Fiddler | Page 2

at
all. Not then, nor ever again neither."
"What about his hand?"
"I-I-I--"
"Dammit, Harnie," I said. "Don't get all riled. I'm telling it."
Harnie blushed and nodded.
"Well, me and Harnie just sat there watching her -- heck, we wasn't
moving no more than she was. We sat there all afternoon, watching
folks not see her."
"They st-still don't, m-mostly," Harnie said.
"Come nightfall, Harnie and I was just about fit to bust. We walked up
to her, as close as close can be."

"H-h-heard her b-breathe."
"Yeah," I said. "I reached out and nudged her shoulder, but she didn't
move. Then Harnie laid his hand on hers, the one she had wrapped
round the neck of the cello."
"But she still didn't move," the stranger said.
"Right," I said. "She didn't move no matter what we did. Finally,
though, Harnie reached down and plucked one of the strings. Just a
little pluck like. Just to see." Boy, my mouth was dry, rain or no rain.
"Reach me a soda, would ya mister?"
He went over to the cooler and grabbed three Big Shot pineapple sodas.
He handed one to me and slid another over to Harnie. Then he reached
inside his vest again and laid a fiver on the counter. "My treat," he said.
"Thanks," I said.
He popped the top and took a pull at the soda. "Ahh," he sighed in
satisfaction. "I've missed this. Can't get 'em where I been."
"Where you from?" I asked.
"Round here," he said. "But I been away."
"Whereabouts?"
He smiled then, a sad smile. "What happened when Harnie plucked that
string?"
I took a pull at the soda. "Not sure I can explain it. It was just a little
plunk, like. One quiet little note. You couldn't hardly hear it. But that
sound cut me to the heart." I took another pull at my soda. "I can still
hear it. I lay in bed, nights, staring at the ceiling, listening to it."
"And Harnie's hand?"
"Harnie's hand... well, it just lit up. At first it was like he was holding a

flashlight to his palm. Then it was shining, painful bright, till finally it
was showering sparks like a Roman candle. Didn't smell like it was
burning or nothing, though. It smelled like, I don't know..."
"Flowers," Harnie whispered.
"And all the time that fountain of light was eating away his hand,
Harnie was laughing. Just laughing."
"Didn't it hurt?" the stranger asked.
"Flowers," Harnie whispered again.
"And nobody even noticed!" I said. "They'd just walk right past us --
Harnie's hand spitting a rooster-tail of sparks ten foot over our heads --
and they'd say 'howdy, boys' without a second glance. We both stood
there staring at Harnie's arm till the stump sizzled out, and quite a spell
longer too. Finally we headed home."
"What did your folks say about Harnie's arm?"
"Our daddy been gone since we was babies. And Mama acted like
Harnie ain't never had but the one arm."
"Ev-ev'rybody," Harnie said.
"Sure," I said. "We asked Doc Harrison, he said Harnie was born that
way. Pretty soon we stop asking. And they see the lady sit there, day in,
day out, but don't think nothing of it."
Stranger drained his soda. "That's quite a tale."
"Ain't no tale," I said angrily. "It's the God's honest truth."
He locked eyes with me. "I believe you," he said. And I could see he
did.
"Okay, then," I said.

"I'll ask one last time," the stranger said. "Take me to her."
I looked at Harnie, and his face had that look.
"All right," I said.
It was raining hard by now, but I didn't mind. I locked up the station
and we piled into his Buick. There was plenty room for all of us up
front. It was only three blocks to the little park downtown. I wished it
was longer; I coulda rode all day in that gorgeous antique Roadmaster.
It rode like a dream.
He pulled up to the curb right next to her bench. Then he climbed out
and, without even glancing over at her, walked around to the trunk.
While he was rummaging around back there, Harnie and I walked over
to the lady. She was so beautiful. So quiet.
Then, with three quick snick-snacks of clasps flipping open on a case,
the man pulled a National Steel guitar from the trunk. He walked over,
sat down beside the woman, and settled the guitar in his lap. He
reached out and ran one calloused fingertip along her cheek.
She sighed, and opened her eyes. They were green, just like I
remembered.
"Sorry I'm late," the stranger said, and from his vest pocket pulled out a
pick.
Story copyright © 2001 H. Courreges LeBlanc
The story "Fiddler" by