Laura Rodley, a Pushcart Prize winner, has been nominated for the prize seven times and has also received five Best of the Net nominations. Her recent works include Turn Left at Normal (published by Big Table Publishing Company), Counter Point (published by Prolific Press), and Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children (published by Kelsay Books). With a talent for capturing the essence of life, Rodley’s writing resonates with readers of all ages. Whether exploring the natural world or delving into human emotions, her words evoke a sense of wonder and connection. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PClY8G6HQwk
Full Speed
By Laura Rodley
Holding tight to the handle of her violin case, she glanced up at the dark storm clouds. Railroad authorities had already canceled her train twice due to ice on the railroad tracks, but she couldn’t miss today’s trip, the last day for her to arrive in New York City for her audition tomorrow.
“Hurry up: storm’s coming, two feet of snow coming. If we don’t get a move on, we’ll have to cancel the train, and wait in Albany,” bellowed the conductor.
“I must get to New York.”
“Meeting your young man?”
“No, I’m having an audition at Julliard,” Alva blushed. The conductor sounded just like her mother, always bothering her about not having boyfriends, that she wasn’t getting any younger, and here, her birthday was only yesterday; she’d turned eighteen, and she was far too busy to date.
“Congratulations,” the conductor looked for more luggage.
“I’ve got it,” she lifted a small yellow suitcase with pale ocher Bakelite handles. She should let him carry her suitcase, because lifting wasn’t good for her hands, but she was wound too tight, wanted not to lose anything, to be ready, excel, win her scholarship. Her mother wanted her to be a nurse, which was steady work, but Alva fainted at the sight of blood. How could she be a nurse?
Her mother had so many plans for her, but Alva was sticking to hers. She had practiced, her music teacher relentless, packed her resin, her bow, her sheet music. Wait; she couldn’t remember repacking the sheet music. Sitting on her rough upholstered seat without taking off her coat, she took off her gloves, clicked open the suitcase, praying she’d see the leather folder packed on top so the folder wouldn’t get bent. It wasn’t there.
The train shuddered, snow sliding off the outside windows, conductor standing at her door, “Tickets please.”
“I’ve forgotten it.”
“You’ll have to get off next station, buy one then, miss. Can’t ride for free.”
“No, here’s my ticket,” she pulled it from her purse. “I meant I’ve forgotten my sheet music. I must have it to prove that I wrote it, signed by my music teacher. I have to play an original piece, prove it’s not plagiarized.”
“Not sure I know what that means,” he punched her ticket, his palms pink against dark skin.
“That I’m not using a piece of music written by someone else, saying I wrote it.”
“That you’re not stealing it,” the conductor grinned. “Now I get it.”
“More or less. My audition is tomorrow at 10a.m. and there’s no way for my mother to send it to me.”
“Couldn’t your music teacher call them, swear you’re telling the truth?”
“He’s at his mother’s funeral, in Iowa, so I can’t bother him. Plus, it’s a toll call, too expensive.” She would not admit to him that she could not afford a toll telephone call, that most people on her street didn’t even have a telephone. Every penny was spoken for.
“You’ll think of something. Dinner’s at 6p.m. in the dining car, five cars ahead. Next stop is right after that, if you decide you have to go back home.”
“Thank you,” Alva turned her head, snow briskly whiting out the town. She held her violin case in her lap, its hard, sturdy construction with red velvet lining bringing comfort but no answers.
She hadn’t planned to take the violin out, but she was alone in her compartment. Her mother had demanded she book a sleeping car, not sleep upright all night with strangers, even if it was expensive. She set the violin under her chin, its amber polished wood so much like her hair, her father had teased, played her melody, which brought some comfort. She needed comfort since he had died in April, her mother wanting her to go to work full time to support them. While she trained as a nurse at night. She wasn’t selfish like her aunt kept repeating, a selfish girl for putting her violin playing before helping her mother out. That wasn’t true. She’d earned her fare money by babysitting, and playing at weddings. People loved her fiddling, dance music, even though her music teacher said that was a waste of her talent. People twirling, smiling, making them happy.
Yes, she’d just turned eighteen, only yesterday, yet she’d been making people happy for three years, playing whenever she could. The piece she wrote was part fiddling, part classical. Her music teacher called it too risky. She had placed both pieces in her folder, the safe classical piece she’d written, and the risky one, inside the piano bench where the sheet music went; she was a good girl, and tidied up the way her mother taught her: perfectly. She wasn’t selfish, she’d prove Aunt Jude wrong, she was talented, and her talent could put bread on the table. She’d proved it, earning her expensive train ticket, the money to pay her music teacher, nudging angry tears from her eyes.
Someone knocked on the compartment door. “Hello little girl, that’s mighty fine playing,” a short but wide man she thought she knew laughed, taking an unlit cigar out of his mouth, but stayed firmly outside in the hallway.
She recognized his voice from his parts in movies. “Louis Armstrong?”
“In the flesh. What’s this, Cosmos telling me you didn’t bring your music with you, and you’re on your way to an audition and you can’t contact your music teacher? That you’re going to have to turn around and risk missing your audition?”
“I left the sheet music home, and he’s at his mother’s funeral.”
“Man, that bites. Why don’t you play your piece for me, right now? I’ll listen, write a note that you wrote it.”
“Would you?”
He nodded. “Ain’t got all day, honey chile, go on. Play.”
She settled the violin under her chin, thought of her father, tapping his feet on the wooden floor as she fiddled, then segued into the classical ending, five minutes exactly.
“You’re already a star, chile, don’t let anyone tell you different, ever. Now tell me your name.”
Taking a diminutive notebook out of his jacket pocket, he wrote a note on lined paper, signed it, handed it her.
“Now you’re alright. Good night,” he started walking back down the aisle of the railway car, tapping his unlit cigar.
“Thank you. Oh, thank you,” Alva folded the note up and put it in her purse, held her violin tight against her and watched the snow as it began to snow heavier outside the window.
The Galway Review 