The Christmas Violin Read online

  The old woman had about six inches left before she would be off the bench, and she inched over to the very end, getting as far away from Big Feet as she could.

  She was in the middle of a sip of coffee when a belch from Big Feet startled her. She jerked. The man was like a shin splint that came out of nowhere and interrupted her routine.

  “That’s mighty fine eatin’,” he bellowed, licking his big lips with a tongue that looked like a giant rubber spatula.

  The old woman wasn’t sure who he was talking to, but she didn’t want it to be her so she paid him no attention. She had other things on her mind. Like how tired she felt all the time. And out of breath. She hated the doctors, though, and hadn’t been to one in years. And she had no plans to go to one now.

  She heard Big Feet say goodbye but she just stared out the window, trying to decide if she had enough energy to walk to the park and watch the pigeons. She decided to go to the library instead and find a warm corner to rest. If she was lucky, no one would bother her there.

  Charlie Shue saw that the old woman was preparing to leave. He walked over to take her tray so she wouldn’t have to struggle returning it. He nodded and smiled. “Have a great day.”

  The old woman half nodded and pushed her metal cart past him toward the exit. With a pace that would pain most people to watch, she lumbered down the busy street.

  She tried to ignore all the eyes that locked on her like missiles on a target. Every half block, she’d stop to rest, sucking in deep breaths. When she got to the crosswalk, she waited for the walking light. She was never fast enough to make it across the street before the white light turned red. Today was no exception.

  A young man in a blue Mustang leaned on his horn. It didn’t make her go any faster. She couldn’t. But he didn’t seem to understand that, or care. Everyone was in a hurry to go somewhere, the old lady thought. Except her.

  Peter

  Peter had dozed during the flight.

  The woman beside him lightly tapped his arm. “We’re landing.”

  Peter jerked awake, surprised that he had fallen into such a cavernous sleep.

  “On behalf of the flight crew, thank you for flying with us and have a great day in Tampa,” the head flight attendant announced.

  Peter grabbed his attaché case from the overhead storage compartment and shuffled off the plane behind a man who reeked of stale smoke and musk-scented aftershave. Peter’s interview was tomorrow, but he had decided to come a day early to scope out the area. He had never been to Tampa before.

  Maybe he’d drive to Clearwater beach. He loved the beach. Camilla loved the beach, too. She loved it almost as much as Disney. He smiled, remembering their spur of the moment getaways to Assateague Island. Camilla loved watching the wild horses. One time while swimming in the ocean, they looked up toward their blanket and saw one of the feral horses with its nose inside her striped beach bag. They ran to their blanket, but by the time they got there the horse had taken off with a bag of pretzels.

  Peter smiled at the memory, remembering Camilla in her bright yellow bikini that hugged her body and highlighted her deep tan. Like him, she had a dark complexion and dark eyes, and she tanned easily.

  After weaving his way through the crowd to the airport concourse, Peter hit the restroom and then Starbucks for a black coffee. He arrived at the baggage carousel just as it coughed awake. He got lucky. His suitcase was one of the first on the belt so he didn’t have to wait long. He could always tell his suitcase from every other black leather Samsonite because of the pink ribbon Camilla had tied to the handle for easy identification. Even so, he always looked at the luggage tag. It was habit. Like knowing you turned off the iron but checking it anyway.

  On his way to his hotel in downtown Tampa, Peter noticed the old Tampa Bay Hotel. It was hard to miss with its Moorish minarets, domes and cupolas.

  Peter had a thing for trains, and he knew the hotel was built by railroad magnate Henry Plant in the late 1800s. Some people called it “Florida’s First Magic Kingdom”. He thought Camilla would have gotten a kick out of that.

  On a whim, he stopped to get a closer look. He hadn’t planned on it, but he knew that sometimes the best things in life are the things you don’t plan.

  Willow

  Willow sat on the examination table, her legs dangling over the side. She stared at the self-breast exam poster on the wall. She was deep in her thoughts when the door opened.

