His Art, His Music, His Notebook

The little black notebook sat on the shelf in the empty closet. I froze on the stool I was standing on and stared at it because it was speaking to me. I always go into these vacant houses that I am hired to clean and expect to find something. Something valuable. It never happens. But this felt different. Why would a little black book be sitting alone on a dusty altar in a vacant house, holding a conversation with me? Telling me it was definitely my business to open it even though I said it wasn’t and I was just going to toss it. “You ain’t nothin but a bunch of nothin. Probably just full of worthless phone numbers and notes.” I told it.

The closet smelled of cigarette smoke. A smoker definitely lived there once. My younger sister flips houses and she hires me to clean them. The story of my life. She’s always been my boss. But because of her, my maid service was gaining an excellent reputation. So while my Volkswagen Beetle sat outside in the driveway with pink letters that read “Mia’s Miracle Mop on the Move Cleaning Services” and pink mops plastered on its doors, I stared at the black book and it stared back at me with its presence, small and powerful.

It continued to talk to me so I finally picked it up, slowly, fingers shaking. A nervous energy erupting in my belly. The unknown bringing expectancy. I opened it. And what I saw on the first page was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. It was a small portrait with as many details of a mural. All done in pencil. How could a drawing so small be so big? The subject wore dreadlocks draped like a heavy curtain flowing down one side of her face. Her eyes downcast, revealing long thick lashes. Her lips were full and pouty. Not a forced sexy pout but a natural pout that some women have surgery to achieve. She was beautiful. It was authentically pure. She looked as if she was experiencing her own “Sunday kind of love” that Etta James sings about. On the opposite page was a music sheet drawn by the same pencil probably. No title but just music notes. I know how to read music and could actually feel the music created by the artist and composer. This notebook was definitely speaking and I was hearing exactly what it was saying. I breathed in every note. And relaxed.

And then on the next page was the most beautiful drawing I’d ever seen. How could it be true? Because it was even more beautiful than the first. The artist used colored pencils this time. Greens, oranges, browns, yellows, and created a bright light that showed through the same subject, wearing a long flowing yellow dress caught in the wind. Around her neck was a necklace with the letters JC hanging from it. I then noticed the initials JC at the bottom of each drawing. There were more notes on the opposite page but a different song. Intense and beautiful.

Someone put their very soul into the creation of these drawings and the music. Someone's hand and heart created something very personal. But yet this someone left this book behind in this vacant house for someone else to discover its sacredness. This vacant house was probably once filled with inner city blues, music, scented candles and oils, sketch pads and pencils, cigarette smoke and love. There was life here once. A soft breeze from an open window and JC.

The notebook became very important to me and it told me that I must treat it as such. At that moment, I placed an immeasurable value on it. This was very important to someone even though I couldn’t understand why it was left so alone. There was no way this was a forgotten act. It was very intentional. Even though I was the only person in the house, I hid it under my cleaning supplies inside of my bag and continued cleaning with every other thought being on the notebook and how I couldn’t wait to look through it in the comforts of my home. Me, myself, music, art, and my imagination.

Later that evening, I sat at my small keyboard that I pull out whenever I’m inspired and started playing the notes that were on the page opposite the first drawing. Jazzy, soulful, heartfelt, deep down.

I moved on to the next sheet and continued to unveil the musical pieces to a love puzzle. I fell in love with each drawing, each note. I played for hours. Repeating the notes over and over. When I reached the last page, I turned it over on the other side and on the bottom right corner there was a telephone number. Under the number, there was a message that read “here’s the number I could not call. Can you?” JC

What?! Was the person asking me to call this mysterious phone number? No name? What do I say? Was I the you? Of course I was. That was how the day was going.

It was 10:00 p.m. but I didn't want to wait. I wouldn't be able to sleep if I didn't. I grabbed my phone without thinking any more about it.

She answered.

“Hi, my name is Mia Rivers. I’m so glad you answered. I’m sorry to call you so late. Umm.. your number is inside of this black notebook I found while cleaning a vacant house. My company.. Well anyway..it has beautiful artwork of a woman and music sheets inside of it. With this number on the last page. But no name. Is this your book or do you know the person who this belongs to?”

I heard a sniff.

“Hello?” I asked.

“I’m here.” She responded softly.

“Are you ok? Do you know anything about..?”

