Mute

I’ve been working on ‘Mute’ for a really long time now, dribs and drabs, out of sequence and in all different locations.  It’s been akin to what I imagine making a patchwork quilt to be like, one square at a time, a puzzle, a great task.  I have taken such a long time to complete the story that in some ways to me if feels incomplete.  Could also be that Augustus has been with me for an extended period of time and I’ll miss him.  As with my other stories, ‘Mute’ is a snapshot, a small slice of the bigger picture.  I wonder if somewhere in my subconscious I write them in such a way in the event I want to revisit them?  I’d be ok with spending more time with any of the characters I’ve written about if they so choose to elaborate.

I’ve been tinkering with ‘Mute’ a good while now and confess I can’t see the mistakes anymore so it’s time to at least share it and take a breather from editing.  After a while your eyes miss typos and omissions, bad grammar and tense problems.  But I have never pretended to be a good editor, I just write the stories down.

Make no mistake, I’ve had a great time writing this story but I wish I would have had the discipline and the time to devote to its creation.  I write a great deal at work in my down time and it’s been fairly busy and when real life gets in the way too, as a writer, you start battling resistance, the folly Stephen Pressfield discusses in some of his writing manifesto-style books.  That is why my artist dates are so important to me.  I’m not isolating or choosing to be anti-social but to be a writer you actually have to write.  You need to make time for your work, your passion.

I hope that you will absorb some of Augustus when you read.  I realize now, reading back, he and I are a lot alike.  Maybe that’s why he settled on me to tell his story.  He knew I’d regard it with tenderness and care.  I’m pleased to share him here now.

Enjoy.

Mute

mute  adj :

refraining from producing speech or vocal sound

to express without the aid of speech, unspoken

Augustus Cade lives alone in a two bedroom bungalow on a street called Bullfrog Lane nestled in a well-manicured suburb.  Augustus doesn’t talk.  He is able to speak but he refuses to.  Instead, he communicates by writing everything down with a hard black Ticonderoga erasable pencil on the pages of a classic striped Moleskine notebook complete with an elastic closure and a ribbon bookmark to keep his place.  It is an offense to those who are truly impotent of speech that he refers to himself as mute but by his calculations, he is.  Augustus is physically capable of producing sounds.  All of the parts of him that allow him to orate, his throat, his vocal cords, his lungs, his mouth and his tongue, all function perfectly .  He is not deaf, he has never been injured but his vow of silence, his selective muteness is often regarded as an obstinate introversion or insufferable insolence by others, especially his family.  He doesn’t intend it as an affront but rather a guileless refusal of discourse for fear of exposing his cluttered speech.

He hasn’t uttered a word since he was twelve years old, he’s thirty two now.  Augustus has what the doctors call pressured speech.  When he used to speak, he conversed in a rapid, accelerated, frenzied manner.  The kids at school teased him relentlessly for the irregularities in his talk.  Spit it out, retard.  Shut up, marble mouth.  Inbred.  Dummy. The more they badgered him the worse it became.  His responses would come out in hurried, nervous, broken sentences, often times stuttering and stammering.   In his rebuttals, Augustus had false starts, thoughts abruptly cut off in mid-utterance, repeated phrases over and over, even certain syllables, all non-lexical.  His speech disfluencies, the maddening impediment debilitated him, unfurled him and isolated him from his peers.  It mattered very little to the other kids that he possessed above average intelligence, was highly perceptive, uniquely creative, and deeply empathetic to the plights of others as well as having a profound sense of right and wrong.  One day, he just stopped talking and slowly devolved from an exceptionally passionate young boy to a sullen introvert.  He traded his bright smile for a blank expression, robbed those around him of any direct contact with his big brown eyes and grew to rely on routine rather than his natural penchant for veering off course.  Augustus developed sensitivity to noise and crowds, he took on a moody disposition relinquishing the summit of all joys, until he saw Libby Nickle.

Augustus works a small but modest job.  His father, Solomon Greer Cade is editor-in-chief of The Granville Standard, the town’s newspaper.  His silence didn’t prevent him from remaining astute and academic, rather the opposite.  He devoted all of his time to his studies, focusing on journalistic type endeavors, primarily because of his father’s position and insistence that he do something productive if he was hell bent on never speaking again.  To Augustus’ delight, he actually enjoyed writing and spent hours researching and writing short stories, historical pieces about Granville and Lawrence, the neighboring town.  He chips away at his work in a tidy little office tucked between the lunchroom and the janitor’s closet.  Solomon urged him to take the sunny corner office but Augustus felt it would be better suited for someone who earned their stripes at The Standard instead of someone who inherited employment through the family tree with no formal training or degree.  All of the study Augustus did was independent and supported by his doting mother Portia who still brings him an occasional brown bag lunch even at thirty two years.

