house.

"I'm sorry," he said, eyes glazed. "I wouldn't dream of taking it from you."

She shook her head sorrowfully. "It's not that. I'd gladly give it up. It always pops up to remind me, no matter where I hide it. I don't have the heart to throw it away. Take it if you want. You remind me of my son when I see you with it, anyway. I hope you have better luck with it than he did. I just can't take any money for it."

Nagged by conscience, he purchased an old lamp amd hurried away. Reaching a modest sedan parked nearby, he took a cloth from a cardboard box stored in the trunk and wiped the guitar clean. His wife would have a fit should he bring it into the apartment in its soiled condition. He left the lamp at the foot of the door of the compactor room.

"Hey, El', take a look at this," he said, entering the four-room flat.

"Oh, Mik," she frowned, shoulders slumping; "another one? With a baby on the way?"

She was in the early stages of pregnancy, still trim and attractive.

He kissed her cheek. "Relax. It only cost me ten bucks."

She fingered the hole. "It looks like a prop from an old gangster movie."

"A mischievous nephew drove a steel rod through it."

To his relief, she did not question the explanation. She was trusting to a fault. Besides, she was a bit superstitious. She might become nervous knowing the truth.

Amazingly, the body gleamed upon polishing.

"What's that they say about not making things like they used to?"

"I can't remember the last time you looked at me like that," said Ellen, tense.

Stung, he stared. She looked away.

"Sorry. I don't know what made me say that. I guess my hormones are starting to make me crazy."

"Maybe it's true, though. Maybe I'm just like every other guy who takes his wife for granted after a while."

"No, you're not. You're so sweet. I'm the villain."

He put a set of extra light strings on the guitar. Breath bated, he strummed. The sound was profoundly soulful. He played a series of chords. The resonance was lush and full, the action swift. His eyes glazed.

"You hear this, El'?"

She entered the bedroom. She matched his notes vocally. "Wow," she said, sitting beside him at the edge of the bed.

"It's a miracle. There's no way in the world it should sound this good." He looked into her eyes. "You're in fine voice tonight, by the way."

"I'm so pumped. I feel like my time's running out. Who knows what'll happen to my voice after the baby."

"It'll be fine. Singers've had babies before."

"What's the big deal, anyway? It's only weddings. It's not like we're playing concerts. You better shower. It's getting late."

"You gonna wear the black gown tonight? If you are, we may be taking a trip out to the van between sets."

"I wonder if that's where the baby was conceived? Enjoy it while it lasts. In a few months I'll be so bloated you won't be able to stand to look at me."

"Will you stop with that."

She hung her head. "Sorry. You just can't imagine what it's like. As much as I want the baby, it's a tremendous sacrifice. The only thing I won't miss is having to discipline those brats every day."

He stood the guitar beside his others: an electric, an acoustic, and a bass. He loved the look it gave the room.

Ellen nudged him. "You hear that?"

He lifted his head from the pillow. There was a soft, sorrowful humming in the air. "It's an E," he said.

"Where's it coming from?"

He switched on the lamp and approached the guitars, squinting. "Oh, wow," he said softly, "it's the old one." He'd had it a month now. "Some vibration in the wall or the floor must be setting it off."

"Well, move it. I'd like to get some sleep."

His mother called in the morning. He spoke Russian to her, self-consciously, as he felt it was inconsiderate to Ellen, who, although she'd never said a word, appeared to resent it. She cringed whenever his mother addressed him as Mikhail.

She was third generation, her ancestors of German descent, facts upon which his parents frowned. They believed he'd embraced America too earnestly. He, on the other hand, thanked God his family had emigrated. He shuddered whenever he envisioned living in the gloom that seemed the Soviet Union. He had absolutely no desire to visit it.

He was visibly shaken as he hung up. "My grandmother died."

He took the guitar to work daily. There were several musicians at the firm and all looked forward to a lunch-hour jam in the employees' lounge.

