Beethoven in Paradise

by Barbara O'Connor

  Alma Scoggins had a way about her that attracted people. Her loud, happy voice always sounded like something special was going on, some event that made people gather around. She’d send Mr. Scoggins into the rickety shed behind their trailer for more chairs. Terry Lynn and Luke would race each other to fetch more Dixie cups or chips. So before long, with Mrs. Scoggins there, a regular crowd sat around drinking sodas and watching Martin open presents. A denim jacket from his mother and father. Sneakers from Hazeline. A Randy Travis tape from T.J.

  Mrs. Scoggins bustled around making sure everyone had enough to eat and drink. “Now you got to tell us, Martin,” she said. “How does it feel to be thirteen? You don’t look no different.”

  “Feels about the same, I reckon,” Martin said.

  “How come Wylene don’t never come out?” Mrs. Scoggins asked nobody in particular. A couple people shrugged their shoulders, but nobody answered. “That woman’s going to wither up and die locked up in that trailer like that,” Mrs. Scoggins went on.

  Mr. Pittman laughed. “Well now, that’d be a sad day in Paradise, wouldn’t it?” he said.

  Mrs. Scoggins flapped her hand in his direction and turned to Martin. “Go on down there and get her, Martin. She might like some of this ice cream.”

  Martin felt people looking at him. He watched Luke Scoggins swirling a sparkler around in a figure eight until it fizzled out.

  “Naw,” he finally said. “I don’t think she’d want to come. Too many mosquitoes out here.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Mrs. Scoggins said.

  Martin’s mother laughed. “Alma, you might as well give up trying to get Wylene Lundsford out of that trailer,” she said.

  “Well, I think it’s just pitiful the way she acts. She must be plum damn miserable in there.”

  There was a rumble of thunder, and heat lightning lit up the sky. One by one everybody drifted back to their trailers.

  “I better be gettin’, too,” said Hazeline. “See ya’ll Sunday.”

  She gave Martin a peck on the cheek and drove off in a cloud of dust.

  As soon as his father went inside, Martin said, “I’m going to Wylene’s.” He tried to act casual as he folded up chairs.

  “Kind of late, isn’t it?” his mother asked, stuffing paper plates into a garbage bag.

  “I won’t stay long. She asked me to stop by for a minute.” Martin looked around the yard strewn with paper cups and wrapping paper. “Thanks for all this, Mamma,” he added.

  Wylene’s trailer was quiet. If her porch light hadn’t been on, Martin would’ve thought she’d already gone to bed. He was halfway up the walk when she greeted him from the door.

  “Happy birthday,” she called. She had on her muumuu. Her hair was curled and stiff with hair spray.

  “Thanks. Kinda quiet in here,” Martin said. “How come no music?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I was just enjoying the night sounds. I love to hear crickets, don’t you?”

  Martin went inside. “The Lord’s choir, Hazeline calls ’em,” he said.

  Wylene came out of the kitchen carrying a cake and sang “Happy Birthday” to him. She cut them each a thick slice. Red velvet. His favorite.

  “Pretty good if I do say so myself,” she said.

  “Mmmm,” Martin mumbled, his mouth full.

  “I’ll be right back.” Wylene disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a box wrapped in the Sunday comics and tied with yarn.

  “Thanks.” Martin held the gift to his ear and shook it. Wylene watched, grinning.

  “Go ahead. Open it.”

  Martin tore off the paper. He looked down at the portable tape player in his hand. “This is real nice, Wylene.”

  “Listen to it.” Wylene took the earphones out of his hand and put them in his ears. She pressed the PLAY button.

  Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony blasted into Martin’s ears. He jumped, then grinned up at her. “Thanks,” he yelled over the music. Taking the earphones out of his ears, he repeated, “Thanks,” more quietly.

  Wylene giggled. “Now you can listen to music anytime. Can’t nobody hear but you. Now I got another surprise.” She hurried out of the room again.

  “Close your eyes,” she called out in a singsongy voice.

  “Okay, they’re closed.”

