On my way to answer the door I poke my head into Dad's room. "Hey, the neighbors are complaining. It's too early in the morning to be playing the violin."
"I must play furiously to rid the Furies. I think they might try to kill me today," my dad says, not stopping.
I hear more loud banging, so I hurry downstairs to answer the door. I open it, bracing myself for the rage of the guy who lives next door. Instead, I find Haze, Pete, and Shelby standing in front of me.
I start to smile, feeling relieved it's just them, but then I see their anxious faces and I stop.
LAUGH TRACK: Uh-oh!
"Hey, guys, what's up?"
Shelby pushes me back into the house and the three of them come inside and close the door.
"Bad news, Jason. It's bad news," Pete says.
CRAZY GLUE: Major uh-oh!
"What? What's happened?" I stare at the three of them. They look upset and even frightened, like our school has been bombed or maybe there's been a shooting.
"Guys, come on—what's goin' on?"
Shelby glances up the stairs where my dad's still playing, and then the other two do the same thing.
"Let's get out of the hallway," Pete says. "Let's talk in the living room, okay?"
"What? What is it? I don't like this," I say as Shelby and Haze push me back toward the living room. "Stop it, guys! Just tell me. What?"
CRAZY GLUE: Don't panic.
"That violin your dad's got? He stole it," Shelby says.
"What? No, he didn't. What do you mean? How do you know?"
"Dude, we heard it on the news on the way to school," Haze says. "It's all over the news, man."
"They said a guy's violin was taken from the Kennedy Center yesterday," Pete adds, looking pained and almost green in the face with having to tell me.
Shelby nods. "Yeah, it belongs to a guy from the Walden String Quartet. They're performing at the center."
"It's a way-expensive violin, man," Haze says. "Like worth millions. Dude said he always kept the violin with him. He had it backstage. He left it there for five minutes and it was gone. It's a Strasselburg or something—made in the sixteen hundreds, so like whoa, it's way old."
Pete elbows Haze's arm. "It's a Stradivarius, bozo, not a Strasselburg."
"Ouch, I didn't know." Haze winces and rubs his arm.
"Anyway," Shelby says, bugging her eyes out at the two of them, then looking at me, "the police think one of the guys who cleans up around there might have taken it, because they found out he has a criminal record, and this guy, the one who owns the violin, is making a big stink, saying he's going to sue the center and everybody. He was asking the news people, like they had something to do with it, how they could let a guy with a criminal record clean the building."
Shelby stops talking and the three of them wait for me to say something. I blink several times and try to figure out what to say.
CRAZY GLUE: How about "oops"!
"It sounds like this stagehand guy did it, then," I say. "It's not the same violin. My dad brought his violin over from Greece. I—I saw the box—his Greece box open on the bed."
CRAZY GLUE: That's right, grab at anything you can.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: You know the truth.
"No, I don't."
Haze, Pete, and Shelby look at one another and then at me. "'No, you don't,' what?" Pete asks, while at the same time Haze says, "Huh?" and Shelby just gives me her "you jerk" look.
CRAZY GLUE: Yep. You said it out loud.
AUNT BEE: Oh dear!
"Oh, uh, I was just thinking out loud, kind of—I—uh, I mean I don't know really if it's his, I guess—really." I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth so hard I think it might burst through to my nasal cavity.
CRAZY GLUE: T-M-I, goob.
"I really doubt it's his," Pete says.
Haze adds, "They held a big press conference on TV and everything, and they said it's got that Stradi—Stradi—whatever, label inside the violin and three cherubs on the tailpiece, just like the ones on your dad's violin, right?"
Pete shakes his head and makes this sorrowful face. "I'm sorry, Jason."
It reminds me of the doctor's face when I came to see my mom the day she died. He said the same thing. I was too late. She had died in the night while Dad and I were at home sleeping.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Maybe that's why you don't sleep well anymore. The guilt.
