Beethoven in Paradise by Barbara O'Connor Page 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.

    â€œIt’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.
    â€œI really am in Paradise!” She raced around the room excitedly, slamming down windows.
    â€œWhat 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?
    â€œI got a secret to keep,” she told him excitedly. Martin just stared at her.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you, anyway?” T.J. asked one day.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Martin said.
    â€œI mean, how come you’re always about to bust a gut to get over to Wylene’s?”
    â€œI ain’t always about to bust a gut to get over to