The Devil Came Down to Indiana

Cara climbed up to her studio apartment between the gun shop and the chicken hatchery, along Indiana’s scenic Elkhart River. The door opened with the usual spine-chilling squeal, although the landlord had lubricated the hinges a half dozen times.

“Hello, dear,” her mother’s ghost said. “How was school today?”

“Don’t bother her, Dorothy,” her father said. “She’s clearly exhausted. Don’t mind your mother, Cara.”

“Supper is almost done,” her mother said, slipping into the navy wool coat she’d died in. “Ten more minutes should do it. Don’t worry about us. Your father and I will pick up something while we’re out.” She waved nonspecifically in the air. “See you in the morning.” And they vanished.

“They’re going to be the death of me,” Cara thought, setting her violin case on the coffee table. Which, of course, was funny the first time she’d thought that a dozen years ago. It was simply a habit now, although no less likely to be true.

Obviously, there was no supper on the stove. Cara poured a bowl of cereal, skipping the milk which had gone bad, heated water for a cup of herbal tea, and ate while wading through paranormal websites for ways to banish ghosts. Afterwards, she tuned her Strad 800 and whisked through the overture to Mozart’s “The Magic Flute” as a warm-up, then tackled Bach’s “Laudamus Te.”

As dusk descended, she slid open the glass door to the microscopic slab of concrete that the apartment ads considered a “spacious retreat where you can experience all that nature offers.” The river undulated beyond the Elysian Fields Cemetery, a refuge where she sometimes practiced, weather permitting. It was one place she could be certain to never be bothered by her parents.

She folded the single chair and stood among the potted petunias to play the Ashokan Farewell with all the soul she had. She didn’t stop when a neighbor shouted at her to go back inside but let the emotion of the piece fill her eyes with tears.

“Honey,” her mother said, sitting cross-legged on the café table jammed into the corner of the balcony, “have you thought about getting a part time job?” Her father balanced on the railing. Cara wondered briefly what would happen if she tried to push him off.

Instead, she grumbled, “I thought you were going out.”

“We are out, sweetie.” He mother swept a hand around the tiny balcony and in an arc to the river disappearing into the evening shadows. “But you look so despondent when you play that tune.”

Her mother reached out to pinch her cheeks. Cara felt the icy phantom fingers slicing through her jaw. “Maybe,” her mother suggested, “you could play something happier, like Mozart. What’s that song I like, Howard?”

“Something about a bumblebee.”

“Like that bumblebee song,” her mother said.

           Cara gritted her teeth. “That’s Rimsky-Korsakov, Mom.” She spun on her heel and stalked back inside, slamming the patio door shut. As her parents oozed through the glass, she tucked her Strad into its case, grabbed her practice kit, and marched out of the flat. She ran down six flights to the lobby, then across the street to the cemetery.

Three weeks. She had only three weeks left to prepare for her chance to audition for the college symphony. She was good; she knew that. But she needed to be great since there were only six first violin seats in the orchestra.

Cara set her case down on top of a mausoleum that overlooked the Elkhart. Light from the skate park across the river cast a soft glow that extended the twilight, as a breeze rustled the leaves on a nearby sugar maple before settling into the evening stillness.

She dutifully warmed up with a few minutes of straight bow practice, but she still seethed and it affected her concentration. She transitioned to John William’s Main Theme from Schindler’s List then threw herself into Bach’s Sarabande in D minor for the finger work.

As often, she gathered a small audience of supportive spirits, who, unlike her parents, remained invisible and at a respectful distance. The appreciation was palpable, though, and at the end of the Sarabande, instead of applause, a warm feeling of grace and goodwill flowed over her. In return, she clipped a pickup on her violin, set up a Bluetooth speaker, plugged a loop pedal into the pickup, created a bass background track, then performed a credible version of John Carpenter’s Halloween theme for the listening spirits, followed by Les Miz’s I Dreamed a Dream, which always felt like her heart was breaking again. This time she did hear clapping.

A lanky gentleman with white hair and a knee-length gray cashmere coat leaned against a granite obelisk. A black dress shirt, buttoned to the top over a pair of tapered black denim jeans completed the ensemble.

Cara took a deep breath to calm herself. Traces of brimstone wafted on the breeze. “Thank you,” she said. “Pretty fancy outfit for a stroll in the graveyard.”

The man glanced at his coat sleeves. “True, but at least it’s Prada.”

Cara pointed her bow at an instrument case he held in one hand. “Come prepared for a contest, did you?”

“Always. You’re practicing for the symphony auditions, I presume.”

“Pretty obvious,” Cara said.

“I can help.”

“Happy for any critique you can offer.”

The man strolled closer. The glow from across the river revealed a handsome if narrow face with a chiseled chin. “I was thinking more of a guarantee you’d pass the audition.”

Cara smiled. “In a bind, ‘cause you’re way behind? You plan on wagering a fiddle of gold?”

The man laughed. “Oh, I don’t do that. It’s an interesting creative conceit, I admit, and not a bad bit of bluegrass, but I don’t really need to make a deal these days. We get all of the politicians we can handle. No, I’m more what you’d call a consultant.”

