The Music Box
T. Davis Bunn
The Music Box
Copyright © 1996
T. Davis Bunn
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7084-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Unless otherwise identified Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations identified TLB are from the Living Bible © 1971 owned by assignment by Illinois Regional Bank N.A. (as trustee). Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Wheaton, IL 60189. All rights reserved.
This book is dedicated to
TERRY & MARILYN
friends beyond distance and time
and
HAYES
whom I dearly hope will become a friend
someday
and, most especially,
JACK
my new godson
with love
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Other Books by Author
You have turned on my light!
The Lord my God
has made my darkness
turn to light.
PSALM 18:28, TLB
1
By the age of thirty-one, Angie Picard felt as though she had lived enough for seven lifetimes.
She paused in the front foyer of her little house and inspected her reflection. A nice oval face stared back at her, with light blue eyes and unlined brow and a brief afterthought of a nose. As she pinned her blue hat into place, Angie wondered again how all that had happened seemed not to show.
She had a habit she practiced each morning, a way of putting aside her inside thoughts and preparing for the day. As usual, she paused before opening the door and looked down at the antique crystal bowl, the one she left on the entrance-hall stand. She never opened that container, nor had she lifted the beautifully etched lid with its ornate silver filigree in years. She did not even touch it, except to give it a quick wipe with the dusting cloth once a week. Yet as she stood there, Angie mentally placed inside the crystal bowl everything she did not wish to take outside with her.
The aged doorframe was out of kilter, and she had to slam the door hard. Paint fell like a scattering of dirty snow from the porch roof. The house was old and in need of more care than she could give it. Angie locked her door, then turned and took a grand breath, trying to draw in all the world and all the freshness of new beginnings.
Her porch was just big enough for two rockers, a swing, and peeling banisters laced with climbing roses older than she was. Angie stepped to the edge and peered at the sky, as if checking the weather, in case anyone was watching. But in truth she was making sure all the inside thoughts were carefully put away. Satisfied, she started down the walk to the street. For the moment, all was as it should be.
Despite her strongest efforts and her most fervent prayers, though, the thoughts had a way of escaping all on their own. Each evening when she returned from school, they were there, lurking in the shadows of her empty parlor, waiting for her to unlock the door and walk in and join them. Angie had often wondered, if she sold the house would the thoughts be able to follow her? But she was not likely to sell it. With her parents retired down to the coast, the little house often seemed like the only family she had.
Angie always gave herself plenty of time for the walk to school. On cloudy days such as this, the surrounding foothills were mist covered and mysterious. Somehow their green depths seemed nearer, as though in the night they had moved up close to her small town for comfort. She turned onto the street and walked briskly along, breathing in the fresh autumn air.
October was generally a grand month, and this one was no exception. The mountains held in the night’s chill, and days were generally fifteen degrees cooler than in the big flatland cities farther east. Nights were close enough to frosty that the trees began hearing the first knells of coming winter. They shivered in the slightest breeze and bent sorrowfully over summer’s passage in the misty rains. They began drawing their autumn cloaks about them, congregating in russet flocks upon the hills, dressed in colors so subtle they were best seen on low-light days like this. The smell was sweet and close, and the incense of nature’s cathedral filled Angie’s nostrils as she walked.
The century’s second great war was only six years gone, and already there were rumblings of another. The radio and the city papers were full of talk about places like Korea and Russia and provinces in China. These were worrisome times, at least down below in the cities where the world seemed eager to crowd in and take over.
Up here in their narrow mountain valley, the passage of seasons had a way of moving with caution. Folks showed their stubborn streak and dragged their heels at the rush of time. Too much was being cast aside without a backward glance. Too many good things lost in the swirl of events. The world raced on toward an uncertain future, and most people in Angie’s hometown grew ever more grateful for the life they lived and loved and were determined to protect.
Almost every car that passed honked or gave her a friendly wave. No one stopped, however, not any longer. Her quiet walks to and from school were well known and respected. Most of these hard-working families would never have dreamed of going anywhere without the car for company, unless it was a Sunday or a special occasion like a picnic; still, Angie’s ways were a part of her, like the little hats she wore throughout the cooler months. Country people had a way of accepting such habits from one of their own.
Today, however, a car pulled over in front of her and a lace-gloved hand emerged through the passenger window to wave with frantic little motions. Angie prepared her smile as she approached and lowered her head to look inside the huge Plymouth. “Morning, Emma. Hello, Luke.”
