Expression

She kept pretending to look as though she wanted to talk.

Everyone around her was clearly struggling, and here she was, finding no difficulty at all in staying silent. Whenever someone around her opened their month, she could see the red light registering behind their eyes.

Oh no, I mustn't speak.

When Charlene opened her mouth, it was only to convey an expression. Of shock. Of surprise. Of putting together a mathematical equation. It was not to speak. It was never to speak. Charlene had not spoken around other people for a few years now. One did not study with one of the best mimes in Europe to then go around speaking in front of others. Charlene was the last student of the famed Josef Masterson, and after five years of study in Lisbon, she had the tools within her spirit to go the rest of her life and never make a sound. Her body had become both a movie screen and--this was key--a projector. It wasn’t simply capable of relaying information. She could also get others to believe they were in control of what they saw. She could stand absolutely still and with the twitch of an eyebrow, she could cause somebody across the room to believe that she had suddenly remembered leaving the oven on.

That was the Masterson technique.

Charlene became a mime because her father had been one. Granted, he was not a very good mime. He would stand out on the Fulcrum City Boardwalk and pray for pennies. A good day was when there were more than five dollars in his hat box by sunset. Even though she witnessed his failure, Charlene was sure that miming was her calling. When her father forbid her to continue on in his footsteps, she told him she was going to nursing school only to discreetly apply to the Masterson Academy. When she was accepted, she packed a bag and kissed her father on the forehead.

“You’re going to be a wonderful nurse,” he said.

She nodded and gave him a half-smile. He saw a young woman who was going to have a very sensible life. She was already fine-tuning the projector.

There are many places in the world where a mime is not welcome. Charlene had done the usual tour of children’s hospitals and the occasional circus, but she was eager to find unconventional spaces to practice her art in. What would be the glory of only performing where you were expected to perform? She wanted to perform without anyone knowing it. She wanted to see if she could pass as an average person--no beret, no make-up, no striped shirt.

At first, the logical solution seemed to be a place where there would be a lot of conversation. Charlene went to bars. She joined a Book Club. She surrounded herself with people. What she discovered was that people were more than happy to do all the talking. Nobody ever expected her to speak, and, when they did, a simple tilt of the head or a bit of body language would suffice. She went on two dozen dates with men of all ages and backgrounds and none of them seemed to notice that she never said a word.

Her plan required refinement. She couldn’t insert herself in scenarios where she would be expected to speak, but perhaps the obvious environment to avoid would make the most sense. What if she found a place where everyone wanted to speak and couldn’t? Could she make herself believable as a person who was dying to say something?

That’s when she signed up for the silent retreat.

It was a long weekend on Cat Frow Mountain led by one of the most notable silent retreat leaders in the country--The Reverend Comet Tallbuck. Charlene had heard about Comet from Josef towards the beginning of her time at the Academy. Masterson found the Reverend to be a charlatan, but then again, he was not all that interested in anyone who made their money by claiming to assist with insecurities. It was also hard to pinpoint exactly how her mentor felt about anybody since all his criticisms were given without speech. Usually it amounted to him pulling up a photo of someone on his phone and then giving a slow thumbs down.

As it turns out, there is not much to do at a silent treatment. That’s by design. The idea is to spend a lot of time reflecting on one’s own. The presence of other people is simply to make the numbers work. In a perfect world, every silent retreat would be a party of one. The retreat curators spin the whole thing into a challenge. It would be easy to stay silent if there was nobody to talk to. Having people all around you and not being able to speak with them creates a different kind of introspection. Charlene already knows this.

Her entire life was a silent retreat.

The first day flew by after the orientation whereupon a piece of paper was handed out with all the rules and regulations. The bulk of it was that nobody spoke and everybody did chores. Charlene was assigned trash duty. When she performed at street fairs, she had an entire segment dedicated to pretending to take trash out, so she felt qualified for the real thing. When everyone went to their separate cabins after the welcome from Reverend Comet. She would be the only one speaking over the course of the weekend via recorded messages broadcast throughout the camp that served as an arts and crafts summer getaway for teens during the warmer months and a silent retreat the rest of the year. The grass had the crunch of remembered snow as Charlene carefully made her way to Cabin Nine. She was sharing the lodging with a middle-aged woman whose name tag had a scribble on it. When Charlene entered, the woman was sitting on the bottom bunk next to an open suitcase that needed to be unpacked. She was crying, and she didn’t seem interested in stopping. Charlene sat down next to her. Without thinking, she took the woman’s hand in hers.

The woman looked down at Charlene’s hand, then at her face, then she rested her head on Charlene’s shoulder. Not speaking to people was one thing, but Charlene had never really made touching people a part of any performance. Audience participation was tricky enough without it, and the Masterson technique had a singular focus to it. Charlene felt her bunkmate’s tears soaking through her sweater.

It was a lovely sensation.

Charlene was grateful she didn’t have to say anything, because she wasn’t sure what she would say even if she could. The next day, she’d go to meditation and feel no trouble letting the silence wash over her. People next to her would be squirming and adjusting themselves on their yoga mats. She’d act slightly uncomfortable, when really, she felt totally at home in her body. She’d project a finicky kind of energy. She thought about clearing her throat, but that seemed to be gilding the lily. Instead, she licked her lips. A man across the room saw her. He smirked. He felt as though he was better at this than her.

Fantastic.

She took out the trash after dinner. As people were eating, they were looking around. They felt as though their lips had been sewn shut. Some were pretending that they were sewn shut simply because it was easier if they had no choice but to stay silent. Charlene imagined having the biggest lips in the world. Lips that could open and release sounds that only opera singers and humpback whales could make. She imagined having lungs the size of basketballs and vocal cords the size of washing boards.

That night, her bunkmate cried herself to sleep. Charlene hummed. It was her way of saying “I’m having a hard time too” without actually saying it. She was having a hard time, but not in the same way everybody else was having a hard time. She had to hide her light under a bushel. Outside, there were no crickets. It was too cold for crickets, but Charlene couldn’t help but wonder if they were doing the same thing that she was.

Simply being quiet to see if they could.

To see how long they could go without making a sound.