  “Don’t peek”

  Her muumuu rustled as she walked back into the room. She put something on the coffee table in front of him.

  “Okay, you can look now.”

  Martin opened his eyes. It took a minute for his eyes and his brain to connect. To realize exactly what he was looking at. His violin. He knew right away it was the one from the pawnshop. Same smooth, polished wood. Same curved sides. Same curling neck. If he had been alone, he would have grabbed it. Hugged it. Maybe even kissed it.

  “Well,” Wylene said. “How d’you like it?”

  Martin looked at her, then back at the violin, back at Wylene.

  She laughed. “That blond woman was Donna Reese. From out at the plant? You know.” She waved a freckled hand. “I met her on second shift? Well, you know how much I hate going in places I never been before, and Donna goes into Pickens all the time and knew right where that pawnshop was, so I asked her to get it for me. It never even dawned on me you’d go in there and find out who bought it. I like to died when you told me about a blond woman.”

  “I can’t take this, Wylene.”

  “Of course you can’t. ’Cause it ain’t yours,” she said. “It’s mine.”

  Martin stared up at her, trying to understand what she was saying.

  “But you can play it any time you want to,” she said, winking.

  Martin looked at the violin. It looked strange and out of place sitting there on Wylene’s coffee table.

  “Don’t you want to try it?” Wylene said.

  “I don’t know,” he said softly.

  “You don’t know?” Wylene’s voice was shrill. “For crying out loud, Martin, try it!”

  “I don’t know how to play a violin, Wylene.”

  She looked hurt. She sat down in the La-Z-Boy. The two of them just sat there looking at the violin, listening to the crickets.

  Then Martin stood up. He reached out and slowly picked up the violin. It felt solid, warm. He put it under his chin and wished he was alone. He closed his eyes for a minute. He picked up the bow, unsure about how to hold it, trying several ways until it felt comfortable. As he put the bow on the strings, Wylene leaned forward. Martin’s stomach twisted up into a knot. His elbow jutted out awkwardly. He closed his eyes again, held his breath, and moved the bow across the strings.

  A shrill, squawking noise filled the trailer. Martin looked at Wylene. They both burst into laughter. Wylene rocked back and forth, wiping her eyes and laughing like Martin had never seen her laugh before. He held the violin and bow at his side and laughed with her, a good, tension-breaking laugh. After a minute, the laughter died and they were quiet. Martin lifted the violin to his chin again. Once more he pushed the bow across the strings.

  Another shrill, squawking noise. But this time they didn’t laugh. He moved the bow again, bending his elbow and pushing the bow in toward him, then straightening his arm out as he pulled it over the strings. Then again, and again. Each time the sound was raspy and squeaky. Martin tried holding the bow a little lighter against the strings and noticed the sound was not as loud. He angled the bow away from him and then toward him, noting how the sound was different each time. And in the middle of his experimenting, suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a clear, rich tone, just one note, sounding out sure and perfect. Martin looked at Wylene and raised his eyebrows. She smiled and nodded her head at him to go on. He moved the bow up again. An okay note, not as good as the one before, but better than the first ones. Then he pulled the bow down. Again a rich, sweet tone. The sound filled the trailer like the smell of baking bread, wrapping itself around Martin. Wylene disappeared. The crickets disappeared.

  Martin kept moving the b
ow back and forth, back and forth, over the strings. The violin seemed to become warmer, to melt right into his shoulder. The bow became part of his hand. Note after note was clear-sounding, with only a few screechy ones now and then. It wasn’t a song, a piece of music you could put a name to, but it was music all the same.

  Martin had no idea how long he played. When he finally stopped, he stood there, still holding the violin under his chin, the bow resting lightly on the strings. Wylene’s soft whisper broke the silence.

  “It’s a miracle,” she said, so softly he barely heard her. “Martin Pittman, you are a musical miracle,” she said a little louder. “I do declare I think Mr. Ludwig van Beethoven has come back to life right here in Paradise.”

  She began to laugh: a low, soft chuckle that grew until it was a downright whoop.

  “I really am in Paradise!” She raced around the room excitedly, slamming down windows.

