SOUNDS

 

SHE COLLECTED SOUNDS: not ordinary sounds like rain on a roof, but exotic sounds that most people wouldn’t notice like the puff of a breaking pimple.

Each sound had a code. She kept records in notebooks, hundreds of notebooks. They were all the same, black and white marbling and printed label that said: “This notebook belongs to_______” On each of them she had printed Heather Davis and the dates that she had started and finished. They were filed in chronological order on the bookshelves of her rented room. Each page’s entries were aligned, each letter, each number the same size.

She’d started her collection at 18 with ordinary sounds, a singing bird, the dishwasher filling. It wasn’t too long before her parents died. They had gone to their graves convinced that she’d never be able to care for herself. Heather had proven them wrong.

She thought that she had a wonderful job delivering mail at a bank, a few blocks from her room. It was more than a job; it was one of her careers. The creak of the left wheel on the cart that she used to carry the white external and brown internal envelopes was recorded in her 87^th notebook. Her left made a 6E yellow, but the right was 7E-Yellow.

Her favorite stop was the Mortgage Department. Alan, the manager, always smiled and thanked her when she placed the mail in his in-box. She thought she might be in love with him, but she knew he had a girlfriend. He kept her picture on his desk. The same blond lady sometimes stopped at the bank to borrow the keys to his car, a red two-seater.

That car was the kind that made people turn their heads when he drove by. The sound of the engine turning over was coded as 17J-Green. She rushed out one night to listen as Alan was leaving. She stood behind a large rock and first heard a key click 9P-Purple, followed by a rev 17Q-Teal. The engine hum was a 2J-Aqua.

The same night when she entered her daily sounds, she pretended she was riding in his car, a multi-colored scarf held in her hand blowing out the window like she’d seen the blond lady do.

Heather was tired. There had had three mail deliveries to sort instead of the usual two. Many brown envelopes needed to be transported for signatures. She was late delivering the CEO’s mail. His secretary had frowned at her.

Ten minutes before she was due to leave, the heavens opened. Lightning. Thunder. She didn’t chronicle those sounds any more.

She started her three-block trot home.

“Heather?”

She turned. Alan held his car door open. Should she get in? Wet his upholstery?

“Hurry! You’re drenched. You’ll catch cold.”

She didn’t need a second invitation. The interior was more beautiful than she imagined. The dashboard was polished wood. The seats were butter-soft beige leather. Her hand stroking it made a 22N-Lilac. She wasn’t sure of the hue because of the engine’s noise.

“Do you live far?”

“Oak Street. “

The traffic was so heavy the car sat immobile, imprisoned in traffic. She didn’t care. She was next to him. She could pretend she was the blond lady. Too bad she couldn’t hold her scarf out the window, but it would get wet.

The light changed. Alan could only move three-car lengths before the signal turned red. Still, all too soon they pulled up in front of her rooming house.

“Do you want to come in? I’ve new Girl Scout cookies. Chocolate mint.” If he said yes, she could show him her notebooks. He would be the first person to see them. She suspected he never thought she had any interests besides her banking career.

Those notebooks were her legacy to humanity, a complete encyclopedia of noise, but she couldn’t say, “Do you want to see my legacy to humanity.”

“I’d love to, but I’m already late. Daphne will kill me.” Then he looked at her face. “If you have any left, perhaps you can bring them to work tomorrow for coffee break.”

“Oh, yes.” Heather jumped from the car, forgetting to thank him for the ride.

After she dried off, she took her notebook and her multi-colored felt tipped to write down the day’s sounds. Maybe when she was famous for categorizing the most sounds, Alan might even forget Daphne. Tomorrow she would show him a notebook.

On the way to work the next day she stopped to buy napkins with yellow roses. Although she saw a yellow candle, she thought it would be too much for a coffee break.

At 9:55 she ran upstairs to his office with the cookies and napkins. Because he was with a client, she waited.

When he came out the door, he shook the man’s hand.

“Heather?” He sounded surprised.

“I brought the cookies.” She held up the bag. “And pretty napkins.”

He looked confused and then glanced at his watch. “OK. We’ve time before my next appointment. I’ll get my secretary to bring us some coffee.”

Heather wanted to dance. “I’d rather have milk.” She arranged three napkins: one for him, one for her and one in the middle where she placed the cookies in a circle.

Never had cookies tasted so good. Within two days she’d ridden in his car, and they were now eating together. Maybe he would forget Daphne.

A knock on the door (9K-Brown) wasn’t worth entering. She had knocks on wood, glass and metal. She tried to think of ways to show him the sound notebook she’d stuffed in the bag with the cookies and napkins.

Daphne opened the door. “Hello Darling. I was downtown and wondered if you were free … Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know …”

He stood up and introduced them. Heather’s mouth was stuffed with cookies. She shouldn’t talk with her mouth full.

“Alan has told me about you.” Daphne held out her hand.

Heather felt warm inside. He cared enough to mention her to others. She took Daphne’s hand, even if her fingers had chocolate on them. Daphne reached for a napkin.

Heather reached for the napkin at the same time upsetting her milk over Alan’s papers. The sound of the glass hitting the desk was a 14Z-Black.

“Oh, how clumsy,” Daphne said.

“It’s all right Heather.” Alan grabbed several napkins to mop up the milk. “Look. Nothing’s run.”

“Your papers. They’ll smell sour,” Daphne said.

“I’ll print new ones. “If you had to spill milk, that was the best place, Heather.”

Heather knew she was blushing as she backed out of the room. In the ladies room she washed the tears from her face.

Her supervisor came looking for her. “Anything wrong?”

Heather shook her head.

“You’d better get back to work.”

Heather never wanted to go back to the Mortgage Department, but her notebook was still there. It was too valuable to abandon.

She put the interoffice envelopes in Paul Graves’s basket. As she passed Alan’s secretary’s desk, she overheard her talking to Daphne. “He really shouldn’t encourage her.” The milk-stained papers were in the trash.

“Alan always takes in strays,” Daphne said. Even his dog was a stray found along the road. At least he won’t bring her home.” They both looked up and saw her.

Am I a stray, Heather wondered? No, I have a home.

Alan opened his door. The notebook was in his hand. “I’m glad you came back. You forgot this.” He handed it to her.

His big smile didn’t melt her this time. He was only being nice to her because he felt sorry for her, she thought. He had no right.

She was as good as he was.

Better maybe.

She had two careers: he had only one. She hugged the notebook to her chest. Nothing mattered. She had her life’s work. When she was famous, she would show them all.