Beethoven in Paradise

by Barbara O'Connor

  As Martin got closer, he realized she wasn’t doing anything. Just standing there looking around at the perfectly straight rows of perfectly spaced clumps of green.

  In the same instant that it occurred to Martin that he had better turn around quick and go home, Sybil Richards waved a hand over her head and called out, “Hey, Martin!”

  Martin looked up in pretend surprise. Squinted at Sybil in pretend ignorance. Said, “Oh, hey,” in pretend recognition. All the while still walking, getting out of there while . the getting was good.

  But Sybil was running after him with long, slow, loping strides. She wore the same cutoffs she had worn that day at the lake. A baseball hat was pulled down low over her eyes. Dallas Cowboys.

  “Come see my garden,” she said. Not “What are you doing here?” or “What a coincidence.”

  She tugged on Martin’s arm and led him to the garden.

  “The zucchini’s my favorite,” she said. “I love the flowers.” She touched a big yellow flower gently with the toe of her sneaker.

  “And okra. You ever seen an okra plant?” She pulled him to another row and picked a tiny okra off the plant. “Taste this.” She took a bite and handed the rest to him. “It’s better pickled. You like pickled okra?”

  Martin slipped it into his pocket. No way was he eating raw okra. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “But not store-bought. I only like homemade.”

  “Me too!” she said, high and squeaky, like it was some kind of miracle that they both preferred homemade pickled okra.

  “Look at this.” She pulled his arm again. Her long fingers reached all the way around his skinny wrist. He tried not to blush, but he knew that the harder he tried, the more he blushed.

  They left the garden and went around behind the house. A rotting porch hung off the back of the house in midair. The wooden steps that had once gone up to it lay in a broken heap. Sybil led Martin past the porch to the back of the house and threw her arm out dramatically.

  “Ta dah!” She grinned at Martin and waited for his reaction.

  Martin whistled and shook his head. The entire back of the house was covered with license plates—red, green, yellow, like a giant patchwork quilt. Some of them were nothing but rust. Some were as bright and shiny as new.

  “That’s my favorite.” Sybil pointed to South Dakota. “That’s Mount Rushmore. A man named Gutzon Borglum made them faces in the rocks with drills and dynamite. Me and my dad are going there someday.”

  Martin studied each license plate. The Keystone State. The Aloha State. The Peace Garden State. There were birds and flags and even the Wright Brothers’ airplane.

  “We’ve got every state except New Mexico, Land of Enchantment, and Alaska, the Last Frontier,” Sybil said.

  “Where’d you get all them?” Martin asked.

  “Oh, all kinds of places. Flea markets, junkyards. We even found one under the porch of this very house. The Lone Star State. That’s kind of an irony, don’t you think?”

  Martin stared blankly at her.

  “My mom being in Dallas and all?” Sybil said with a touch of irritation. Like he should have remembered that her mom was in Texas.

  “My dad used to drive a truck, so he’s been all over,” she said. “I bet he’s been in nearly every one of those states. Now he’s a mechanic at the Exxon station out on Walhalla Highway.”

  Just then a motorcycle roared up the street and into the driveway.

  “Speak of the devil,” Sybil said. She headed around to the front of the house, then stopped and motioned impatiently for Martin to follow.

  Sybil’s dad took his helmet off. He wore the same greasy jeans, same uniform shirt, same ponytail.

  “Hey, Peanut,” he said as Sybil gave him a peck on the cheek. He smiled and held out a greasy hand to Martin. “I’m Frank,” he said.

  Martin shook his hand. It was warm and rough. “I’m Martin.”

  “I was just showing Martin your collection,” Sybil said.

  “How about them?” Frank smiled at Martin, a big, eye-twinkling smile that made his mustache curl up at the ends. “You know anybody in New Mexico or Alaska?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.” Martin wished he did.

  “Oh, well. It don’t hurt to ask,” he said, unstrapping a grocery bag from the back of the motorcycle. “I’m going to make us some enchiladas tonight, Peanut.” He tapped the bill of Sybil’s hat, knocking it down over her eyes. “You want to have some enchiladas with us, Martin?”

  “I better be getting home,” Martin said.

