Fiction Fragment from a Novel I'm Writing

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We could of all been mean and selfish about this wild fire of law enforcement that put all of us together in a syphlitic make-do world in rural West Virginia. The 1980s did us all in, and in the late 90s we wound up living all close together on the same dirt road. But we're not too down about it.


Sharing music among friends is redeeming. No matter where you sing. Some nights Rosie takes out her violin and lays down a clutch of partitas by Bach. She's no slouch about the things for which she keeps the passion, and some of her perfomances put the shadow of J.S. Bach in Rosie and my living room, listening proudly with his feet comfy in the chicken shit and straw.

Clyde Smith was pretty sharp on our spinnet piano, sort of a jazz standard machine from the cold war era, and when Bonnie sang along, it was hard to fathom that trained and lovely voice coming from a woman who might resemble Joe Stalin if she grew a mustache. You can see how any place can seem like middle America when music is part of the daily routine. It says everything about the natural goodness in people.