At the close of work one day there was a tense, angry humming in B emanating from the closet where he kept the guitar. It ceased as his supervisor appeared. He was told to report to the boss. He frowned, anticipating overtime. He admonished himself. With a child on the way, he should be grateful for any opportunity to earn a little extra. Soon Ellen would no longer be working. She wanted to stay home with the baby, and it pleased him, despite the strain the loss of revenue would cause them.

The boss appeared grave. Mik sensed what was about to occur. Seated opposite the desk, he stared dumbly as he was informed of a lay-off. He'd worked at this brokerage house six years, since graduation. His evaluations had all been good. Now, suddenly, he was being let go, sent off with twelve week's pay and an apology. There'd been rumors, but he'd hoped he'd had enough seniority to survive a purge. The entire department was being canned, however. Scandal had rocked the firm. The sins of a few were affecting many.

He left the office fighting back tears. He hurried from the building. He did not want to hear any words of consolation. He was bitter and humiliated. What would he tell Ellen? He decided to say nothing for the time being. What sense was there in upsetting her? He would find another job, anything to pay the bills.

Guitar in tow, he left the apartment each morning. Ellen, adjusting to the physical changes she was undergoing, suspected nothing. He registered with several employment agencies. A month passed without word. The job market was tight. What would he do? In a few weeks the severance would have been exhausted. Ellen would wonder about the absence of money. Soon she would be feeling better, adjusted to the presence of the child within her.

Entering the subway, the bluesy moans of a saxophone lured him to a narrow corridor that provided wonderful resonance for the instrument. A middle-aged man stood before a top hat that was inverted. Inside was money, a few bills, mostly coins. Mik was tempted to provide accompaniment but feared he would be resented, considered an interloper. He strolled through the cavernous station searching for his own nook and found it at the foot of a stairway. A shaft of sun fell upon him like a spotlight. Spring had arrived.

Case open at his feet, he strapped on the guitar. He stifled the urge to sing. It was far from his strength and might annoy commuters. His musicianship was inspired, however, as precise as he'd ever accomplished. He was elated. He'd always wondered how he would react under pressure. Now he knew. Here he was singing for his supper, so to speak, and doing it flawlessly. Coins, mostly quarters, began filling the case.

He plotted a schedule: Monday - the financial district; Tuesday - Times Square; Wednesday - 34th Street; Thursday - Union Square; Friday - downtown Brooklyn. He avoided Whitehall Street, the station he'd used for years. He didn't want anyone feeling sorry for him.

There was an obvious difference between other subway musicians and himself: he was the only one who was dressed conservatively. He kept a sign at his feet: "Requests Granted." People of all walks of life, all races, all musical tastes, addressed him. He was grateful for the training he'd received at college. People occasionally sang along. He was amazed at the skill of some.

His take varied, ranging from ten to fifty dollars. To his surprise, the police ignored him. No doubt they were preoccupied with far greater concerns. Arriving in Brooklyn, he would got to the bank and exchange the coins for cash. At first the tellers were amused. Eventually they frowned at the sight of him.

On Good Friday he decided on a change of venue, as many firms were closed and commuter traffic was considerably less than usual. He surmised that activity in Greenwich Village would be unaffected and, thus, set up shop in the West 4th Street station. Unfortunately, the weather was raw and rainy. Many stayed home.

As he was about to close his case, the G string began vibrating wildly, fearfully. "What the hell?" he muttered, pressing a finger against the string to mute it. The sound grew louder, more urgent. Suddenly he heard a brief scream emanate from the opposite end of the station, the West 6th Street exit. He reached for a small metal pipe he kept in the case for self defense. He'd hoped the need would never arise.

Case swaying, slowing him, he sprinted across the blackened concrete surface. He felt as if he were running uphill. Below, a train was rumbling through the station. He felt the vibration at his feet. There wasn't a soul in sight, despite the early hour.

Slowing, he held his breath in order to be able to hear. A hushed voice was betrayed by its narrow confines. "Do it or I'll slice up that pretty face. Scream again an' I'll kill ya."