In his small unassertive office he writes the paper’s obituaries.  He really hoped to be given the wedding announcements but the powers that be deemed him too old-fashioned when he handed in his first sample. It read:

MISS BETSY IKEN BETROTHED TO NAVAL OFFICER

Betsy Iken and Lt. David Warburton of Granville were quietly married at the home of the bride’s parents Tuesday evening at five o’clock.  An intimate gathering of family and friends stood witness; Minister Paul Barry of St. Mark’s United presided.  An elegant dinner was enjoyed after the ceremony and a little light dancing.  The couple will honeymoon in Paris for a short spell and return to live together in Lawrence Heights.  We wish them unbounded happiness.

And so, obituaries it was.  He didn’t really care what he did after Libby Nickle caught his eye; she consumed his every waking thought and captured his heart with one glance at Café Calla.  He’d sooner trail off in a daze daydreaming about her than work.

Needing a break from typing in lieu of flowers Augustus tucked his notebook and pencil in his trusty messenger bag, donned his tweed flat cap and ducked out of the office for a little bit of sunlight and to stretch his legs.  He walked the two and a half blocks to Café Calla, most noted for their chocolate croissants and favored because he doesn’t have to write anything down to order.  They know him well enough to know he’ll take a large hot chocolate with an extra cloud of whipped cream on top. 

He bought a sugary delight and took up residence at his usual table smack dab in the middle of the dining area.  The small café was always bustling with activity, students with their heads down and ear-buds shoved in their ears clacking away on their laptops, professionals meeting to discuss the day’s business, girlfriends gossiping over café mochas and the skilled baristas just as dexterous as flaring bartenders flipping their bottles and cocktail shakers.  Augustus loved the ambience and they always played light jazz overhead, the kind he liked, with no lyrics that you can snap your fingers to.  Scanning the room, he gouged out a generous heap of the fluffy cream with his spoon and popped it into his mouth.  He eyed her as the creamy bite filled his cheeks and sweetened his tongue.  Libby Nickle was perched gracefully at a window seat in the café sipping a cup of chamomile tea; both hands wrapped around the heavy ceramic mug, the string of the teabag fell over her tiny fingers.  Augustus’ heart skipped a beat.  He drank in her honey blonde hair, cut in a textured pixie style that barely tucked behind ears, short hair that perfectly accented her lovely features, pale green eyes, pretty pink lips, flushed cheeks and graceful neck.  He noticed everything about her, like now a lazy curl of fog rose up from her drink and kissed her soft skin and how a stray thread hung haphazardly from the scalloped hem of her embroidered chambray dress and clung to her leg just below her knee.  He swallowed the dollop of whipped topping in one big gulp and on instinct looked down to remind himself of what his appearance was like.  To his chagrin he realized there was a liberal stain on the oatmeal hue of his favorite cardigan sweater with the knitted elbow patches.  Earlier he had sullied it while eating frozen waffles he toasted himself for breakfast in the lunchroom, the maple syrup dripped and seeped into the cotton.   

Drat. 

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, dusted himself off and tried to steady his hurried breath from the vision of her.  He was certain she would never notice he was alive but when their eyes met they held contact a little longer than strangers would, she smiled.  He nodded.  And then, in one swift fluid movement, Libby abandoned her tea after noticing the time on the wall clock, collected her things and was gone before Augustus could exhale.   Through the window he watched her spill onto the sidewalk, check both ways for traffic and scurry across the street disappearing into the bright yellow door of Chartreuse Boutique, a ladies shoppe whose name mirrors its lively exterior décor.  Augustus felt akin to a balloon and someone had let all of the air out.  Surely he had encountered other young women in his lifetime but none had enflamed such a strong visceral attraction.  One look from Libby turned his whole life upside down and inside out respectively.  He knew her name was Libby because as she exited Café Calla the barista, a dead ringer for Joan Jett, called after her, “Look both ways before you cross the street, Libby Nickle!”  Libby laughed, threw up a weak but objectionable hand gesture and bolted out the door.

