The Violin Pt. 01

All characters in this story are age 18 and above. Part 1 contains no sex, but is useful for setting the context of the later installments.

*****

Kaine pushed open the door to the last compartment on the late train. Finally! He'd spent hours going through the cars, carefully nonchalant, seeking her face. Now that he found it, though, he allowed his gaze to gloss right past her. He slumped into a seat across the aisle, in a sudden pitch-black mood. Happy birthday to me, he thought. He no longer deluded himself with hopes that they might strike up a conversation—it was clear Kendra had completely erased him from her mind.

Man up, he chided himself. It really wasn't unthinkable that she wouldn't recognize him; it had been seven years, and rough ones at that. He was clawing his way out of the hole—or was it deeper in? He couldn't tell anymore. All he knew was that he wasn't on the bottom anymore. He'd risen from foot soldier to enforcer to lieutenant, and now on the outside, was a respected member of a very disreputable organization. But they had saved his ass when he had no one to watch his back, so who was he to judge?

Time had been much kinder to her. She was quite stylish, and not in the artsy way she'd been in high school. Her look now whispered money. The silky blouse and camel-colored skirt were a conservative length, but the slim cut showcased her curves, and freshly straightened hair swung down her back, emphasizing a sexier, more confident walk. Still, her smile held that same touch of vulnerability that pierced him the first time they met. Every detail of that year was seared in his memory.

***

Sunlight streamed through the window of Keith's bedroom. It was really just an uninsulated shed someone had slapped onto the side of the house decades ago, but the teen kept it immaculate. A plastic milk crate held jeans rolled up like newspapers, his faded black trench hung from a nail on the plywood wall. He squinched his eyes against the brightness, but it did no good.

"Come on, dude," he muttered, pushing himself off a pallet of old cushions, the couch they came from long gone. Yesterday his neighbor Lacy had told him school was starting. She kept him on track about these things, though she'd graduated ten years ago. He filled a bucket from a hose connection and did his morning ritual: brush teeth; wash face, pits and crotch; and hit the deodorant. He ran his fingers through thick, unnaturally black hair. A little greasy, but so what? He washed it once or twice a week at Lacy's, but he'd never make it to school on time if he stopped for a shower over there. She always found an excuse to get in.

On his way out, he stopped to check the fridge. It was a habit, like checking the coin return on vending machines and pay phones. Never anything there, but you might get lucky. Today, just a couple forlorn soldiers in a battered Natty Light case. He slipped one in his coat for lunch.

"Where the hell you think you're going?"

Keith started. He hadn't seen Ronald Everett lurking in the shadows of the dark living room.

"School, dad."

Ronald scoffed. "Pussy. When I was your age, I was making cash and getting ass."

"Yeah, dad."

"Guess you're gonna fuck off to college and turn queer."

"Yeah, dad." Keith dug out his key, unlocking the front door as fast as he could.

"What the fuck did you say?" Ronald took a few scuffling steps toward him but it was too late. Keith was on the porch and bounding down the steps. "You owe me a beer, you sonofabitch!"

Keith started up his '82 Ford Fairlane and slipped in his earbuds. Death metal filled his world. He'd bought the car working at the gas station over the summer. It was a five-mile walk both ways and a bitch in the rain, but so worth it. Keith spent weeks banging out dents, sanding off rust, painting it black and cleaning up the interior. It was still a beater, but it was beautiful to him.

He was a senior this year. It was his last year of school, and it was going to be a good year. He could feel it. Millville, New Hampshire was a blue-collar town of about 3,000 people, unremarkable except for its proximity to a state prison, a Pepsi bottling plant and a state college about 40 minutes away. Everyone ended up at one of the three. Not many at the last.

Keith was a gifted young man, but he often felt splintered in different pieces. He aced advanced classes effortlessly, but no one in those classes associated with him, or he them. He was, after all, an Everett: redneck royalty—his dad a regular at the drunk tank and both of his uncles doing hard time for murder. Keith had a reputation for the same bad temper. In middle school, he'd beaten a classmate unconscious. The little shit had started it, not knowing when to shut up about Keith's mother, but no one had listened to him, and the incident firmly secured his place amid his family's reputation. Townspeople regarded the sullen man-child in an old trench coat as a 6-foot-3 ticking time bomb.

