For a Child in the Road
You never swerve. Not for anything. You hit the dog. Or deer. It’s better to kill it than yourself. And so, you won’t do anything when you see the violin tossed right in front of your car onto the road. You will not wrench the wheel nor even tap the brakes.
You’ll be on one of those farm roads with tight corners; there’s a telephone pole right at the bend, and a PVC cross with plastic flowers is tacked to it. You’ll creep around the turn and start pushing the car back up towards the speed where the corn rows carved into the earth flash like lines of poetry. Here, you’ll glance the gap-toothed barn, then a stern house, and a man standing by the road. You’ll see each other, and then you will see something red tossed from his hand into the road.
You’ll stiffen. But you will hit it, and it bursts under your tire.
Now cuss. Say something like, what the hell. Or, was that a fucking violin.
A woman on the porch of that nearby house will scream, but you’ll be rolling to a stop with your windows up and the heater on, and her you-goddamn-bastard won’t hit you, nor was it aimed at anyone but the man. He’ll turn and look at her and yell something back. Then he’ll walk towards you.
Nearly getting out of the car, you’ll think better of it, and crack your window instead. And though she’s still on the porch and merely whimpering or mumbling or hugging her knees and rocking or saying almost nothing at all, you will hear her.
I didn’t…, you’ll shout to the man. But you won’t know how to finish what to say.
Just a little old fiddle, he’ll say.
It didn’t sound little; you’ll compare it to a gunshot when you retell this story. Or a bomb.
He’ll kneel at your tire and run a hand along it. He’ll cock his head down to look up into your wheel well and feel it too. Then he’ll stand and say, the car’s fine.
I’m sorry, you’ll apologize. But you won’t tell that to your siblings at Thanksgiving dinner or future lovers glistening in your bed because you’ll wish you hadn’t said it. You’ll think, I should have been furious.
No, sir, he’ll say. Or no, ma’am. You did me a favor, he’ll say. Wife will be cussing me for days, but I prayed a car would come. God sent you.
He won’t tell you, but for some months now, the woman will have been bowing little cries and squawks out of the fiddle and then swaddling and cradling it. She rocks it. Sings it lullabies. Tells it that God won’t take my baby again. The man and woman will have argued. Many a time. She sleeps with the fiddle pressed to her bare breast. His soundhole suckles her while they sleep. She caresses his body. She rubs his neck. And murmurs kind words to it. Like, you’re the most beautiful boy, or you have the sweetest little heart, or I’ll love you always.
It will be dusky. And it’ll be winter soon when the shadow of that house reaches for the flat horizon. In the wind, all the corn straw around you will bristle. Soon, he’ll burn the fields. Or plow them under.
Car’s fine, praise God, he’ll say.
You’ll roll up the window and go. Maybe a couple of miles down the road, you’ll pull over and check the bumper and wheel with your glovebox flashlight and then continue towards where you’re going. Or maybe you weren’t really going anywhere anyway, and you’ll not be sure why you are driving these roads. And then, it’ll be dark.
And you’ll tell this story as if it’s one of your survival. The gravel and endless, iambic fields and a violin and woman who was touched in the head. Or she’ll have been shattered by grief; you’ll realize that’s the better version of the story. Never swerve, you’ll say. It’s better someone else’s boy than you.