Beethoven in Paradise by Barbara O'Connor Page B

Wylene’s”
    â€œYeah, you are.”
    â€œYou’re crazy,” Martin said.
    â€œYa’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.
    â€œShut up, TJ.,” Martin said. His voice sounded irritated, but on the inside he was scared.
    â€œAw, hell, Martin, it don’t matter to me. Just seems kind of weird is all. She’s about as old as my mamma.”
    â€œLook, 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?”
    â€œOkay 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.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œMildred Dennis says you been spending an awful lot of time over there. I thought you were cutting lawns over in Pickens.”
    â€œI 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