A Silent Life

It was hard to tell that James Williams was drowning. 

Clad in a suit and bowtie, James took his seat at the piano, fingers splayed as he stretched each muscle. The black and white keys matched his life right now. He danced between his day job and his night job, with no space in his life for the things in between. No space for his loved ones, the very people he was working for. Day in, day out. Nothing changed. Hardly anything mattered except his family, and he barely had time to see them. Yet, no matter how much he saved, no matter how much he and Lillian worked, it was never enough. Their wages were too meager, and until he could find a better day job, he had to keep going.

Keep working.

Keep pushing forward. 

He had promised himself he would. 

James sighed as he looked over the tiny room. It was the smallest theater in town, but it was the only one with late showings for silent films. People were rapidly abandoning this theater for the one with the talkies. Both James and the theater company needed every penny they could manage. Playing for silent films didn’t earn him a grand salary, but he earned it fair and square. 

Warming up with scales and arpeggios, he took in a breath. Music swept through the auditorium like the tide, rushing toward the screen before shrinking back into his tiny corner. 

After thirty minutes, he was beginning to worry that the theater would be empty. Just when he was about to leave, a few people slipped in at the last second, taking their seats right as James received a cue from the man behind the projector. 

Well, he couldn’t be surprised. The theaters downtown were starting to offer late shows for talking pictures. Even other silent theaters had orchestras and full ensembles. Why bother to come here?

The small theater dimmed, a monochrome glow casting upon the heads in the audience. 

Ironically, it was when the world lost its color that everything seemed brightest. His hands moved freely, his shoulders dropping the hidden weight they had carried all day. Pulsing and flowing from his hands, the music stretched over the auditorium. He promised his father he would always try his hardest. Even if that meant playing piano in a dying theater for a film people had already forgotten. 

After, he included slight motifs as needed. The silence in between cues weighed into his bones, and as the night stretched on, his mind wandered to Lillian. Earlier, James only gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before he had to rush out of the house. He promised he’d buy them a home. He promised they’d combine their savings to give their daughters space to grow. He’d sacrifice night after night, as many as it took. Yet, despite this goal, his heart hurt.

His fingers brushed the keys, singing past the square theater room and up, up, until he was certain he could reach his wife, waiting patiently, half-asleep on the couch. He played his longing, his love for her when he couldn’t be there. Ever since he had taken this second job, and she had started teaching again, their interactions were relegated to fleeting kisses and little gifts. Sundays were their only day together, yet it always passed far too quickly. He missed her cooking, her warm voice singing along with his piano. He wished he were there, but that was the price he paid for a better future. 

His throat clogged. If only it weren’t every night. 

The slow movie moved into more comedic shenanigans, but James no longer watched the exact nature of the scene. He played the pitter-pattering feet of his oldest daughter Marie, toddling down the hallway. Above it, the leaping notes above the melody reminded him of the delighted squeals of his younger daughter, Evelyn, crawling behind Marie wherever she went. It had been so long since he had truly spent time with them– their aunt Jean saw them more than he did now. As the melody sped up, he played with grandiose, larger movements. Before he took this job, he’d watch Marie bounce different notes on the piano, Evelyn spouting nonsense over Lillian's singing. It had been several months since he’d even touched the piano at home, often practicing here so as to not wake them up when he returned home. 

Their lost time slipped through his fingers, and before he knew it, the song was over. 

The rest of the movie followed suit. The closing theme passed uneventfully, his exhaustion hitting him as soon as the final keys were played. How long had it been since he had a full night’s worth of rest? 

People trickled out of the theater without a word. Some nights he would see people that he recognized. Not tonight. Tonight, he was spending time with strangers instead of his family. 

“Good job,” a man said, placing some coins on the piano’s base.

“Thanks,” James murmured. Putting them in his pocket, he sighed. His chest squeezed. The door closed behind the final person, the ambient light fading as he sat in the dark room. The final murmurs eased into silence. Darkness. Silence. Even the keys seemed to lose their weight underneath his fingers. What was he doing? This wasn’t living. When had he started chasing more? His family was sustaining, but his daughters wouldn’t be young forever. Neither would he.

James opened the door, letting the light into the room. Fresh air coated his face. When was the last time he had shown Evelyn their neighborhood?

Going to collect his paycheck for the week, James straightened his tie, his shoulders relaxed. Informing his boss that he had to take several evenings off work next week, he left with his meager earnings. 

The trip home was a blur. Walking in the front door, he found his gaze swiveling to the couch, where Lillian wearily sat upright. She smiled weakly as he took his coat off. “Hello.” She wiped her hair out of her face. “Are you going in next week?”

“Only on Monday and Tuesday.” James paused. “I think I'd like to spend a few nights at home.”