  “Good morning, Willow,” said Dr. Hilton, a round lady with a wide grin. “How are you today?”

  Willow sighed. “I’d be better if I wasn’t here.”

  “I know. I feel the same when I have to go for my annual check-up. I promise I’ll make this as quick and as painless as possible.”

  Willow slid her butt down the examination table toward Dr. Hilton and placed her feet in the metal stirrups. She stared at the ceiling, trying to think pleasant thoughts while Dr. Hilton examined her. Willow remembered being in this same exam room in this same position when she was pregnant with Luke.

  She had been more tired than usual and attributed it to her demanding performance schedule. It was a couple of months since her night with Dan, whom she hadn’t seen or spoken to since. She thought it was better that way.

  He had a family and she certainly didn’t want to break that up, no matter how miserable Dan was. It was a one-night thing. Something they both needed. She would leave it at that. Besides, it wasn’t like he tried to contact her, and she was easy to find. Her performance schedule was publicized online. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to track her down if he had wanted to.

  Willow’s mom, who lived in Florida and was visiting, insisted that Willow see a doctor after hearing her throw up in the bathroom.

  “There’s something going around,” her mom said. “Nora had it last week. And she said Jesse and his family had it the week before. You’re paler than you normally are. And when’s the last time you ate a decent meal? You can’t live on Life cereal.”

  “OK. I’ll make an appointment later.”

  Willow’s mom shook her finger. “No, you’ll make one now.”

  “Mom!”

  “I mean it, Willow. You look awful. If you don’t make it, I will.”

  Later that afternoon, Willow found herself in the examination room trying to explain to Dr. Hilton that she couldn’t possibly be pregnant. She was on the pill. Had been forever.

  Willow looked at the calendar on her phone and determined that she was about eight weeks pregnant. She knew it was Dan’s; she hadn’t been with anyone else in more than a year.

  Willow’s initial shock was followed by fear and joy. Would the baby be all right? Would she be a good mother? How would she manage raising a child and continue her career? But, oh, there was a baby inside of her. She felt her tummy. She was going to be a mother. It wasn’t something she had thought a lot about, but now that it was going to happen, she felt like she had been given the most amazing gift. And she would give this gift the world.

  Willow blinked back tears.

  “Almost done, Willow,” Dr. Hilton said. “Relax.”

  A couple of deep breaths later, and Willow was getting dressed.

  “Everything looks good,” Dr. Hilton said. “How about your anxiety? Is the medication still working for you?’

  “More or less,” Willow said. “Some days are better than others.”

  “But you’re OK with one tablet? If you think you need more, I can up it to a tablet and a half.”

  Willow shook her head. “I’m doing fine. If I have trouble sleeping, I’ll call.”

  As Willow pulled out of the parking lot, she looked in her rear-view mirror. A very pregnant woman waddled across the parking lot. Willow couldn’t keep a smile from sneaking onto her face. Babies did that.

  The Old Woman

  The old woman found a warm corner on the third floor of the library in the reference section. It was always quiet there, never busy. She figured most people looked things up on a compu
ter nowadays. Rows of thick tomes lined heavy wooden shelves. Encyclopedias. Dictionaries. Atlases and almanacs. Like her, they were worn from years of use and left to collect dust. Every once in a while they’d feel a hand touch their spines, but there had been fewer and fewer hands over the years. They just weren’t needed anymore.

  The old woman sat down on the black leather chair. The seat cushion caved in the middle and the seam in the front was coming apart. But, no matter. She took the small brown pillow she kept in her cart and put it behind her head. She leaned against the pillow, her heavy eyelids dropping like a puffy theater curtain.

  She hadn’t been sleeping well. Most nights, she slept in the shed. The caretaker had made her a cozy spot in the back corner, away from the mower and gasoline can. He even spread out an old sleeping bag he found when he was cleaning out his basement. Figured the old woman could use it. And she did. She loved that sleeping bag, especially on cold nights when the wind whistled through the trees and rattled the shed windows.

