MARTIN HAD A NUMBER of things to worry about, but the biggest worryâthe one with the capital “W”âwas the possibility that the violin might be sold to someone else. Some people were good at worrying. They stewed and fretted right in the middle of living a normal life. Take Wylene, for instance. She'd say, “I'm really worried that cat's gonna have her kittens under my trailer.” And then she'd go on off to work just like normal. But Martin couldn't seem to fit worrying in with the rest of his life. When he worried, everything else had to wait.
School was out. Baseball was over. Summer had charged right in like a mad bull. But Martin was too worried to
think about all those good things crammed into life at once. Finally he decided to put a temporary hold on worryingâand he'd figured out just how to do it.
Just the deciding it had freed up his mind enough to let a song in as he headed toward Pickens. “B-I-N-G-0,” he sang, bobbing his head and swinging his arms to the beat. When the tune was over, he listened to the rhythm of summer sounds. Lawn mowers and sprinklers. Jump ropes and ice cream trucks. He waved to a lady selling peaches from the back of her pickup. Maybe on the way back he'd buy some so his mother could make a peach cobbler.
He didn't slow down when he got to Main Street. He walked past the Army Navy Store, Jimmy's Barbershop, and the Blue Ridge Thrift Shop, across the street, and right into J. H. Lawrence and Son Pawnshop. He glanced in the window on his way in, scared that if he looked a second too long, the violin wouldn't be there.
Mr. Lawrence was behind the counter eating pork and beans out of a can. Martin got right to the point.
“If I give you a deposit, could you hold that violin for a while?”
Mr. Lawrence looked at him, chewing slowly. “That's not my customary method of conducting business,” he said.
“I can appreciate that, Mr. Lawrence.” Martin's worry was starting to bubble up inside him again. “I can give you ten dollars.” As soon as he said it, Martin realized that ten dollars didn't sound like much. It had felt like a lot more in his pocket.
Mr. Lawrence smiled. “I'm running a business here, son. This ain't no Salvation Army.”
“Just hold it for two weeks. Don't let nobody else buy it and ⦠and ⦔ Martin paused, searching for something, anything, that would persuade Mr. Lawrence. “And you can keep the ten. I'll pay the whole fifty when I pick it up.”
Mr. Lawrence wiped his mouth and made little sucking noises while he cleaned his teeth with his tongue. Finally he said, “One week. I'll hold it one week. No longer.”
Martin slapped two fives into Mr. Lawrence's upturned palm. “You got yourself a deal.”
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Martin was halfway home before he realized his mistake. What he'd gone and done was swap one worry for another. Now he only had one week to convince his father to let him buy the violinâand then come up with fifty dollars. He might as well have been worrying about how to flap his arms and fly to the moon.
When he turned in to Paradise, he heard the thwack of a baseball hitting a glove. T.J. and Riley were throwing the ball to each other in the road.
“Hey, Martin,” T.J. called without looking at him. Martin was impressed that T.J. could talk and still keep the smooth, even rhythm of throwing and catching.
“Hey,” Martin said, sitting on the ground by the road to watch. He took his sneakers off and wiggled his feet around in the cool grass.
“Where you been, Armpit?” Riley asked. Throw. Thwack. Throw. Thwack.
“Pickens.”
“What for?”
“Just felt like it.”
Riley grinned. “You ain't two-timin' Wylene, now, are you, Pitts?” Thwack went the ball.
“Shut up, Riley.” All Martin's worrying was beginning to make him irritable. “What ya'll doing this summer?” he asked, to change the subject.
“Vacation Bible school.” Riley laughed so hard he missed TJ.'s pitch. “I'm going to get my smokes,” he said and took off for the trailer.
After retrieving the ball, T.J. came over and sat down beside Martin. “I wish I could get me a job,” he said. “Winn Dixie's hiring bag boys, but Mamma says she needs me around to watch Becky. Having a little sister sure is a pain. How about you?” he asked, tossing the baseball from hand to hand.
Martin shrugged. “I don't know. Get some lawn-mowing jobs, I reckon. Maybe I'll check out the Winn Dixie. I need to make some money this summer.”