 O Libby Nickle. The things I would say if I could.

Augustus made another discovery while sitting there in the sweet aftermath of Libby’s presence.  He sat in the café daydreaming about her honey blonde beauty, the boutique she walked into as a backdrop, far longer than he should have.  In doing so, he noticed a curious sight.  Libby appeared in the large bay window of Chartreuse.  She had a measuring tape draped over her shoulder and a sewing needle firmly placed between her teeth adorning a mannequin with a peach and cream colored blouse embellished with a pearl collar.  It appeared she was securing a pearl that had loosened.  She performed the delicate task with an expert hand.  Joan Jett came to collect his empty cup and noticed him watching Libby.  She said, “That girly girl knows how to dress a window up!” 

I bet she’s the best at everything. She is the kind of girl who could probably peel an orange in one long easy curl.

Café Calla became Augustus’ home-based.  He started dropping by for breakfast in the morning which required writing down his order. 

Whole wheat bagel lightly toasted w/ plain cream cheese, one large glass of chocolate milk, for here. 

Then he started to lunch there daily. 

16oz bowl of Corn Chowder with a scone w/ ice water, for here. 

And soon, supper. 

The daily special w/ a pot of tea, for here. 

He scribbled his requests down, reserving special pages in the back of his notebook for his menu choices and in most cases Augustus wouldn’t erase but rather just pointed as he wasn’t likely to change his order very often.  Joan Jett always shook her head, “Coming right up, Gus.” 

All this time spent, just for a glimpse of Libby. It isn’t like he had better things to do except go home to his little house, putter around and watch TV.  He found it a better use of his time, being in the same room as Libby even if he couldn’t befriend her, was a much better option.

Haunting Café Calla proved beneficial to his objective.  Libby spent just as much time there as he did.  He came to discover that she and Joan Jett were best friends and often eavesdropped in on their conversations becoming privy to a fair bit of personal information overhearing many discussions between the barista and the object of his unrequited affection.

One such day, Joan Jett planted herself down at Libby’s table to gossip during a lull after the lunch rush.  Augustus sat close by doodling in his notebook with his ears wide open.  Libby, pastel and feminine leaned into her tattoo laden friend and said, “So, how was your date?”

Joan Jett leaned back in her chair, crossed her right foot heavy in a Doc Martin boot over her left thread bare faded jean covered knee, “You know how it is.  I wanted to behave but there were just so many other options.”

“You are incorrigible,” Libby squealed.

Even in all that heavy black make-up, Joan’s eyes twinkled, “He’s a bit of a dick but a hell of a kisser.  How was the symphony?  Did you take numb nuts to meet your Ma?”

Symphony?  Numb nuts?

Libby sipped her tea steeping languidly in front of her and shook her head, “Yes, Clancy came with me but he didn’t have the chance to meet Mom.  She wasn’t feeling well so someone sat in for her.”

Clancy?  Who in fresh hell is Clancy?

Joan ripped a corner off of a croissant and popped it in her mouth chewing noisily as she talked, “Your Ma is the best cellist ever.  I am so pumped she donated her piano to the café.  My mind is certifiably blown by the fact she just gave it to me.”

Her boyfriend.  Of course.  How could I expect such a stunning girl to be single?  Drat.

Both of them looked over to the far back corner of the café where a vintage Ivers & Pond Victorian upright piano now lived.  Libby’s mother donated the heavily carved mahogany parlor upright to the café after Joan Jett accompanied Libby to her house for dinner one evening and the two girls, one sitting and one standing, regaled the cellist with an impromptu serenade, Cole Porter standards and a rendition of Amazing Grace that Joan sang so sweetly Libby’s mother was reduced to tears.  She couldn’t believe that the sound coming out of the punk rock café owner was that of an angel and Joan gushed about the warm and soothing tone of the piano and teased she was going to steal it next time she was out of town, carry it right out the front door on her back.  Two weeks later, it was delivered to the doors of the café.  Augustus studied the piano.  It was smaller than most uprights but it tucked in perfectly with the décor of the café.  Curious why someone would just give her piano away and Libby offered no clues.  “My mother tends to do things just because she can sometimes.  I suppose we chalk it up to kindness.”

Gosh, you’re so pretty, Libby.

“Speaking of kindness, maybe one of these days you’ll regale us with a piano rendition of Open Arms.  I still can’t believe that your favorite song is by Journey,” Joan ribbed.