  “What are you doing?” Martin said, watching her disappear into the bedroom. Windows slammed. She reappeared. Was she crazy, closing up the trailer like that in this heat?

  “I got a secret to keep,” she told him excitedly. Martin just stared at her.

  “I got my own private Beethoven,” she said, “and ain’t no nosy damn neighbor gonna mess this up.” She beamed at Martin. “Now, Mr. Beethoven,” she said, “play.”

  Seventeen

  MARTIN HAD KNOWN some happy times in his life, but none of them compared to the days that followed. If he could have changed anything about those days, he would have made them longer. The only bad part was waiting for Wylene to get home from work. To make time go faster, Martin stayed busy. He mowed lawns, did chores for Mrs. Scoggins, washed Hazeline’s car. He even played catch with T.J. once or twice. But as soon as Wylene’s car turned in to Paradise, Martin’s heart raced, his stomach knotted, and he could barely keep his feet from running over to the tidy little trailer with the real front steps.

  “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” T.J. asked one day.

  “What do you mean?” Martin said.

  “I mean, how come you’re always about to bust a gut to get over to Wylene’s?”

  “I ain’t always about to bust a gut to get over to Wylene’s”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “You’re crazy,” Martin said.

  “Ya’ll sure must like that Beethoven stuff.”

  Martin’s heart dropped into his stomach. Had T.J. heard the violin? “Ain’t no law against that, is there?” he said.

  T.J. grinned and winked at Martin. “Seems to me like you two got something going on,” he said.

  “Shut up, TJ.,” Martin said. His voice sounded irritated, but on the inside he was scared.

  “Aw, hell, Martin, it don’t matter to me. Just seems kind of weird is all. She’s about as old as my mamma.”

  “Look, TJ.,” Martin said. “Me and Wylene are just friends. I give up a long time ago trying to make people understand that. If you or Riley or anybody else’s got a problem with that, then tough. Ain’t nothing I can do about that, okay?”

  “Okay with me.” T.J. shrugged. And that was the end of it—at least for that day.

  Every minute Martin spent at Wylene’s was something to be savored. At first he practiced just running the bow across the four strings. Then he experimented with placing his fingers on the neck of the violin. If he pressed the tip of his finger on one of the strings, no matter which string it was, the note would be higher than that string just played alone. He tried positioning two fingers on the strings, then three. Just like he’d figured out patterns when he was learning to play the harmonica, he was beginning to see patterns in making different notes on the violin.

  Next he tried combinations of notes, playing some faster than others, holding some notes out for a long time, others barely at all. Minutes, hours, days went by, and those clusters of slow and fast notes started to sound like tunes. He tried copying tunes he’d heard before, moving his fingers around until he figured out just where they needed to go and how long each note needed to be held. Then he tried making up tunes of his own. It was getting so that most of the time he hardly even noticed the bow moving back and forth, and only had to think of what he wanted a note to sound like for his fingers to make it happen. He only concentrated on the music, all the feelings he never talked about swirling around in notes, coming out of the violin like magic.

  Sometimes Wylene would putter around the trailer while Martin played. Other times she just sat in the La-Z-Boy with her eyes closed, a little smile on her face. Every now and then she hummed along. Anyone who walked into that trailer on one of those hot summer days would have had a hard time figuring which one was happier, Martin or Wylene.

  But as sure as rain in April, a secret didn’t stay a secret for long in Paradise Trailer Park. When people are all jammed up together like bees in a hive, it’s only natural they get to know one another pretty well. Who lost a job. Who drank too much. Who was getting a divorce, having a baby, going to nursing school. And whatever little nugget of knowledge was found was shared—quickly and eagerly.

  Martin had lived in trailer parks all his life, so it came as no surprise when his mother said to him, “Martin, what’s going on at Wylene’s?” Still, he managed to put a look of surprise on his face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mildred Dennis says you been spending an awful lot of time over there. I thought you were cutting lawns over in Pickens.”

  “I am.” Martin was glad that was the truth. “I been going to Wylene’s after that, is all. She got some new tapes.”