 “And what would you advise?”

“More concentration on the classics. Perhaps Paganini? Caprice No. 24 might be impressive.”

“The demon Paganini.” Cara nodded. “Although, I thought you might suggest Tartini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata.”

The man sat down on a headstone and smiled. “A little too obvious, I think.”

Cara ran through a three-octave minor scale. “And the cost?”

He waved a hand; fire flickered from his fingertips. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I can’t help showing off. No. None. No charge.”

“That’s a little out of character, isn’t it?”

“I don’t double-dip.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “I sense a deep melancholy. Or is it a sense of guilt?” He sat straight. “You didn’t think you were going…” He raised a finger to point toward the sky.

“On the other hand, I wasn’t expecting to meet Satan in the cemetery.”

“That name has so many unpleasant associations.”

“Lucifer, then.”

“Light-bringer? I’m not really much of a morning person. Call me Memphis.”

“Seriously? Memphis? Like Memphis Slim?”

“Just Memphis. Mephistopheles carries too much baggage.”

Cara tucked her violin under her arm and pointed with her bow. “Okay, Slim. What’s your advice?”

“Are you familiar with Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins in D minor?”

“That’s so Suzuki,” Cara said, tucking her violin under her chin. “Double Violin Concerto. Vivace.” She ran through the opening of the first violin in her head before playing the first eight bars.

“Good tempo; decent emotion,” Memphis said, “but loosen your wrist a little.”

Cara thought a moment, then played again.

“Better. See if you can maintain that for the entire first movement. I’ll play the second violin.” Memphis spun his violin around its neck, and it expanded into a cello. “Since we don’t have a full orchestra,” he said. “When you’re ready.”

Cara was aware of a hesitancy in their spiritual audience, but she dug deep for confidence. “Double Violin Concerto,” she said again. “Lively and brisk.” The next three and a half minutes were the best she’d ever played. It felt like the bow knew exactly what to do, as she and Memphis tossed the main theme back and forth.

When the movement ended, Memphis waved his bow in approval before transforming his instrument back into a violin and playing the intro to Dvorak’s Humoresque No. 7. When Cara didn’t pick up her violin to continue, he stopped. “Too Sukuki Book 3 for you?” he asked.

Cara looked out over the cemetery. “How do you get rid of a ghost?” she asked.

Memphis let his violin flow back into its case. “Your parents? You can’t kill them. They’re already dead.”

“I know that.”

“Have you tried salt? Like demons, they shouldn’t be able to cross a line of salt.”

“I did. They passed through the walls or came up through the floor.”

“That probably precludes hanging a horseshoe over the door.”

“The apartment super frowned on that.”

Memphis hunched, elbow on one knee and head on fist, like a gaunt version of The Thinker. “So, either they don’t know they’re dead or they have some message they need to pass on.”

Cara glared at Memphis. “I’m positive they know they’re dead.” She sighed. “It comes up on occasion.”

Memphis nodded. “In my experience, spirits aren’t vindictive. Those personalities tend to end up with me.” He stood. “I said I’d help. You have a few weeks until your audition. Shall we meet here at midnight until then?”

Cara looked down at her violin. “Sure.”

Memphis tipped a finger to one sharpened eyebrow. “Until the ‘morrow.”

Cara looked up before he vanished. “Why are you doing this? Despite the caring veneer, you’re still the great deceiver, the father of lies.”

Memphis raised a hand over his heart. “You cut me to the quick.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“Call it a whim, then.” He turned and began to vanish but turned his head to look at Cara. “What makes you think this is about you?” And he was gone.

The next weeks were a blur of schoolwork, lessons, sacrificial technical practice, and late-night sessions with the devil. She concentrated on Bach’s Violin Concerto No. 1 and Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto, Op. 64. Memphis would sometimes transform his violin into an accompanying piano, and sometimes the full orchestra. She also worked tirelessly on the excerpts, from Mozart to Debussy, Bartok, and Brahms. Sometimes all Memphis would say is “Again,” and he vanished completely when she rehearsed Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis.

When the day of the audition arrived, she was given a number and guided to one of the practice rooms in the Music Center. Small spotlights pinned the grand piano in the back and a music stand with a card listing the excerpts she’d be requested to play in order. Pumped with adrenaline, she sorted through her scores, tuned her violin, and waited for her turn in the auditions.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” her mother asked, peering around the small room.

“Not a good time to show up, Mother,” Cara said. “Go away.”

“I only…”

“Immediately. Now.”

“Well, I never!”

“No,” Cara agreed as her mother vanished, “you never did.”

“Nerves?” Memphis asked, conjuring a pot of herbal tea. “Or guilt?”

Cara poured a cup and tried to roll the stiffness out of her neck. “Let’s go with angst.”

Her father appeared, hovering over her with furrowed brow. “That was inconsiderate, Cara. After all that we’ve done for you.”

Cara swung her teacup at his incorporeal form. “After all…? When were you even around?”

“You have no idea how hard it is to be a parent. We gave you space to grow.”

“By never being there when I needed you.”

“We… had challenges. We made mistakes in…”

“And you’re making another one right now.”

