From the September issue of Deb’s Quill
ENTWINED
March 1978
Samuel stood outside Ames Strings Galore and counted the money in his wallet. Twenty-two bucks and eleven cents. Not enough to buy a new guitar, but he was used to old ones. The ones he’d learned to play on in school had been older than Job, used carelessly by an endless succession of students before him, with the battle scars to prove it. He’d give anything for one of those guitars now, but he’d graduated — from school, from free instruments and from free room and board at his parents’. “Get a job and pay rent or move out,” his father had ordered. But all he’d found was work as a fry cook at Spider Monkey Burgers, with its shitty pay.
But if he busked — he had talent, he knew that — surely he could make enough to satisfy his dad until he figured his life out.
Inside, the wall was covered with rows of hanging guitars. Standing alone in a far corner, strings sticking out at odd angles, was an instrument he’d never seen before. It looked like something out of an Aladdin movie. He shrugged and returned to scanning the wall. The cheapest guitar, as beat up as the ones from school, was fifty dollars. Maybe he could rent it for a week, then come back and buy it with busking money.
He started to ask, but the odd instrument drew his eye again. Except for the broken strings, someone had loved it. The polished wood shone like rubies. The frets gleamed like silver. He shook himself. He didn’t know how to play it, anyway.
“Can I rent one of the old guitars? Just for a week? Then I can buy it.”
“Sorry, son. I don’t rent ‘em.”
He sighed and started to walk out, but a feeling took hold of him. Before he knew it, he was lifting the strange instrument and running his hands along its long neck. There was an intact set of strings running under the broken ones. They sang to something deep inside as he ran his fingers over them.
“How much for this?” he asked. “And what is it?”
“It’s a Sitar,” the man said. “How much you got?”
“Twenty-two bucks. But I need to buy replacement strings.”
“Hell, son, I’ll throw those in for free. Just happy to get it out of my store. It’s been here forever. You’re the first person to even look at it.”
That night at home, after evading his father, he sat in his room and ran his fingers over the taut new strings. As the first notes rang out, the second set of strings vibrated. The sound was close to singing with some notes, and to rain on a tin roof with others. A tune started to form in his brain, one that only he could write, that only his sitar could play.
July 1981
Samuel unpacked his sitar and left his case open for donations. He tossed in a few one-dollar bills, a practice he’d learned from other buskers. This spot, though, in the park outside the government building — he’d found this on his own. He hung his permit from a chain around his neck, sat on the edge of the fountain, and began to play. He’d been playing this song for three years, his first and favourite original composition. But there had been several more. He preferred his own tunes to the ones on the radio, but he played those, too. And here, the young professionals stopped to listen for a few minutes, then they were gone after dropping cash in his case. Mostly, he got ones, but now and then, he got five-dollar bills.
The money was decent enough. He had no complaints. His father was happy now that he was paying rent. He could have rented a room somewhere else, but at home, his mother still cooked for him and did his laundry. He wouldn’t get that anywhere else. Sometimes in the mornings, when he got up and heard her puttering around the kitchen, guilt washed over him. So he’d pitch in, clean the bathrooms and remember to bring her flowers when he finished his gigs. He owed her. He knew that.
His girlfriend, Susan, had gone off to college right after high school. They’d long-distance-dated for a few months, but then she’d found someone with real prospects. “You’re still living at home,” she’d said. “You aren’t even trying to get ahead.”
She was wrong. He was trying, just not in a way that mattered to her. They’d parted. And he hadn’t tried to find anyone else since. Because Susan was right. Who would date or marry someone like him?
Foot traffic was heavy. He didn’t need to check his watch to know it was break time. People stopped by, listened, dropped money. And he kept playing, lost in his own music, dreaming of the next song and the next.
He was halfway through his tenth tune when he noticed her. Tall, almost as tall as him. Maybe five eleven. Her pretty auburn curls gleamed in the sunlight. She wore a business suit, all sensible navy pinstripes, pale pink blouse and navy low-heeled pumps. But it was her face that made him stare. Pale skin. A perfect tiny nose covered by the cutest freckles. And the deepest brown eyes.