Note to self, download Journey. What was the song title? Wide Arms?

Libby balked, “How can you not love Journey?  They are miraculous.”

I will love this band because she does.

Joan got up from her chair and jokingly threw a wadded up napkin at her friend, “Journey sucks, even worse than disco.”

Just by eavesdropping, Augustus learned a lot about Libby.  She has a boy cat named Jack Kerouac and an eclectic teapot collection, she hates the smell of sauerkraut and loves the first scoop of peanut butter out of a new jar.  She’s allergic to hay-fever medicine, has never broken a bone, figures she’s the last person on the planet who doesn’t own a cell phone and her guilty pleasure is watching reruns of Anne of Green Gables.  But the most disarming fact about Libby was that she loves a boy named Clancy, a scruffy bespectacled frat boy hipster posing as a jazz percussionist.  Some days he would share Libby’s table, the two leaning in to each other on their elbows, touching hands and wrists intimately; their body language heartfelt, their expressions soft and loving.  Augustus envies Clancy, to be so close to Libby, to have her look at him the way she does, to be able to spend time with her, hold her hand.  It eats him up inside.

The honeymoon phase doesn’t last forever, dumb drummer. 

It was a complete accident that Augustus found himself walking through the lime green door of Chartreuse.  But then, maybe it was on purpose.  He intended for his destination to be the post office three doors down but he veered off course instinctively until he heard the chipper ding of the doorbell announcing his entrance.  Libby was tinkering with an artful display of accessories, shiny bracelets, chunky rings, burnished necklaces.  At the sound of the chime, she looked up from her task at hand and spoke surely, “Hi there, welcome to Chartreuse.”

Augustus smiled bashfully, doffed his flat cap, realizing that on direct contact this encounter would be hazardous to his mental health.  Why did he put himself in a position where she would speak to him when he knew he couldn’t reciprocate, except on the pages of his notebook?  She’d regard him as a freak for sure now.

Drat. What am I doing here?

Libby approached him, “Is there anything I can help you with today?”

Think!  Think!  Think!

Augustus panicked and scribbled something down on a clean page and showed it to her.  All he really wanted was to see her but it wasn’t something he could articulate so he fibbed.  Libby, taken aback, watched the familiar face from the café jot something down and turn the page for her to read. 

A gift for my mother’s birthday.  Something pretty?

He looked to her for approval.

I can tell by the look on your face that you think I’m a creep.  I probably am for being here.

Still confused she says tentatively, “We just got in a new collection of silk scarves that are very pretty.  Let me show you.”

Libby started to lead Augustus over to the display of silken scarves in every vibrant color of the rainbow.  His instinct was to turn and run but he followed the fresh scent of her trail, content just to be in her company.  A gaggle of energetic teenage girls spilled into to the store just as she was about to do her sales pitch.  They were loud and shrill with their chatter and giggles, snapping bubblegum and railing through the racks one after the other.  Libby excused herself to corral the perky mob and ask that they please keep their noise to a minimum as to not disturb the other customers.  Aside from Augustus, there were a few ladies browsing leisurely and started to scowl at the adolescent disruption.  Augustus took advantage of the ruckus and slipped out the front door unnoticed.  He crossed the street and threw himself into his chair at the café.  He was sweating and breathless.  Joan Jett appeared at his table, startling him, “What is it, shark week?  You’re a ball of sweat.  Clean yourself up and I’ll bring you some lunch.  Irish stew today, that cool?”

He held out his book for Joan Jett. 

To go, please.

“You got it, Sweat Pants.”

Augustus wiped his brow reliving the moment of Libby addressing him personally and how painful it was to not be able to reply to her in kind.  And properly.  He ate his lunch at his desk and worked non-stop through the afternoon to distract himself from thinking about their encounter and how ridiculous he was feeling about it.  What’s the point of being fond of a girl when you can’t even talk to her?  The afternoon away from the café gave him a little bit of perspective and he knew he was making a mountain out of a molehill.  Libby wasn’t even giving him a second thought so what was his issue?  He made his way back for supper, his usual routine.  When he ordered Joan she said, “OH shit, I almost forgot.  Libby left this for you.  You’re the only regular who talks with paper and pencil.  Has to be yours.” 

It was a decorative gift bag from Chartreuse with pale yellow tissue paper peeking out of the top.  There was also a card.  It read:

Dear friend,

I wanted to offer my earnest apologies for the mass confusion this afternoon while you were in looking for a gift for your mother.  I hope my gesture isn’t presumptuous in the event you’ve already found her the perfect gift.  Perhaps the enclosed item will be a suitable choice for her.