Her father paused mid-sentence, fading with his mouth still open.

“That was a bit harsh,” Memphis said from the piano bench.

Cara wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and stared into the swirling tea leaves. “I should have said it sooner.”

“Perhaps your definition of sacrifice is different from theirs.”

Cara sorted through her music again. “How long have I got?”

Memphis cocked his head. “Sounds like they’ve just dismissed the fourth applicant. Possibly another quarter hour.”

Cara turned to face the devil. “No. I meant before…” And she gestured downward.

Memphis was silent, looking down for what seemed an eternity. “I think you have misunderstood,” he said. “I can’t tell you your path, but you’re not on my list. Not today, anyway.”

“I…,” Cara said. “I don’t understand.”

Her father reappeared at that moment. “We’re sorry,” he said. “We did what we thought was right for you.” He shook his head, looking at the floor. “Your mother can be blunt at times, I know, but…”

“Blunt?” Cara said. “Blunt? You never understood.” She swept the room with her bow. “This is what I’ve always wanted. Why couldn’t you see that?”

The room went silent.

“I’m sorry,” Cara said finally. “I’ve said things I’m not proud of. I know there are consequences for everything, but I can’t change what was. Just let me live my life the way I want it to be, for whatever time I have left.”

Her father held her eyes before nodding and fading slowly from sight.

Memphis swept a hand across the top of the baby grand. “Your parents, as your father said, are fully aware of consequences. You may have misunderstood his message.” He gestured to the music stand. “How do you pick the music you play?”

“Sometimes it’s what moves me.” Cara pointed at her scores. “Other times it’s what I have to be able to play.”

“And how do you feel about your music?”

           “Sometimes it’s fun. Sometimes it’s work.”

“From my observation, being a parent is the same, only more work and precious little time for fun and very often you have to do what you have to do.”

“That’s pretty sensitive thinking for someone who is evil incarnate.”

Memphis leaned back against the piano. His eyes disappeared into the shadows from the spotlight. “Part of my job, if you will, is to observe human nature.”

“Collecting souls.”

“There is a lot of misleading information about this job, but, yes, there are some unpleasant aspects to it.”

“I appreciate the time you spent with me, but I can’t help thinking there’s a price that will come due.”

After a faint knock, the practice room door opened and a young girl no more than 10 or 11 smiled up at Cara.

“Play well,” Memphis said as Cara followed the girl. “Remember to breathe.”

What Cara remembered was walking across the carpet that silenced her footsteps and placing her music on the stand behind the screen that hid her from the jury. She remembered hearing “You may begin,” and then, in what seemed like no time at all, she was collecting her music and heading back to the practice room.

She was surprised to not only find Memphis still there, but her parents as well. Her mother had been crying. “We’re so proud of you,” she said.

Cara was about to retort, but Memphis cut her off. “They’ve come to say goodbye.”

So, they were going to leave her alone. “Finally,” is all she said.

“We know it was hard for you, growing up without us,” her mother said. “Living with your aunt.”

“It was fine, Mother.”

“No,” her father said. He took a step toward her. “It most certainly was not fine. We saw. We saw it all. Your determination…”

Cara waved a hand to cut him off. “I was nine when you left me!”

“We hadn’t planned on dying. The other car…”

Memphis moved in front of her parents. “And how did you respond to what you believed was their disapproval?”

“I proved them wrong.”

“By studying longer and harder.”

“Yes.”

“And becoming better for it.”

“Sure,” Cara said. She looked at her father, then her mother.

Memphis took her violin from her hand. “You were strangling it,” he said setting it in its case. “What your father is trying to say is that when they were absent—when you thought they were ignoring you—it’s because they were working second jobs to keep a roof over your head… and to pay for your violin lessons. They were heading to those second jobs the night…”

Cara looked past Memphis. “You banished me to the basement.”

“We thought you’d like your own space,” her father said.

“And, well,” her mother added, “you practiced a lot.” She wiped at a ghostly tear. “You’ve grown into such a lovely and determined young woman,” her mother said. “I’m glad we got to see you grow up; I’m sorry we weren’t there for you when you needed us.” She glanced at Memphis. “Thank you. We’re ready.”

Cara stepped back from Memphis. “Why are you really here?”

“There were things that needed to be said.” Memphis shrugged. “Uncomfortable things. Empathy and remorse are the entry price for a purposeful existence. As for pain… well, that’s sort of my area of expertise.”

Memphis placed a hand on her father’s shoulder. “And, after all, I was the angel of music before…” He inclined his head. “…you know.”

Her mother took her father’s hand.

 “Don’t worry, I’ll be escorting them upstairs,” Memphis said. “They’ll be fine.” He gazed off through the soundproof walls and took Cara’s hand. “Congratulations; you’ll be asked to callbacks. Sometimes a story doesn’t end the way you think it will. Stay the course, Cara. Hilary and Lucia will need to watch their backs on the concert circuit.”

“Wait,” Cara said. “Will I see you again?”

Memphis smiled. “I’ll be around.”

As they slowly faded away, her mother whispered, ‘I love you.’

They were gone before she could reply.

There was a knock on the practice room door.