The Violin Conspiracy(21)

“So what do I do?”

“You can beat them. You can win. You know how?”

He shook his head.

“You work twice as hard. Even three times. For the rest of your life. It’s not fair, but that’s how it is. Some people will always see you as less than they are. So you have to be twice as good as them.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“You’re already doing it,” she said, her voice so low he could barely hear it. “You promise me one thing, you hear me? You stay the same sweet Ray that Grandma loves so much. You work harder than they do and you stay sweet. When you begin to hate them just because they hate you, you turn into them. And then they win. Grandma can’t have that. You just have to be true to your own sweet self and not let them change you.”

“But what do I do?” He felt so defeated. He couldn’t win against this. No matter how nicely he was dressed or how politely he spoke, his very existence would ruin the wedding.

“Just what I said. You work twice as hard. You hold your head up high, and you keep doing what you do. You get good grades. You play your music. You find your goal, and you go after it. You be proud of who you are. You never, ever forget that your grandma is proud of you, so proud her heart could just about burst from it. Don’t you ever apologize for being who you are or let someone make you feel bad for being Black.”

He could feel something inside him thaw, something he hadn’t even known was frozen. “Has it happened to you?”

“Oh, my lord, yes. Grandma’s dealt with them people all her life. It don’t stop because you get old. I seen some terrible things. And I heard of some even worse things. I prayed all my life that my children would never have to go through what I did. I could tell you stories that you wouldn’t believe. One day, baby, maybe I’ll tell you.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s an ugly part of life but that’s how things are. Probably how they always will be. You just work hard and be your own sweet self, you hear me? You stand up for yourself, but always respectfully. I want you to remember that. You stand up, you respect yourself, and you be respectful. That’s how you win.”

She gave him a hug. He closed his eyes and drew her near, breathed in her smell of lavender and potato peels.

“Now when you going to play something for your grandma?”

Ray drew in a shaky breath and could feel the air at the bottom of his lungs reaching a place that was suddenly open again. He said, “I’ll play for you right after dinner.”

“You know my PopPop used to play fiddle, don’t you? I loved hearing him when I was a little girl. That’s where you get your talent from. I keep telling your mama that.”

Dinner went well without his uncles around to egg each other on. Everyone complimented Ray’s mom on the turkey—a complicated recipe involving apple cider, orange juice, and cloves—so she was glowing with pride. The table almost disappeared beneath the plates of fluffy mashed potatoes, seasoned with butter and garlic; the omnipresent collard greens and cranberry sauce; the homemade butter for the cornbread. There was ham and black-eyed pea stuffing. Everyone ate everything except the sliced squash. It was always a mystery why Grandma Nora insisted on slicing squash, baking it, and serving it up on everyone’s plate every year, only to have no one touch it. This year was no different.

As they were finishing, Grandma Nora said in her unmistakable slow southern drawl, “Ray, baby, when you gonna play a song for your grandma?”

“Of course,” he said, pushing himself back from the table. “I can play you a few songs from my concert and maybe I can play my audition piece for you, too.” He gathered up everyone’s plates, picked clean—except for the squash.

“Lord, don’t nobody want to hear that noise.” Ray’s mom said, taking another swallow of her wine as Ray went out into the kitchen.

“You still play the violin?” Aunt Joyce said with genuine interest. Aunt Joyce took after her mother—a shade over five feet tall and very petite. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Aunt Joyce loved a good laugh, and her single dimple was always noticeable when she smiled, which was all the time.

He had two pies in hand: the pecan and his favorite blueberry. “Yup, I’m still playing.”

“When I was a little girl, my PopPop would always sit us down and play that fiddle. I used to love hearing him play. You know he was a freed slave and—”

“Mama, please,” Aunt Joyce said. “We heard you tell this story a million times.”

“You hush,” Grandma Nora said, waving her hand to silence Aunt Joyce.

Ray’s mother chuckled. “I could see that one coming a mile away.”

“Baby, your great-great PopPop tried to teach my daddy to play. He gave his fiddle to my daddy and told him to teach his babies music. But nobody ever learned to play. I’ve always been sad about that. My PopPop loved that fiddle.”

Aunt Joyce reached for the wine bottle. “You still have it?”

“Yes, girl. Don’t you remember when you were kids how I tried to get y’all to play?”

For the past eighteen years, Ray had been coming to Grandma Nora’s house at least once a year. He’d heard that story of PopPop and the fiddle even before he’d started playing. Maybe—now he couldn’t remember—he’d first gotten interested in the violin because Grandma Nora talked about it all the time. And yet, unaccountably, nobody had ever asked Grandma Nora if she still owned it. How had that never, not once, come up?