IF MARTIN HAD to name the time of year he liked best, right down to the hour, it would have to be noon in July. Anyone who hasn't spent any time on an asphalt road in South Carolina at noon in July could never appreciate just how unusual a liking that was. But to Martin, noon in July was the time he had the whole world to himself. Leastways, he felt like he did. At noon in July in South Carolina, people scurry into air-conditioned houses, fan themselves on covered porches, nap in folding lounge chairs in the shade, and drink ice-cold beer in dark, smoky bars.
This particular July was especially hot and muggy, which meant the air-conditioned movie theater across the
street from J. H. Lawrence and Son Pawnshop was especially crowded. That made it harder for Martin to find a comfortable place to stand. He'd been coming here every few days. He had tried to stay away, but it was impossible. When his feet started walking, they just took over and carried him right to Pickens, right to the movie theater across from the pawnshop. But once his feet got him that far, they wouldn't budge another inch. No matter how hard he tried, Martin couldn't make himself cross the street.
His no-worry week had come and gone. He had lost the ten dollars. His leather pouch was practically empty now, but it had been worth it to have one whole week knowing for sure the violin would still be there. He had considered talking to Mr. Lawrence again, but what would he say? He didn't have another ten dollars. He couldn't expect the man to hold the violin for nothing. Martin had convinced himself no one was going to buy itâever. It was just going to lie there, nestled among the radios and watches, and wait for the day he walked in and claimed it. But in the meantime, every few days Martin found himself standing on the sidewalk at noon in Julyâwatching.
“Why you going to Pickens so much?” his mother asked one day. She was sitting at a card table working a jigsaw puzzle: the Smoky Mountains cut up into about a million pieces. Her hand hovered over the pieces while her eyes searched.
“Just feel like it,” Martin said.
He watched her and wondered if she was even thinking about the violin.
“Why don't you see if T.J. wants to go to a movie?” she said. “I'll drive ya'll in.”
“Naw.”
“Alma Scoggins wants you to cut some tree branches that's scraping the top of her trailer. Why don't you go on and do that now?”
“I'll do it later.”
His mother looked up from her jigsaw puzzle and sighed. “Hazeline called. She wanted to know what we were going to do for your birthday. I thought maybe we could go out for pizza and miniature golf. How's that sound?”
“That'd be okay.” Martin got a soda out of the refrigerator and watched his mother searching through the puzzle pieces.
“I still can't believe you're going to be thirteen,” she said.
As far back as Martin could remember, his mother had said that. “I can't believe you're going to be eight ⦠I can't believe you're going to be ten.”
“I think I'll ride my bike into Pickens, okay?” Martin said.
“Oh, Martin, it's so hot.”
“I don't care. It don't bother me.”
“One of these days you're going to have a heatstroke out there.”
Martin finished his soda and set off for Pickens. It was quiet in Paradise. Terry Lynn and Luke Scoggins splashed
in a wading pool. A TV was on somewhere. But mostly it had that noon-in-July feel to it.
It was a sunny day, but the smell of rain was in the air. Sure enough, just as Martin got to Pickens, there was a sudden downpour. One of those quick thundershowers that was over almost as soon as it started. Puddles glittered in the sun, and rain-soaked Queen Anne's lace bowed over the roadside. Everything looked clean and fresh and steamy.
Martin walked his bike down the sidewalk. Under the store awnings, the pavement was cool and wet. By instinct, Martin looked up as he neared the movie theater, then stopped suddenly. His throat squeezed up tight. His whole body went stiff. He felt it even before he saw it. The violin was gone. The watches were there, the diamond rings, the dented television. But right in the middle was an empty space so big it nearly killed him.
For the longest time, Martin stood there, looking at that empty space. Finally he crossed the street. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. When he got closer, he'd see that the violin was there, had been there all along. But when he got to the window and pressed his face against the glass, that empty space was bigger than ever.
Martin dropped his bike and pushed the door open so fast it hit the wall with a crash. Mr. Lawrence looked up from his newspaper.
“Where's the violin?” Martin demanded, willing his voice to be calm. Mr. Lawrence was going to say he'd just moved
it. That it was over there, in a box, on a shelf, under a table. Anywhere but gone.
“Gone,” Mr. Lawrence said so matter-of-factly Martin hated him for it.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Gone. As in ânot here.'”Mr. Lawrence looked back at his newspaper. Martin wanted to snatch it out of his hands. To shake him. Make him say he was lying.
“Gone where?” Martin said.
“Sold.”
“To who?”
“I don't know.” Mr. Lawrence kept his eyes on the paper.
“Well, what'd they look like?” Martin could hear the panic in his voice. He took a deep breath. “I mean, was it a man or a woman?”
Mr. Lawrence looked up, an annoyed look on his face. When he spoke, his voice matched his face. “I don't think that's any of your business, son.”
Martin felt like he'd been slapped.
“But if it's that all-fired important to you,” Mr. Lawrence continued, “it was a woman.”
Martin couldn't stop now. “What'd she look like?”
Mr. Lawrence chuckled and shook his head. “You don't give up, do you? Well, let's see. She was short. Bottle blonde. Skinny legs. Not your usual violin type, if you know what I mean.”
Martin had no idea what your usual violin type was.
“Did you get her name?”
“No reason to.”
“Did she write a check or anything?”
“Cash only.” He pointed to a sign behind the counter.