  The old woman appreciated the caretaker’s kindness. No one had ever been that kind to her. When she first settled in the area, she got hooked up with a drunk who used her as a punching bag. She thought she deserved it, at least that’s what he told her, so she stayed. Until the voices came, and then even the drunk was afraid of what she might do. He kicked her out and she found comfort in the cemetery. The dead aren’t mean. And they don’t punch.

  The old woman slept soundly, wrapped in her plaid throw in the leather chair. When she awoke, it was early afternoon. She looked around and she was still alone.

  She pulled the napkin she had stuffed in her coat pocket at breakfast and fetched the sourdough roll she had saved in the plastic bread bag she had dug out of the trash and kept in her cart. She noticed green mold about the size of a pencil eraser on the roll and picked it off. She dug her right thumb into the roll and broke it apart. Then she ripped the bacon in half and made a sandwich. She chewed slowly, savoring each bite and wishing she had another one.

  She knew by looking out the window that the sun was heading west fast. She hated that the days were getting shorter. The darkness made her feel even more alone, and the older she got the more the cold bothered her. Maybe she should move south, she thought, but then realized that it would take too much effort. It was enough that she could make it from the cemetery to the soup kitchen each day. At least she had that.

  Peter

  Peter wandered through the corridors of the old Tampa Bay Hotel. One wing had been turned into a museum. Peter admired the Victorian furnishings and tried to picture what it must have been like in its heyday.

  He liked the writing and reading room best. The carved wainscoting, mantle and pier mirror were original. He imagined sitting at one of the writing tables, joined by the likes of Theodore Roosevelt or Stephen Crane. He smiled. Camilla would have loved the hotel. She would have especially liked the bronze bust of Mary Queen of Scots. She always thought Mary got a bum deal.

  By the time Peter pulled into the hotel, he was fighting to keep his eyes open. When he got to his room, he lay on the bed, pushing the decorative silk pillows out of his way.

  When he woke up, it was seven and he was hungry. On the way to the hotel bar, he heard violin music. It reminded him of the woman he’d seen in the cemetery that morning, and he looked around to see where it was coming from. He walked toward the restaurant and peeked past the maitre d’. A slender man in a black tuxedo serenaded the diners.

  “Will you be having dinner with us?” the maitre d’ asked.

  Peter shook his head. “I’ll get something at the bar.” Peter nodded toward the violinist. “He’s good.”

  “Yes,” the maitre d’ said. “He plays here most nights. If you care to join us during your stay, we’d be glad to accommodate you.”

  “Thank you,” Peter said, and walked across the marble-floored lobby and around the corner to the bar.

  He ordered a Yuengling lager and a cheeseburger and fries. He couldn’t get the violinist at the cemetery out of his mind. It surprised him a little. He hadn’t thought about another woman since Camilla. He wore his loneliness like a black cloak he was afraid to take off, worried that taking it off might make him forget. And he never wanted to forget Camilla. But he also knew that Camilla wanted him to go on. In fact, she said as much before she died. He remembered the conversation well.

  He was reading Charlotte’s Web to her. It had been Camilla’s favorite book as a child and when she was too sick to read it, he read it to her.

  When Peter got to the part where Wilbur asked Charlotte why she had done so much for him and Charlotte told him because he had been her friend, Camilla started heaving. Tears streamed down her sunken cheeks.

  “Promise me, Peter,” Camilla said, “that after I’m gone, you’ll be OK. I don’t expect you not to marry again. In fact, I want you to. I want you to be happy. To have a wife and a family. I need to know that you will go on. That when I die, you won’t die.”

  Peter hadn’t kept the promise he had made that day. And he wondered if it was too late. Was he already dead?

  Willow

  When Willow returned from her doctor’s appointment, she picked up the local section of the newspaper. The graduation list grabbed her attention and she scanned it to see if there were any graduates from her alma mater. There never were.

