Free Beethoven in Paradise by Barbara O'Connor

the door.
    â€œGuess what I got,” Hazeline called as she collected her bags.
    Martin knew better than to try. When he was little, he’d call out everything he could think of. A telephone, roller skates, a puppy. He had never in his whole life been right. Eventually he quit trying. At least, he’d tried to quit. Hazeline loved guessing games.
    â€œAw, come on,” she would say. “Guess.” Or, “Come on. I’ll give you three guesses.”
    Martin held the door open for her. From the looks of it,
one of the bags held something heavy. Martin decided to test his luck and give it a shot.
    â€œA bowling ball.”
    â€œClose.” Hazeline grinned. “Guess again.”
    â€œI give up.”
    â€œA watermelon.” Hazeline proudly plunked a round, green melon onto the kitchen counter. “But not just a ordinary ole watermelon.”
    Somehow that didn’t surprise Martin.
    â€œAnybody here ever seen a yellow watermelon?” She got a knife out of the kitchen drawer and sliced into the melon. “Look at this.”
    The melon fell into two pieces. Sure enough, it was golden yellow inside.
    â€œWell, I’ll be,” Martin said.
    His father came out of the bedroom, scratching his hairy white stomach.
    â€œLook at this, Daddy,” Martin said. “A yellow watermelon. Ain’t that something?”
    His father eyed the melon suspiciously. “Well,” he said, “I have to admit, that is something.”
    â€œHow you reckon they do that?” Martin said.
    â€œWho knows?” Hazeline said, cutting a slice of watermelon and handing it to Martin. “Bunch of weird scientists sittin’ around playing God. Too bad they don’t invent something more useful, like a money tree. Wouldn’t none of us have to work then.”
    Martin tensed when he heard the word “work.” He closed
his eyes and waited for his father’s angry outburst. He could hardly believe his ears when he heard his father chuckle. “And what would you do with a money tree, Mamma?” his father asked, cutting a piece of melon and eating it right off the knife.
    â€œDepends on if it was a big money tree or a little money tree,” Hazeline said, lighting a cigarette and climbing up on a barstool. “If it was just a little one, I’d get some new tires for that pile of junk called a car out there. If it was a big money tree, I’d push that thing off the nearest cliff and go to Hawaii with some cute young cowboy in skintight jeans.” She laughed her wheezy laugh and winked at Martin.
    They all laughed, all of them at the same time. That was a good sign. That was definitely a good sign.
    â€œYou know, I saw me a violin in Pickens the other day.” Martin said it to the walls, the floor, the air. “I was thinking maybe that’d be a good instrument to have, being a good size and all. I mean, it don’t take up a lot of room like a piano … and I could play all kinds of music on it. You know, country and western, church music, maybe even some classical if I wanted to. I never played a violin before, but I bet I could learn. I wouldn’t need no lessons, though. I’m sure of that. I kind of got an ear for music. I bet anything I could learn to play it by myself, like I did the harmonica. And this here’s a real good violin. But it only costs fifty bucks. I bet most violins cost twice that. I was thinking maybe you could give it to me for my birthday and then I’d pay you back some of the money. Or all the money. I could pay back all the money.”

    When Martin finally stopped, he couldn’t remember a thing he had said. He wondered if it had come out the way he’d rehearsed it in his head. He took a bite of watermelon and concentrated on sorting out the seeds in his mouth. He watched a fly land in a puddle of melon juice on the counter. Suddenly his father did the worst thing he could have done. He