Sounds Good

   James Piquet roamed the basement passages of the building. The silence, although one reason management found it difficult to keep a maintenance professional employed, was not the only reason.

    Urban legend had christened the Callahan Building, “haunted.” Most dismissed the unseemly sounds as the result of antiquated pipes and echo- chambered hall ways. James Piquet was neither disturbed nor enlightened by the sounds, as he was deaf. James found being deaf a most positive alternative, while most considered the handicap debilitating. He enjoyed the freedom from distraction allowing him to fill his working evenings with thoughts of his weekend retreats to the forest.

        On this particular evening James was disturbed by what he believed he’d heard, which was impossible as he was incapable of hearing in any capacity. And yet, that pinging sound he’d heard was as loud and clear as if he’d never suffered the effects of the explosion that took the lives of many of his fellow soldiers,, and his ability to hear. 

        The Army's medical staff had examined him and determined that his ear drums had been ruptured in the explosion, and that he would be capable of limited hearing sensations if he were to wear the prescribed aids. James Piquet, being a person who believed life was a privilege, not a right, assumed all the accrued adjustments to it, would result in him becoming less of a person. Therefore, he couldn’t find no any reason to disrupt the course God placed him on, by using an artificial means to evade the lesson God had intended him to learn.

   But he’d had heard the pinging sound. He remembered it from before his injury. Metal of some kind falling on a hardened surface, concrete, tile. The sound was distinctive, he remembered; like water dripping into a pan in the sink; Hypnotic, unforgettable.  

   He had become aware of his occasional recollections and found them to reinforce his need to accept his injury, and overcome its ability to restrict him from having what he considered, a normal life. 

        Even though the occasional sound was encouraging, he found it was more of a means to an end. He did not envision a time when he would hear again as he once had, nor any longer even considered the possibility. He’d learned to accept his—; he didn’t even know what to call it—, disability? He wasn’t impaired by his lack of hearing. He felt his life was as normal as others, as good as others, in some ways better. 

   The occasional sounds, however, brought a renewed interest, not so much in hearing, as in what the sounds might represent. Is God attempting to communicate with me? Perhaps give me an incentive to remain engaged with life, despite this …?

        That night, as the mechanical sounds bounced off the concrete walls and echoed down the corridors, James heard nothing, until that ping. He stopped his progress and listened. A combat habit he had not shed. The sound continued as though being played on a recorded track—; ping, ping, ping …

        He followed the sound, hearing the increasing intensity as though he were being lured into God’s presence. He followed it the repetitive sound down one hall and then another, as it grew louder. He turned the corner to find the elevator door ajar, the cabin empty. Lights flashed rhythmically before him as he looked for the source of the sound. 

        In the door cavity’s the recesses, of the door cavity he saw a slight distortion of color. A glow escaping the darkened line that guided the door. He knelt on the ground, pulled a flashlight from his belt, and shined the light into the black trough. 

   There amidst the grains of sand, shreds of paper, a hair pins, lay a circular metal object. He pulled the needle nose pliers from his belt, and slipped its beaked head into the channel. He lifted the orb from its hiding place and examined it. A ring! My lucky night.

        He sat on the bench across from the elevator door. He examined the ring in the dim florescent light. All he could make out was a few undecipherable letters, or possibly numbers; he couldn’t be sure. 

        James Piquet had a friend, an army buddy who worked in the Hays Building on the twelfth floor. William Abbey was the son of a gems dealer. He had become acquainted with William during his recovery at Walter Reed Medical facility in Maryland. They’d spent several months in adjoining beds. William now worked for his father, in the gem analysis department. He was knowledgeable about metallurgy, as well as various gem designations. He would take it to William for appraisal, as to the rings value.

   James was not married, had no living parents, or relatives. He had no use for a ring. His employer disallowed any item that could possibly be a conduit for injury.

        James took the ring the following morning to Bartholomew Abbey’s Gem House. 

“William’s is in the back,” he was told. 

He walked through the rear doors into a room lined with tables. William Abbey stood at the head of one table busily sorting gems, classifying their usefulness, and assigning them to designated areas where they would be sold to local jewelry establishments, where they would be transformed into a variety of adornments. 

   William had been advised of the visit the previous evening and waited to assist his friend. He examined the ring and found the karat designation, and letters that appeared to indicate an engraved name.

        After examining the ring, he gave it back to James with the cautioned advice that it was not of any significant monetary value, but had been of value to someone, evidenced by the engraving. William, although having rudimentary success with sign language, managed to convey his message to James.

        James took the ring, somewhat disappointed, thanked his friend, agreeing to meet for lunch sometime soon. He headed for the elevator that would take him once again to the main lobby. 

        He approached the elevator reminding himself, that God had a purpose for everything, even though he might not recognize what it was. His mind jumped to the memory of the sound that led him to the ring. He remembered that the pinging sounds had stopped the minute he pulled the ring from the darkness. 

        He wondered about the significance that remembrance might have, as the door opened abruptly before him, and he heard as clearly as he’d heard before the accident, the sound of the chime indicating the car’s imminent departure. He was so disturbed by the sound’s clarity and power, he let go of the ring. 

        The saying, “lost in translation,” for some reason came into his thoughts. He found himself laughing as he stepped into the car, and sensed a flutter in his stomach, as the floor felt as if it had dropped from beneath him. The ring forgotten, he thought only of his restored gift and how much, despite his claims to the contrary, he missed the ability to hear.

        The sounds of the forest birds, the rush of the river’s water, the song of the coyote, no longer a reality, only a remembrance of a time from his past.

   The ring sat under the feet of those accompanying him on his downward trek, and then the door opened once again to a silence he thought abandoned. The lights flashed, the door opened, but the chime’s remained a recent memory. His miracle had left him as quickly and flagrantly as it had arrived. 

   He forced himself out of the car, his feet dragging with the added weight of having once again found hope, and not hearing it disappear. He realized all his rationalizing had been only a ruse keeping him from the despair that accompanies promise. 

        As he left the car, his foot kicked the ring into the narrow passage that separated the car from its enclosure. It fell a mere ten feet to the basement below, where it found a sense of comfort in the darkness,, and a sadness in the expectations of a miracle that remained elusive but possible.