Beethoven in Paradise by Barbara O'Connor

door.
    â€œHappy birthday,” she called. She had on her muumuu. Her hair was curled and stiff with hair spray.

    â€œThanks. Kinda quiet in here,” Martin said. “How come no music?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œPretty good if I do say so myself,” she said.
    â€œMmmm,” Martin mumbled, his mouth full.
    â€œI’ll be right back.” Wylene disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a box wrapped in the Sunday comics and tied with yarn.
    â€œThanks.” Martin held the gift to his ear and shook it. Wylene watched, grinning.
    â€œGo ahead. Open it.”
    Martin tore off the paper. He looked down at the portable tape player in his hand. “This is real nice, Wylene.”
    â€œListen 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.

    â€œClose your eyes,” she called out in a singsongy voice.
    â€œOkay, they’re closed.”
    â€œDon’t peek”
    Her muumuu rustled as she walked back into the room. She put something on the coffee table in front of him.
    â€œOkay, 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.
    â€œWell,” 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.”
    â€œI can’t take this, Wylene.”
    â€œOf 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.

    â€œBut 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.
    â€œDon’t you want to try it?” Wylene said.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said softly.
    â€œYou don’t know?” Wylene’s voice was shrill. “For crying out loud, Martin, try it!”
    â€œI 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