Music of the Knight

Act 1 Chapter 1 Ah, Sunday nights. Dinner with my parents. Laundry. Routine. Bored, I leaned back against the washer and checked the time on the dryer again. With nothing to do, I automatically slipped my phone out of my jeans, but then tucked it back into my pocket. Hadn’t I promised myself I’d reduce the time I spent on social media and read a little more? Determine to stick to my word, I picked up the box of fabric softener and read the instructions. Fascinating stuff. “Honey?” My mother Joyce stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and a tense look on her face. “You don’t have to hide out in the laundry room. You know the machine beeps when it’s done.” Yes, I knew this fun fact. “No, I’m fine. They’re almost dry, anyway.” She hesitated, her blue eyes studying me with a hint of annoyance, but remained in the door. My mother was a retired architect and usually didn’t do casual, but tonight she looked dashing in her black jeans and button-down white shirt. “You know how your brother is,” she said. “Vincent gets excited about money. I mean, it’s his passion. He can’t help himself.” “Don’t worry about it. I’m not offended.” I was used to my brother’s somewhat condescending attitude with me. It was just Vincent’s way. He was ten years my senior and liked to pick on me from time to time. “Oh, Micah, you brother adores you. And Dad’s real proud of what you’ve accomplished in the last few years.” Whenever my mother mentioned my modest success, I felt like I was four years old again, bringing home a dry macaroni necklace. My father and brother argued that with my managerial skills, I should be running a small or medium size company, instead of a coordinating a bunch of volunteers from my two-bedroom downtown apartment. They simply didn’t get it. I helped people. I was my own boss. Could work in my pajamas if I chose to. I managed my own schedule. All that freedom and meaningfulness was worth being broke, and yes, often exhausted. I picked up my empty gym bag. “It doesn’t bother me, okay? I love what I do.” But I couldn’t tell her that lately, I was afraid I’d bitten off more than I could chew. That maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t going to succeed in non-profit. “What about retirement? You don’t have any investments or savings.” “Mom, I’m twenty-nine years old. And anyway, by the time I’m your age, we’ll all be trading in bitcoins, swapping secondhand clothes, and living in homes made out of plastic bottle bricks. So don’t worry.” “That’s nonsense. Complete nonsense.” As usual, my mother didn’t get my humor. “Vincent could help you with your financial portfolio. And it would make him feel good about himself. He’s been downhearted since his divorce.” My older brother Vincent was an investment broker. “I’ll think about it, okay?” I said dismissively. I had approximately forty-two dollars to invest. “All right. All right,” Mom said, walking in. She popped open the dryer. “These are done.” Together we unloaded my week’s provision of clothes and I tossed shirts and pants inside my bag. “Thanks for dinner and everything. The superintendent says he’ll have new machines installed in our building next week.” “Yeah, he said that last week, didn’t he? Why don’t you just move out of that decrepit building already?” Decrepit? Ouch. I pushed everything down into the bag and struggled with the zipper, then threw the bag over my shoulder. “You know, some people actually travel across the world to visit my neighborhood.” I lived in Montreal, in the famous Quartier des Spectacles. The theater district. “It’s so noisy. All those festivals. So full of tourists. I don’t know how you sleep.” She pointed at my bag. “Your shirts will be wrinkled.” “It’s okay. They’ll match my pants.” “Micah.” Mom sighed sharply. “Can’t you ever take anything seriously?” I didn’t know how to answer that. Because, yes, I took things seriously. Probably too seriously most of the time. Didn’t she know that? “All right. Don’t get tense.” She combed her fingers through my ash blond hair. “You need a haircut.” “Actually, I like my hair this length. I can part it to the side and go for the classy look.” I demonstrated this to her. “Or I can do the whole I just got out of bed look.” I messed up my hair. “See?” “Yeah, well,” Mom said, probably noticing my tense expression, “you’re gorgeous either way.” I didn’t know what to do with that compliment, so I stuffed it under all of her disguised insults or criticism. “Thanks.” She leaned in and kissed my forehead. “I’m just overly protective of my baby boy, you know that.” Protective, and yet, she’d hurt me a little in the last minutes. But she couldn’t see it. And I couldn’t tell her. On my way to the front door, my father called out from the living room where he was watching TV. “At least take some leftovers.” He looked over at my brother. “Vince, stuff some of the rice and a few pieces of chicken in a Tupperware for him.” Vincent sighed and stood, dusting imaginary particles