She swayed to the beat, a far-away smile on her face. And she stayed through three songs. When he stopped playing, she looked right at him and smiled with white, perfect teeth. He stopped breathing.
“Your music is beautiful,” she said. “The notes vibrate right down to my toes.” She stepped closer. “I’ve seen pictures of this instrument before. A sitar, right?”
“Yes.” He forced himself to lower his eyes so she wouldn’t think he was a creep. “First time you’ve heard one played?”
She nodded. “Haven’t heard these tunes, either.”
He grinned. “Nope. ‘Cause I wrote them myself.”
She touched her heart. “You should be proud. They are gorgeous. I don’t usually stop for buskers, but your music pulled me in.” She checked her watch. “And now I’m going to be late.” She dropped a twenty into his case and hurried toward the nearest office tower.
She came back every day after that. The third time, he learned her name. Nancy. By the fifth, he found out she was a paralegal while she put herself through law school. The tenth time, she told him about her parents and brothers. And when she came again at the end of the month, he got up the courage to ask her out.
“Took you long enough,” she said. “Of course I’ll go out with you.”
And one year later, they were married. He wrote the song for their wedding dance.
You came to hear my music
Echoing through the strings.
I played a song for strangers
And found my everything.
November 3, 1985
Samuel slouched out of the studio, his sitar slung over his shoulder. The bitter wind blowing in from Lake Ontario was the perfect end to his audition. “You’re talented,” the agent said, “but sitar music doesn’t sell in this country. Sorry.”
He pulled his jacket tight. It didn’t help. The cold pierced through to his bones. He should go back to the park and set up for busking, but no one would stop in this weather. He started the long walk home, without enough change in his pocket to take the bus. If he hurried, he’d get there in time to sing his infant son to sleep.
Nancy was so supportive, so encouraging, but he struggled to believe. For the last few years, her wages had made up the bulk of their income, but now she was on maternity leave, and her reduced pay was hurting. Badly. He needed to set this sitar aside and get a job, yet every time he tried, the damn instrument pulled him back.
What was wrong with him? He had two people depending on him. “Face it, man,” he said to himself, “you’re a loser. No one wants to hear your music, no one but you and Nancy. And Sam Jr.”
No, this was it. This audition was his wake-up call. He took his bearings and then hurried on his way to Ames Strings Galore. Half an hour later, he pulled up short. The store looked different. It was now called John’s Guitars.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled. Would the new store even know what a sitar was?
He inhaled sharply, squared his shoulders, lifted his head and marched into the store, letting the door knock his heel as it closed.
A young man, Samuel’s age, looked up from the cash register with a wide smile. “Morning. Can I help you find something?”
Another breath. Standing tall. Cocking his head slightly and forcing a friendly smile on his face. “No, I’m not looking for anything. But I have a great deal for you.” He swung the sitar around and placed it on the counter, opening the case. “Hoping to sell my sitar to you. Bought it here a few years ago and it’s been great. I’ve taken great care of it. But I’ve got a wife and kid to feed. You know?”
The young man stopped smiling and stepped back. “Sorry. Wish I could help, but we don’t buy instruments here.” He gestured at the guitars lining the walls. Every one of them was brand, sparkling new. “And I don’t sell,” he said, gesturing at the sitar, “whatever this is.”
His smile wavered. His instincts told him to leave, that he was wasting his time, but he couldn’t afford that. Nancy and Sam Jr couldn’t afford that. They were nearly out of food. He had to find a way to make money today. So he widened his smile, lifted the sitar out of its case and started to play his favourite song.
“See how clear and true her notes are,” he said. “You can feel them all the way through your body to the soles of your feet. Who wouldn’t want an instrument like this?”
“You, for one.”
Samuel stopped playing but ran his hands over the glowing wood. “Oh, I want her all right. But I have a wife and son to feed.” He looked up, his smile a little less fixed. “So, what do you say? Buy it?”
The young man shook his head. “Sorry, man. I feel for you. Really, I do. But I don’t sell anything but guitars. And I don’t buy used instruments. There’s a pawn shop three blocks away, south on Bloor. Maybe they can help you.”
