What Next?

What Next?

Cynthia Brennan

Martin pursed his lips and tried again to coax the desired sound from his trumpet. It failed to cooperate for the nearly hundredth time. Oh, it was emitting a note, but it was certainly not the one he was hoping for. In fact, it was so far off key that it prompted his neighbor Larry to interrupt his nightly news program and come over to investigate. He rapped on the front door, but Martin couldn’t hear him over the racket. Larry waited for a pause and knocked again. The noise finally stopped, and he heard a clunk as the trumpet was laid a little too roughly on the table.

Martin opened the door annoyed but lightened up when he saw who it was. “Oh, hey Larry. What’s up?”

Larry glanced toward the shiny future paperweight sitting on the table. “Oh, nothing much. I heard some strange noises coming from your house and thought I’d better check and make sure no one was in pain.” He grinned.

Martin laughed. “Yeah, sorry. I just picked it up, so I’m not very good yet.”

“What happened to the guitar?” It was a pattern that Larry was familiar with by now.

“Didn’t like it. Made my fingers hurt something terrible. This just makes my lips numb, which I consider an improvement.”

“What’d you do, sell it?” He looked around the room to see if it was collecting dust somewhere. It would be a shame since it was such a nice instrument.

“No. It’s around here somewhere. I may change my mind one day. You wanna come in, have a beer?”

Larry said no, maybe another time. Martin said he’d try to keep the noise to a minimum but that he couldn’t promise anything. The two agreed that he was never allowed to take up the drums. He closed the door and sat down on the couch. He picked up the trumpet and brought it to his lips, but he had already lost the motivation to try to play it. It was always the same. He flitted from one thing to the next, always looking for a hobby that would hold his interest, but so far none of them had stuck. A few short weeks was the most he dedicated to any of them; hardly long enough to even find out if he was good at them.

He wasn’t exactly sure when his hobby quest had started, but one thing was certain, it began after the death of his beloved wife Claire. She had been his whole world and without her he had seemingly endless amounts of time on his hands. He had no desire to find another partner, so he was constantly searching for something that would make him forget, even if just for a little while, how empty his life was now.

For the first couple of months, he didn’t have the will to do anything but sit around thinking about what he had lost. He had met Claire when they were both in their mid-forties. Before that all he did was work. He had been an executive in a marketing agency and often clocked as many hours working at home as he did at the office. Claire owned a small bakery and café that was down the block from the building where he worked. The first time Martin stopped on his way to work for coffee, the two of them chatted so long that people in line behind him began to loudly clear their throats trying to get him to move along. After that he began every workday by stopping in to get coffee and a pastry, but mostly to have a couple of minutes with this woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. She was so charming with her infectious laugh and big blue eyes. He loved the fact that even though she wore her blonde hair in a ponytail it always looked like she had dipped the end in either flour or frosting. Eventually he worked up the nerve to ask her on a date and that was the beginning of their romance.

Up until the time of the tragedy that stole her away from him, his only real hobby had been to please Claire. They had a life so full that just being together was all they needed to make them happy. Because they met in mid-life, children were not part of their lives. Martin always felt that this was something that saddened Claire, but she never admitted it to him. She never would have said or done anything that might have made her husband suspect even the slightest discontent on her part. They were fortunate enough to have twenty wonderful years together. As the idea of retirement began to take shape, life had other plans. One morning after her shower, she sat down on the edge of the bed looking shell-shocked. Martin came into the bedroom carrying the usual two cups of coffee. He held one out in front of his wife, but she made no move to take it from him. He put them down on the nightstand and sat down next to her. She turned to look at him and told him she’d found a lump. The next couple of weeks were a blur of tests, appointments, opinions and terror. Martin’s next hobby became driving his wife for treatments, holding her as she sobbed in the middle of the night and doing anything and everything that gave her even a moment of joy or escape from reality. He prayed every day that she would not succumb to this monster that threatened to devour their happy life. In the end though, nothing worked to stop the assault and almost a year to the day the cancer was first discovered, Claire was gone.