I feel sick. Really sick, like I might throw up. The floor beneath me tilts sideways. I struggle to make Dad's violin be all right. This has to be all right.
AUNT BEE: He could go to jail.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: That might be the safest place for him.
"No!" I realize I've said this out loud, too. "Oh, I mean, no, how could my dad have taken a violin from the Kennedy Center?" I drop to the floor and sit with my head in my hands. "He'd have to take a bus. He hates buses, and people and noise, and anyway, don't they have guards there?"
I look up at the three of them standing above me, all of them with pitying looks on their faces, looking like the nurses at the hospital, the nurses who couldn't revive my mom for even just one more minute, just one minute so I could say I loved her and goodbye.
I can't stand it. My dad is playing scales in the room above us—up and down, up and down with the scales. Crazy. It suddenly just sounds crazy—like him.
AUNT BEE: It's all right. It's just your friends, not the nurses. They're your friends. It's going to be all right.
Shelby kneels beside me and puts her arm around my shoulders. "What do you want to do, Jason? How can we help?"
"I don't know. I don't know." I shake my head and try to get a grip on myself.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Attaboy.
Haze and Pete join us on the floor. They kneel in front of me, looking concerned, and I'm both embarrassed and grateful they're here. I had forgotten that about friends, that they could be a blessing and a curse at the same time. I'm not sure I'm ready for friends. It's safer to be on my own.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: But is it saner?
SEXY LADY: Shh.
I force a smile as a kind of thanks to them for being here for me. "I know we've got to return the violin," I tell them, "but—I guess I'll just say I took it. I can't tell anyone my dad took it or they'll put him away."
CRAZY GLUE: And what would they do to you, exactly? Throw you a party?
"Is that really such a bad thing for your dad?" Shelby asks. "He'd get the help he—"
I jump to my feet. "Yeah, it's a bad thing," I shout. I pace the floor. "Are you kidding me? Don't you get it? Where would I live? What would happen to us? He's all I have. I need him and he needs me. And I promised my mother that if anything ever happened to her, I'd—I'd—you don't understand." I stop pacing. I want to run. Hide. I'm scared. I'm so scared and I'm tired, just so tired of it all.
AUNT BEE: Hold on. It will be all right.
Pete stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. "I've got an idea."
The other two stand and join us.
"What? What idea?" I ask.
"What if we go to the police and say we found the violin somewhere. I mean, it's the truth. We did find it, in your father's hands maybe, but we found it."
"I don't know," I say, thinking the idea over.
Haze says, "Yeah, we could tell them we found it on a bus, or maybe in the park. We could say we were—"
"You guys are insane." Shelby clicks her teeth. "Look at you two. Haze, you've got eye makeup on and that funny-looking beard and those teardrop things, and Pete, you shave your head and look weird—no offense, guys—and besides all that, do you really think the police would believe we just found it? They'd lock us all up."
"You look pretty tame," Pete says. "And you're a girl. You could turn it in."
Shelby raises her hands and backs away. "Hey, no way."
I step forward. "Look, if anyone's going to do this, it has to be me. I couldn't let any of you risk it."
"Look, you guys," Shelby says
. "Why don't we just tell the truth? It's bound to come out, anyway. We'd all look guilty trying to pretend we took it or found it or whatever. Your father stole it; he should take the blame."
CRAZY GLUE: Could we just tape her mouth shut or something?
"No!" I shout. "Forget it. I'll take care of it. You all just go on to school. Thanks for letting me know and all." I try to herd them out into the hallway, but they don't budge.
CRAZY GLUE: Note to Jason: Nix the friends. It's not worth it.
"Hey!" Haze slaps his forehead. "Why don't we just leave it somewhere? I mean, why do any of us have to confess to anything? Just leave it and let someone else find it, right?" He looks at us. "Right?"
"That's not a bad idea." Pete smiles this devilish smile and nods. "We just have to make sure we leave it somewhere safe. And we need to be sure the person who finds it is reliable and honest. I mean, they said the violin is worth millions, so we can't just leave it sitting out anywhere."