It amazed him how many of their daughters seemed to like that. Girls like Tricia, who wore the tightest jeans imaginable and her body weight in mascara, and the cheerleaders, popular girls who wouldn't speak to him at school but developed emergencies at parties and suddenly needed a ride home. He obliged them all, and kept condoms in the glove box for just such occasions.

Keith parked his car in the school lot, then leaned against a brick wall at the front entrance, looking for a friendly face. Soon enough, he spotted one.

"Sup, Ray? Lemme get one of those."

The red-headed 17-year-old sucked his dwindling cigarette and leaned back to take an exaggerated look at Keith. Braces glinted in his mouth when he spoke, contrasting with his wispy moustache.

"Damn, man, you grow another foot since last week?" He tapped two out his soft pack, chain-lighting another for himself.

"That's what your mom said," Keith joked. He had grown four inches over the summer. Sometimes he didn't recognize the man staring back at him in the mirror.

"Thass OK," Ray talked with the cigarette tucked tightly in the corner of his mouth, something Keith greatly admired. "When you get that NBA money, remember who made you a man. Speaking of which," his eyes strayed over a clutch of freshman girls passing by.

One smiled at Keith, before reddening and glancing away. Her friends hugged in on her, giggling as they walked off.

Ray watched their retreat. "I hate to graduate this year. These are the best years of my life, goddamn! "

Keith looked unimpressed. "You sound like a dirty old man."

"You mean you ain't gonna hit that? She wants you, man."

"She's just a freshman. It's not even a challenge."

"I know! At that age, they're like Helen Keller: deaf, dumb and fine."

Keith cracked up, then stiffened as a stick-thin blonde separated from the crowd.

"Nah, man, I have enough trouble with crazy stalker bitches as it is," Keith griped.

"Where you been, Keith? I called you all last night." Tricia had a sharp voice, sharp nails and sharp eyes. With her feathered-back hair, he wondered if she was deliberately going for a bird of prey look.

"Around," he said vaguely, pushing off from the wall. "Look babe, I still have to pick up my schedule and everything. I'll get with you later. OK?"

Something of her pointiness softened. "Make sure you do," Tricia pouted. "Ray, I know you got another square for me."

Keith made it to college-prep English just before the bell rang, and Ms. Pinkerton frowned but pointed him to an assigned seat. The class was full of the same nerds and preppy kids as last year—one of the downsides to attending a small school. He was preparing to doze off when the door cracked open and an alien descended among them.

Her thick hair was pulled back into a huge afro puff, and a hand-printed looking t-shirt hugged her curvy figure. Her skin was cocoa with a dash of cayenne, like Mexican hot chocolate. Pinkerton introduced her to the class, but he barely heard her. He was too busy gawking like the rest of the idiots. Following the teacher's direction, Kendra took the seat ahead of his with a halting, "Hi." Her eyes were big, like she was unsure he would return the simple greeting.

"Hey," he returned with a small smile. "So...you new?"

"How'd you guess?" she deadpanned. Keith liked her immediately.

"If you're aiming to fit in, you're doing it wrong."

She giggled at the tall white boy with pretty eyes. "I take it you're an expert."

"Not quite," he grinned. "Besides, why the hell would you want to fit in here?"

"Mr. Everett," Ms. Pinkerton's voice sliced the air, "could you please allow our new student to pay attention? Some of us are preparing for college."

"Ouch," Kendra mumbled.

Keith spent the rest of the class studying her crown-like hairstyle and the way her brown skin shimmered with a million points of pinks, yellows, greens and blues. A thin silver chain snaked just above her collar, at the bend of her neck. What charm was lucky enough to dangle between those breasts? He suppressed a groan at the thought.

Kendra was already sitting in the chair in front of his when he jogged into Calculus II. When Mr. Wimbley directed Kendra to his table in Advanced Chemistry, Keith had already saved her a seat. Their last names, Evans and Everett, ensured their seating assignments would always be close. He hooked his foot around the chair leg, teasing her. She had to tug at it twice to pull it out. She punched his arm.

"Ow!"

"Don't be a baby, you deserve it."

Keith rubbed the bruise under his coat sleeve, a souvenir from his dad's latest binge.

"Hello to you, too."

They talked more in the lab, and after the last bell Keith walked with Kendra to her locker, ignoring a few stares in the hallway. Kendra and her parents had moved to blue-collar Millville from Concord. Even New Hampshire's capital city didn't have many black people, but in Millville, she, her mom and her dad doubled the town's African-American population. Missy, Tricia's best friend, scowled as they passed.

