Indigo looked at her mother for a long while. Her mother feeling very proud of her daughter who’d tried to teach herself how to play the fiddle, who’d given up talking out of her head, talking only to her dolls. She glanced at her child’s handiwork, Marie-Hélène, Miranda, Susie-Q, Candace, Lilli, fingering their hats and petticoats delicately. Now Indigo was involved with music which she would be as diligent & loving about as she had about her dolls, her companions, as she called them. The mother looked over to Indigo still sitting in the window. Not a word did she say, there in the window with her violin in an acceptable rest position.

“Now Indigo, what do you say to real violin lessons & closing that window so our neighbors can be spared this racket till you’ve learned a bit more?” Approaching her daughter with some glee, the mother stopped when Indigo turned her back, stood up, & began making those strange, erratic, annoying non-songs she played each night, that Miz Fitzhugh had complained about twice, along with the Daltons. Even Mr. Epps who lived three doors down & across the street had stopped by on his way to the post office to say, “Please do something about those noises from your house, or I’ll have to call the constable round this way.”

No, Indigo would not have her way this time. She wasn’t going to be run out of her own home cause Indigo was playing a violin. She had to have some lessons ’cause these folks didn’t realize the passion her daughter had for the violin.

“Indigo, I promise you. I’ll get you the best teacher I can find.” Indigo stopped slowly, C#, fifth position, D string.

“Mama, I’m happy with how the fiddle’s talk . . . sounding now. I don’t want any lessons at all. I just want to play.” Thinking her mother was relieved, Indigo left the window. She put the violin away, even closed the gingham curtains. Indigo smiled up at her mama, who had a most curious expression. No matter what she did, Indigo was always beyond her reason. A good girl, yet out of reach.

“Mama, what’s wrong? I said you don’t have to get me lessons. I’m just fine.”

“Indigo, you may have those lessons whenever you like & I mean that. But until you decide to take them, I can’t allow you to make that noise in my house. I’ve got enough trouble on my hands without having every neighbor I’ve got thinking we got banshees living in here at night. Besides, Miz Fitzhugh, herself, even mentioned to me how unpleasant your violin-playing actually is, right now. I don’t mean to say you won’t be a wonderful musician in the future. But, Indigo, you may not submit the whole world to your will. No lessons, no violin playing under this roof.”