Regards,

Libby Nickle

Agog, he pressed the card to his chest.  Libby did this for him.  For him!  And what’s more, she knew who he was.  Libby Nickle took the time to do a good deed for him, for no other reason than to be kind.  Augustus was dumbfounded and felt what he could only imagine was a form of happiness. 

Days passed and there was no sign of Libby, no chance to thank her for the lovely gift.  He was agitated and he’d been at the café every day and there was no sign of her anywhere.  Joan Jett seemed more mournful than usual, less outgoing and both variables caused him to worry.  It isn’t like he could just ask if Libby was ok but in his gut he knew something wasn’t right.

His suspicions were confirmed reading through the obit forms on his desk.  Three for today but one caught his eye and packed a wallop.

It is with great sadness we announce the passing of a dear sweet woman, Esther Haley Eldridge-Nickle.  Esther passed away peacefully on April 12^th at Granville Mercy Hospital after a brief and courageous battle with breast cancer surrounded by her loving daughter and dearest friends.

Born in West Lawrence’s Admiral Estates, Esther studied music theory and performance arts at the Lawrence Conservatory of Music and went on to become a revered music teacher and critically acclaimed cellist who toured extensively with the Granville Royal Symphony Orchestra.

In her spare time, Esther enjoyed quilting, writing letters and vegetable gardening.  Always smiling, always helping others, she will be deeply missed.

Visitations will take place Tuesday at 7 to 9pm only at Granville Heights Funeral Home.  Funeral mass will be held Wednesday at Holy Family Catholic Church, Father Maurice Purchase presiding.  Interment will follow in the parish cemetery.

Regards to Dr. Catherine Hale for her kind care and the nurses on the palliative care unit for all their help.

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Lawrence Conservatory of Music.

Libby’s mother passed away.  It made perfect sense to him how, why she was absent from the café.  She lost her a parent, her mother.  He doesn’t know what he’ll do when the day comes and he loses one of his own.  Augustus, in all of his idiosyncrasies would be terribly lost without his parents.  Imagining Libby dealing with her sorrow and loss broke his heart.

Rest in heavenly peace, Mrs. Nickle.

He had an opportunity now to do good by Libby, to do a good deed in kind.  Even though she only knew him as the weird guy in the café with the notebook, he came to care deeply for her at a distance.  He would re-write her mother’s obituary into a highlighted feature of an important member of the community, compose something splendid for her send-off.  He missed lunch and dinner at the café opting instead to write the perfect homage to Libby’s mother for the Grandville Standard.

The research he did for the obituary led Augustus to a delightful discovery about Libby, she was a published and well respected poet.  He all but ran from his desk to Damhnait’s Bookstore pillaging the poetry shelves until he found two slim volumes with the covers baring Libby’s name, one called ‘In The Palm Of Your Hand’, the other ‘Passion, Wit & Good Common Sense’.  He paid for the books and ran as fast as he could back to his desk to read them.  There were ninety two poems in total between the two volumes, ninety two exquisite verses.

Announcing Mangoes

in defense of the art of poetry

w/ my imposter’s heart bleeding

I renounce

rattling teacups

strained oak trees

& vapor trails

for

muted keyboards

                tough sweetness

                                & unfinished echoes

on guard for the pages of poems

w/ my canons reshuffled to shoot

I accommodate

somber hues

                traversed contours

                                & a single sentence

to

announce mangoes

                slant the sun                     

                                & sing in peace

in defense of the art of poetry

w/ my charlatan heart beating

I write

**

 I adore this girl.  I have no idea what she’s talking about but she’s brilliant! I hope she’ll write more of her exquisite verses and publish them soon.

In immediate support of her work, Augustus logged onto Amazon and wrote a favorable review for ‘Passion, Wit & Good Common Sense’, the only one of her two books to be found on the online shopping site.  He knew himself enough to know that even if her writing had been terrible and un-inspired, he still would have given it five gold stars.  The hearts of the pensive and pure are employed by loyalty and fondness to do such things.

‘Passion, Wit & Good Common Sense’ is a slim volume of exquisite poetry by Libby Nickle.

While I am not an avid reader of verse, her poetry captivated my imagination, my heart and my intellect all at the same time.

