Free Beethoven in Paradise by Barbara O'Connor Page B

admirable about a kid who could talk like that. He took his harmonica out of his shirt pocket and played “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”
    Sybil stood up and grinned down at him. “I never knew you could play the harmonica,” she said. “Where you been hiding that?”
    â€œI ain’t been hiding it,” Martin said.
    Sybil sat on the grass next to him. “I wish I could play an instrument.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œSure.”

    â€œLike what?”
    â€œI don’t know. Anything.” She looked at the harmonica in Martin’s hand. “What other instrument can you play?”
    Martin pulled at a blade of grass and threw it at his feet. “I don’t know. My dad won’t give me a chance to find out.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œMeans he don’t like nothing about me.” Martin could feel Sybil looking at him, but he kept pulling the grass, throwing the grass.
    Sybil lay back with her hands under her head and crossed one foot over the other. Martin put his harmonica to his mouth and played. “Amazing Grace.” “Camptown Races.” “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah.” Whatever came to mind.
    Every now and then he glanced over at Sybil. There wasn’t much in this world that could have made him feel good about himself right then, but her smiling face and rocking feet came close.
    Â 
    Every time Martin started to tell Wylene what his dad had said about the violin, he got so weighed down with bad feelings he couldn’t talk. Just saying the words in his head was bad enough. Telling it out loud seemed nearly impossible. But he knew she was going to ask sooner or later, so one day he just up and told her everything that had happened on that day which was supposed to have been his lucky day. She sat in the La-Z-Boy in front of the fan, eating ice cream out of a Dixie cup. She had on her Hav-a-Hanky shirt, the armpits wet with perspiration.

    When he finished, she set the cup down and looked at him with an I-told-you-so expression on her face.
    â€œAm I supposed to be surprised?” she said.
    Martin felt a flicker of anger. “No.”
    â€œWell, what are you going to do?”
    â€œThere ain’t nothing I can do, Wylene. I guess fate just dealt me a lousy hand.”
    Wylene sat on the edge of her chair and leaned toward him. “What are you talking about, Martin? A lousy hand. That don’t sound like you. Besides, this ain’t no big poker game of life or something. This is your chance to do what you’ve always wanted to do. To be what you’ve always wanted to be. If fate has dealt you a hand, it’s the hand of music. You are a musician, Martin. You just gonna let that slip on by like a ship passin’ in the night?”
    Martin wanted to leave. He wanted to lie in his bed with the covers over his head. Instead, he slouched down lower on the couch, his skinny legs stretched out in front of him, knocking the toes of his sneakers together.
    â€œYou know, Wylene,” he said, running a hand over the top of his head. “It might sound crazy, but I don’t think my daddy likes me. I mean, I reckon he loves me ’cause I’m his son and all. But he don’t like me.”
    He looked down at his feet and hesitated a minute before continuing.
    â€œBut you know what the worst part is? The worst part is I don’t think I like him, either.”
    There. He had said it. He hoped Wylene wouldn’t say
anything. He waited. She didn’t. He felt a surge of fondness for her because she knew him so well.
    â€œI been doing a lot of thinking lately,” he said.
    â€œThinkin’ about what?” Wylene said softly.
    â€œOh, just about everything. Questions mostly.” He closed his eyes when the fan swung slowly in his direction and blew cool air in his face.
    â€œYou know what I’m beginning to think?” he said. “I’m beginning to think maybe the answer