Samuel nodded, placed his sitar back in its case and slung it over his shoulder. He didn’t say thank you, and he didn’t say goodbye. He just turned on his heel and left, his feet heavy.
He tried the pawn shop next. “20 bucks,” they said. That would buy a loaf of bread, milk, and some vegetables. Maybe, if he was lucky, some hamburger for supper tonight. He started to hand his sitar over, but his hands froze.
He couldn’t do it. Not for $20. So he turned and left. It was an hour’s walk in the opposite direction, but maybe his mother would help. She’d always been supportive, and she was so happy to have a daughter-in-law and grandson. As long as his father didn’t find out, maybe he could borrow enough money for a week’s groceries.
“Then I’ll get a job. A real one. A steady paycheck.” He was a man with a family to support, and that’s what men did.
His parents were out when he arrived. He sank onto the porch steps, knowing that God hated him as surely as he hated himself. He should have sold the damn sitar.
Why couldn’t he get rid of it? It’s not like it was doing him any good. Yes, he had small success with his busking, but it was never enough to support his family. He needed a record deal — that clearly wasn’t going to happen either. He had to stop dreaming.
The cold wind bit into him. He couldn’t start home this way; he’d be frozen before he got three blocks. He rose, took the key from under the flower pot beside the door and went inside.
Just to get warm, he told himself. But when he was inside, and the warmth started to thaw his brain, he remembered where his father kept some cash.
“Don’t be an asshole,” he scolded himself. But still, he walked into his father’s bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of the dresser, removed the cash box and counted its contents. $500.
He sank onto the floor. That was a fortune. It would buy enough groceries for a month, if he was frugal. He’d repay it. He would. As soon as he got a job. He would get a job. He had to.
He reached in and touched the money. He started to grab it. His hand hovered as he thought of his father’s disapproving face. Worse, he thought of his mother’s disappointment. But then he saw Nancy and Sam Jr and knew he had no choice. He wrote out an IOU, pocketed the money, put the cash box back in place and shut the drawer.
On the way out, he grabbed a loaf of bread, a pound of hamburger and a bag of frozen vegetables out of the freezer. He’d pay that back too. Then he trudged home, his spirits lower than they’d ever been.
But he was determined to hang up the sitar and get a job like a real man.
When he got home, exhausted, cold, dejected, Nancy and his son were fast asleep. He put the groceries away and slumped onto the kitchen chair. He set the sitar case on the table and stared at it.
A half hour later, he opened the case, took out the sitar and strummed what he thought would be goodbye notes. But a new song started to flow.
The cold wind flows deep in my soul,
Till I’m frozen in time and place.
I know what I’ve done and it ain’t good
But I did what I did for food
Not for me, but for my son, hunger etched on his face.
The cold wind blows deep in my soul, and I’m frozen in time and place.
April 1990
Samuel dropped his son at Kindergarten before work with a kiss and a “Be good, son,” barely out of his mouth before Sammy squirmed out of his arms and ran off to play with his friends.
At Canada Hauls, he got right to work, stacking boxes, filling orders, scanning bar codes. He’d been working in this warehouse for five years now, a steady forty-hour week. Between the job, his son and Nancy, he didn’t have much time for busking, though he still managed to squeeze in a few hours a week. Mostly though, the monotony of his job allowed him mental space to compose. And the steady paycheck gave him enough money to cut two albums, blending his sitar with light percussion, acoustic and bass guitars.
After he’d paid his father back, of course, though the old man still hadn’t forgiven him for stealing.
Halfway through his shift, Laila from dispatch whistled him over to her desk and scowled as she handed him a note from Nancy.
Call me. Now. Cold wind job.
“You quittin?”
“Nope,” he answered, smiling. “Can I use the phone?”
“Make it fast,” she snapped. “This here’s a business, not a social club.”
Nancy was breathless with excitement when he got her on the line. She’d landed Toronto Rocks as her first client a year ago, not long after she became a lawyer. And now, she’d snared a gig for him. If he left right now. A guest was a no show and he could fill the spot but taping started in an hour.
