Page 50 of Share with Me

Chapter Eighteen

The rain camedown in sheets of ice-cold water that Ivan’s cheap plastic poncho could barely hold off as he hunkered down over the handlebars, pedaling as fast as he could toward the house. What had been no more than a mile and a half of cycling now turned into a dangerous low-visibility ordeal as vehicle headlights and swerving bad drivers filled both sides of Old Demere Drive at rush hour.

What did he expect? It was five o’clock on a Friday. He could have left earlier, but the opportunity to play again and again on the violins for auction at the SISO fundraising dinner Monday night was too good to pass up.

Two violins, can you believe it?

He wasn’t sure which he preferred. The 1721 Schoenberg Stradivarius had a bold voice that filled the practice room, but the 1736 Guarneri del Gesù wanted to sing. Conductor Petrocelli had left it to Ivan to pick which one to play what. They’d agreed on two pieces, one slow and one fast, both of which Ivan could easily accomplish.

That was, if he didn’t get into an accident on the way home.

At least his borrowed Vuillaume was safely tucked away in the hard-case backpack under the plastic poncho. He was sure it was all right. He wondered when he’d be able to afford his own Vuillaume. Or Guarneri. Or Tononi.

Or even a Stradivarius.

Nah.

Never gonna happen.

When Ivan cycled onto the gravel driveway of the McMillan family home, he expelled a heavy load of relief. “Thank you, Lord! I made it home safely.”

He got off the old bike, whose wheels needed oiling, and wheeled it to the carport. He chained it, just in case, and shed his poncho. Shook it a bit and hung it over the rung of a ladder to dry.

The same porch floorboards creaked as usual when Ivan stepped on them with squishy tennis shoes soaked all the way through socks and soles. He could have taken them off but not on this porch with its splinters that he had known too well as a kid. Someday when he had more money he’d fix this entire porch. All those rotting floorboards would be gone, replaced by brand new treated pine boards that he’d stain the original color, some kind of brownish tone that Grandma Yun had picked out the last time they’d cleaned the porch.

He could see Grandpa Otto hammering down the new boards. Quincy and Ivan had helped some though most of the time they were playing and acting silly. Just keeping Grandpa company.

Ivan turned the key in the front door keyhole. He took off his wet shoes and socks before he stepped on to the linoleum foyer, chipped in places from years of heavy use. “Grandma, I’m home!”

Oh, there she is.

Coming out of the kitchen, Grandma came shuffling toward him on her walker, one cut tennis ball glide almost coming off a back wheel. He’d have to get more tennis balls for that two-wheeler.

As he watched her, Ivan realized that Grandma could barely press down on the front-wheel release button. He’d been noticing sapping strength by the week.

Lord, please sustain Grandma.

“You’re all wet, dear,” Grandma Yun remarked.

“I made it home.”

“Thank God.”

“How was tea with Brinley?”

“It went well.”

“And?” Ivan wiped some rain off his face and neck. He felt a bit chilly, but he was more curious about Brinley being here in their home. He wondered what she had thought about the house and their living conditions. Some people didn’t care, but Ivan was a bit sensitive about it since it showed his poverty more than Grandma’s. Compared to Sea Island opulence, the contrast was stark between the Brooks family home and the McMillan hole-in-the-ground.

“She asked a lot of questions about heaven.” Grandma looked like she was about to get into the details of her afternoon when she stopped abruptly. “You need to dry off, Ivan. Don’t want you to catch a cold. I’ll tell you more over dinner. Spaghetti okay with you?”

“Yum. My comfort food.”

“Whoever marries you better know how to cook spaghetti.”

“Haha, Grandma. I don’t think you need to worry about that for a very long time. I’m not marrying anytime soon.”

Ivan dropped off his violin in his basement studio before heading up two flights of stairs, two steps at a time, to his attic bedroom overlooking the live oak grove and the rest of the marshes. After a long hot shower, he donned an old sweatshirt and sweatpants, and padded downstairs.

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