Misgivings

At first, I wasn’t aware of where the music was coming from. I was in a little shop in a strip mall near our house, about this time last year, looking for something my wife might like for Christmas. Kept catching myself humming a particular yuletide tune, and gradually realized that the same song was playing in the distance, somewhere outside the shop.

Standing at the checkout counter, I looked out through the front window and saw a man across the way, playing the violin. A woman and child were standing near him, none of them far from where I’d parked my car. I left the shop and walked over, listening to the man’s skilled bow, caressing the carols.

The family appeared to be from India, or the Middle East. The wife, dressed in something like a sari, quietly smiled, while the little girl held up a sign inviting donations. From the looks of the open violin case, contributions had been sparse.

Reached for my wallet, then remembered that I’d just about spent everything on the gift in my hand. I fished out the dollar or two I had left and dropped them in the case, a bit embarrassed. The man nodded over his violin, the wife smiled her gentle smile, and the little girl furrowed her brow, calculating how little my gift had added to their limited resources.

On impulse, I drove to the bank. Drew out enough for the next few days, then a little more, to give to the family. It seemed important, for some reason. I ran a couple of errands, then circled back to the strip mall. They were gone.

Disappointed, I drove around the mall area, thinking perhaps they’d found a more likely spot to attract attention. No sign of them. It felt like a lost opportunity.

A few days later, a mile down the road, I swung into a different strip mall to mail a few cards and bills. And there they were, in the parking lot across from the mailbox. The violin’s sweet music filling the air, the mom still smiling, the daughter still holding her sign. And me, with empty pockets again.

I pulled over, got out, and stepped over to say hello. They actually seemed to recognize me, but the father was intent on his playing, and the woman didn’t seem to speak much English. The little girl looked at my empty hands, disappointed but apparently not too surprised.

The bank had closed for the day. I drove home, and told my wife what had happened. She’d heard of my encounter with the family earlier in the week. I asked her if we had anything to spare (she being the keeper of the “secret stash.”) She asked how much I had in mind.

I told her. She arched an eyebrow and slipped away. A minute later, she came back with more than I’d suggested.

Hurried back to the mall, re-parked, and walked over to the family. They didn’t appear especially surprised to see me back again, but smiled their thanks as I handed my gift to the little girl. I made a few dints in the language barrier, told them I’d pray for them, and drove away.

This week, for the first time since that day, a zephyr of memory blew over my mind, and I wondered idly what had become of them. Then, yesterday, I saw them again, back in that same parking lot where I’d first heard the music. I pulled over and climbed out of the car to say hello, and they acted as if they recognized me.

The dad looked a little different, somehow; he was holding the violin, but not playing. The little girl had been replaced by a bored little boy, sitting on the curb. But the woman looked the same, and she and the man both beamed as I placed a gift in the open violin case, where a fair-sized pile of cash had already accumulated.

The man spoke rapidly, excitedly, about why they were asking for money – his accent so thick I could only make out a little of what he said. But I recognized a name: “Jesus Christ” and something about their rent being due the next day, or else.

Some questions flicked through my mind. Rent due on Sunday? Why wasn’t he playing the violin? Were these really the same people? They seemed to have hit upon a more generous audience than the one the year before … yet still he pleaded for anything I could give them.

I know. We’re supposed to be wary. Panhandlers, they say, make more than many of the people who contribute to them. I’d already given something, and had no way of knowing what they’d do with it, or with all the other bills lying in the case. The situation called for careful consideration.

I just had time to get to the bank.

When I came back, and added my little more to the case, neither the man nor the woman glanced at what I put in. He rushed over to me, gushing with thanks. Eyes to God, hands to God, then hands reaching out to seize mine. A moment later, I drove away.

Didn’t feel generous. Or proud. Didn’t even feel extra Christmas-y. And didn’t know for sure that they really needed to the money I and others had given them.

All I felt, really, was a deep assurance that, for whatever reason, and whatever the consequence, I had done what I was supposed to do.

Back home, I told my wife what had happened. She remembered the incidents of a year ago. I told her about the violinist’s reaction.

“First time ‘ve ever had someone kiss my hand,” I said, still marveling at that.

She marveled, too, laughing, then glanced down at my hand. “That one?” she said.

“Yes.”

She cocked her head.

“Better wash it,” she said. “Covid.”