Chapter 12.

(Peggy Hughes-O'Brien. Friday, October 13th, 1978; University Heights, Ohio.)

Oblivious to the Cultural Gardens flashing past the AMC Matador’s passenger-side window, Peggy O’Brien-Martin cradled her violin, deep in thought. She shivered, hugging herself, afraid to bring up what she saw, uncertain of what was real versus imagined.

Her grandmother’s uncanny “Spidey sense” kicked in, though. As she steered through the heavy evening traffic along Liberty Boulevard, she glanced at Peg, sidelong, asking, “You okay, Peggy Bear?”

Peggy sighed and her heart raced, fear and confusion helping the stagefright tie her belly into knots. “It’s… About Gramps. What…” She could not say what she meant, which frustrated her.

Gram stopped behind a line of cars at the traffic circle, turning her round, rouged, blue-eyed face, granting Peg the full force of her attention. Her smile warmed Peg, making her feel safe, though still confused. Grams said, her voice soft and sing-song, “I know you overheard us. It’s unavoidable, little people having the biggest ears.”

Peg sat, tongue-tied and caught. Behind them, a horn honked, and Grams edged forward two car lengths.

As usual, Grams read her mind. “Well, what did you hear? It’s okay to listen.”

A weight lifted from her heart, and tears welled her eyes, like a genie rushing from an unstoppered bottle. “Is Gramps in trouble with the cops, going to prison?”

Gram laughed as she eased forward, now first in line, waiting as traffic flashed by, and she merged into a narrow gap before gunning it, joining the swirl of traffic that had always both awed and intimidated the eleven-year-old. “No. Well, probably not. Anyway, here’s the scoop, kiddo. He had a fight with someone at work and broke his nose. The police want to ask about the fight, nothing more.”

Peggy liked it when adults leveled with her, so she breathed deep. “That why they ruined Gramps’s truck?”

Gram nodded.

Peg’s heart raced. She knew about fighting, watching the boys dust-up over dumb stuff during recess. Nuns handled them with detentions, and maybe spankings for the instigators. She assumed the police would be no different. “He didn’t start it, did he?”

Grandma laughed a deep, lyrical belly laugh. “Deary, no. You know your Gramps. He looks hard, but he’s like an M and M, crunchy on the outside, melty chocolate inside.”

Peggy grinned. That was him. “But he is tough, right? He won?”

Grams nodded, easing to a stop at a red light. “Yes, if you can win a fight outright. He hurt his hand. And he’s a little worried about the police.” She motioned towards the back seat, where Ben and Ted slept. “And since we’d hate to have those two see Gramps hauled away in handcuffs, he’s sleeping at Uncle Paul’s tonight.”

“Now I get it.” Thoughtful, Peggy ran the incidents through her mind. “What about the bad words on his truck?”

Gram shook her head, her attention flashing full onto Peg before returning to the road. “There’s hateful people in this world, Peggy Bear. People who think because a man’s Black, he’s less. UnChristian and sinful, seems to me, folks being folks, but some prefer ignorance to the light of Jesus.”

Peggy’s heart swelled, proud of him. “He’s like my Mom, then?” She idolized her mother, who worked as a Freedom Rider, placing her education on hold to register colored people to vote despite the danger.

Gram giggled. “Um, a little, in his own way, but DON’T tell him. His head would swell like a pumpkin.” Gram tapped on the brakes, signaling to enter the Severance Hall parking lot. “Plus, where your mother’s smart and civil, your grandfather’s more dumb blood and guts. Though the loveable old coot will rush in where the angels fear treading… Dumb, but brave.”

Peg’s heart and blood steeled, proud of her grandfather. He WAS a loveable coot AND a hero, a warrior, fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. A real-life Superman.

Her thoughts shifted. “Why do people feel like that? About Black people, I mean.”

Gram eased into a parking spot designated for orchestra members and snorted while fishing a parking pass from her purse. “Who knows? I guess to feel bigger, they gotta make someone else smaller.”

Peg nodded as Gram placed the pass on the dashboard, and said, “Makes sense, Grams.”

Gram cleared her throat, pulling Peggy close, pushing the bangs from her granddaughter’s eyes. “That help, kiddo?”

Peggy nodded. “Thanks,” she said, because Gram had explained MOST things.

Behind Gram, Ben stirred in the rear seat. Gram opened the door and dragged him free. Peggy followed suit, laying the black violin case on the passenger seat to get Ted, still sleeping, but Gram said, “I’ll get him. Just grab your violin and go. You only got ten, twelve minutes, don’t want to be late. Early birds catch worms.”

Peggy glanced at her watch and gasped. Gram was right. So she snagged the violin and scurried towards Severance Hall’s entrance, wondering if Gram knew what she knew, or saw what she saw.

Did Gram know Gramps had wings, wielded a flaming sword, and wore robes, which looked ridiculous with his Army boots? Well, if you squint the right way…

Did Gram see the broken skeletons in black leather Hell’s Angels jackets that littered the back yard and street? Or the scattered remnants of statues covered with graffiti? Or the immense crater in the backyard that reminded Peggy of the images she’d seen in her history books of Hiroshima?

That was true, what she saw. Maybe. But only when she squinted. So it may be just her imagination….

Unsure, she climbed the stairs at the front of the hall, which funneled dozens of young musicians hauling their instruments, scrambling to beat the clock. She joined the throng, greeting the now-familiar faces from every corner of the Greater Cleveland area as they rushed towards the stage where several musicians already sat in their places. Most were tuning their instrument to the tone, A-440, being piped through the speakers, while others ran through errant strains of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and Appalachian Spring, pieces they’d be playing.

Her mouth went dry, looking out at the empty seats, realizing they’d soon fill. Not only with parents, grandparents, family, and friends, but classical music buffs, and writers from the papers.

And maybe even TV?

Gulp!

Butterflies fluttering in her belly, Peggy shed her coat and removed the violin from its case, handing coat and case to the performer’s coatroom attendant, who smiled, handing Peggy a claim check ticket and telling her not to lose it. Eight minutes early by her watch, Peggy settled into her chair, removing the watch and placing it into her blazer pocket, and began tuning.

A black saxophone player approached her, dressed like he’d walked off the stage of Soul Train: sunglasses, platform shoes, porkpie hat, bell bottoms, and a wild-colored tie. He looked out of place until she realized the man was like the crater, bones, and shattered statues in her backyard: simultaneously real and imagined.

The man glowed and winked, gesturing to the stage.

He mouthed, ‘Break a leg.’

He glowed brighter.

He grew huge.

He kissed the sky.

And Peggy’s tuning hit A-440.