The Violin Conspiracy(20)

He picked her up off the porch in a bear hug. She was barely five feet tall, probably didn’t even weigh a hundred pounds.

“Hey, baby! Look at you,” she said in her Southern drawl. “You’ve gotten so big!” Once he’d overheard one of his uncles say that Grandma Nora was so sweet that just hearing her talk could give you diabetes. Ray could listen to her all day.

“I’m good,” he said. “You look great! I smell pie! You make me one?”

“I sure did. I put it where nobody can get at it. Your aunt Joyce tried to cut a piece but I told her to put that pie down before I grab a switch. That’s when I had to hide it. I told her that pie is for my favorite grandson.”

The twins were thundering up the porch steps, but she kept her gaze on him, as if intuiting something amiss. “How is school going? You still playing your fiddle?”

“Well—”

“Ray, get over here and get these bags,” Ray’s mother shouted, popping the Corolla’s trunk.

“Be right back.” Ray returned to the car and began unpacking.

His mother, carrying her purse, went ahead. “How are you feeling?” she asked her mother.

“Oh, I’m fine. My hips have been bothering me a little bit, but I’m good.”

“Y’all leave your grandma alone,” Ray’s mother said to his siblings. They stopped climbing on her walker and trying to pull out her hair rollers—Grandma Nora was only inches taller than they were—and ran inside, the door banging behind them. He knew they were bee-lining for the TV.

A book bag over his shoulder and duffel bags under his arms, he unearthed the violin case. Should he bring it into the house now while his grandmother was standing there, or sneak it in later so his mom didn’t know? Better to do it now so there would be less of a chance of sparking an argument about practicing.

His mother had gone in already, but Grandma Nora had waited. “I am so glad you brought your fiddle. I want you to play me a song after supper.” She scooted toward the edge of the porch to meet Ray as he maneuvered up the steps.

“Okay. I have a concert coming up. And guess what? I’ve been playing a lot of weddings. Making real money.”

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, holding the door for him. She and her walker slid in after him.

Thanksgiving Day was always a mixed bag. Sometimes his family barely ate because his aunts and uncles would drink and laugh for hours. Other times—rarely, admittedly—Uncle Larry and Uncle Thurston would get into an argument (usually about politics) and would jab at each other, index fingers extended. Once Uncle Larry actually swept the countertop clear of the casserole dishes, furious with Uncle Thurston’s needling him about his beloved Philadelphia Eagles’ defensive line.

Luckily this year would have less drama than usual: only Aunt Joyce and her husband had made the drive. His mom’s other siblings—Thurston, Larry, and Rochelle—had to cancel. Ray was grateful: now he had more time to talk to Grandma Nora alone.

On Thursday morning, the turkey was already in the oven when Ray volunteered to help Grandma Nora peel potatoes and slice squash. His mother and Aunt Joyce had gone to the store—ostensibly because they needed more collard greens, but in reality because one of the biggest family traditions was to keep Aunt Joyce out of the kitchen.

So Ray and Grandma Nora stood side by side next to the sink when she said quietly, “Ray, baby. What’s wrong?”

Ray stopped mid-peel. He opened his mouth to answer but the words would not come.

“You know you don’t have to pretend. You know you can talk to your grandma.”

He took a deep breath. No one was nearby. “I was so happy. Then—then everything changed.” Suddenly he was close to tears. He cleared his throat and dropped his head toward the potatoes.

“What happened?”

He tried for another deep breath, but his chest felt too full, as though he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs. “I played at a wedding last month. It was my first one. I actually got paid. Two hundred dollars.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. It was wonderful. Then…”

She waited, hands busy with the potatoes, not looking at him.

“Then something happened.” He wasn’t sure how to continue. “Grandma, have you ever had to deal with people that don’t like you because—well, because—you know…”

“Because I’m Black?” she said.

Ray stared down at his hands, at the potato peelings stuck to them.

“I know it must have really hurt,” she said. “Especially for a sweet boy like you. What did they say?”

The words poured out of him almost as if he weren’t speaking them. “He talked to me like I was an animal. Like I was less than an animal. He hated me. I was so scared. I’ve had to deal with people that don’t like me because they think I’m a jerk or because I get better grades than them—but it’s never been about skin before.

“I didn’t know what to do. He made me feel like I was nothing. Told me I wasn’t supposed to be there. I played really well and he told me I ruined his daughter’s wedding. Grandma…What did I do?”

She laid her hand on Ray’s cheek. Her palm was warm, slightly damp from the potatoes, and so soft. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. That thing that happened to you was terrible. That man was sick. Nothing you do or say will ever change that. You can’t think from one encounter that everyone thinks the same way he does. Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of people, men and women, young and old, that are just like him. He wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last one to treat you that way. You are a fine young man who has so much to offer. You can’t let them take that away from you. They will try and keep trying.”