  His mother’s face was drawn and tight. She cocked her head and eyed Martin. “How come ya’ll close the place up like that in this heat?” she asked.

  Martin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I reckon she just likes it like that,” he said. He might as well have said, “I’m telling you a big, fat, whopping lie.”

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, Martin, but your daddy’s starting to notice something funny going on. He’s already said a couple of things to me, and if you were around here long enough, he’d be saying ’em to you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what in tarnation are you doing over at Wylene’s every dern minute of the day.”

  “Maybe it’s better than being here.” Martin jammed the toe of his sneaker into the floor.

  “Martin, all I’m saying is this. You’re entitled to some privacy in your life. I know it’s hard cooped up in this trailer park all the time. But if you’re doing something your daddy’d disapprove of, I hope you’ll think twice about it. Spare us both a little heartache maybe. You hear what I’m saying?”

  Okay, he’d been warned. But that wasn’t going to change anything. Wasn’t going to stop him from going to Wylene’s. Couldn’t make him stop playing the violin. It would take a heck of a lot more than a warning to do that.

  That afternoon Martin rode his bike for a while just to kill some time until Wylene got home. He loved his new tape player. He still liked to sing or listen to music in his head, but it was fun to listen to real music once in a while, too. Over and over again he listened to Beethoven’s Sonata No. 9 in A Major. He had no idea what “A Major” was, but he thought he could figure it out if he listened enough.

  When he got back to Paradise, he was sorry to see Riley sitting in front of the Owenses’ trailer. He was looking at a motorcycle magazine, his feet propped up on a rusty barbecue grill. The patch of dirt that passed for a yard was littered with cinder blocks and old tires. A bicycle with only one wheel. Plastic flowerpots with nothing but dirt in them.

  “Hey, what’s happ’nin’,” Riley called.

  “Not much.” Martin kept pedaling.

  “I tell you what, Armpit,” Riley said loudly, “you sure got everybody in this hellhole talkin’ about you.”

  Martin stopped. Okay, he’d take the bait.

  “How come?” he said.

  Riley grinned and winked. “Like you don’t know,�
� he said.

  “Why don’t you just tell me and save us both some time, Riley. I got things to do.”

  “Aw, now, Armpit. Don’t be shy. You can tell your ole pal Riley.”

  Martin started walking his bike toward home.

  “The love nest, Armpit. I’m talking about the love nest,” Riley called after him.

  Martin’s face burned. He walked slowly back to where Riley sat. He had never liked Riley, but now he was beginning to hate him. Full-blown, all-out, no-doubt-about-it hate. He glared down at Riley. “I don’t really give a damn what you or anybody else thinks about what I do.”

  “Hey, I ain’t knockin’ it. I think it’s kind of cute,” Riley said.

  Martin headed toward home again. He almost wished Riley would call out to him again because he’d already decided not to give him the satisfaction of a reply. But this time Riley kept quiet except for a laugh, and Martin kept going.

  He had a lot of mixed up feelings tumbling around inside him. Ever since that first night at Wylene’s, playing the violin, Martin felt like he was doing just what he was supposed to be doing. But mixed in with that good feeling was this other feeling that wasn’t so good, a feeling that nagged at him and made him ask himself, “If I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, then how come I’m keeping it a secret?”

  Eighteen

  THE DAY SYBIL showed up at Paradise Trailer Park was about the hottest day anyone in Six Mile, South Carolina, could remember. The trailer park was quiet and deserted except for a couple of dogs sleeping in the shade and the Scoggins kids playing with the hose.

  Martin sat on the front steps listening to his tape player, slapping his knees with both hands. He didn’t notice Sybil until she tapped him lightly on the shoulder. She looked so out of place standing there in front of his trailer that for a minute he forgot where he was.

  She pulled one earphone away from his ear, leaned down, and said, “Hey,” right in his ear.

  He took the earphones off and stood up.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “I brought you these.” She held out a paper bag. She wore her bangly bracelets and a T-shirt that said: “My Mom Went to Disney World and All I Got Was This Dumb T-shirt.” She thrust the bag at him.