A song to speak where words fail

“HELP! I need somebody!”

My body reacted before my brain did to the invasive introduction of the Beatles’ song to my otherwise peaceful night. My knees hit the floor with twin thumps after my body launched itself out of bed, my mouth already shushing the air in an attempt to restore quiet. 

“HELP! Not just anybody!”

I stumbled through my bedroom door into the living area, my sleep-blurred vision catching on the neon glow of my late grandfather’s jukebox. I don’t know what it wanted. I grabbed one of my boots from beside the couch and threw it in the machine’s general direction. The music stopped mid-help, and an alarmed series of squeaks confirmed my suspicion that a mouse had been trying to nibble at the old girl’s wiring again.

“If I get a ticket for noise violations, you’re going to the dump.” I hissed, settling into a seated position on the floor to rub at a toe I stubbed.

Significantly quieter, the machine’s–Jolene, if the song she played when I asked for a name was any indication– lights pulsed and the softer tones of Evanescence poured out. “Can you forgive me again?”

“Sure, fine, just…” I sighed and rocked to my feet. “Don’t be a nuisance. This is the last affordable apartment in the city.” I made my way to the kitchen to check the time, and decided it wasn’t worth going back to sleep. I started the coffee maker and dug under the cabinets for some tape. 

Jolene was playing some melancholy piano instrumental when I returned to her and I lifted the rolls I found. “Electric tape for where the mouse bit you, and duct tape to hold the wire off of the floor. Will that work? Wait–” I held up a hand as Jolene’s inner machinery started whining. “Just flash blue for yes and red for no. Not every occasion needs a song.”

The lights around her frame flashed blue, and I sat on the floor to inspect the wire. “I can’t believe grandpa kept you a secret for all these years. I never thought of him as a music man.” I found the nibbled part and carefully wrapped three loops of electric tape around the cord. “How is that?”

Softly, at a volume lower than I thought Jolene was even capable of, excited trumpets accompanied a man’s voice singing “I feel good! I knew that I would, now.”

Instead of admonishing the machine, I chuckled. “Alright, then. Now to get this out of the way of pests.” I inspected the wall and the cord, considering. “Blue for smaller pieces in increments, red for tape along the whole length.” The lights flashed blue, then red in succession. “Dealer’s choice?” Back to blue. “Alright, then.” 

I worked in relative silence, gently tearing strips off of the roll and adhering the wire to the wall in renter-friendly patches. After some time, soft jazz notes played into the early morning stillness. It was a good beat with a low volume, so I let it play. My fingers paused when a man’s voice started crooning in Russian. 

“He never told us about home. Did he tell you?” Flashes of blue. I put on another strip. “I wish I could hear those stories.” 

I turned my attention back to securing the wire and making sure Jolene was well protected. As I affixed the last strip of tape to secure Jolene's wire, the music softened to a gentle hum. “How is that?” The lights flashed blue again, this time without any music accompanying it. 

I stood up. “Yeah, I know. You’ll get used to it. Better than dealing with the rats, though, right?” I returned the tape to the kitchen and poured myself some coffee. The sunrise was pretty, at least. And now I had time to go through my morning routine at a relaxed pace. While I stared out the window, enjoying the unusual peace of coffee at sunrise, I heard the telltale click of a new song being put on. 

“Got a secret, can you keep it? Swear this one you’ll save…”

I knew this song. It was used as a theme song for a popular television show. 

“Better lock it in your pocket, taking this one to the grave.”

I carried my coffee into the living room and watched Jolene’s lights pulse as the song played. Sometimes I wished she could talk properly instead of every conversation being a riddle. 

“Gotta show you, gotta know you won’t tell what I said…”

The knock on the door startled me out of my contemplation. I set my coffee down and made my way to the door, wondering who it could be at this hour. I stopped when the light flashing from behind me, from Jolene, turned to a bright and startling red.

“‘Cause two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.”

Instead of opening the door, I balanced carefully on my tiptoes to look through the peephole without pushing on the door and giving myself away. A tall man with a toolbox was standing on my doorstep. His shirt was stained with grease, and the patch where a name or company would normally be simply read “Technician.”

I backed away from the door back to Jolene and sat on the floor next to her. There wasn’t anything to do if the man decided to break in. “I’m guessing he’s not a real technician. Any suggestions?” I whispered. 

A soft click sounded from Jolene’s side, where I was sitting. I leaned down to peer closer at the source of the sound and saw a small panel had popped open. Inside were photographs, a few letters, and a small and very old gun. I recognized the man in one of the photographs as my grandfather, wearing an old fashioned fur overcoat and smiling next to another man in military dress. The military man had many stars and badges on his crisp white uniform, and must have been important. I picked up the gun and checked the chambers. My grandmother had shown me how to use something like this once, and it had exactly one shot loaded in it. 

“Little pistol” Started playing, even softer than the previous songs, like Jolene was trying to whisper too. 

I let out a slow breath. “Maybe there was a reason Grandpa kept his secrets.” A knock sounded at the door again, louder and more insistent. I dialed 911 on my phone but stood to carry the pistol with me to the kitchen, the furthest I could get from the door. On impulse, I knelt down and grabbed the letters as well. 

The top one was in my grandfather’s handwriting, and mostly in English.

My esteemed Mr. Kennedy,

The situation in Russia is dire. I agree to tell you whatever I know of the General’s plans with his nuclear weapons, but I must get my wife out of the country. She is expecting my first child, and I will only betray my homeland if they are safe. Arrange passage by boat, and I will send her along with a secret even the Russian Military does not know about yet. 

It will take the form of a machine. This machine may look like any other music machine, but she has thought– emotions, even. She can listen and repeat anything she hears. Imagine what a benefit that would be for you in this war if you can keep my Jolene safe.

Your brother in heart if not by blood,

Gusha Patushkin.

I confirmed the 911 operator was sending a unit by the apartment and crept back to where Jolene sat flashing, still playing music softly but not letting up on any of the red lights. “Grandpa told you more than just stories about home, didn’t he?” A brief blue flash just as a knock that sounded much closer to the man trying to break the door down sounded and rattled the walls.

“I am coming in! You know what I am here for!” 

I expected Jolene to change the lights nervously, maybe play a battle song as the wood on the door’s hinges cracked and the frame fell. But she said nothing. The lights went dark and, from the looks of her, you would think she really was just an old jukebox. 

“You better tell me why I’m becoming a murderer when this is all over.” I lifted the pistol, stabilized my shooting arm with my left hand, and shot. The man fell, his own gun and fake toolbox clattering to the floor as a long pulse of blue light momentarily colored the blood on my floor a violent shade of purple.

The music started up again just as I heard the sirens wailing from the street. It took a gunshot for the unit the 911 operator sent to take my problem seriously. My arms fell and I stumbled back, recoiling from the grim scene in front of me.

“Lean on me, when you’re not strong.” The man singing wasn’t Bill Withers like I expected. The voice was old and tired, with a slight tremble and Slavic accent on the Ws.  Jolene, unable to hold my hand, used my grandpa’s ghost to keep me company.