Once the busyness of arrangements and family visits was over and neighbors stopped dropping by with casseroles and baked goods, Martin was left with hours on end of nothingness and no ideas of what to fill them with. He didn’t think it would be right to enjoy anything anyway, not for a while at least. But eventually, the brain just can’t go on without stimulation any longer. He started wandering around the house looking for something to fill the time. So began the quest for what could be Martin’s thing.

Sports was the first area he explored. The basement was full of remnants of past attempts at physical fitness and relaxation. He dug out a dusty set of golf clubs and headed to the driving range. He had never been particularly skilled with a club, but what little talent he might have had was long gone. Every ball he hit went everywhere but its intended direction. Not one to give up easily, he kept going back every week for three months. The blisters on his hands were a painful reminder of how long it had been since he had tried to fit into the corporate world where golf was as prevalent as the two-martini lunch. He never got the hang of either of those things, and eventually he gave up on both. Now, years later it was obvious that his first impressions of the game had been accurate. He didn’t enjoy it at all. So, he put the clubs in a corner of the garage and returned to the basement for the next possibility.

From under a tarp the front wheel of his old Schwinn bicycle was peeking out. Memories flooded back of Sunday afternoons when he and Claire would meander around their neighborhood on their bikes, stopping for ice cream or to chat with friends along the way. He wasn’t sure if his heart could take the pain of doing it alone, but decided he’d give it a try. He had to pump air into the tires first since it had been sitting unused for at least a few years. After digging out his helmet, he walked the bike outside and tentatively climbed on. It was a bumpy ride at first, but he smoothed it out in short order. He wound his way around nearby streets that should have given some comfort in their familiarity. But it only made him feel his loneliness more acutely as he rode past houses that Claire loved or recalling her attempts to eat ice cream cones while riding which usually resulted in sticky handlebars and stained shirts. He decided it was much too lonely to do on his own, so his bike along with hers was also relegated to the garage. He tried bowling, archery, and finally jogging before coming to the conclusion that he was not particularly athletic.

Next, he turned his attention to artistic pursuits. His sister-in-law Marie taught a painting class at the local college and had been trying to convince him to give it a try. Finally, he relented, and she accompanied him to the art supply store to stock up on what he needed. He felt incredibly awkward and out of place the first night since most of the other students seemed to have considerably more raw talent than he did. But they were all supportive and non-judgemental when critiquing his feeble attempts at creating something resembling fruit or seascapes. Marie spent extra time with him to try to nurture any hint of talent he might possess, but soon it became clear that there was nothing much to be nurtured. So, he packed up his easel and his paints and sent them to join the sports equipment.

Continuing his search for something to fill his days, he began watching tv shows about woodworking and home improvement. The wheels started to turn in his head about things he could make for the house and as gifts for other people. He had enjoyed woodshop class back in high school and remembered being particularly proud of a birdhouse he had made for his grandmother. He did a mental inventory of what he might have that would be useful to start building. There was a workbench downstairs along with a couple of saws and measuring tools. A trip to the local hardware store for a sander, another saw and a few more odds and ends and he was ready to get started. First, he was going to make another birdhouse, thinking that would probably be a fairly easy project. He began working in the basement, but the sawdust was too much for the small space so he moved everything out to the garage where he could open the door for some fresh air. He managed to finish the birdhouse and started working on some shelves for the kitchen, but lost interest halfway through that project. What good were new decorations for a house that no one would see but him? He left the tools and bench in the middle of the garage hoping that maybe he’d return to finish them. Four months later they still sat untouched. The shrinking space was now making it necessary to park the car in the driveway.