“Miss Angie.” Luke Drummond was a big rawboned man who ran the local hardware store. He measured out his words with the same caution as he did his wares. He tipped a sweat-stained hat to her, then went back to peering through the windshield—his way of granting the ladies privacy.
“Now, Angie, just look at your shoes. You’ve got them all wet with dew, they’ll stain right through.” Emma’s voice through the passenger-side window was brisk.
“I do not care to shape my habits around the needs of shoe leather,” Angie replied archly. “And besides, I’ve got my walking shoes on and my dress ones in here.” She raised a small canvas bag for inspection.
“If you say so.” Emma Drummond was her oldest and best friend, a
heavyset woman who taught music class in the morning before helping her husband with their store in the afternoons. She also led the church choir, a sticking point between them. “What’s that on your shoulders?” she wondered, shaking her head.
“Paint,” Angie replied, brushing impatiently.
“Looks like a terminal case of dandruff. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, you need to see to your house before it falls down around your ears.”
Emma was a dear friend, but she had a way of trying to run everybody’s life. “It’s almost more than I can manage, seeing to the rooms I use,” Angie sighed. “The exterior is just going to have to take care of itself. Besides, it’s done all right through more years than either of us have seen.”
“Humph.” Clearly unconvinced, Emma peered at her friend. “What’s got you dressed so somber? You look like you’re headed to a funeral, not to school.”
The sunless morning seemed to take on a more bitter chill. Angie reminded her friend with a question of her own, “Are you still going to the city this afternoon?”
“It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?” Then Emma remembered and momentarily faltered. “Oh, dear. I clean forgot. Seems like the years spin by faster and faster.”
“Three o’clock, please. I have to be down there on time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I can’t be late for school.” She moved on down the sidewalk.
“Then you ought to let us drive you the rest of the way,” Emma called out.
“If I did not have my walk and my morning quiet time,” Angie replied as the heavy car scrunched up to cruise alongside her, “I positively do not know how I would manage to survive the day.”
“Then we’ll leave you be,” Luke said, which stifled any further comment from his wife. “I’ll make sure Emma is there on time, Miss Angie.”
“And a good day to you as well, Luke.” She watched the car drive off and reflected that Emma was much like a kite in a strong wind. It was only Luke’s steady hand that kept her from flying off to goodness knows where. As it was, the two of them fit together as well as a hand inside a tailored glove. The vast majority of their customers chose to come in the afternoons; Luke saw to their orders while Emma fed them with news and lore and friendly visiting. Angie sighed again and firmly pushed away thoughts of all that was to come that afternoon. It would be good to travel down with Emma. Her friend’s lively chatter would help fill the empty spaces.
Angie Picard climbed the great stone steps to the town’s school, reflecting how going to the city was always referred to as “down,” although the city was built on a series of hills and in parts was higher than their little valley. But that was just the geography and social studies teacher in her doing the talking.
The school was far too grand for their town. But the valley had been declared a county seat back before the hills had proved to hold no mineral richer than good topsoil. The town had used its first flush of state money to build a courthouse and county hall and school; the red-brick exteriors were dressed with stately Doric columns. Beyond the school fields, a deep-flowing river cut a musical swathe through the town’s center. More state money had been used to erect a series of fanciful bridges, all stone and wrought iron. Over time, the town’s burgeoning population had done its best to continue the fashion, so that most of Main Street was done up in stone and brick and handwrought balustrades. The result was a charming place in which even the most taciturn of hillfolk took pride.
The first bell of the day sounded just as she was slipping from her walking shoes into her pumps, which Angie took as a signal that the clock was running correctly. Habits and timing helped to frame her life, and they kept things like emotions in their proper place.
Angie greeted the other incoming teachers and walked the swiftly crowding halls to the library. She responded to “Hi, Miss Picard” tossed her way with a nod and a small smile. She was known not to speak at such times. The students had long since accepted that one of their favorite teachers kept herself aloof and isolated outside the classroom.
The librarian’s silent habitat gave her no more use for empty words than Angie. They exchanged nods as Angie made her way over to the school’s meager supply of record albums. She pulled out the album she sought, knowing the tattered cover so well she no longer needed to read the script. Another nod, then out the doors and down to class.
Already the tension was building, an electric thrill that kept her going through all the year. She lived for this. Teaching was what defined her life. Watching the excitement of discovery light up a young face was a joy so powerful she often needed to turn away toward the blackboard until she could regain her composure.