“Wow. Thank you. I never knew where he went. Where are you calling from?”

“Chicago. Who is he?”

“Ok good.” She didn’t answer my last question.

“I never knew where he went.”

I decided to just let her speak.

“I loved him. I think of him every day. For two summers I was with him. I loved him deeply. Too deeply maybe. But we were like a miracle because it was so intense. Like God himself came down and put us together with his own hands or something. The passion between us wasn’t just physical though. We were connected. That type of thing ain't an everyday thing, you know. That once in a lifetime type of thing. I was so fascinated by him, happy, free. And then he left. I hurt him and then he moved away. Stopped talking to me. I still have conversations with him in my head. Things I wished I could have said. But I don't know where he is.”

“Wow.” I said. “So these drawings.. are they you”? I knew the answer before I asked. They had to be her.

“I think so”.

She wanted me to describe some of the pieces. I believed she knew even after the first description that these drawings were of her. But she wanted me to continue while she sniffed. I didn’t see the tears but I knew they were there.

“There is a necklace with the initials JC and each drawing is signed by JC”. I told her.

“My God. That’s him. Those are his initials. My necklace. Jack Carter.”

There are more sniffs.

“Are you ok?” I asked.

“Yes. I am so grateful to you. What we had was real. Real enough for him that he turned our story into art and left my phone number.”

“Why the little black notebook?”

“I’m not sure. Who knows? He worked on many different surfaces. He drew a rose on a pillowcase for me once. I still have it.”

I was starting to feel comfortable now that she had shared so much. I wanted her life at that moment. Even if it was just for a few minutes. Someone had cared so deeply for her and probably still does.

“I never knew about these drawings though. Never.” She answered my next question.

All while she spoke of him, I was becoming intoxicated by my imagination.

“So you believe he drew these after your break up?” I asked.

“I believe so. However, there is one that I posed for. But that one was on a sketch pad. I remember that afternoon so well. Like it was yesterday. It was the evening I told him the truth. Five years ago.”

“The truth?”

“I hurt him and he was afraid to continue to love me. He could not bear the deception. His heart was fragile.”

“But how? How did you hurt him?”

“I was married and I didn’t tell him. I was not with my husband at the time but I was still married and when I told him, he was crushed. He said he thought our love was pure. So it was no longer pure because I kept my true self from him. His exact words. But we were purer than anything I knew. When he left, I went back to my husband.”

“Are you still married?”

“No. My ex-husband is a wealthy man that never had any intentions on building anything with me. I wanted so much more that his inherited money.”

She sounded bitter so I wanted to steer her back to JC.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“What did he look like?”

“JC?”

“Yes?”

“The finest man I ever met.” I heard her smile.

“I knew it!” I was definitely living vicariously through her now.

“And in so many ways,” she continued. “I was attracted to his creativity. His vulnerability. I took care of him. We took care of each other. The fragile artist and musician and the unhappy wife. Of course he didn't know I was the unhappy wife but he was so empathetic and he felt everything.”

Silence.

“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” I asked.

“Oh yes, I’m sorry. My God. My mind went back to when he told me something on the last day I heard from him.”

“What?”

“He said he was working on something and if it finds its way back to me, then his love for me was bigger than this world and there was no space that could contain it. This is it! Do you understand me?”

“I do.”

“I must find him. Can you help me?”

“What?”

“There is a reason we have connected. I believe in this. All of this. What’s happening right now is destiny, fate, faith. All that. And you’re a part of this. You must be. That’s why I believe you have to continue to be a part of this.”

“Ummm, what if he’s moved on. What if..” I asked.

“Please. There are no what ifs to this. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars. And the balance of ten thousand once you find him.”

“Whhaa..” I lost my breath for a moment and then I swallowed. I was beginning to feel light-headed.

“I got it and I want to give it. You’ve just made my life better. Money means nothing to me without him.”

“But, I’m just a cleaning...”

“A cleaning lady that knew the importance of that black book. The cleaning lady that’s going to help me find the love of my life and I’m going to pay you. That’s how much this means to me. I want to help you as well. Fate, destiny. Your phone call. I can't put a price tag on it. I want to do this because you have saved my life. I never spoke of him to anyone before now. Let’s meet! I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And just like that she hung up.

“But I never got your name.” I said to myself.

She called eventually.

I guess I’ll need to add detective to my list of services.