37

 

“What time does the recital start?” Aaron and I ran down the courthouse stairs.

“It starts at seven, but he’s supposed to be there by six. C’mon, we’ve got to hurry.” I pulled the sleeve of Aaron’s jacket to get him to rush. We couldn’t mess this up for Daniel. He was playing a solo concerto tonight, and his teacher said she had a surprise announcement for him.

“That’s two whole hours from now. Kirstie, calm down.” Aaron slowed to a walk and pulled my arm. I removed my arm from his hand and kept jogging.

“By the time we get back to the house, listen to Danny practice, and get the boys ready and fed, it’ll be late. We need to get going.”

Aaron stopped. “I’d planned to visit Sister Burgess in the hospital while we’re here in Wabash.” He looked at his watch. He had no sense of time.

“There isn’t time, Aaron. Please.” I turned and saw everyone had followed us out to the parking lot.

“I’ll take you home,” Atticus said. “I caged it today.” When you didn’t ride a motorcycle, you rode a cage—a vehicle on four wheels.

“Are you sure?” I looked at Opal and back at him.

“Doesn’t Opal live in Eel Falls? Yes, I’m sure.” He laughed again.

Opal nodded. “Lily dropped me off on her way to work. Atticus is taking me home. Can we come to the recital? We’d love to hear Danny play.” Opal loved music.

With all the stress of Patrick’s court hearing, I hadn’t even thought of inviting anyone. “Of course,” I said. “You’re always welcome.”

“Where’s this shindig?” Atticus waved Aaron to the van and steered me to his car.

“The Peabody Center. In the first meeting room on the left.” I waved good-bye to Aaron and let Atticus push me into the backseat of his pickup truck.

“We’ll be there.” He buckled my seatbelt as if I were a little child, stood, and cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Hey, everybody, if you wanna go hear Daniel play the fiddle follow me.”

Atticus and Opal dropped Patrick and me off at the house where I fixed a quick supper, got the boys dressed, and managed to push them out the door and into the backseat of Atticus’s truck by 5:45 PM. We were only fifteen minutes from the Peabody Center.

“Atticus, thank you. I tried to call Aaron on his cell, but there’s no answer.” I crawled into the front of the cab beside him. Opal wasn’t in the truck. “Where’s Opal?”

Atticus shrugged. “She had something she had to do real quick. She’s gonna get there as soon as she can.”

Patrick went willingly to Daniel’s recital this time. I couldn’t tell if he was tired or a little bit humbled after today’s events. I listened to the boys talking in the backseat.

“Break a leg, Daniel,” Patrick encouraged his brother.

“Leg, Daniel,” Timmy echoed.

“Thanks. Do you have to go to jail, Patrick?”

I hadn’t even had time to talk to Daniel about what happened today. I didn’t know what Daniel knew about the court hearing. I assumed Patrick had told him something about it.

“Nah,” Patrick said. “They went easy on me. I still have to do some stuff, but they don’t have to worry about me getting in trouble again. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Well, if you did have to go to jail, I would visit you.”

Patrick rested his arm on Daniel’s shoulders. “Thanks, bro.”

“Thanks, bro.” Timmy flicked his fingers in front of his eyes.

After we arrived, I got Timmy and Patrick situated in a seat toward the back of the room in case Aaron was late. Since we had such a long wait before the recital started, I’d brought the portable DVD player loaded with hours of Cops episodes for Timmy. He rocked and giggled and watched his favorite show. I’d give him his iPod for the recital since violin music sent him into a meltdown. I didn’t want him breaking into the Cops theme song in the middle of the concert.

I settled into my chair to read the program as the room filled with parents and family members. A number of the bikers who’d been in court earlier in the day arrived and took seats near Atticus and me. I was too tired to mingle and talk but did whisper prayers of thanks for my new friends.

I turned off my cell phone ringer and called Lily to invite her to come, but she didn’t answer. Opal hadn’t arrived yet, either. No one from church was in the audience when the concert began. Not even Aaron.

The recital’s first performers, three-to-five-year olds in the beginning strings class, walked to the front and performed with the sweetness of a cotton candy stand. Briefly, I wondered what it might be like to dress a little girl in fluffy, cloud-like dresses and silky ribbons and bows. But I wasn’t sorry I had boys. I’d always wanted boys and was glad God had blessed me with them.

An hour into the recital, Daniel stepped up to play as Mrs. Lyang’s star student. He scanned the audience looking for Aaron.

Atticus gave him a thumbs up, and Daniel smiled.

I turned on my cell phone video camera to record for Aaron and sat mesmerized as my son played Mozart: Violin Concerto No. 4 in D Major.

His bow lovingly caressed the strings with precise and measured strokes. His vibrato, mature for a youngster, sang like a gentle brook in a quiet forest. I couldn’t take my eyes off the long nimble fingers that danced along the strings in perfect time.

He played with his eyes closed, cradling the violin under his chin, his face mirroring the phrasing of the music. At times his eyes opened and he smiled, completely in his element both as a musician and a performer. I hardly recognized the little boy who loved collecting bugs and catching bullfrogs in the pond. He stood on stage completely autonomous—an entity wholly apart from myself—utterly frail yet unquestionably strong. He immersed himself fully in the music, used his violin to speak to each one of us in the audience individually.

Tears came to my eyes. I ached in its beauty. Even his teacher was moved as she accompanied him on the piano. It seemed Daniel sensed exactly what Mozart felt when he wrote the concerto.

He played flawlessly. At the end of his performance, his teacher awarded him as Student of the Year. Out of all her students, she chose him to play in the youth symphony in Indianapolis. He would audition for his chair position in two weeks and had a lot of practice ahead of him.

“Do you really enjoy playing the violin, Daniel, or do you play because you think it pleases me?” I’d asked him a few weeks ago when he was frustrated with a section of his concerto.

“You know how you feel when you ride your motorcycle?” He rosined his bow and didn’t look up.

“Oh yeah, free and wild and happy.”

“That’s how I feel when I play my violin.” Without a beat, he returned to his practice.

I never asked him again what his motives were. God made Daniel to play music. The violin was as much a part of him as the left arm that held the instrument close to his heart.

After the recital, Mrs. Lyang drew me aside. “Danny is truly gifted.” Her Japanese lilt softened her voice. “I am honored to be his teacher. He has perfect pitch and most excellent technique. I see this talent two times in my teaching career. It pleases me how hard he practices. He will be professional violinist.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lyang. You are an excellent teacher.”

She bowed.

We left with Atticus and walked to the parking lot. Opal hadn’t shown up for the recital, and I didn’t know what to say.

We all piled into Atticus’s truck.

I was exhausted, but I tried to sound cheerful for Daniel’s sake. “I’m sure Daddy and Opal had good reasons why they were unable to come. But did you see how many people were there for you? Isn’t that wonderful?”

No answer came from the backseat. There was a sense in all of us that something was wrong.

I kept chattering. “Danny, did I ever tell you that your great-great-grandpa was a fiddle player? He traveled all over the place playing for barn dances back in the 20s.”

“I know, Mom. You tell me that at least once a day.”

Atticus started to sing “Turkey in the Straw,” and I joined in. My nerves were pretty much frazzled, but I gave it a good try.

When we pulled onto our street in Eel Falls, we saw the church parking lot full of cars.

What was going on?

My stomach tied in those familiar knots again. I knew now why Opal and Aaron weren’t at the recital.

“Why are all those cars at church, Mom?” Patrick asked.

“I’m not sure.”

One thing I was definitely sure of: it couldn’t be good.