This collection covers a broad sweep of subjects, love, spirituality, sex, existence, the art of writing and the art of living creatively.  I confess, I don’t fully understand every poem with their cryptic undertones, inside admissions and personal angles but the writing is so fluid and beautiful and sometimes heartbreaking.  I found myself finishing one poem eagerly turning the page to devour the next.  I read the whole volume in one sitting and was sad when I reached the end and there were no more poems into which I could leap.  In turn, I read them over and over and each time, found something new and delightful in each verse.

‘Passion, Wit & Good Common Sense’ may be small in size but the vast scope of emotion and literary skill is astounding.  Libby Nickle has proved herself to be a splendid poet, fastidious with her words and generous with her spirit and her talent.

I highly recommend this book to those in search of literary enlightenment.

After he submitted the review he wondered if she would ever read it and in the event that she did see it, he prayed it would be on a day when she needed something positive.

Augustus was at the café earlier than usual the next morning.  To his delight, Libby was too, sitting at the piano.  She looked sad and unraveled, like she hadn’t had much rest.  He wished with all of his might that he could give her a hug, assure her everything would be ok but that was out of the question given the circumstances.

Joan Jett walked over to her friend at the Victorian upright with her nose in the newspaper, “Lib, that was a far out obit you wrote for your Ma. Even tooted your own horn a bit.  Way to go.”

Libby shrugged only half listening, “Wasn’t anything special.  I threw it together in a hurry, short and sweet.  I was disappointed in it myself.  I just didn’t have the time or the energy.”

Joan handed her the paper donning Esther’s smiling face, taking up three quarters of the page, “Well someone wrote a kick ass tribute.  Look.”

Libby’s expression went from mournful to confounded, her eyes pouring all over the page, “Did you do this?”

Joan leaned over Libby’s shoulder and looked with her, “Do I look like Shakespeare to you?  I can’t write my way out of a paper bag.” 

Libby read the homage out loud,

REMEMBERING ESTHER ELDRIDGE-NICKLE, SYMPHONY SWEETHEART

Esther Eldridge-Nickle, celebrated cellist, was Granville Royal Symphony Orchestra’s sweetheart.  More than most, she understood the tenderness, the urgency, the splendor and the authority of musical composition.  A flawless instrumentalist, her personality, renowned for her peasant-like earthiness and high artistic ideals, merged seamlessly with the music she made, the music she believed in.  Esther passed away this week at Granville Mercy Hospital after a brave battle with breast cancer, surrounded by those who loved her.

It is an easy task to paint an intimate, flawless and rounded portrait of Mrs. Eldridge-Nickle.  She was so well respected and admired by her peers and closely emulated by those she instructed.  She regarded music to be as vital as oxygen to live and instilled the same values her teachings.

After her studies at the Lawrence Conservatory of Music and establishing an illustrious career as an impeccable performer, she returned to the lecture hall.  She referred to herself not as a teacher but as an ‘artistic counselor’.  It was her opinion that she wasn’t there to teach music but rather escort those with malleable gifts in the proper direction.  “I believe very much in fostering the gifts of young budding talents.  I believe profoundly in their unbridled abilities and am pleased to be chosen to help navigate them into greatness where they’ll discover they can be lifted to exalted planes of excellence.  I don’t like to call myself a teacher.  You can’t teach someone heart or inspiration or instinct, the bare bones yes, the chords and notes and what-have-you, but you cannot teach someone greatness, they must employ that themselves.  I like to think of myself as an artistic tour guide.”

Esther was a world renowned cellist, senior lecturer in music, artistic counselor, an authority on Mozart and Tchaikovsky but she was also a wife and mother.  Her late husband, Carson Nickle, also a classically trained musician, met on tour in the late 1970’s married soon after and had a daughter, Libby.  While her parents enjoyed world class success with their music careers, Libby immersed herself in other creative endeavors, the world of poetry and window dressing.  Libby Nickle is a published poet and the 2010 winner of the Oscar Kenny Poetry Prize.  In an interview with Esther upon retiring from touring, just after Libby received her award she said this about her daughter, “Libby is a miracle, and have you read her poetry?  She has such a beautiful command of the English language.  She makes beautiful melodic music on paper.  I love that all of the music she’s heard throughout her lifetime has transformed into words for her and have fastened themselves into the printed page.  She’s a joy and I’m so proud of her.  The Oscar Kenny Poetry Prize is a prestigious award, most deserving, not because she’s my daughter but because she is an exquisite artist in her own right.”