  “You live near here?”

  “No, sir. Well, yes, kind of. I mean, near enough. See you later,” he said, and walked quickly away from the little house with the rotting porch and the license plate wall. At the corner, he glanced back. Sybil and Frank stood hand in hand in the middle of the okra.

  Eight

  WHEN MARTIN WOKE to the sound of rain clattering on the trailer roof, he let out a contented “Aaah.” What could be better than a rainy Saturday? No school and no baseball game.

  He got his jeans on and headed for the kitchen, where his mother was already gathering dirty laundry.

  “Seems a shame to ruin a perfectly good Saturday at the Laundromat,” Martin said, stirring the pot of grits warming on the stove.

  “Perfectly good? It’s raining cats and dogs out there.” She looked under the couch and pulled out a dusty sock. “Besides, who says I’m ruining it? The Queen Clean’s my little heaven on earth. I got nothing to do there but sit. Sometimes I wish my whole life would get stuck on the spin cycle for a few weeks.” She looked out the window at the rain. “Guess the good Lord answered your prayers.”

  Martin grinned and wiggled his eyebrows up and down. “Guess so.” The rain was coming down harder now, clanging noisily on the metal roof. His father’s muffled snores drifted out of the back room. “I think I’ll go into town for a while, okay?”

  “In this rain?”

  “A little rain don’t bother me.”

  “I can give you a ride.” She tried to flatten his hair with a licked finger. “You need a haircut. And give me them jeans. They look like something the cat drug in.”

  “That’s okay.” Martin stepped out of his jeans. “I’m gonna look for bottles.” He had discovered that looking for bottles was an acceptable excuse for walking.

  His mother stuffed the last of the laundry into a pillowcase. “If the rain stops, I might see if I can find some flowerpots at the flea market,” she said, blowing a kiss in his direction as she headed out the door.

  Martin ate grits right out of the pot, then tapped a beat on the stove with the back of the spoon. His father’s snores stopped, and Martin held his breath for a minute, listening. When the snoring started again, he let his breath out with a low whistle. He hurried to get dressed and grabbed one more spoonful of grits on his way out.

  The unpaved road that ran through Paradise had turned into a murky lake. Martin carried his sneakers and waded through the puddles. Gooey red mud squished up between his toes.

  Within minutes, his clothes were soaked through and his hair was plastered to his head. He stopped to put his sneakers on at the WELCOME TO PARADISE sign, then started off along the side of the highway toward Pickens. There wasn’t likely to be much going on in Six Mile, even on a Saturday. About the only thing that gave Six Mile the right to call itself a town was a bunch of mailboxes and a combination gas station and convenience store. The few businesses that were there were mostly in people’s homes. Bernice’s Beauty Spot in Bernice’s kitchen. Buddy’s Lawn Mower Repair in Buddy’s garage.

  But what Six Mile lacked in stores it made up for in churches. Freedom Baptist Church. Calvary Baptist Church. Mountainview Lutheran Church. Every week the messages on their signs changed and Martin liked to read them as he walked. “Jesus saves.” “Bingo tonight.” “Depart from evil, and do good; and dwell for evermore … Psalm 37, Verse 27.”

  Martin sang church songs as he walked along the muddy roadside. “Onward, C
hristian Soldiers.” “Bringing In the Sheaves.” Sometimes he and Hazeline sang church songs all the way to Howard Johnson’s. Funny how folks who never stepped so much as a big toe into a church knew all the words to those songs.

  Before long he was marching in time to the tunes. Right, left, right, left. He sang louder and louder until he was almost yelling, his skinny neck stretched up like a turtle in the sun.

  “Then sings my so-o-o-ul, my Savior God to thee.

  How great thou a-a-art. How great thou art.”

  By the time Martin reached Pickens the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. He hummed “Amazing Grace” and strolled lazily down the sidewalk. He knew the exact order of the stores. The Army Navy Store. Jimmy’s Barbershop. The Blue Ridge Thrift Shop. He liked to look in the windows, but he almost never went in. Once he had bought Wylene the soundtrack from West Side Story at Walgreen’s. But mostly he just looked.