One afternoon he was sitting on the front porch soaking up the warmth of the sun when a young woman came walking down the street, stopping every now and then to take a photograph. He remembered how much he used to enjoy taking nature photos. For a while he’d thought about trying to make a living at photography, but it didn’t provide the income needed to get him out of the daily grind. He wondered if he still had all his equipment, which was considerable. A small closet had even been converted to a dark room for a time. He jumped up and returned once again to the basement. There was a twinge of excitement as he pulled several boxes from a shelf along the back wall of the cellar. It was all still there; three cameras, several lenses, two tripods, all neatly packed in several bags protecting them from dust and dampness. Lovingly, he carried them upstairs and laid them out on the dining room table. They needed to be cleaned, and he would have to find film somewhere since they were the pre-digital type. After successfully preparing everything, he set out one early Saturday morning looking for interesting subjects. The park turned out to be perfect for what he was looking for. Several species of birds along with squirrels and even a couple of deer were enjoying the day. Martin took great pleasure in capturing the animals in all sorts of poses, especially the interaction between the birds and squirrels. When his stomach began to growl, he packed up his equipment and headed home for lunch. As he entered the house, he remembered another thing he loved about photography. Part of the fun of taking of pictures is showing them to others. He used to get so excited when picking up his developed photos and rushing home to share them with Claire. Now, as much as he had enjoyed taking the photos that morning, he felt instantly deflated when he got home and remembered that there was no one to show them to. A few weeks later the photography equipment joined the other discarded items in the garage,

By the time he decided to take up the trumpet, he had already been through piano lessons, after which he rolled the small upright piano out of the house and into the garage. Then it was violin, saxophone and guitar. None of these were the answer, and the trumpet was unlikely to be any different. Nothing would stick. Nothing could hold his attention. He felt as if he was destined to just drift along through the rest of his life, taking joy in nothing and waiting to join his beloved wife.

One day as Larry was passing Martin’s house, he heard a terrific crash come from the garage. He rushed over to see what had happened and through the window saw Martin standing there holding his trumpet above a pile of items that had fallen from a shelf. He knocked on the window and Martin turned, looking startled. Larry asked if he was ok and he gave him a thumbs up. The next day Larry was back, and he had someone with him. Martin answered the door after several knocks and found a woman standing there with his neighbor. He was taken aback by his reaction to her. Sure, she was quite pretty, but Martin felt as if he knew her. Still, he hoped Larry hadn’t come to fix him up with someone. He didn’t think he was ready for that.

“Hi Martin, I hope we’re not disturbing you. I wanted to introduce you to our friend Cecilia.” The woman held out her hand for Martin to shake. He did so hesitantly.

“Cecelia is staying with us for a few days. She and Carol were college roommates and have been friends for years.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that’s nice.” Martin said, still not sure where this was heading.

Larry continued. “I was telling the ladies about the mountain of things that have taken over your garage and Cecelia mentioned that she really enjoys organizing and decluttering spaces. I thought you two should meet.”

 Martin looked embarrassed. “Is that so? You think maybe I’m in danger of being buried alive out there in my garage?”

“Well….. No, just kidding. Like I said, Cecelia just really enjoys the whole feng shui thing, and I thought maybe you’d like to be able to park your car in there again. Sorry if we bothered you.”

He almost said no thanks and closed the door again, but hesitated. There was something about this woman that made him think he should spend some time with her. “Well, do you want to look at the disaster area before you offer your services?”

She laughed and nodded her head. “Sure, let’s see what you’ve got.”

They walked around the house to the garage. Martin took a deep breath and opened the door. The mountain of discarded items was like a monument to his inability to stick with anything. He stepped aside and let the others take in the enormity of the task.

After a few minutes he turned to Cecelia and said “See what I mean? Are you sure you’d want to get yourself involved with so much work?” He was surprised to realize that he was hoping she would say yes.

“It wouldn’t be work at all. I enjoy it, really. It’s my hobby.” She put her hand on his forearm.

“Hobby, huh? That might be the only one I haven’t tried yet.” He smiled his first genuine smile in years.