  Willow had attended Juilliard. She had wanted to be a concert violinist for as long as she could remember. When she was five, her mother bought her a violin. Willow never put it down. Her mother home-schooled her so she had more time to practice. And it paid off. Willow got into Juilliard and the dream career she had always wanted.

  And here she was, known all over the world but choosing to live in her childhood home, a Victorian her parents had given to her, the home she had hoped to raise Luke in.

  Willow headed to her studio, which she had added on to the house. The studio was her cocoon. It’s where she felt most safe from the outside world.

  Photos of Luke lined the classic gray walls. Her favorite one was black and white, taken at the beach when Luke was three. He’s holding a sand bucket and shovel and a thunderous wave is breaking in the distance behind him. Willow smiled at the memory.

  It was Luke’s first, and only, visit to the beach and he had loved playing in the sand. Although Willow loved the beach, she hadn’t been back since Luke died. There were so many things in her life that she stopped doing because they reminded her of Luke. And, even though she was working through her grief, it seemed as though she still had an Everest to climb. Maybe one day she’d reach the top, having finally conquered that huge mountain of grief.

  She picked up her violin and bow and closed her eyes. She warmed up with a few of her favorite pieces then slid into Bach’s Violin Concerto in E Major. It was the piece she was performing with the local symphony at its upcoming holiday concert. Each year, she performed as a guest soloist at the event, which raised money for the local arts association.

  Max, her cairn terrier, watched from his perch on the leather chair. He rested his chin on his paws. Willow had bought Max a few months before Luke died. She wanted Luke to have a dog, like she had growing up. And when they saw the cairn at the pet store, Luke didn’t want to put him down. So, she didn’t make him.

  The nanny wasn’t particularly excited to have a dog to look after, too. But once she saw Luke and Max together, she wore her smile like a favorite pair of jeans.

  Hours passed before Willow realized that dinner had passed, too. No matter. She’d take Max for his evening walk and eat a sandwich or maybe cereal when they got back. Max had waited so patiently. It was the least she could do.

  “Come on, boy,” she said.

  Max jumped off the chair and followed her outside where they were greeted by the sweet laughter of the neighborhood kids.

  The Old Woman

  The old woman wobbled through the library toward the front door. She liked to be out of the library by the time the noisy school kids swa
rmed the building. Like termites they scurried into every nook and cranny. Once, she stumbled upon two teens making out in the biography section. By the way the teens snarled at her, you would have thought she was the one doing something inappropriate.

  She made it down to the first floor and waited by the heavy wooden doors for someone to come in or go out. The doors were too heavy for her to push open. She didn’t have to wait long.

  “Nicholas,” said a mother, grabbing her preschooler’s hand. “Let the lady go first.”

  The old woman shook her head frantically. She didn’t want them to wait for her to go out. She couldn’t go first. Didn’t they understand the door was too heavy for her?

  The dark-haired boy, frightened by the woman, who was now uttering “No” continuously, buried his head into his mother’s thigh.

  “It’s OK,” said the mother, realizing that the old woman wanted help with the doors. “These doors are heavy.”

  The mother pushed open the door, and the old woman maneuvered her cart out the door and down a few stone steps.

  A boy on a skateboard narrowly missed plowing her over. A bear of a man sitting on a cement stoop smoking a fat cigar yelled and alerted the old woman.

  “Damn kids,” he said to the old woman as she passed by. “Them kids gonna kill somebody one of these damn days. Damn cops don’t do nothin’ ‘bout it.”

  The old woman just kept going, as though she hadn’t heard a thing the old man had said. And the old man gave up trying to have a conversation. He went back to smoking his fat cigar. And just as he was flicking the ashes onto the dirty sidewalk, a tall man with dark hair darted from a nearby alley and attacked the old woman, pushing her to the sidewalk and taking off with her cart.

  The cigar-smoking man took off after the robber, but he stopped a half block later, too out of breath to go any farther.