“You gonna buy that ole fiddle?” T.J. blew a bubble with his gum until it popped, covering his nose with pink film.
“Naw,” Martin answered. He watched the baseball plop back and forth in T.J.'s hands. He didn't dare look up. He could feel his eye twitching, knew his face was red.
Why was he lying to T.J.? Why couldn't he just say, I sure would like to buy it, if I could?
For a minute Martin felt like he was going to cry. Felt like his feelings were just going to bust right out of him. He kept
watching the ball, back and forth, back and forth, till he got control of himself and pushed his feelings back down again.
Riley sauntered over, smoking a cigarette. “What you doin' this summer?” he asked Martin. “Besides hanging around with Lard-Ass Lundsford, that is.” He snatched the ball from T.J. and tossed it straight up, catching it in his baseball hat. “What you two do in there all day anyways, Pitts? Practice the tango or something?”
“We listen to music. There a law against that?”
“Hey, don't get all riled up now. I was just curious, is all. I mean, I hear ya'll in there every damn day.”
“What kind of music ya'll listen to?” T.J. asked.
Martin picked at the grass, wiggled dirt out from between his toes. “All kinds,” he said.
“Mostly love songs, right, Armpit?” Riley said.
“Actually, my favorite is Beethoven. Ya'll like Beethoven?” Martin grinned at Riley
Riley poked T.J. in the ribs. “Beethoven? Ain't that a coincidence? That's T.J.'s favorite, too, ain't it, T.J.?” He hooted and lay down, covering his face with his baseball hat.
Martin stood up. “See ya'll later.” He headed for his trailer. He'd had more than his daily dose of Riley Owens. Besides, he'd let himself have ten whole minutes of normal life. Now the worry was starting to creep back in.
THIS IS GONNA be the day. This is gonna be the day. This is gonna be the day, Martin said to himself when he opened his eyes Sunday morning. He said it while he brushed his teeth. He said it as he sopped his waffle in a puddle of syrup. Today was definitely going to be his lucky day. The day he'd ask his father about the violin. The day things started going his way.
He'd lain in bed the night before and thought about the best way to do it. Should he wait till he and his father were alone? Should he talk to his mother first? Maybe it would be better to wait for Hazeline and have the whole family together. Finally he decided to follow his instincts. Martin had
always had pretty good instincts. He would know when the time was right.
“Why don't you and Hazeline eat here today?” his mother said, turning a piece of chicken, golden and crisp, in the sizzling oil.
“Fine with me,” Martin said, mopping the last drop of syrup off his plate with his finger. He watched his mother take the chicken out of the skillet and pour in milk. She scraped the browned, crusty chicken skin off the bottom of the pan and stirred until the gravy was thick and smooth. Martin's mouth watered. The Prince of Wales buffet was good, but nothing could beat his mother's fried chicken with cream gravy. To go with it, she'd serve all his favoritesâpotato salad, black-eyed peas, sliced tomatoes, green beans cooked all day with a ham hock. There was no way Mr. Howard Johnson could do better than that.
Martin heard the Studebaker pull up and went to the door.
“Guess what I got,” Hazeline called as she collected her bags.
Martin knew better than to try. When he was little, he'd call out everything he could think of. A telephone, roller skates, a puppy. He had never in his whole life been right. Eventually he quit trying. At least, he'd tried to quit. Hazeline loved guessing games.
“Aw, come on,” she would say. “Guess.” Or, “Come on. I'll give you three guesses.”
Martin held the door open for her. From the looks of it,
one of the bags held something heavy. Martin decided to test his luck and give it a shot.
“A bowling ball.”
“Close.” Hazeline grinned. “Guess again.”
“I give up.”
“A watermelon.” Hazeline proudly plunked a round, green melon onto the kitchen counter. “But not just a ordinary ole watermelon.”
Somehow that didn't surprise Martin.
“Anybody here ever seen a yellow watermelon?” She got a knife out of the kitchen drawer and sliced into the melon. “Look at this.”
The melon fell into two pieces. Sure enough, it was golden yellow inside.
“Well, I'll be,” Martin said.
