Song of Silence. Cynthia Ruchti
bright side is blinding me, Charlie. “Thanks for getting the paint.”
“If you ask me, it looks like what you already have on the walls.”
“It isn’t. A shade darker.”
Charlie turned to face her. “Darker? We need darker? I thought you liked all the light in there.”
“I do. But with the white ceiling, cupboards, and trim, there wasn’t enough contrast. You’ll see. It’ll be stunning. Ania thinks so too.”
Gravity pulled Charlie’s facial features south. “Ania the Angry Artist?”
“How many Anias do you know? Yes. The Angry Artist.”
His mouth twitched. “Do you think it’s wise to take advice from her?”
This is how daily conversations would go, living with a man with too much time on his hands and no clue how offensive his words could be? “You’re not telling me who I can have as a friend, are you?”
“And sign my own death certificate? No.” His chuckle showed obvious comedic intent. Then his facial expression changed. “Just saying that her anger is . . . toxic. And your emotional immune system is compromised.”
“Dr. Phil?”
“Great episode.” He stepped into the kitchen, then opened the door again to call to her, “Hey, you mind if I turn off the music? Or turn it down? My earlobes are bleeding.”
Eardrums, and no they aren’t. She followed him into the kitchen. “Go ahead. I was thinking of heading to the library for a while, now that the car’s back.”
The music crash-landed. “Okay.” He craned his neck, surveying the mess in the kitchen. “Will you be back in time for lunch?”
His question could have meant so many things. How long do you plan to leave it like this in here? How long will you be gone from me? What are you going to do, and can I come, too? Will you be back in time to make my lunch? Or, simply, when will you be back?
“I have some errands to run. Don’t know how long it will take me. Can you make yourself a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch?”
“Sure,” he said, his face less than certain. “Don’t you want to . . . ?” He let the thought dangle and drew concentric circles in the air while pointing at her chest.
No! I do not want to—
“. . . change first?”
She looked at the front of her grungy tee shirt. Paint spatters from a previous project. “I-I planned on it.” Lucy eased past him and headed for the bedroom to change into an outfit she could be seen in publicly. She settled on clean jeans, an unspotted tee, and a lightweight jean jacket. Errands. Which of those on the list interested her?
The kitchen could wait. Time was something she now had in abundance. She’d talked about taking the hiking path along the river. Maybe today was the day to cross that item off the list. She chose athletic shoes over sandals for that reason.
“What if the muffler gets done before you come home?” Charlie asked when she kissed him good-bye. “We have to pick up the car together. I’ll need a ride to the shop.”
Lucy wiggled her cell phone. “You can text me. Or call if it gets close to their closing time. Did you have anything else planned for the day?”
“I thought about seeing if the bluegills were biting. Martin said something about wanting to go fishing.”
“Great. Have fun.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“Can Martin pick you up?”
“I suppose so.”
“Perfect.” Lucy snatched her purse and exited through the front door before she thought too hard about inconveniencing Charlie.
She drove to the library, parked in the lot, but didn’t get out of the car. She kept the engine running for the sake of the air conditioning, surprisingly useful on a day when the temps were ideal. The sun. That sun beating down on everything. Baking the car’s interior. Lucy directed the top vents to blow directly on her face.
Library patrons strolled in and out of the building. Few people ran into or out of a library. Young moms, maybe. With toddlers in tow. In the rain. Libraries are destinations of discovery. A lot like musical pieces, Lucy thought. Those who rush to, through, or out of it miss the whole point.
She shook herself out of philosophy mode and made a decision. A bold decision. Discovering how to sue her former employer sounded even less appealing than it had when Ania told her about it over the phone. How would starting a war benefit her students in any way? Lucy longed for reason to prevail. Running into Ania wouldn’t help anything. What was she even doing downtown? Lucy put the car into reverse and backed out of her parking spot.
Into a tan SUV with the same idea.
The jolt sent her heart rate into staccato overdrive. She turned off the engine, unbuckled her seatbelt, and jumped out to assess the damage and meet her victim face-to-face.
“Mrs. Tuttle? Hey, I am so sorry. Are you okay?” The shorts-clad teen girl clutched her stomach.
Lucy put a hand on her former student’s shoulder. “I’m fine. Are you?”
Kiersten shook her hands at her sides. “Yeah. Fine. It’s how I handle stress.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Fine. Really. I am so sorry.”
“What makes you think it was your fault, Kiersten?” Careful, Lucy. Don’t take more than your share of the blame. She’d heard that from an insurance commercial once.
“Not directly. But—” She turned to indicate the bent woman approaching from the driver’s side. Bent with age, not accident damage, it appeared. Kiersten—summer blond wisps of hair stuck to the sides of her face—stepped between the two older women and spoke to Lucy in soft tones. “She insisted on driving us home. Insisted. I guess respecting your elders has its limits. I am so sorry.”
When she was in eighth grade, family responsibilities had forced Kiersten to drop band and chorus. It broke Lucy’s heart. And not just because they’d needed her on French horn. The accident now seemed a rude intrusion on Lucy’s longing to reconnect with the young woman these years later and find out how she was doing.
Kiersten stepped to the side. “Grandma, I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Tuttle, my former music teacher.” The apology on her face couldn’t have been more pronounced.
The older woman toddled to the spot where the two bumpers seemed locked in a wild embrace. “Oh, this isn’t good.”
“It’s not so bad,” Lucy insisted, mentally calculating the cost of bodywork added to the new exhaust system Charlie’s Traverse was getting in a shop down the street. “A little crinkled.”
Kiersten’s grandmother pinched her eyes shut, then opened them wide. “Still here. It’s real, I guess. Well, if I had a license, it’d be gone now.”
“Grandma, you don’t have a driver’s license? You didn’t tell me that.” Kiersten’s face lost a decade in age with that revelation.
The woman touched an undamaged part of the SUV’s bumper. “Kind of a moot point now. This is as nasty as a cat in a lace factory.” She looked up into Kiersten’s face. “Don’t tell your father.”
“Grandma, I have to tell him.”
The woman’s shoulders heaved. “Then you’ll have to tell him the whole truth—that I overpowered you and took the wheel against your better judgment.”
Kiersten and Lucy laughed at the way Kiersten’s grandmother flexed her biceps as she spoke.
“I suppose we need