Page 35 of Muted

“Good evening, Vance.”

My mother’s icy voice slices through my ear like a knife, instantly causing my head to start pounding on that side. I used to worry I had an aneurysm developing in that spot, but when I tried using the other ear to ease the pain, the same thing happened on that side. It’s her voice; eloquent, dismissive, and fucking cold.

She has the ability to lift me up in a way that makes me feel proud and like I’m worth something, before shattering it with a few simple words.

Even though I clear my throat, my greeting still comes out rough. “How have you been, mother?”

“Son,” my father’s voice cuts in.

“Father,” I say, greeting him the same way. He always lets me know he’s there for the weekly calls, but this will be the last I hear of him until next week. Most likely my mother handed him the phone, and I’m proven correct when I hear the shuffling of the phone as it passes hands.

My mother’s muffled, “Pour me two fingers of that, would you darling?” makes me look at the ceiling.

They’re forever ritualistic. It’s 7 p.m. there, which is an hour after they finished their 6 p.m. dinner. Now it’s time for drinks until nine, where my father will have a cigar and flip through the news on his phone. Mother always has one or two more drinks than he will as she flips through her magazines, scowling and huffing at the newest trend in the spreads.

I clear my throat again to repeat my question, but she’s quick to ask, “Vance, are you ill? You’re hacking a lung in my ear. Have you called the doctor?”

“No, I’m not sick. It’s just late and I’m tired. Nothing more than clearing my throat.”

She tsks. “The sound is sort of rude to make in someone’s ear,” she says, then moves on. “Tell me about your week.”

Normally, I have nothing much to update her on outside of new artists I’ve connected with, but this time I look forward to telling her about my new partner at Sonority.

“My old partner at the bar quit, and the owners brought in someone new to partner me. She’s incredibly talented as well. Just today—”

“Thad Toussaint quit? What a shame. He seemed like a decent sort of fellow. Not nearly as talented as you, of course.” Her interruption is annoying but expected. Margot Stoll can’t help but interject her opinion on everything.

“Thad was an ass and was awful,” I bite out.

“Language. Honestly, Vance. Cursing is so unattractive. Did I tell you I reached out to his parents? Lovely people, although a little uncouth when the liquor is poured, but nobody is perfect I suppose. Outside of you, of course.” Her tittering as whatever jokethatwas supposed to be sends another sharp pain through my skull.

I fight the urge to clear my throat again and push past her comment. “Yes, I’m sure they’re kind people. Thad hadn’t been fulfilling his obligations and Chester Ahearn, the owner, decided to dial back his performances. He wasn’t happy about the decision, so he walked out.”

She sniffs at the news. “Removing hours from him wasn’t the best move on the owner’s part. Everyone knows it’s more expensive to hire someone new rather than working on improvements within a system that already works. I do wish you’d give that bar up, darling. The owner sounds like an imbecile.”

“I enjoy working there. It gives me something else to do.” I fucking detest the way my voice softens, like I have to excuse why I’m doing an enjoyable thing for myself rather than purely for money and success.

“Your father just met with…” I let her drone on about all the amazing things going on within their lives. For the next fifteen minutes, I make the appropriate sounds that I’m listening and thrilled about new business ventures that are increasing those dollars sitting in their bank account.

My eyes never leave the spot on the wall, slowly blinking away the darkness that tries to seep in from the edges of my vision. I’m calm, stoic, focused as she tells me all the details of a dinner they attended two nights ago. Who was wearing what and the gossip about my father’s partner and his extra-marital affair.

The stabbing in my head grows fiercer the longer she talks about shit I don’t give a fuck about, but I don’t see how I can escape it. My mother and father are my family. We’ve been disconnected from our extended family because the only time they come around is when they want something, or the connection to our success.

Well,theirsuccess. What I’ve done hasn’t even come close to their accomplishments. My parents raised me to be driven, hard-working, always wanting the next best thing. I have to excel until I’m at the top.

Have to come in first place.

With piano, I’ve always been at the top, and the way they preened after I’d performed were the best moments of my life. When an observer would approach me to tell me how amazing I played, my dad would stand tall at my side and clap me on the shoulder. His fingers would dig, bruising my skin, but I relished those bruises. They were a sign that hesawme and was fucking proud.

Now, though, I find I can’t relate to them anymore. They’re over the fact that I work with some of the most famous artists across the oceans. They certainly aren’t impressed with my side hobby of playing at Sonority, which fucking sucks because if they could hear Susu play, I know their eyes would light up over a new talent.

Of course, in their eyes, I’d still be better. They would be filled with encouraging words to guide her and stand next to her as she succeeded. Her success would bemysuccess. It’s how we operate.

“Vance!” My mother’s voice draws my eyes to focus back on the slight imperfection on my wall. A divot that was created when I was moving into this place. When I moved out of their home and made this one just mine.

It’s as empty as my childhood mausoleum was. No personal touches or family photos. Just portraits and art. My mother had someone decorate this place for me, but I couldn’t agree with anything the designer suggested outside of a few paintings. The only thing I love here is my piano, centered in front of the windows lining the wall of my living room.

Bare, that’s what this place is. So bare that every sound ricochets around the space as an additional reminder that I’ve never filled this place with anything other than my footsteps and breathing.

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