Her eighth-grade classes proceeded in orderly fashion, this day’s lecture marked by periods of music. Angie used the music to help them picture the era as she described the courts of Europe and the politics and the fashions. She also used maps and reproductions and paintings, adding to the collage upon her walls until by the end of term there was scarcely a free space to be found.
The surprise came in the last session, when the day was wearing down. Angie was finding it increasingly hard to hold on to her enthusiasm, both because she was tired and because of what the day still held. She almost missed it, having played the music four times already, and her attention was distracted by the coming trip to the city. But she happened to look up a moment sooner than usual.
She often looked down or away when music was playing, so the students did not need to concern themselves with how she saw them, and hopefully they could lose themselves in the music. But this afternoon, growing impatient to have the musical interlude and the class and the schooltime over with, Angie glanced at the wall clock and then at the students, and saw her.
The girl sat as always in the back row. Melissa Nealey was a little thing, so undersized Angie had checked the records to make sure she was not in the wrong class. She was also a newcomer, which in a hilltown meant she was too much alone. But Melissa was so quiet and so shy that the isolation seemed to suit her. Angie had tried on several occasions to draw her out, but the child had replied with monosyllables, clearly anxious to be away. There were none of the warning signs Angie had come to recognize—Melissa’s test scores were good, her clothes were always clean and pressed, her hair combed and her eyes clear. And shyness was not necessarily a bad thing, especially in a newcomer.
But when Angie looked up, she saw that the little girl was turned toward the window, tears streaming down her face.
Angie lifted the needle from the phonograph record and said with forced brightness, “Now, who can tell me what that melody was?”
She waited a moment, then continued, “How about someone in the back?” She noted the quick little movement of a hand to wipe cheeks dry, then said, “Melissa, yes, we haven’t heard from you today. Do you know the name of that lovely piece?”
A very quiet voice replied, “Greensleeves.”
“Excellent.” Angie wanted to keep the others from glancing around, so she unrolled a poster and tacked it to the cork panel behind her desk. “What can you tell us about this music?”
“It’s a . . . a love song,” she said softly. The voice was barely above a whisper and was spoken toward the window. “Two people have to say good-bye, but they don’t want to.”
“Very good,” Angie said, tapping the poster with her pen.
As she launched into her summary of what life was like in sixteenth-century England, and what role the church played, and how radical such folk songs were for that time, Angie could not help but wonder at how the girl’s words had tugged at her own heart.
Thankfully, the bell sounded on time. Angie waited until most of the class had filed out before calling Melissa over. The youngster had recovered her composure and had retreated back behind the quiet mask she usually wore. Angie looked into her eyes and started to ask if anything was the matter, when it hit her with the force of a silent thunderbolt: Despite their difference in age, Angie felt as though she were looking into a mirr
or. The thought held no logic, but the force kept her silent a moment longer, sitting there behind her desk, staring at the quiet little form in front of her.
Finally Angie cleared her throat and simply said, “You certainly do know your music, Melissa.”
For some reason, the words brought more tears welling to the young girl’s eyes. But she bit her lip and held on to control. “I have to go,” she said eventually. “My daddy is waiting for me.”
Angie nodded her dismissal and waited until Melissa was at the door before saying, “If there is anything bothering you, Melissa, you may always come and speak with me. Anytime.”
Melissa gave the scarcest of nods before vanishing through the open door.
2
“You’d think she was closer to nine than thirteen, she’s so small,” Angie said to Emma on the way out of town. “I spoke to a couple of the other teachers. They haven’t had two full sentences from her in the month she’s been here.”
“I have her in my choir class.” Emma nodded her agreement. “Tried twice to get her transferred. But the principal in all his glorious wisdom points to this note on Melissa’s permanent record.”
“What note is that?”
“Something from her school down in the city. It says she has one voice in a million, that’s exactly how it reads.”
“But she won’t sing?”
“Not a peep.”
Angie started to remark on the girl’s strangeness, but at that moment they passed by the town bridal shop. A grand sign above the display read, “Everything for your perfect day!” Angie suddenly found herself awash in memories, ones she normally did not allow to accompany her beyond her own front door. But today was different, and the past rushed in through the open car window.
As the safety of their little town was left behind, Angie reflected on the mistakes that had brought her to this place. And they truly were mistakes. She could not deny the fact, not here, not now.
She had first left this town to attend the university and become a teacher. Her problem was, she had left more than home behind. Her faith, for example. And the habits that had ruled her early life. All had been set aside in the city, where she had known no one and could lose herself in all the cold pleasures.
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