Eleven Shorts +1

And The Line Went Dead

AND THE LINE WENT DEAD

by Shireen Jeejeebhoy

THE VIOLINS RACED madly across the notes, climbing higher and higher, until with a mighty boom, the horn section exploded the passionate music into a thousand quivering notes, and the violins slowed down to a soft murmuring. Once again, the violins started on their mad pursuit. Then the violas and oboes and the French horns and drums all joined in, until the whole came to a crashing halt that left Dorothy breathless. The Magic Flute always had this effect on Dorothy: her whole being vibrated to the passion of Mozart’s music. But Arthur just sat quietly beside her, lovingly watching her emotions flicker across her face and tolerating the increasing pressure of her hand squeezing his as the music soared to its climax. For him, happiness meant treating his wife to Mozart and then watching her joy. This concert was the tenth that he had taken her to during their short marriage.

And with the dying notes of The Magic Flute, Overture K. 620, the concert came to an end. Dorothy surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and glared at Arthur for daring to grin at her. But she relented when he gave her a kiss on the tip of her short, straight nose.

“Arthur!” she gasped in feigned outrage, “anyone would think we were newlyweds!”

“And what do you think we are, sweet Dorry?” He gave her a mischievous grin and pecked her nose again.

Dorothy smiled smugly and basked in his love, ignoring all the stares.

“Mother! You’re drifting again! Now I only have five minutes and can’t waste precious time waiting for you to join us back in the present at your leisure, so I do wish you would pay attention. I do not want to be late for the parents’ meeting!” Sally impatiently wagged a finger in her mother’s face. “No wonder the nurses have such a hard time with you when you insist on going off to never-never land and refuse to listen to their better and more experienced judgement. And when I make time for you, you thank me by giving me a blank stare!” Sally breathed hard and furiously after this last injunction and glared at her mother for emphasis.

Dorothy felt the music die out of her. She was no longer in the concert hall, no longer with Arthur in those days of bliss; she was here in this horrid orange and brown room, listening to her daughter’s monthly sanctimonious lecture. She supposed she should be thankful for Sally’s lectures, for at least Sally visited her here at The Pasture Home for the Golden Years — unlike her other four children who avoided her as though she carried AIDS.

After staring at Sally in a carefully obedient manner, Dorothy gave her a meek, “Yes dear,” in answer.

“Good,” said Sally firmly, and she gathered up her beige camel coat, beige leather gloves, beige felt hat with a light brown feather in its band, and beige leather bag and briefcase.

“Now mother, I’m off. Listen to the nurses — you aren’t what you once were. What would happen to you if you didn’t take your pills or their advice? You know they only have your best interests at heart, as do I. But I must run,” and with a peck on Dorothy’s cheek, Sally was gone.

Dorothy stuck her tongue out after her, but her eyes flashed and her nose quivered at Sally’s retreating perfume. Condescending, self-righteous …

I’ll call John, she thought. He was always the compassionate one; that’s why he went into psychiatry. She shuffled her way to the nurses’ station to ask them permission to make a call.

“Who do you want to call dear?”

“My son John.”

“Okay. Do you have your quarter? Good. Let me dial for you.”