  During the week, bored store owners sat in lawn chairs on the sidewalk, watching an occasional car go by or chatting with a neighbor from the store next door. But on Saturdays, the street came alive. Mothers dragged complaining children to shop for clothes. Men got haircuts. On this particular Saturday, the rain made things seem more hurried than usual as people darted from their cars to the shelter of the stores.

  Martin was weaving his way through the crowd that was beginning to form in front of the only movie theater in town when he heard his name called. He turned, searching the clusters of people huddled under umbrellas, finally spotting TJ.’s Atlanta Braves hat.

  “Hey,” T.J. called again as he jogged toward Martin. “You going to the movie?”

  “Naw, just walking.”

  “The movie don’t start for a few minutes yet,” T.J. said. “Wanna get a Coke at Arlene’s?”

  “Sure.” Martin pulled at his T-shirt, and it made a sucking sound.

  The two boys strolled down the sidewalk, separating now and then to let people walk between them. Suddenly Martin stopped dead in his tracks.

  “What’s the matter?” T.J. asked.

  Martin stared across the street. T.J. followed his gaze, but looked back at Martin, puzzled.

  “What?” he asked.

  Martin ran across the street to the window of J. H. Lawrence and Son Pawnshop. He pressed his face against the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes, and stared at the violin. It was propped up on a dented television, surrounded by dusty cases of watches and diamond rings. Its dark, rich wood was polished so shiny it practically glittered. Martin had never seen a real violin up close before. His stomach flipflopped. He felt goose bumps on his arms.

  T.J.’s voice broke the spell. “What you looking at?” He stuck his face in front of Martin’s to get his attention, blocking Martin’s view of the window.

  Martin pushed T.J. aside.

  T.J. looked at the window. His eyes darted around, searching for whatever it was that Martin was looking at.

  “What?” T.J. asked. “That ole fiddle?”

  “Violin,” Martin corrected him.

  “What’s the difference?” T.J. said. “You know how to play that?”

  “I bet I could.” Martin’s fingers ached with longing to touch the violin’s smooth curves. He ran his finger along the window glass, following the strings up the slender neck and tracing the curly scroll at the end.

  “I’m going in,” Martin said, starting for the door.

  “What for?”

  “I want to look at that violin.”

  “How come?”

  “Just curious is all.”

  T.J. lifted his shoulders and let them drop again. “I’m going on back to the movie, then,” he said.

  Martin wiped his hands on his jeans. A bell tinkled when he opened the pawnshop door. His wet sneakers made a squishy sound when he walked. The shop was dark and damp and smelled like mothballs. Every available space had been put to use. Rifles and moth-eaten deer heads hung on the wall. Stereos were stacked in corners. A smudged glass display case was filled with wedding rings, pocket watches, and cameras.

  Martin called, “Hello?” His voice sounded eerie in the quiet shop. He waited a minute before calling again. “Anybody here?”

  Finally a man pushed aside a curtain and came out of a back room, carrying a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Yes?” he said, eyeing Martin suspiciously.

  “You Mr. Lawrence?”

  The man nodded. Martin jerked his head toward the window. “How much is that violin?”

  Mr. Lawrence went over and peered at the violin in the window, as if he had a whole roomful of violins and needed to know exactly which violin Martin was talking about.

  He took a sip of coffee, squinting his eyes in the steam and making a slurping noise. “Fifty,” he said.

  “I’d like to see it, please,” Martin said. He straightened his shoulders, trying to look mature, and brushed the wet hair off his forehead.

  Mr. Lawrence eyed him. “You got fifty bucks?” he asked.

  “Was that fifty to see or fifty to buy?”

  Mr. Lawrence’s expression changed. His eyebrows shot up into two arches of disapproval. He started to say something, then put the coffee mug down so hard coffee sloshed over the sides. He stepped over boxes, stereo speakers, and car radios till he could reach into the window for the violin. Martin tried to keep his hands from shaking as he reached for it. He hesitated, not sure how to hold it. Somehow it seemed rude to hold the violin in the wrong place—like dancing with a girl, afraid to put your hand too low on her back or too high on her side. Mr. Lawrence was getting impatient, so Martin just reached for the neck. The violin was surprisingly light. Martin ran his hand along the curves. He stroked the smooth back, then carefully turned it over and ran a finger along the strings.