"Yeah, you're right," I say. "Who could we trust besides the police?"
"Who says police are always trustworthy?" Shelby asks.
CRAZY GLUE: Why does she always have to be so contrary?
Haze gets this strange look in his eyes and says, "Maybe," and we all wait.
"Haze?" Pete says. "You got an idea?"
Haze studies the ceiling. "Maybe," he repeats.
Shelby punches his arm. "Maybe what?"
Haze smiles at all of us. "Maybe we could leave it with my mailman."
"What?" Shelby and I say in unison.
Haze holds up his hands. "No, hear me out, man. We've got this mailman, and he always parks his truck on the side of the road, gets out, leaves the door of the truck wide open, and then he goes walking through the neighborhood. He goes like two miles before he returns to the truck. You should see him. The dude's so loaded down with catalogs and shit. It's a riot. Anyways, the houses are all far apart and everybody works. Believe me, nobody's home. Nobody will see us."
Pete shakes his head. "Mail trucks are supposed to be locked when they're unattended. I think it's the law or a rule or something."
"Well, I'm telling you, the dude never locks it. It's wide open."
After some more discussion, we get excited about the plan. We agree that I will get the violin from my dad, and then we'll wipe the fingerprints off it, put it in a bag, and put it in the mail truck. Haze says the mail usually arrives at his house at around three thirty or a quarter to four, so we plan to meet back at my house right after school. Then we'll ride over in Haze's van and just pull up, pass the violin out through the window to the mail truck, and drive away.
After we've worked out the details of the plan, Shelby puts her hands on her hips and studies us. "Look at you guys. You're all hyped up like we're pulling off some caper for the FBI or something. We could still get in a lot of trouble. This plan isn't foolproof, you know." She glares at us with a sour expression on her face, and Haze gently pounds his fist on her head.
"Party pooper," he says.
"Well, I'm just saying."
"No fears, Socks, it's gonna work, you'll see," Haze says. He looks at his watch and heads toward the door. "Come on—let's get to school. Jason, see ya later." He opens the door and the three of them leave again.
"See you this afternoon," I call after them, hoping my voice doesn't give away my anxiety about our plans. I watch them pile into Haze's van and pull away from the curb. Then I close the door and realize I feel sad I'm not going with them—my new friends.
Chapter Fourteen
I KNOW IT'S WRONG that my dad stole this expensive violin, but I can't help wishing he could keep it. He's calmer now that he has it and I almost think he could really get well if he could just play it long enough. I believe he could play himself well. People do that, don't they? It's a kind of therapy, isn't it?
I even think I could have gone to school today, since all my dad wants to do is play. I poke my head into his room and find him standing at the window with his back to me. He doesn't even acknowledge that I'm here. He's dressed in his Greek outfit again and even from the back he looks very Greek somehow, very old country, but his long hair is all matted and instead of holding himself in the straight, proud way he always did before Mom died, he's bent, hovering over the violin protectively as he plays, as though he fears the Furies might grab it away from him. He has aluminum foil wrapped around his ears, and I feel a twinge of guilt that I've hidden the helmet.
I leave him and go down to my bedroom and look at the walls with my photographs, and I remember my conversation with Shelby.
"I did these," I say, remembering. "I like taking pictures of stones—of walls and mountains and caves and snow ... the play of light and shadow."
"You're an artist," I hear her say, as clearly as if she were right here with me, still. "You're an artist, like me."
I want to live in that moment forever. I don't want to ever step out of it. I know it's not much of anything, really, but on either side of that moment is a pile of worry and hunger and other stuff I don't want to think about, but I was full and happy and I felt...
CRAZY GLUE: Sane. The word is sane, goob.
Yeah, and normal. It's just that I shared something important about myself, and Shelby got it. I think she got it.
"You're an artist, like me," she said.
I think I have friends—real friends this time. They want to help me.
CRAZY GLUE: Careful, goob.
