The Mandolin Player

Abstract

FICTION The Mandolin Player Victor M. Depta We were in the truck headed down Winchester toward Greenup. "You didn't have to go to so much trouble, son," Mom said. "Renting a hall and everything." "No trouble," I said. "It's not every day you have a birthday." What was in my mind, though, was that she might not have many birthdays left, not that she was ancient, but she was getting older. And I would be leaving soon. My year in Huntington was about up. Of course my sister Nancy was griping about the trouble we went through, renting the VFW hall. She complained about the fee, which came out of my pocket, anyway, and bitched about the band not showing. "Best Bluegrass in Eastern Kentucky," she said. "But at least Earl's coming." "Earl?" "Plays mandolin like an angel," said Nancy. "Guitar, too." "I got the stereo in the back," I said. "Good speakers." "I hope you left your music at home," she said. "What's wrong with Dylan? Or Baez, for that matter?" "Shit, Keith," she said, "that stuff went out in the sixties." "And I guess you brought Conway Twitty." "Amongst others." "You all hush," said Mom. "Jesus. A couple of sore-tail toms." "I got the flu," I said. "You look like death warmed over," said Nancy. "You ought to be in bed." "We already planned this," I said. "I'll be all right with a couple of Irishes. You bring the coffee pot, Mom?" "Yes," she said. "It's in a box." I turned down Greenup to the VFW Hall, a rectangular, yellow brick building that looked vaguely like a church, which it used to be, Mom Victor M. Depta was born in the coalfields of West Virginia. He received a Ph.D. from Ohio University and is currently a professor of English at the University of Tennessee at Martin. 37 told me, Presbyterian, before the VFW took over about fifteen years ago. It sat isolated on a wedge-shaped half block, Greenup Avenue having been made one-way, and the block shaved so that the avenue could merge with Winchester. Sort of desolate looking, with the floodwall out behind it, and the new bridge across the Ohio soaring like a levitated freeway over to our left. The evening didn't help much, either, gloomy and windy, as if one of those sleety rains were about to set in. I parked the truck and we carried the stereo and the boxes in. The hall was to the left, and not that big, actually, since the building had been divided into halves, with a corridor down the middle. "That's for bingo," said Mom. "Not that I ever won a plug nickel." The manager, or Grand Veteran or whatever he was, met us in the corridor. He was one ofthose portly men, his jowly face reddened by drink, a man who I imagined belonged in a smoky back room at a ward meeting, the kind who buffets and blusters about with shifty eyes. He pointed us to a closet of stacked folding chairs and tables, showed us where the bathrooms were, and vanished. We carried the chairs and tables in and began setting them up. "Hey, Keith! Come help!" That was Iris at the front door. She and I had ordered a cake from Belfont's and had spent half the day running from K-Marts to Murphy Marts to Hecks, trying to find HAPPY BIRTHDAY in great big lettering, along with crepe paper streamers, balloons, birthday napkins and paper plates. I helped her carry the cake in, and went back to her car for the decorations. Nancy quarreled about the cake, saying that the drunks wouldn't be eating sweets. Mom told her to shut up. We could carry the cake home to the children. Iris took Mom by the hands and held them out. "You look so pretty," she said. "Your pearl earrings are so nice, and so is your necklace." Mom did look good. Black slacks, a white silk blouse, black jacket. "That's Keith's doing," said Nancy. "He took her to Sears." "Charge card," I said. Nancy, thank God for...