Michael stood up and ran to where Elmer stood, his bow still slashing at the strings. As Michael tried to grab his fiddle, Elmer twisted away, right arm lashing out so that the bow ripped across Michael’s face, making him stagger backwards, then fell upon the strings once more. Enraged and desperate, Michael tackled the other boy, and he and Elmer fell together, their combined weight upon the fragile instrument, which shattered with a crisp, treble cracking of maple and spruce.
Though his violin was now nothing more than a splintered box of wood held loosely together by twisted strings, Elmer tried to keep playing. He still held the bow, now broken in half, and moved the wood, devoid of horsehair, across the ruin of an instrument. When no sound resulted, he increased his efforts, and thrashed about on the floor, grunting with the effort, his eyes wild.
Michael tried to restrain him so that he wouldn’t hurt himself or others, but it was difficult. Elmer seemed imbued with maniacal energy, and it wasn’t until Ken and Frank Withers came to Michael’s aid that they were finally able to hold the boy still.
Michael was surprised and relieved at the assistance, for it meant that Ken and Frank, at least, had regained their own emotional stability. As he looked around the room, he saw that the others were also coming out of whatever spell the music had placed upon them. Some were trembling, some were crying, but all seemed rational, more rational than Elmer Zook, at any rate.
When Ken and Frank’s attention shifted from Elmer to his concerned and sobbing parents, and while the others in the room were assuring and comforting each other, Michael surreptitiously slipped the wax earplugs out of his ears and into his pocket.
When Michael came into the old firehouse that the Smoketown Bluegrass School rented for their lessons and gatherings, everyone was in the banquet room and kitchen in the back eating Halloween snacks and drinking punch and soda. Here in the big room where the fire trucks had been parked, the chairs were set up for the competition and jam session afterwards. Everyone had put their instruments along the side wall, which is what he had been counting on.
He carried his violin case over and put it near Elmer’s. Then, glancing up to make sure no one else was in the room, he took from his case the brittle, folded music sheets and a small note, opened Elmer’s case, slipped them inside, and closed it again. Then he joined the others in the back.
Elmer was talking to Daisy, of course, but she smiled when she saw Michael, and he joined them. None of them mentioned the contest. When Ken finally announced that the competition would start in ten minutes, Elmer went into the main room right away, while Daisy remained and chatted with Michael.
When, five minutes later, they went into the big room, Michael saw that Elmer was crouching in a far corner, turning his tuning pegs to try and get them to hold in an unaccustomed position. The old music sheets were on the floor, and Elmer was looking at them, playing very softly so no one could hear.
He’d taken the bait all right. Michael had written the note in what he thought of as a feminine hand, with loops and spirals and little hearts to dot the i’s. It had read:
“Tune to F-E-A-R and kick Michael’s bee-hind! A Friend”
Michael thought the “bee-hind” was a cute touch. And there was a bigger heart over the “i” in “Friend.”
From the corner of his eye, Michael watched Elmer hold the music close and examine it carefully. He was sight reading sure enough, and memorizing as he went. Gullible hick or not, the kid really had a gift. He was going to ride this tune bareback.
As Michael tuned, Elmer, still holding the music, went over to Daisy. He couldn’t hear them, but he figured Elmer was telling her that he wouldn’t need her to accompany him after all.
Michael smiled. If that tune screwed up Elmer’s head just half the way it had done to his, it was going to be a real spectacle. He nearly laughed aloud at the prospect of watching Elmer pee himself in front of Daisy.
It might even screw up the heads of some of the listeners, and that sure wasn’t going to endear Elmer to folks either. Nope, Elmer Zook’s name was going to be a dirty word from tonight on. Yep, I’m gonna get you now, farm boy.
Michael patted the pair of earplugs in his right pocket, and did a quick, soft run-through of “Jerusalem Ridge” once again. Winning the contest mattered, but what mattered most was that he played the best that he could. After all, it was getting to the point where, even as young as he was, music was his life.
Michael looked through the windows into the large, empty room. A lot could change in six months, and it had. He’d finally gotten his driver’s license, and could drive on his own now. Sometimes he’d drive over to the old fire station, now empty and for rent once again, and look through the windows and think about making music.
Nobody did anymore. Nobody who was there that night could even listen to music, let alone play it. Shopping malls, doctor’s offices, stores that played background and elevator music were all off-limits to the students, parents, and friends of the Smoketown Bluegrass School who had come to the party that Halloween night.
And nobody knew why. In the ruckus and confusion afterwards, Michael had taken the music and note out of Elmer’s case, balled them up, stuck them in his pocket, and burned them when he got home. So nobody knew why Elmer had played what he played, and nobody knew where in the world he got that tune in the first place. There were all sorts of theories, more about the reaction to the tune than the provenance of the music itself. They examined all the leftover treats and punch for food poisoning, and even inspected the building top to bottom for mold, but didn’t find anything.
Ken and Frank stopped giving lessons right away, and Ken officially closed the school a couple weeks later. Though Michael hadn’t actually heard Elmer’s performance, he didn’t play anymore, because there wasn’t anyone around to play with. Daisy went to another high school, so he didn’t see her either. And Elmer? Well, nobody saw Elmer. Michael heard that he’d been put in a “special” school, but was afraid to ask what “special” meant.
Michael looked through the windows one last time, then turned and walked down the street to his folks’ car. He got in and figured he’d give it another try. He pushed the “AUX” switch on the dashboard, brought up Spotify on his phone, and from his playlist he chose Dirk Powell’s version of “Lonesome John,” a fiddle tune he’d always liked.
As he pulled out onto the street, the fiddle began playing in double-stops, and after a few bars the banjo joined in. He felt no sense of torment, but the music sounded ugly to him. He found no pleasure in it, and he turned it off and drove in silence.
Summer’s End
Erica Ruppert
“It’s not much of a town,” Josh said.
Dana shrugged, watching the landscape rise and fall around them as Josh sped north on Route 41. Through the windshield, late October sun fell warm across her face.
“Up here, it’s all these little spread out towns. The main businesses were the lodges, fishing, hunting, family stuff, but most of those are gone now too.”
She turned to watch his profile.
“I haven’t seen my mother’s family for years,” he said. “But it’s time.”
He slowed as they approached another of the tiny villages that clung to the edge of the highway.