  He looked up at Mr. Lawrence. “Is there a bow that goes with it?” He grinned, trying to look like this was about the four hundredth violin he’d held in his lifetime. No big deal. Just another ole violin.

  “Yeah, there’s a bow that goes with it. When it’s sold. You buying it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Look, kid, I ain’t got all day. You want it or not?”

  “Would you take thirty dollars for it?” Martin couldn’t believe he had said that. First of all, he’d never bargained with anybody in his life. And second of all, he didn’t have thirty dollars.

  Mr. Lawrence’s answer was short and to the point. “Nope.”

  Martin kept stroking the strings, stalling for time while he tried to figure out what to do next.

  Mr. Lawrence reached for the violin. “This violin’s only been here a month. I’ve already lowered the price more than I ought to. Either you want it or you don’t.”

  He took the violin from Martin and put it back in the window, then went back to his coffee as if Martin had just disappeared.

  Martin turned in his squishy sneakers and left. The rain had stopped and the street was already beginning to dry. Steam drifted up from the hot pavement. Martin watched his feet as he walked, chanting softly to the steady rhythm. Left, right, left, right. How else was he going to keep all those violin thoughts from flailing around in his head like a cat in a bag?

  He took a detour from his usual route and turned down Shaw Creek Road. Sybil’s house was quiet. Frank’s motorcycle was parked in the driveway. Martin walked by slowly, trying to see through the screen door into the darkness inside. What were they doing in there? Martin imagined the two of them sitting at the kitchen table, drinking iced tea and eating pickled okra. Sharing jokes. Laughing. Planning their trip to South Dakota.

  When he got home, Martin went straight to his bedroom. He closed the door and stretched out on his bed, looking up at the water-stained ceiling. He sniffed his fingers. The smell of the oily wood of the violin lingered on his fingertips. He reached under his bed and pulled out a battered shoe box, dumping the contents on the bed. Three arrowheads. A picture of a dog he used to have. A bird’s nest. A real Japanese fan Hazeline had won playing bingo. A sm
all leather pouch. He opened the pouch and counted the money inside. Twelve dollars and seventy-eight cents. A long way from fifty dollars.

  Nine

  “EARTH TO MARTIN. Earth to Martin.” The entire American history class exploded in laughter. Martin jumped and sat up straight.

  “Yes, sir?” he said, keeping his eyes on his desk. He traced the carving in the grimy wood with his finger. Jo Ellen Loves Roy.

  “You care to join us, Mr. Pittman?” the teacher said.

  Martin said, “Yes, sir,” although actually no, he didn’t care to join them. He’d rather have stayed where he’d been before he was so rudely interrupted. Playing the violin. Outdoors somewhere. Nobody else around. Nobody scuffing their shoes or thumping their pencils or popping their chewing gum.

  Martin watched the minute hand on the clock over the door jerk straight up. He was out the door and halfway down the hall before the bell had finished ringing. He turned toward the main office, ducking and dodging the rush of kids scurrying in the opposite direction. Outside the guidance counselor’s office, Martin stopped to examine the bulletin board that covered the dirty wall. It was a crazy quilt of notices and fliers. Charlene needed a ride to Atlanta. Randy would paint, do yard work, or house-sit. Candace W. was looking for a nonsmoking baby-sitter for three small children.

  “You want free rabbits?”

  Martin turned to see Sybil inspecting the bulletin board, her hands jammed into the pockets of her baggy jeans. One toe of her sneakers was covered with silver duct tape.

  Martin ran his hand over the top of his head. “Nope,” he said. “I used to have a rabbit.”

  Sybil cocked her head. “What happened to it?”

  “I turned it loose in the woods.”

  “How come?”

  Martin grinned. “It was Easter.”

  Sybil smiled and looked back at the bulletin board. “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Just looking.”

  “Need a job?”

  Martin shot her a look. How come she always knew so much about him? This girl was downright spooky sometimes. “I need thirty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents,” he said, pretending to read a notice on the bulletin board. Why had he said that? What was he going to say when she asked, “What for?”