off his black silk shirt. “Jesus,” he said with a sly smile. “What is he? Five years old?” I dropped the bag by the door and grabbed my running shoes. “No, Dad, give the leftovers to Vincent. You know he can’t cook for shit.” My brother cracked his knuckles. “And here I thought I wouldn’t have to kick your ass tonight.” “Boys.” My father’s eyes were fixed to the television. “No rough talk around me.” When I was ready, I picked up my bag. “Bye, Dad.” I looked around and heard dishes clanking in the sink. “Bye, Mom!” I shouted. “Hey, wait.” Vincent was walking up to me. Downhearted or not, he looked fantastic, as always. He’d definitely been lucky with the Payne genes. My brother had gotten our father’s svelte and tall build, while I was five foot seven in dress shoes. He’d inherited my father’s lively brown eyes, while mine were cornflower blue, small and too gentle, and to add to his good looks, Vincent had thick chestnut brown hair that waved naturally into a Superman haircut. He was the gorgeous brother, not me. No, I was the cute blond, at best. Whenever we visited relatives, people would shake Vincent’s hand. And me? They’d pinch my cheeks. “I wanna give you something,” Vincent said, meeting me at the door. “What? I’m a little too old for your wedgies.” “Funny.” Vincent checked over his shoulder. Dad was dozing off in front of the screen. At seventy-three, he should have been retired, but Dad was way too obsessed with his work as an urban planning engineer to stay away. Vincent took out his wallet. “Early birthday present.” “My birthday is in March. Of next year.” It was August. “Just take it, will you?” He shoved two brown bills into my hand. Hundred dollar bills. “No, no.” I pushed the money back into his fingers. “Give it to Justin.” “I’m not gonna give my five-year-old son two hundred dollars. Would you just take it already? Buy yourself something nice. I don’t know, a tie, for instance. Or take Nash out for a steak or something.” Not a bad idea. But no. I couldn’t take his money. I didn’t even need it. Well, not that much, anyway. “Thank you, but no, Vincent, I can’t take your money.” “Steven,” my mother shouted from the kitchen. “Micah is leaving. Give him a hug!” Vincent and I stared at each other. “How does she see through walls?” he asked with a smirk. My father made a move to get up, but I hurried to him before he got out of his chair. Bending to him, I kissed his head. “Don’t get up. I’ll see you soon.” He squished my cheeks. “Don’t work too hard. Okay? And call your mother this week.” “Yep.” I walked back to the entrance and stepped out on the porch. Outside, the street was quiet, as it usually was on Sunday evenings. I’d grown up in this high end neighborhood in the burbs, but didn’t miss it much. I preferred the hustle and bustle of the city. I descended the stairs and looked up at my brother, who was still standing there with the money in his hand. “You think maybe you’ll bring Justin next week?” I asked him. Vincent nodded briskly. “We’re fine-tuning the details of the divorce. The custody, I mean.” “Oh…” “Melissa’s being difficult.” “And I’m sure you’re being agreeable and smooth.” My brother flipped me off and entered the house, but then poked his head out. “I’m trying to be nice to people.” “Okay…” He tossed his chin up at my Hyundai. “When was the last time you got your brakes checked?” “Vincent.” I popped the driver’s door open. “Always a pleasure.” He waved my comment off and smiled a little, going back into the house. I tossed my bag on the passenger seat of the car and slipped in behind the wheel, exhaling a long sigh. I’d survived another Sunday night dinner with my family without having a secret meltdown in the bathroom. Finally, I took out my phone. I had a text message from Lou, my recently hired and only employee. Actually, in all fairness, Lou was much more than an employee. She was turning into a good friend. Happy to hear from her, I clicked on her message. Just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of you. Hope dinner at your parents’ went okay. Can’t wait to tell you about my ideas for the new fundraising campaign! In April, I’d received a tiny government fund and had hired Lou Knight to help out with promotion, social media networking, and marketing, hoping to get my non-profit organization going. She was fresh out of university, having completed her degree in communications and looking for a little experience. She worked for Good Ear, my active listening service, one day a week, but Lou was a force to be reckoned with and had already accomplished a lot. I typed my message and hit send. Thank you for thinking of me. And dinner at my parents’ was kind of complicated. A few seconds later, I had her reply. I’m sorry. Families can be f*****g messy. Call me if you want to talk about it. I smiled and slipped the phone back into my pocket. I was glad to have her in my life. But I was a listener. Not a talker. Lou knew that. After all, listening was what I did for a living.