If I leave in the middle of a shift, Laila might fire me.
Screw it. This isn’t the only warehouse in town.
“Family emergency,” he said, punching out. “Sorry. Gotta go.” And he ran out, leaving Laila cursing behind him.
At the studio, he unzipped his go bag, pulled out the arrangement for Cold Wind, and handed the sheets to the music director. He’d have a live band accompanying him! A live band! Holy cow!
The director raised an eyebrow when he saw the sitar, shook his head, but said nothing. He led Samuel to his mark, had a whispered chat with the other musicians, did a sound check and then … the drums kicked it off. Samuel heard his cue, and took the lead. His voice rang out as his hand stroked the strings.
He focused on Nancy standing off to the side and sang for her. And for Sammy. And for all the tough times. Everything faded around him.
His fingers strummed the final notes. They lingered in the vibration from the lower strings, filling the studio with the sound of rain on glass, electricity zinging up his arm to pool behind his eyes.
And then it was over.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
A chair squeaked, breaking the trance, and the director clapped. One by one, the band members joined in, then the cameramen, and everyone else. Until he couldn’t hear his heartbeat over the applause.
Nancy ran over and hugged him, tears on her cheeks. “That was beautiful. Haunting,” she whispered.
The director came over and shook his hand. “Great job, man. Nearly had a heart attack when I saw your sitar, but you pulled it off. Respect.” He moved away, stopped and turned back. “Nancy tried to convince me a few months ago to book you. I said no. Wish I’d listened.”
The calls started the next day. Reporters, wanting an interview. Venues, wanting to book him. He got his Cold Wind album in front of radio stations. And within a few months, he’d climbed to fifty on the charts.
Then he got the call from Wild Fire, the hottest soft rock band in the country. And they wanted him to open for them.
On tour.
Canada.
US.
Europe.
One year.
He almost said yes. Nancy urged him to.
“It’s your big break,” she pleaded.
It was. But she couldn’t leave her job, and he couldn’t leave her and Sammy.
He said no. He’d play the smaller gigs. Keep his warehouse job. Be present for his wife and son. But maybe he could start a business on the side teaching music.
It was enough.
June, 2000
The guitar lesson with Michael was finished. Samuel put away his teaching instrument in its case and set it down beside his sitar case.
“You’re doing well, Michael. Those chords sounded really good today.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chambers.” Michael wandered over to the sitar case. “My uncle plays your album. A lot. Could you teach me how to play this? I get an allowance. I can pay you.”
“Why learn that old thing?”
Samuel looked at his fifteen-year-old son, baggy jeans hanging off his hips, baseball cap worn backwards. Sammy slouched against the door frame, his mouth twisted in disdain.
“That old thing,” Samuel scolded, “pays for the ridiculous clothes you’re wearing. Show some respect.”
“Whatever.” Sammy turned and slammed out of the house.
“Sorry about that, Michael.”
“No prob’, Mr. Chambers. I’d still like the lessons.”
He told Nancy about Sammy’s attitude that night as they lay in bed, the discussion all too familiar.
“Fifteen’s tough for kids,” she said. “He’s rebelling.”
“I know. It’s just …”
“Remember when you were his age?” She slid her arm around his shoulders.
“Yeah. I was a brat, too.”
“So…” she pulled him to her, and together they slid into an embrace.
But his dreams that night reminded him how disrespectful he’d been to his own dad. And that he’d never apologized.
The next afternoon, when his warehouse shift was over, he took the bus to his dad’s house. He was overdue to check on him. He should come out more often, now that his mom was dead. But all they did was fight. About the money. About Samuel’s life choices.
And when they weren’t fighting, they had nothing to talk about, and the silence filled the room. So he’d stayed away. But he owed his dad an apology. Experiencing Sammy’s disrespect shook him. Because he’d been the same way.
He walked the block from the bus stop to his dad’s house, rehearsing his apology. As he reached the front steps, he heard Cold Wind drifting through the open window. He froze. His father never mentioned Samuel’s music. He’d had no idea.
He saw his father, sitting in his recliner, near the window. His father looked up, caught Samuel’s eye, and the music immediately stopped.