Esther Haley Eldridge-Nickle was an avid quilter, she loved writing long handwritten letters and tending her abundant vegetable garden.  She was never without a serene smile on her face, always willing to lend a hand to others, appreciative of life.

If you would like to pay your respects, visitations are scheduled for Tuesday evening, 7pm to 9pm at the Granville Heights Funeral Home, funeral mass will be at Holy Family Catholic Church Wednesday morning at 9am, Father Maurice Purchase presiding.  Interment will follow in the parish cemetery.

The Nickel family would like to express their heartfelt gratitude to Dr. Katherine Hull for her exceptional attention and diligent dedication during Esther’s time of need.  A special thank you also goes out to the outstanding nursing staff of the Granville Mercy Palliative Care Unit for their kindness and care.

In lieu of flowers, you may make donations in the memory of Esther Haley Eldridge-Nickle to the Lawrence Conservatory of Music.”

As Libby read aloud, tears streamed down her cheeks.  And as she read, Augustus was paralyzed with fear.  After the last line she looked up at her friend, “Who … who wrote this?”

“I don’t know chicken butt.  When I called the paper, they weren’t sure who it was.  Associated press maybe.  Seems a little fishy to me.  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.  I’m just … just flabbergasted.  It’s … beautiful.”

Augustus thought he might throw up, worried that she may have felt it was overstepping boundaries but his anxiety eased at her admission that the piece was beautiful.  To keep his name anonymous he used a pseudonym, Phil Harmonic.  The tribute was printed without an authoring credit.  He didn’t mind.  He wasn’t sure he’d get away with it but it went to press without question.

Joan piped up, “I still wonder who wrote it?  It was pretty rad.  Nice things were said, choked me up a little and I never cry.”

Libby replied in a soft sad voice, “I know, me too.  I’d like to say thank you.”

You’re welcome.

Libby sat at the Victorian upright, pecking softly at the keys, the newspaper with the photo of her mother’s joyful face looking up at her from the beautiful article anonymously written.  The tender sound of her favorite song filled the room.  Augustus immediately recognized it, ‘Open Arms’ by Journey.  Since discovering how much she loves it, he plays the power ballad several times a day, an act of solidarity and secret devotion.  Listening to the song that she holds so close to her heart made him feel like he was close to heart, the only way he ever could be.  As she ticked the ivories, Augustus filled up with tears and an overwhelming urge to sing at the top of his lungs, to her.  He wanted so desperately to go to her and tell her that to him, she was a miracle, the most beautiful thing in the entire history of human kind.  For the first time since he was twelve years old, he wanted to speak.  In all these years, Augustus had never met anyone who inspired him to attempt sound.  There was something marvelous about Libby that touched him in a place he didn’t know existed.  He knew his infirmity would ultimately be his demise but he didn’t expect Libby.  He didn’t expect a fair female to ever incapacitate his taciturn heart.  Something about her made him feel brave and although she belonged to another, she awakened a desire in him.  She stirred the desire to live, to be alive in the world instead of blending into the background.

Augustus rose out of his chair, palms sweating, heart pounding and approached Libby at the piano.  In one hand he had his notebook, his pencil in the other.  When he reached her Libby looked up at him, her slim fingers slowing across the piano until the music faded.  He took a deep breath and pursed his lips and attempted to speak but he started to hyperventilate.  Libby gently rested her hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him.  He managed to slow his breath down and try again but he stammered, “ … I … lu …”

Libby stood up in front of him and spoke quietly, “What are you trying to tell me?  It’s ok, take your time.”

Flustered, he tried again but failed miserably.  He opened his book and scribbled something down and showed her.

I love that song.

She smiled to him and nodded, “Me too.”

**

Phew!

Even though it’s the middle of the week, I am going out tonight.  I was invited to one of The Carleton’s anniversary shows by a new friend who loves writing and music.  We met because of the Jay Smith benefit and I look forward to stepping out tonight, expanding my world just a little bit and taking in some live music from bands I’ve never heard before. I mentioned to her the other day how special I believe it to be that a friendship could result from a sorrowful event.  I like to think that Jay’s goodness and his humanness is still working in the places he frequented and through the sounds he put into the universe.  I am sure I’ll regret staying up past my bed time tonight but it’ll be fun and I could use a little bit of it right now.

Happy Wednesday!

In propinquity,

Nic