Mik quaked with fear. He put the case down silently and tiptoed toward a makeshift wooden structure that enclosed an exit under renovation. In the nook to the left, where a bulbless light fixture hung, lay the viper's nest. All was silent save for the passage of traffic, the clopping of heels against the sidewalk beyond a nearby vent. Apparently, the construction crew had tha day off.

Had the deviate scouted the location? Mik wondered, sickened. Should he call out, pretend the police were on the way? He was afraid the woman would be held hostage. What would he do then? How would he live if she were killed because of an ill-advised action on his part?

The man, whose hair fell well beyond his shoulders, had his back to Mik. The woman, whimpering, was on her knees, held fast by the hair with one hand, a knife by the other. View blocked, she was unable to see her rescuer.

The sound of the lowering of a zipper sent Mik into action. There was at least time to save her from total consummation of the horror. Enraged, the cry of a warrior escaped his throat. Alerted, the predator nimbly stepped aside as he was about to be clubbed.

Mik stumbled into the wall and whirled to defend himself, but the beast had taken flight. He caught a glimpse of feet scurrying up a nearby stairway. He looked to the young woman, who remained in place, trembling violently.

"Are you alright?" he said, kneeling beside her.

She thrust herself against him, howling. He comforted her with an embrace.

As she began to regain control of herself, he said: "C'mon, we'll find a cop."

"No!" she blurted, clinging to him. "Take me home. Please."

To his shame, he was relieved, as bearing witness would have betrayed his secret to Ellen. As it was, it was a miracle that she was still in the dark about it.

The woman lived nearby. "Thank you," she said, hurrying away, head down. Even when out of sight, her wailing carried into the street, sending a shudder through him.

He stared blankly into space during the ride home. Although he read of such crimes regularly, the actual savagery had been beyond his comprehension. His abdomen was in knots. He was glad Ellen had abandoned the subway long ago. He would forbid a daughter from using it. He suspected it wouldn't be the only violence he witnessed. Spending so much time underground, one was bound to encounter horror. He urged himself to be strong. He had no recourse financially.

His right pinky was throbbing, swollen considerably. He'd crushed it crashing into the tiled wall.

Fortunately, it was the hand with which he strummed, not picked. And what was the injury compared to what the poor woman had suffered?

Ellen woke him in the middle of the night.

"The guitar again," she said, annoyed.

It was in D. Mik paused before rising. "Listen to that. I should have such soul. What makes it do that all of a sudden? It must have something to do with the hole - but what?"

"Maybe it's haunted."

He smirked. "Stop reading that parapsychology stuff."

"I was only joking."

"Sure you were."

The humming continued no matter where he placed the instrument. Ellen turned on the light and pulled the covers from herself. Mik looked at her.

"I'm bleeding," she said breathlessly, staring at the red stain that was spreading rapidly. She gazed at her husband, lower jaw quivering. "The baby!"

The humming ceased.

Ellen was crushed by the miscarriage. Mik stayed home all week, despite her reassurances.

"I'll go back Monday," he said. "They won't miss me."

"Oh, stop it!" Ellen snapped. "I know what happened. I called the office one day. The receptionist told me. I didn't want you to feel pressured, so I didn't say anything. I knew something was wrong. You've been so restless in your sleep."

He hung his head. "I didn't want you to worry. I was afraid...."

Their glazed eyes found each other's. He wept bitterly at her breast.

"What've you been doing for money?" she said, caressing him.

"Temping."

"Oh, God - with your intelligence."

He was relieved at her acceptance of the lie.

"I want to try again right away," she said. "I feel like such a failure."

It was precisely how he was feeling.

For several weeks they were like newlyweds. Gloom gradually lifted from their lives. Hope returned.

"I've been thinking," said Ellen one evening after supper. "Remember the first time the guitar hummed? It was the night your grandmother died."

"So?" he returned, feigning casualness.

"What happened just before we lost the baby?"

The very thought had occurred to him the moment he'd seen the blood. Two instances proved nothing - but four? He would not tell her of the others lest she be alarmed. Besides, if the Gibson's intent were evil, why would it have alerted him to the plight of the woman at the deviate's mercy?