His father came out of the bedroom, scratching his hairy white stomach.
“Look at this, Daddy,” Martin said. “A yellow watermelon. Ain't that something?”
His father eyed the melon suspiciously. “Well,” he said, “I have to admit, that is something.”
“How you reckon they do that?” Martin said.
“Who knows?” Hazeline said, cutting a slice of watermelon and handing it to Martin. “Bunch of weird scientists sittin' around playing God. Too bad they don't invent something more useful, like a money tree. Wouldn't none of us have to work then.”
Martin tensed when he heard the word “work.” He closed
his eyes and waited for his father's angry outburst. He could hardly believe his ears when he heard his father chuckle. “And what would you do with a money tree, Mamma?” his father asked, cutting a piece of melon and eating it right off the knife.
“Depends on if it was a big money tree or a little money tree,” Hazeline said, lighting a cigarette and climbing up on a barstool. “If it was just a little one, I'd get some new tires for that pile of junk called a car out there. If it was a big money tree, I'd push that thing off the nearest cliff and go to Hawaii with some cute young cowboy in skintight jeans.” She laughed her wheezy laugh and winked at Martin.
They all laughed, all of them at the same time. That was a good sign. That was definitely a good sign.
“You know, I saw me a violin in Pickens the other day.” Martin said it to the walls, the floor, the air. “I was thinking maybe that'd be a good instrument to have, being a good size and all. I mean, it don't take up a lot of room like a piano ⦠and I could play all kinds of music on it. You know, country and western, church music, maybe even some classical if I wanted to. I never played a violin before, but I bet I could learn. I wouldn't need no lessons, though. I'm sure of that. I kind of got an ear for music. I bet anything I could learn to play it by myself, like I did the harmonica. And this here's a real good violin. But it only costs fifty bucks. I bet most violins cost twice that. I was thinking maybe you could give it to me for my birthday and then I'd pay you back some of the money. Or all the money. I could pay back all the money.”
When Martin finally stopped, he couldn't remember a thing he had said. He wondered if it had come out the way he'd rehearsed it in his head. He took a bite of watermelon and concentrated on sorting out the seeds in his mouth. He watched a fly land in a puddle of melon juice on the counter. Suddenly his father did the worst thing he could have done. He laughed. Martin swallowed the melon, seeds and all.
“Well now, don't that beat all?” his father asked, looking around at everyone, smiling, shaking his head. “Martin wants a violin. Let me see if I can guess whose idea that was.”
Martin stared at his father. “It was my idea,” he said.
“Your idea.” His father jabbed the watermelon with the knife, letting the words hang in the air. “Yours and who else's, Martin?”
Martin had been prepared for an argument about the violin, but the conversation was taking a turn he hadn't expected.
“Just mine,” he said.
His father narrowed his eyes to a mean squint. Martin looked away. “Martin,” his father said, “I'm gonna to tell you somethin' and I want you to listen good 'cause I'm only gonna tell you once. I will not tolerate this. You spend all your time with some damn weirdo twice your age, and now you come home and start this crap. Well, Martin, what Wylene Lundsford does in her home is her business, but when she starts turning my son into some kinda damn queer boy, then it becomes my business. And I will not tolerate it.”
“Oh, for cryin' out loud, Ed,” Hazeline interrupted. “I
don't know what you're getting at, but I think you're straying from the subject a bit here. The boy just wants a violin. What's so damn bad about that?”
“All right, Mamma. I'll get back to the subject. Martin ain't gettin' no violin.”
Martin looked from one to the other. What could he say now? Could he, by some miracle, come up with a line that would change his father's mind? Or was he just going to let that violin slip right on out of his life without ever having uttered a word? He looked at his mother. Why didn't she say something? Why didn't she help him?
Hazeline's angry voice interrupted his thoughts. “Why you just standin' there like a bump on a log, Martin? You want that violin so bad, why don't you take up for yourself?”
Martin stared at her for a moment before dropping his eyes. He knew the answer to that question. Knew he'd put so much energy into pushing down what he wanted and who he was that he just didn't have enough energy left over to fight back.
But when he opened his mouth, the words that came out were “I don't know.”