He needed a better practice mute, he told himself again. He’d pick one up once he made his first $200. He shuffled the pages around until she left. Then he just read and reread the music until he fell asleep, imagining how amazing it would be, playing in a wedding—a real wedding.
By Saturday morning, the twelve pieces of music were creased and parts were almost illegible with handling. His fingertips thrummed with anticipation. He took out the polish that Aiden loaned him, rubbed it vigorously on the violin’s body to try to clear off decades of rosin buildup. By the time he’d finished, his right hand was sticky and white with the rosin. He was so determined to make a good impression that he even polished the back of the violin, though no one would actually see it.
He wiped his hands on the edge of his bed, leaving a smear of rosin behind.
Now for the suit: black slacks, stiff white shirt, black tie. He looked at himself in the mirror. Damn, he looked good. People might think he was the one getting married.
As he took his cereal bowl back to the kitchen, his mom came out of her room. “Why you so dressed up?”
“I’m playing that wedding today, remember?”
“I told you. I’m not giving you a ride.”
“I know. I took care of it.” He put the bowl in the sink and retreated to his room to grab his jacket and his violin case, dashing outside as Aiden showed up. Right on time.
At 11:15—fifteen minutes early—they pulled up to the wedding venue. Ray had passed this place dozens of times, but never thought that the wrought-iron gates would stand open and welcoming for him; that the tall brick pillars, weathered a soft pink, would allow him to enter.
At the top of the drive, people were getting out and heading up the walkway to the front door. Aiden pulled up behind them. “You go on in, I’ll park and meet you around back.”
“Okay, cool.” Ray grabbed his violin case and headed up the sidewalk, lined with huge gray ceramic vases, from which ivy and roses poured. The house was even more daunting up close—it seemed to go on forever. He was really doing this.
Slightly ahead of him, a young couple and a young woman were dressed in their Sunday best—the young man in a navy-blue suit, the women both in minidresses. Their wedding gifts, wrapped in silver, sparkled.
“Hi,” he said.
The people smiled with their lips, their eyes not meeting his. The man—blond and blue-eyed—rang the doorbell.
This was it, his first paying gig. He was on his way to the big time. He’d hand his mother the crisp twenty-dollar bills and she’d look up at him and smile and hug him. Maybe they’d even give him two $100 bills.
The door knocker was enormous, ornate, fashioned in the shape of an open-mouthed lion. Was it brass? Gold? He couldn’t wait to tell his mom about this place. She wouldn’t believe it.
He was about to take a photo, to prove it to her, when a tall man with a foamy white beard and a speckled bald head opened the door. He looked at all of them, looked twice at Ray.
“Hey, Uncle Roger!” said the young woman next to him, a redhead with heels so high Ray didn’t know how she could even walk. “You look fantastic!” She offered him her cheek.
Uncle Roger was wearing a tuxedo. Ray had never seen a tuxedo up close. Could Ray take a picture of the tuxedo, too? He was a big dude. Probably a football player thirty years ago. “Melanie,” Uncle Roger was saying, “We didn’t think you were going to make it. Sara will be thrilled that you’re here.”
Ray waited for the man to turn to him. Instead he said to the couple, “Mike. Ellie. So glad you could come today. Come on in, everyone is in the living room for drinks and hors d’oeuvres.” Uncle Roger leaned to one side and the three entered, Melanie teetering in on her heels.
Ray was next.
“May I help you?” Uncle Roger stepped out of the doorway.
“Hi, I’m here for the wedding.”
Uncle Roger looked Ray up and down. “Whose wedding?”
“I’m playing for your wedding,” Ray explained.
“I’m sorry, you are…？”
Ray kept his smile fixed in place. “I’m Ray McMillian. Playing for the service.”
“Hold on a minute.” Uncle Roger stepped back through the door, partially closing it. Ray could still hear him. “Anne, could you come here?”
Aiden was nowhere in sight. A few more cars had pulled up: new guests with new presents. The conversation on the other side of the door was still unspooling.
“Well, who is he?” Uncle Roger was saying.