Martin's mind raced. Who could she be? He'd seen short blond women with skinny legs, but he was pretty sure he didn't know any by name. And so what if he did know her? What good would that do? It didn't matter who the woman was. The violin was gone.
Martin felt so heavy he could barely stand up straight.
“I guess I'll be seeing you, then,” he said, moving slowly toward the door. When he reached it, he was suddenly overcome with sadness. Not just for the lost violin but for leaving the shop for what he guessed would be the last time. Saying a final goodbye to Mr. Lawrence. He hadn't even liked the man, yet here he was feeling bad about saying goodbye.
Outside again, Martin squinted in the bright sunlight. He pedaled toward home and thought about missing something he had never owned, hadn't even come close to owning. He'd only held the violin once. But it had set the ball rolling for a heap of thoughts to come tumbling into his head that had never been there before. Or then again, maybe they had been there all along and he just hadn't noticed.
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He rode by Sybil's house three times before she came out.
“I got something for you,” she called through the screen door.
He pedaled up to her front porch.
“What?”
She disappeared inside. Martin waited. Was he supposed to follow her in? He peered through the screen. It was dark in the hall, and he could smell vinegar.
“Sybil?” He lifted one foot and pulled his sock up, then ran his hand over his hair.
Her head appeared around a doorway. “You coming in or what?”
Martin stepped into the hall. It was hot and damp inside and the vinegar fumes made his nose wrinkle up. “Hooeee,” he said, waving a hand in front of his face.
He went to the kitchen where Sybil was. Glass jars covered the table and lined the countertops. Steam rose up out of a huge pot on the stove. Sybil's hair was damp and limp around her face.
She handed Martin a jar. “Pickled okra.”
“You make these?” he said.
“Yeah.” And then cool, calm Sybil blushed. Martin looked away quickly, pretending to examine the rows of jars around the room. “Thanks,” he said. “Well, I guess I better go.”
But instead of walking out the door, he just stood there in that hot, vinegary kitchen.
Sybil brushed her hair out of her face. “Maybe we could go fishing sometime,” she said.
“Yeah, sure. We could do that.”
“Course, we'd have to find us a better fishing spot than that lousy ole lake.”
For a second, Martin felt ashamed. But when he looked up and saw Sybil's smile, that bad feeling passed. He smiled back.
“Well, I guess I better go,” he said again. This time he forced his feet to take him outside, where he tucked the still-warm jar inside his shirt and pedaled off.
At the highway, he turned left, away from Paradise Trailer Park. He wasn't ready to go home just yet. He pedaled slowly, steadily. The rhythmic whirring of the wheels was almost hypnotic. He tried to hum a tune instead of thinking about the violin. He picked up speed as he coasted downhill and onto Walhalla Highway. When he saw the Exxon station just ahead, he spotted Frank right away, rolling a tire out to a pickup truck. Same thin, brown arms. Same ponytail. Same crinkly-eyed smile.
Martin kept his head down and focused on the road as it whizzed under the front wheel of his bike. He wished he could pull in and say “Hi.” Wished he could wave. Shout out a friendly “Hey, Frank!”
Within seconds the gas station was behind him and he was still pedaling and thinking and wishing. Then he stopped so suddenly the wheels of his bike skidded in the dirt along the roadside. He turned around and rode back toward the gas station.
“Hey, Frank,” he called, waving a hand over his head.
Frank looked up. He squinted in Martin's direction, then grinned and waved.
When the gas station was far behind him, Martin pumped his fist in the air and said, “Yes!” Then he put his hand on the warm jar of okra and headed for home.
NEITHER MARTIN NOR Wylene had mentioned the violin in days. Finally, one day out of the clear blue, Wylene said, “You seen that violin lately?”
She was cleaning around her kitchen sink with a toothbrush, scrubbing away invisible particles of mildew from around the faucet. She was wearing a Hawaiian-print muumuu and yellow rubber gloves that came up to her elbows. Martin sat on the floor in the living room eating a Popsicle. They were listening to Vivaldi. Violin concertos.
“Nope,” Martin said. “It ain't there.”
Wylene stopped scrubbing and came into the living room. “Ain't there?”
“Nope.”
“What happened to it?”
“Some blond woman bought it.” The Popsicle was melting as quick as he could eat it. Purple juice ran down his arms and dripped off his elbows. He went to get some paper towels and finish eating over the sink. Wylene followed him.
“What're you gonna do now?” she asked.
“Nothing much I can do.”
“Well, that's a crying shame, Martin. I just feel terrible.”
Martin nodded, but he knew there was no way she could feel half as terrible as he did. Wasn't he the one who had spent all those weeks seeing himself playing that violin? Hadn't he heard the music, felt the smooth wood in his hands, moved the bow across the strings? He'd pictured himself playing in the little living room of his trailer. Mamma, Daddy, Hazeline all sitting on the couch smiling, asking him to play more. Then in one big swoop all that had disappeared and he was right back into real life again.
The summer seemed endless now, one long day following another. Southern summers are long. Not like winters; they just come in the front door and go right out the back door without so much as a âHow do you do?' in between. But summers come in and stay awhile.
On Martin's birthday, Hazeline came over and they all went out for pizza and miniature golf. Afterward they sat on lawn chairs in front of the trailer, eating homemade peach ice cream and swatting mosquitoes. Martin's mother
invited the Scogginses over. Terry Lynn and Luke brought sparklers.
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.
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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 bow 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.”