Samuel brushed wetness from his eyes. With a slight nod, he strode into the house, pausing just long enough to steel himself before taking the chair facing his dad.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I was an awful son.”
His father grunted, clicked the stereo back on and settled further back in his chair, while Cold Wind spoke for both of them.
September 2023
Nancy lay propped up in their bed, arms by her side, covers pulled up to her now bony chest. An IV line snaked up her arm to the pole with an IV bag hanging from it. Her beautiful red hair was gone, diminished to a red-grey stubble. Her skin was yellow, her cheeks caved, her freckles no longer visible.
Pancreatic cancer. And she’d chosen medically assisted death, for when the drugs no longer numbed the pain.
Sammy sat on one side, holding her hand. He was thirty-eight now, with a wife and two kids of his own. They’d said their goodbyes and gone downstairs so Sammy could say his.
Samuel, his heart breaking at his own loss, broke again for his son’s. He raised Nancy’s hand to his lips, kept his eyes on hers as the doctor injected the end-of-life drugs into the saline bag. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Sing me out,” she said, her voice thready and weak. “And play our sitar. I want to hear you both one last time.”
It would mean not holding her hand while she died. He looked at his son, who shrugged.
“I don’t understand what you two see in that weird instrument, Dad. But I don’t have to. Play it for her.” He raised his mother’s hand to his cheek. “I’ve got her.”
Samuel picked the sitar up and thought about playing the new song he’d been composing ever since Nancy told him of her decision. This day had come too soon. The song wasn’t ready.
He wasn’t ready.
She touched his hand. “The new one,” she said. “I’ve heard you rehearsing it. That’s the song I want.”
He wiped his eyes and began, his voice watery and uncertain.
You’re the thief of hearts
You’ve torn mine apart
And I won’t survive without you.
That day in the park when you listened
When the sun in your hair did glisten,
She smiled, her eyes closed, and she relaxed into the pillow. The shallow rise and fall of her chest was the only sign of life.
You cast your net and pulled me in
Cause I felt, in that moment, my life begin,
You’re the thief of hearts …
She sighed, and her chest stilled.
Samuel stopped playing and reached for her hand.
The doctor stepped in with his stethoscope and placed his fingers at her neck. He straightened.
“She’s gone. I’m sorry for your loss.”
August 2026
Cause I felt, in that moment, my life begin,
You’re the thief of hearts
You’ve torn mine apart
And I won’t survive without you.
Samuel set his sitar aside, upright, leaning against his side table. In front of him, the video played again, the one Sammy gave him for Christmas the year his Nancy died, a compilation of all their family photos. He’d sobbed the first year. Cried quietly the second. And today, wetness lay under his eyes, dried quickly by the breeze from the overhead fan.
Near silence surrounded him, as it had for the past three years. He played daily, but only here, only while watching this video and only that one last song. The sound of the overhead whirring, as it stirred the air and loosened small gobs of accumulated dust into the air, was so familiar, it ceased to be sound.
He sighed. He was 70 this year. Nancy would have been 68. She should be here, beside him, holding his hand while they watched reruns. Or doing the things she loved together. Browsing flea markets. Cooking. Babysitting their grandkids. Having her book club friends over.
He reached for the remote and clicked off the video. He couldn’t watch it anymore. Not today. The pain of memory was more than he could bear.
Hunger gnawed. He needed to eat. Sammy had scolded him yesterday, saying he was getting too thin. He looked toward the kitchen, thought he should make himself a sandwich, but his eyes drifted back to the remote. He clicked it on and started the video again.
Halfway through, he started to feel odd. Off. There was a heaviness in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. He knew. He started to rise, to reach the phone, but a searing pain in his jaw and arm stole the rest of his breath, and he slumped back against his recliner, his hand brushing the neck of the sitar. He heard it thump onto the floor.
His last thought was Nancy, I …
The top strings of the sitar broke and sprang open in a twisted array. The breeze from the fan wafted across the inner strings, leaving behind the mournful sound Samuel had loved almost as much as his family.
The End
© Deborah Sarty. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced without permission.
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