"Fan of yours?" Kendra asked.

"Not anymore. We should get together and study sometimes, since we have so many classes together," Keith said. He leaned over her, scrutinizing her reaction. He hoped she was down to mess around.

Kendra took her time packing her book bag. "Okay," she said after a time. "Maybe at the library? But not tonight. We have family plans and my dad is kind of strict."

Keith smiled; those were the best ones. "At least let me ride you home."

She quirked her brow at his intentionally dirty phrasing. "If you mean give me a ride, sure."

"What else would I mean?" Keith passed Ray by the doors and nodded to Ray's low thumbs-up.

In the parking lot, he led the way to the matte-black Ford, opening the passenger door for her.

"Fancy," she remarked, sliding onto the canvas seat cover. As they drove to the outskirts of town, Swedish death metal blasting, Keith stole glances at her from the corner of his eye. He thought the music would shock her, but she seemed to be fighting laughter. Finally, he cut the volume.

"What's so funny?"

"He said, 'God is a pig-fucker,'" Kendra giggled. "You know you're into heavy shit when your god fucks pigs."

"You speak Swedish? How?" he asked in disbelief.

"We go skiing there almost every year. I've picked some up."

"Nerd!" he coughed into his hand. He turned onto a private road.

"Not saying you're a stalker or anything, but how do you know the way to my house?"

"Everybody knows this house." Keith pulled into the demi-lune driveway and whistled. "Now, who's fancy?"

A modern, impressive work of steel and stone, the home stood out from the farmhouses in the area as a masculine, yet elegant work of art. The house had taken two years to build, with the whole town speculating what the new, rich neighbors would be like. It shocked them all to see a black family move in.

"My dad designed it," Kendra said. "He's opening a branch of his firm near State, but he always wanted a country house. That—" she jabbed a finger toward the structure — "is the entire reason I'm in this charming little burg."

"Moving senior year's gotta suck. I know your boyfriend was sad," Keith fished.

Kendra rolled her eyes. Having a boyfriend requires a dad who doesn't turn psycho when I'm around the opposite sex, she thought. "Yeah," she said aloud.

Keith slowed to a stop and her parents came out on the porch. Damn, they were strict. Kendra unsnapped her seatbelt, but stayed seated for a second.

"Well, thanks for the ride."

"You're welcome. Should I meet your folks?"

Kendra looked unsure. "Uhh, okay."

They approached the porch.

"Mom, Dad, this is Keith, from school. I missed the bus so he gave me a ride today."

Mr. Evans was a tall, light-skinned man in his mid-50s, and impressively built around the shoulders. Kendra's mom was the opposite, short and dark and very attractive, with a neat, very low haircut that accentuated her fine bones.

"It's nice to meet you, Keith," Mrs. Evans said, ushering Kendra into the house.

Mr. Evans only grunted. The women barely got in the door before Mr. Evans slammed it in his face. "Kinda strict" was an understatement.

Kendra's parents carefully balanced her life to consist of academics, cultural activities and philanthropic interests. She volunteered at a women's shelter twice a month and interned every summer at a prestigious Chicago law firm where one of her mom's college pals was a partner. At 18, she'd been through four passport books. Her parents-especially Mr. Evans-tried to give her a wide exposure to the world while protecting her from most of its ills. Kendra's dad was a dragon, his black princess guarded, guided and carefully monitored. And he wanted no white knights at the gate.

***

"I swear to God, one of these days I'm going to fucking kill him."

Kendra barely recognized the voice at the other end of the line. It was a warm spring night, and she'd passed out after a couple hours of capoeira practice.

"Keith, what happened?"

"What happened?" Keith's laugh was a hard snort. "Thursday happened. MGD happened. What d'you think happened?"

"How bad is it?"

"It hurts to cough or pee, but I'll live." Keith laughed a little, but that hurt, too. "The old bastard's getting soft. He practically passed out mid-swing." Suddenly, the anger drained out of Keith's voice. "I'm so tired. When he wants to push me around, there's no way out. If he wants to hit something, he hits something. It doesn't even matter." His voice was strained. "I didn't do shit, Kendra. I didn't."

"I know you didn't, babe. It's not your fault." Kendra felt so helpless. For months, she'd been a listening ear, but she couldn't see a way out of Keith's hellish life without breaking the silence.

