Lydia

Cigarettes and Fiddles

     Daniel once told me that his father hit him. He ran to me one day, after sunset, and held onto me. His eyes were large and full of tears as he spat out words I couldn't understand. Slowly, I got to the ground, in the same place he and I met every night, and placed his head on my lap. I'd seen Mamma do it countless times with the younger children and I figured it must help.

     "He's not wakin' up, Lyd," he tried his best to explain. "I hit him real hard and he fell," he continued, beginning to gasp between words, "and he ain't wakin' up!"

     That's when I noticed the scratches and bruises lining his arms, the blood already dried. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't. He was thirteen then and had been through more than I could ever imagine.

     I didn't see Daniel again for a few weeks. But when I finally did, I knew deep in my heart that he wasn't the same. He hardly said two words to me after informing me that, "he ain't dead." I knew it was a sin, but I wished that his father had died right then. Mainly because I knew that Daniel wished for it too.

     Things began to change over time. I very rarely heard him laugh or get excited over anything like a young boy should. But I worked around it and I felt like I was special because I was the only person he talked to.

     He never went back to normal.

     That is until now.

     I watch the back of his head as he nods to people in the town, his hands comfortable in their pockets and his feet crossing lazily as he walks. Even from here I can see the side of his lip turned up in a genuine grin.

     Trying my best to keep up with him, I run a tiny bit until I'm side-by-side with the tall young man. The corners of his eyes crinkle, a result of the smile, and he looks down at me with a playful question on his face.

     "What?" he asks. "Why you lookin' at me all funny?"

     I shrug my shoulders and look down at my feet to avoid answering. To focus on something else I move my gaze to the town. It looks as dead and dry as ever. Trees that frame either side have reached the point where they've been exposed to so much heat, all their leaves break off. The intensity has plunged them into an early fall state.

     Dust billows up into the air underneath the hooves of horses, or tires of automobiles that nobody around here could afford. Everyone is still tucked away peacefully in their homes, excepting the shop owners and police officer.

     We only have one officer and it took a long night of arguing and liquor to get him. Now that we have him, we're not so sure we need him. He stands in the same position, moving his eyes back-and-forth in the same time intervals.

     I skim over the handful of different shops, all identical to the last time I saw them. A drug store, barber shop, beauty salon, and the one on the very end, a general store. The general store is where I work. Or where I hope to work again.

     A soft fiddle starts to play, and my head turns in the direction of the source. The town hillbilly, Rooster, sits on the sidewalk with the instrument tucked neatly under his chin. We call him the town hillbilly, because if he isn't the town hillbilly, that means my daddy is. Mamma refuses to let the title gain a place among our family.

     I walk further-and-further into town, ignoring my surroundings so that I can focus on the music. At a certain point during his song, I swear I can see orbs of light emitting from his bow.

     He cuts the music short and snaps his eyes up to mine, tossing his hand in the air as a hello.

     "Yer really good on that thang," I compliment, clasping my hands in front of my dress.