* * *
—
Almost three weeks after Ray arrived in Georgia, Aunt Rochelle came upstairs with Grandma Nora’s lunch. Ray was sitting by her bed. “Mama,” Aunt Rochelle said loudly. “Time for lunch. Made you some fresh tomato soup. I know how you like your tomato soup.”
“I can feed it to her,” he said, taking the bowl.
Grandma Nora opened her eyes, smiled at him.
“Tomato soup,” he said, lifting the spoon to her mouth. She kept her mouth closed, just smiled at both of them.
“Don’t you feel like eating?” he asked.
“No, baby. I don’t think so. Not today.”
“Now you eat that soup,” Aunt Rochelle told her. “It’s your own recipe and I know how you like it. Joyce made it for you special.”
“In a little while then,” Grandma Nora said.
“Okay,” Ray said. “I’ll put it right here until you feel like eating.”
“How about I get you some tea,” Aunt Rochelle suggested. “We have a fresh pot, and it has honey in it. Good for your immune system. I’ll be right back.”
When Ray and his grandmother were alone, she smiled at him even more broadly, struggled to lift the arm with the IV in it, brushed her fingers against his cheek. He reached for her hand as she caressed his face. “Baby, one of the best things that I’ve ever been able to do is to say how proud I am of you. You always bring a smile to my face. You’ve stayed so sweet, even when you’re sad. That’s why I love you so much.”
Ray was about to speak and lay her arm down when she sighed, the sound loud in the room, deep, as if she were expelling air from the very depth of her being. “Promise me something?” Her breathing got heavy, growling, a deep rumble.
“Of course,” he said. “Grandma, you okay?”
“Promise me you’ll always stay that sweet boy Grandma loves so much, okay?” The rattle in her chest grew louder.
“Okay. Of course.” He went to the doorway. “Aunt Rochelle? Hey, Aunt Joyce? Can you come in here a sec?”
They were there immediately, Aunt Rochelle clutching the teacup.
“Sit me up, baby.”
Ray knew what was happening. She wanted to be ready when it was time for her to go home. “Can somebody do something?” Ray said. His voice came out as a squeak.
Aunt Joyce and Aunt Rochelle were blocking his view of her. “Mama?” Aunt Joyce was saying, leaning over and holding Grandma Nora’s hand.
“Mama,” she said again, but this time it wasn’t a question.
The new silence in the room crashed around him.
Chapter 12
Authentication
14 Months Ago
Dr. Stevens pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking. “So the Italian connection certainly adds to the possibility that this is a Strad. Although it’s hard to imagine a nineteenth-century plantation owner giving an expensive violin like this to a freed slave,” she mused.
“I always wondered if he was actually PopPop’s biological father,” Ray said.
“Still,” she said. “It’s hard to believe. Which is why we’re going to New York, to an expert,” she said, standing up. “Let’s get the violin.”
* * *
—
Jacob Fischer smiled when they entered, lifting an off-white case with black leather trim—a Tonareli fiberglass case, which easily cost $300—onto the counter. Ray had never seen a case like that in person before. He pulled it toward him. The case felt empty, as if it were filled with air, or filled with light.
Gingerly he folded back the emerald-colored top cloth, revealing a violin that was at once familiar and utterly, staggeringly, the most beautiful object he’d ever seen. His great-great-grandfather’s fiddle was unrecognizable. The beat-up old body, coated with decades of Good Luck Dust, had been buffed to a deep fiery orange. The cheap plastic tailpiece had become an ornately hand-carved ebony work of art. The bridge was handcrafted and placed perfectly beneath the strings. Every crack, every scar, had vanished. Jacob had taken ebony pegs and ornamented each tip with mother-of-pearl. The back was perfectly polished, the red and orange glowing like sunrise.
Dr. Stevens was smiling more than he’d ever seen her smile, and her eyes were bright.
“Why don’t you play it a little?” Jacob said. “Check out the improvements. See if you can tell the difference.”
Ray played two notes, and stopped. He couldn’t breathe.
The sound was unlike anything he’d ever heard before: the notes more resonant, as if reaching into the marrow of his bones. He drew in a shaky breath. He realized he was crying, but couldn’t even wipe away his tears. What a gift his grandmother had given him. How would he ever be worthy? Promise me you’ll always stay that sweet boy Grandma loves so much. He promised her again, right then, that he would keep working twice as hard. To make her proud.