Beethoven in Paradise (9 page)

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Authors: Barbara O'Connor

BOOK: Beethoven in Paradise
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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?”
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.
He looked inside. Tomatoes. “Thanks,” he said.
“Well, see ya.” She turned to go. Her bicycle lay on its side at the edge of the road.
“Wait!” Martin called, but when she stopped and faced him, he didn't know what to say next. She waited. Sybil-so-patient. Sybil-so-cool.
“I want to show you something,” Martin said.
“What?”
“Uh, it's not here. I mean, it's somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I'll show you.”
He led her up the gravel road toward Wylene's. Please be home, he prayed.
When he heard the twang of the radio drifting from Wylene's trailer, he looked at Sybil and smiled.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You'll see.” Martin knocked on Wylene's screen door so hard it banged and rattled against the trailer.
“Hold your horses,” Wylene called from the kitchen.
Her flip-flops slapped against the bottom of her feet as she walked to the door.
“Well, hey there,” she said. Her eyes darted nervously to Sybil, then back at Martin.
“This is Sybil,” Martin said.
Wylene held the door open for them. “This place is a pigsty. It's just too dern hot to do anything. I almost wish I had to work tonight so I could be in the air-conditioning. You all want something cold to drink? I got soda and lemonade.”
Martin recognized her fast, run-together nervous talk.
She turned the radio off and flip-flopped into the kitchen. She kept shooting quick little glances at Sybil.
“Sybil just moved to Six Mile,” Martin said. “She has a garden.”
Wylene's face relaxed a little. “Oh, I just love gardening. I wish I had a good spot for one, but it's too shady here.” She plunked ice into three glasses and poured soda into them. One of them overflowed onto the counter.
Martin wondered why Sybil was being so quiet. Then he remembered the way she had been that first day at school: looking everyone over; sizing them up.
Finally she said, “I bet you could grow lettuce.”
“You think so?” Wylene handed them a drink and flipflopped back into the living room. She had on shorts. Her legs were white and plump and freckled.
“I thought I'd show Sybil your violin,” Martin said.
“Oh.” Wylene looked at Martin wide-eyed. She brushed invisible crumbs from the coffee table, fluffed the pillows on the couch. “Well, sure, okay.”
She brought the violin out from the bedroom and held it up for Sybil to see.
“That's nice,” Sybil said. “Is it hard to play?”
“Oh, I don't play it.” Wylene chuckled. “Martin plays it.”
Sybil looked at Martin, and for a minute he wished he hadn't done this. But it was too late now, so he said, “Well, not very good.”
“Not very good?” Wylene shrieked. She turned to Sybil and said, “Martin has a gift. Like Beethoven.”
Sybil turned her slow gaze to Martin. “Play something,” she said.
“What?”
“I don't know. Anything.”
Martin realized he was still holding the bag of tomatoes, now damp and wrinkled in his hand. Sybil took the bag from him and sat on the edge of the couch.
Martin took the violin from Wylene and placed it gently under his chin. Wylene shut the front door and sat in the La-Z-Boy. Martin knew that if he didn't start playing right away he'd never be able to, so he moved the bow slowly across the strings, just making notes at first. Then he closed his eyes and let the notes run together, one after the other, until he drifted away into the music.
 
Later, when Martin and Sybil sat by their bikes at the edge of the lake and he told her about how he had wanted the violin but his father wouldn't let him have it and how Wylene had bought it and all that, she just watched him with those cool, cool eyes.
Then she stood up and skimmed a stone across the top of the lake. It bounced three times, leaving a trail of ripples on the surface of the muddy water.
“Well, I guess a person's got to handle things their own way,” she said, taking another stone out of the pocket of her cutoffs.
What was that supposed to mean? Martin watched her bracelets dance up and down her arm as she threw another stone. She sat back down and gave Martin a look that made him feel like a little kid being scolded. He flushed. What did she know about anything? When was the last time her smiling daddy had yelled or thrown anything or made her feel like a piece of dirt for breathing the wrong way?
“I never should have taken you to Wylene's.” His voice was shaky. He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at her. She looked back at him with that confident look of hers.
“I'm not sure who it is you're mad at, Martin,” she said.
Now, that took him by surprise. He looked out at the water and then down at his feet. The toes of his sneakers were wet and muddy. His ankles were dotted with bumpy, red mosquito bites.
Sybil stood up and brushed off the seat of her jeans. “I better head on back. My dad and I are going out for Chinese food tonight.”
Martin was glad she had changed the subject. He was confused and uncomfortable, and right now those were two feelings he wasn't in the mood for.
They rode silently down the dirt road. When they got to the highway, they turned in opposite directions.
“Thanks for the tomatoes,” he called after her. She waved a hand over her head. Her bracelets glistened in the sun.
Martin watched her until she disappeared from view. He wished he was going with her. Wished he was going home with her to stand out in the garden and look at okra and play the violin and not be mad at whoever it was he was mad at.

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