"C'mon, El'. My grandmother was ninety. And miscarriages are far from uncommon. It's just coincidence. I'll get rid of it if it'll make you feel better."

"Do that. I'd be crawling the walls if it happened again. Take it back to that woman. Maybe it's meant to be with her somehow."

He placed the guitar in a weathered old case and went out. Darkness had fallen. He hoped to hide the guitar in the garage, cover it with something so the woman wouldn't know it was there. There was a dumpster at the curb before the house, which was being gutted. The garage had been razed. He spoke to a worker. The woman had died. The property had been sold.

Poor soul, he thought, saddened. Had parting with the instrument delivered the fatal blow? he wondered.

What would he do with it? Had it been meant to fall into his hands? He was averse to selling or throwing it away. "Infamia," he thought. Was that the word?

He was confident the guitar posed no danger to his wife or himself. He considered keeping it in the trunk of his car, but Ellen, who drove to work, was bound to come upon it. He decided to keep it in the building's storage room, although it would be vulnerable to theft there. He had no option.

The small room was crammed with odds and ends that seemed long forgotten. He stood the instrument in the furthest corner. He was about to leave when, troubled, he squatted and whispered, fingers grazing the neck. "Can you hear me?" All he heard was a mechanical hum. "What do you want?" There were voices in the corridor. He hurried away, feeling foolish.

On Tuesday he was playing Times Square. People were so generous he was able to quit early. Elated, he decided to window shop the music stores along West 48th. He would not allow himself to enter any, as he might succumb to the temptation to buy.

Having passed down one side of the street, he crossed and made his way back. A humming, in A, began in the case. It grew louder at each step, like the approach of a police siren. It became so intense the case

wavered in his hand. He struggled to hold onto it. People were staring at him as if he were mad.

"What?" he asked the case, alarmed.

Suddenly the A strings of the instruments in the storefront before him began snapping. Soon it was happening all over the street. People flinched and jerked, terrified. Windows shattered.

Mik scanned the area, frantic, searching for whatever was about to take place. He gazed at ground level, then along rooftops. On the opposite side of the street, high above the ground, an old neon sign was pulling

away from its moorings. He dropped the guitar and raced forward, shouting an alert. People scattered, screaming. A blind man was jostled, set spinning in the wake of the panic. He lost his grip on his cane and
bent to grope for it. Amidst shrieks, Mik barreled into him and drove him into the shelter of a doorway a split second before the sign crashed to the sidewalk.

The media was informed and was on its way. Mik was urged to stay and assume credit for the deed by storeowners and pedestrians. He declined and hurried away, although he sensed it made him appear a fugitive. To his surprise and chagrin, the guitar remained where he'd dropped it. How was it that such an item, left unattended on a busy Manhattan street, had been ignored when all over the city, all over the world, people were being murdered for pocket money?

Drained, he fell asleep on the train and missed his stop. He awoke at the end of the line, Coney Island. The guitar was still beside him. He wondered if it were invisible to others.

There was a tear in the area of his right knee. How would he explain that to Ellen - lunch-hour roughhousing?

Summer passed without further incident. He hoped the instrument (the soul of the previous owner?) had been appeased. After all, a life had been saved. Another had been spared even greater suffering than had been destined. Perhaps it was enough. Logic, however, dictated that a last melody had to be played. The humming had preceded consecutively up the strings. One had yet to sound. He contemplated leaving the guitar in the storage room permanently, but he suspected the humming would find him wherever he was. He believed the string had to be played out and hoped he had a guardian angel who would keep him from harm, death.

Ellen returned to work, pregnant again. Life was good, although Mik remained out of work. Interviews proved fruitless. Fortunately, his play, which was improving at leaps and bounds, generated a modest tax-free income. It was so polished, in fact, that he feared the spirit of the murdered young man was responsible for it and not himself. However, he was playing an average of five hours a day, and that was bound to improve anyone. His work with other guitars was just as refined. He wished he could do this for a living.

