The Violin Conspiracy(18)

The guests—and Uncle Roger—followed the couple from the garden back to the house.

The quartet had been invited to eat at the reception, but Ray was still on such a high from playing that he didn’t much care if he ever ate again. They packed up their instruments and music while the cleanup crew took down the canopy.

“Man, you sounded awesome,” Aiden told him. “I didn’t know you were such a rock star!”

Beth overheard them as she packed up her viola. “You really are a great player. Where’d you get that violin?”

Ray laughed. “This is one of the school rentals.”

“Are you serious? It sounded really sweet—you did a good job.”

“My man.” Aiden wrapped an arm around Ray’s shoulders. Ray’s chest expanded with pride. Of course Aiden would ask him for more gigs. No bagging groceries or getting a GED.

Just then came a voice from behind them. “Thank you so much! You sounded wonderful!” They turned. The mother of the bride was bearing down on them. Behind her, eyes fixed on Ray, was Uncle Roger.

“Thank you for having us, ma’am.” Aiden slung his violin case over his shoulder. “We really appreciate it.”

“Sara was so happy with the music. We look forward to seeing you inside. Roger will take care of you.”

“Okay, so what do I owe you?” Uncle Roger said. As if he didn’t know.

Ray leaned over to watch. This was it. The moment he got paid for his first gig.

“Eight hundred dollars,” Aiden said. Ray could barely keep a goofy grin off his face as Uncle Roger reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick wad of folded bills.

“Thank you all,” the mother of the bride was saying. “Please follow me to the dining room and join us for the reception. Sara and James will want to thank you personally. Roger?”

A flurry of thank-yous followed. Uncle Roger extended one hand, stepped aside. Aiden led the quartet down the white runner toward the French doors. Ray was about to follow them when Uncle Roger grabbed his arm. The mother of the bride, leading the rest of the quartet, was now several steps ahead. Uncle Roger scowled at him, rage barely contained.

In that moment Ray saw something both familiar and foreign: he’d seen that same expression dozens of times, from dozens of people. The men on the corner on his way to work. The cashier at the 7-Eleven. The police officer riding by on patrol. Mark Jennings in orchestra class. He knew that expression.

Uncle Roger pulled him in closer, never breaking his gaze. “You almost destroyed my daughter’s wedding. The only reason I didn’t throw you out is because I didn’t want to cause a scene,” he growled. “I want you to get the fuck outta my garden and get the fuck outta my home. I don’t ever want to see your face around here again. Fuckin’ darkies need to stay on your own side of town. You are going to walk your Black ass through those doors and off my property. If you so much as cough, I’m calling the cops. Do you understand me, boy?”

Ray’s mind was blank. How had Ray almost ruined the wedding? Maybe he’d missed a couple notes, but nobody cared. Beth had played worse than him. He couldn’t breathe.

Uncle Roger jerked Ray’s arm, waited for Ray to pass, and fell into step behind him. Ray felt daggers in the back of his skull. There was no possibility of going into the dining room, grabbing a plate of food, sitting with the others, basking in a job well done. He’d wait for Aiden in the car, if he could find it.

A few yards away from the house doors, an older man with an unkempt moustache smoked a cigarette. As Ray passed, the man said to Uncle Roger, “Niggers are getting bold, ain’t they.”

Ray froze for an instant, his stomach in his throat. Behind him, the man and Uncle Roger laughed.

Ray reached the house. From his left he could hear the sound of conversation, the clink of forks, laughter.

“Straight ahead, boy.”

The house enveloped him. His eyes burned. Again a blur of lush furnishings, even more blurred now. At last he was in the foyer, he recognized the big carved door, open, the ornate golden lion staring at him emptily.

Wordless, he walked outside and down the walkway. He’d wait for Aiden past the gates, on the road. Or maybe he’d get an Uber. He couldn’t stand to be on this property a moment longer.

There are moments in life when the clouds lift and the curtain of rain blows back and suddenly the world stands before you, stark and vast, and you teeter on the edge of an enormous precipice of knowing, of understanding with every fiber in your soul, every hair on your head; and this was one such moment. A little breeze came from nowhere and set the early autumn leaves spinning, green-gold and yellow, and the air felt like it was being breathed by different lungs, the leaves on the ground crunching under different feet.

It’s not that he didn’t know he was Black—of course he did. A glance at the back of his hand was a constant reminder. And it’s not that he didn’t realize that there was racial prejudice in the world—it was baked into every TV show, discussed ad nauseum in the news, marched against and preached against. So how was it possible, how was it even conceivable, that he would somehow believe that racism didn’t apply to him, that white people would just ignore his skin? He was dressed in a suit, with a nice tie, and he spoke with the same accent they did; his handshake was firm and his gaze direct. He knew he had a great smile on the rare occasions when he smiled. He wasn’t the smartest kid, but he was smarter than most.