Keith's body was a map of constant brutality: white scars, ugly yellow bruises and raw, red fist prints. He was young and strong, but his father was a mean drunk, and years of jail stints had made him a vicious fighter. Over the months, she'd seen a pattern emerge in the cycle of abuse, and the timing of this latest beating left her shaking with anger.

"It's the scholarship. You've got the interview Saturday with the William Mead board. That's what set him off."

"Ohh, right. I forgot about that."

"Every time something important comes up, he finds a reason to fuck with you. Mid-term exams, the SATs, now the scholarship board. Why does he hate it so much when you do well?"

"Because 'school's for pussies,' and if I'm going to run off to college and be a faggot he won't have anybody saying I learned it at home. I can't take this shit anymore, Kendra. One of these days, I'm going to blow his fucking head off."

"Just hold on," she begged. "You're almost at the finish line. Two more months and we'll be traveling the world. And then we go to State in the fall. You'll never have to see him again."

Against his will, Keith was drawn into Kendra's story, a familiar fairy tale she recounted whenever things seemed too hard to take. A smile peeked out, despite his split lip. "Where are we going, again?"

Kendra warmed to her favorite topic. "First, we'll head out to California. We'll camp in Redwood National Forest and see those huge, tall trees, big enough to drive through. Then we'll drive down the coast and see the wild seals of Big Sur. And you'll love L.A. You haven't lived until you had Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles."

"Chicken and waffles? That sounds crazy," he laughed.

"Oh, my melanin-challenged friend, you just don't know; your mouth is about to experience a life-changing event."

"Then where?" Keith glanced at his watch, 1:14 a.m., and tried to get more comfortable on the wooden porch. It was hot in his small house, and while his dad had passed out after his earlier rage, Keith's nerves were still jangled. He turned gingerly on the splintery deck, favoring his battered ribs, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Without Kendra, he didn't think he could bear it.

"Then we'll drive through Arizona and see the adobe villages and the mountains. The red rocks of West Texas, then New Orleans. Jazz bars, cemetery tours, crawfish etouffee—"

"Crawfish who?"

"Look, don't ask questions, just put it in your mouth."

"I've been saying that for months," he teased.

"Great, next time I need to floss, I'll call you. Anyway, I was thinking we'd take a flatboat down the bayou. You should be able to understand patois. It's just like French, and since you're the expert—"

"French II, big whoop."

"The only thing worse than egoism is fake modesty. You tested out of it for college, so enough, brainiac." Kendra's giggle morphed into a yawn.

"Takes one to know one," Keith replied softly. He shifted on his pallet, listening Kendra's breaths deepen over the phone. She was dozing. He pictured her on her back with her eyes closed, cushioned by clouds of dark hair, all candy bar skin, full breasts and soft lips. She was different from most everyone he'd ever known. He tried not to think about her when he was with other girls, but it was hard. They never read, hadn't been anywhere, didn't have stories to tell or hips curved perfectly for grabbing ahold of. He would've given anything to be there with her in the dark.

But there were a thousand barriers to that, the biggest of which was probably her dad. Mr. Evans protected Kendra like a junkyard dog. He didn't like Keith's dyed-black hair, his banged-up Ford Fairlane, his white trash family or his audacity in befriending Kendra.

But they'd grown together as only outcasts can. She'd gotten him into reading about Native American revolutionaries, since he claimed a bit of heritage, and he had her listening to metal. They talked on the phone nightly and he was dropping her home every day.

That's how she figured out the abuse. After a while, he'd simply run out of lies for the tender bruises and sprained arms. She'd confronted him, but still cried when he first admitted it; angry, silent tears. It was a mystery to him that she would be so affected.

"Does anyone else know?" she'd asked.

"Everybody knows," he answered. "But you can't mess it up by reporting me."

The situation at home was near unbearable, but removal from his home would mean school interruptions, loss of freedom and maybe even jeopardize his scholarship chances. At least when his dad wasn't swinging on him, he could do whatever the hell he pleased.

"I'll keep quiet," Kendra agreed, "but on one condition. We take pictures; we document your injuries. Starting tomorrow."

The next day, he walked past her living room for the first time. Her parents were out at dinner, and they were in her bedroom. Kendra seemed nervous, though she tried mightily to hide it.

"Do you want to do homework?"