He feared the uncertainty, however. He was not guaranteed a paycheck or medical coverage for his efforts. As it was, Ellen would have to work while he stayed home with the baby. This had already been decided between them. He shuddered at the thought of the shame of being unable to provide for his family.

The first blast of cold came in early November. Commuters entering the 34th Street station passed quickly, as if it would be painful to stop. Mik knew his take would be small. The weather had soured the public. As the morning rush ended, he decided on a change of venue. There was no sense staying here. Besides, instinct had alerted him to the presence of a young man who'd passed several times in succession. Would a thief telegraph his intent so obviously? he wondered. And there was hardly any money in the case, certainly not enough for which to kill. Then again, people were killed for much less. Why take a chance?

As he squatted to collect the change, a pair of loosely laced sneakers settled before him. His gut contracted. Would he ever see his child?

"Hey, man, where you get that thing?" said the young man resentfully.

Coins in hand, Mik looked up. The question puzzled him. Why hadn't he been told to surrender his money?

Breath bated, he rose, guitar still strapped to him. To his chagrin, there was no one in sight. How was this possible at ten AM in the most dynamic city in the world?

"Where'd you get it?"

Words failed him.

"Can't you talk? You a ghost? You white as one."

The E bass began humming.

"What's dat? Stop dat, mother...."

Soon all six strings were vibrating furiously.

"I tol' you to stop dat."

The young man whipped out a revolver. Mik's life, Ellen and the baby, flashed before him. Suddenly the strings all gave way at once, the ends lashing out at the hand that held the gun, which fired and fell to the ground. Mik stood still for what seemed an eternity. Somehow the bullet had missed him, although the young man and he were but two feet apart. The echoing peel of the ricochet against the tile told him he was alive.

As the predator was bending to retrieve the gun, Mik swung the body of the guitar into him, knocking him off balance. On all fours, the young man reached out. Mik was quicker, stepping on the gun, denying him.

Presently a policeman, weapon drawn, was shouting, running toward them. The perpetrator sprang to his feet like a cat and bounded away.

As the officer retrieved the gun, Mik closed the guitar case and joined the chase. Through corridors, up and down stairways, over turnstiles, into Penn Station they ran. Breathless, the officer broadcast a message over his hand-held radio. Others joined the hunt. Commuters spun in place, gasping at the swirl of activity. The young man was darting left and right like a rat, access to escape repeatedly sealed off.

"There he goes," an officer shouted, precipitating a furious scramble along a corridor, then down a flight of stairs to a platform, from which a train was leaving. The young man leaped onto the rear of the last car and clung to the handle of the door with both hands.

Fate was unkind, however, as his feet lost contact with the narrow space at the foot of the door. He tried to lift himself, in vain. Legs dangling in mid air, weighing on him, a hand came free. Soon the other lost its grip and he tumbled to the tracks and bounced along violently until stopped by the third rail.

Sparks flew into the air. Steam rose from the body as it burned and convulsed. Screams resounded throughout the station. With luck, he might have survived the fall, but the electricity had been merciless.

Ellen met Mik at the police station. He told her everything during the drive home. "He was only twenty-three," he said, beside himself; "and he had a record a mile long. He would've had to've been thirteen if he was the one who murdered the woman's son. God, can you imagine that? What kind of life is that?"

"You didn't tell the police any of that, did you?"

"Are you kidding! I'm having a hard time believing it myself - and I lived it!"

"Now I understand the message on the answering machine."

He looked at her, puzzled.

"An agent called. He lined up an audition for you."

"He was really an agent? He was so drunk."

At home he immediately set about restringing the guitar. Ellen was furious.

"I just want to see something."

As he'd suspected, no matter how diligently he tried, he was unable to tune the strings into any position that produced harmony.

"Maybe now the poor soul'll be able to rest in peace."

He placed the instrument in the living room as a show piece.

Close to the Edge
You are welcome to read excerpts of my book, Closer to the Edge, a suspense thriller about fears and insecurities in dating, and one man's solution.