AUNT BEE: I've always said you needed a good friend.
SEXY LADY: And I've always said your photographs were hot.
I'm in my room, trying to catch up on some overdue homework, when I hear a bloodcurdling, hair-standing-on-end scream.
I run to my dad's room and I see blood on the window where he had been standing. I see the violin and more blood on the bed.
"Shit! Dad?"
I hear him muttering. I stoop down and look under the bed. I find him curled up in a tight ball, chanting his Furies chant. His whole body is shaking.
"Dad, what is it? What's happened?"
"Evil! A clamour of Furies'! They have torn off my fingers so I can't play." He holds his left hand out so that I can see, and his fingers are all bloody but still attached.
AUNT BEE: Well, thank goodness for small miracles.
SEXY LADY: He's crazy.
CRAZY GLUE: He's dangerous.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: He's dangerously crazy.
I don't understand what he could have done to himself, and then I remember the violin strings.
"You've been playing nonstop for hours, Dad. You've probably cut your fingers on the strings. You have no calluses, that's all. Come on—come on out and let me look at them."
"They've cut off my fingers so I can't play. They seek revenge. They won't stop the torment. How do I stop the torment? Stop it! Stop it! They want to tear me to shreds." He grabs at his hair and pulls and lets out another bloodcurdling scream.
CRAZY GLUE: Yow, mama! That's killer.
I run around to the other side of the bed so I can crawl under and grab hold of his legs and pull him out. I pull on him and Dad kicks me in the face with his boot. Blood comes gushing out of my nose.
"Ow! Jeez, oh jeez! Oh jeez!" I back out from under the bed and race to the bathroom to get some tissues and run cold water on my face to stop the bleeding. Dad keeps on screaming. I tilt my head back and press the tissues against my nose.
CRAZY GLUE: Tell me again why you won't get him help. This is crazy.
I can't lose him. He's my dad. He's all I have. And what would happen to me? Anyway, it's not really that bad. He's okay. He's doing all right.
CRAZY GLUE: Oh yeah? On what planet? FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Jason's afraid.
Shut up!
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: He's afraid he—
I cover my ears. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I'm not afraid and I'm not going crazy, if that's what you're thinking."
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: It's what you're thinking that matters.
r /> "No! Shut up!"
I catch sight of myself in the mirror with my hands over my ears.
CRAZY GLUE: That's right, goob. Next thing you know you'll be digging that helmet out from under your bed and putting it on.
No! Everybody, just shut up!
I tear out of the bathroom and storm down to my dad's room. I reach under the bed, grab his leg, and yank him out. He hits his head on the bed frame. He's still screaming and I shake him. I'm on my knees with my dad, and I'm shaking him and I can't stop.
"Just shut up, Dad! Shut up. Shut up. You've got to shut up!"
I can't stop shaking him and it takes me a few seconds to realize he's stopped screaming. Instead, tears are streaming down his face. He's staring into my eyes with this horrible, hurt look. He sees me. He knows it's me, his own son, hurting him. I stop shaking—finally I stop—and I grab him and hug him, and I cry. I cry so hard, it hurts my face. I cry and I rock my dad in my arms and I hear my mother's voice in my head. "Everything's going to be all right, Jason, I promise." But I know everything is not going to be all right. Not anymore. Not ever. She took care of that.
I rock my dad and I feel so small in this room, in this wide world, with all its people with their busy, happy lives, going to and fro—so small, and so alone.
Chapter Fifteen
I WASH MY DAD'S HANDS and put Band-Aids on his fingers. I wash the blood off the window, and wipe it very carefully off the violin, and change the bedspread, and check my nose, which looks a little red and swollen, and I try to recall a good memory of my dad.
I remember the time we hiked for a week along the Appalachian Trail. A storm came up one day and we were running for shelter. I got so tired, I didn't want to run anymore. I just sat down on the trail—sat down right in the mud.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE (ACTING AS DAD): "Come on, Jason. Climb on my back. It's not much farther."