The Music Box

by T. Davis Bunn

  Angie sat and stared at this dark-haired woman and found she had no reply.

  “Go,” Gina urged her. “And the next time we meet, come to tell me how you have opened yourself up once again and lived.”

  3

  It took far longer than she expected to recover from her visit to the cemetery. A full month passed, in fact, before Angie lost the sense of floating through the days, with all she saw and felt filtered by an unseen glass.

  The only time the partition seemed to dissolve was in church, when Angie bowed her head and found peace. But when she walked back to her little house and saw the card and its message sitting there on the mantel, the confusion and tumult returned. Even so, she could not bring herself to throw the card away.

  In fact, it was while walking out from church that she finally decided it was time to speak with her oldest friend about it all. That Sunday, Angie passed through the church doors and walked down the little stone walkway, savoring the day’s surprising warmth. The winter had not yet penetrated the valley, nor sent the trees to their slumber. The maples and poplars and cherry trees all remained dressed in autumn finery, their gold mantles flecked with orange and crimson. In the distance, the highlands were brown and bare, and Angie had a sense of being shielded and protected in her valley town.

  “I do declare, this is just the strangest weather.” Emma came bustling over, sliding her hands into gray leather Sunday gloves. “Whoever would have thought that a November day could be this warm?”

  Angie slipped her arm through her friend’s and said, “Take a turn with me.”

  Together they walked around back of the stone-and-brick church, through the little communal garden that connected the parsonage to the chapel. As the river’s chuckling song became audible, Angie said, “I never thanked you for taking me into the city that day.”

  “I didn’t give you anything but chatter.”

  “Which was exactly what I needed.” She guided them over to the wooden bench set at the riverside. “I owe you an explanation.”

  “You don’t owe me a thing,” Emma replied but settled herself onto the bench expectantly.

  “Eleven months after I married, the doctor told me I could never have a baby.”

  “Oh, dear sweet child.” Emma reached over and grasped Angie’s hand. “Why ever haven’t you talked to me about it before now?”

  “There was nothing to be gained by bringing it up.” She was pleased with the matter-of-fact way she said that. “Stefan took it very badly. He blamed me somehow. His whole family did. A little more than a week after, he left me.”

  “Hmmm, mmmm, mmmm.” Emma shook her head. “I never did like that man.”

  Despite herself, Angie had to smile. “You only met him once. At the wedding.”

  “Once was enough. All that shouting and running around waving hankies in the air—that was no way for grown men to act.”

  “They were dancing.”

  “Not to mention how they kept picking up those perfectly good plates and tossing them every whichaway. Piles of broken crockery in every corner—is that how grown folks should behave?”

  “They break plates for luck,” Angie protested. “It’s a Greek custom.”

  “And those songs.” Emma gave as delicate a shudder as her heavy frame allowed. “I declare, I’ve heard dogs howl more in tune.”

  Angie stared at her friend. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

  Emma made a surprised face. “What on earth are you going on about now?”

  “I remember very well how you danced at my wedding until dawn.”

  “I never.”

  “Your feet got so sore you left your high heels by the wedding cake. And somebody spilled punch all over them. And you were feeling silly enough to put those horrid, sticky things back on your feet, then kick your heels up so everybody could see how they were splotched purple.” Angie nodded. “You’re just saying those things so I won’t feel down.”

  Emma smoothed a crease from her Sunday dress. “Angie Picard, I have known you since you were the only child who could fingerpaint without getting a drop of color on her frock. And I’ll tell you something I’ve wanted to say for a long time. Ever since you came back from the city, you’ve had a mighty slow smile. It’s as though each time you have to relearn the task, and you’re not quite sure you got it right. But when something finally gets you going, you can smile with more heart than anybody I’ve ever known. And I think you need to start smiling more, my girl. Whatever you’re keeping inside that holds you back from smiling needs to be put aside, once and for all.”

  Angie felt herself shaken by how closely those words resembled the ones that had come from Gina. She tried to deflect the issue. “I tell you about my husband leaving me and not being able to have a baby, and you want to talk about smiling?”

  “Child, I’ve known all about this baby business for years. And you told me yourself about that mistake of a man the week you returned to town.” Emma flicked at a slow-flying honeybee. “Here it is the week before Thanksgiving and the bees are still out looking for flowers. The world’s all messed up, if you ask me. Not even the seasons know what’s what anymore.”

  “Tell me how you knew, Emma.”

  The big woman turned to her friend. “Your momma, bless her heart, wrote me before you came back home. She was afraid you wouldn’t tell me yourself, and she thought somebody needed to know, and she was right on both counts.”

  Angie slumped back, defeated. “Well, that’s that, then. If you know, so does the whole town.”

  “I’ve forgotten more secrets than you’ve ever heard,” Emma replied calmly. “So you can stop with your nonsense.”

  “You’re the one who’s going on with the nonsense about bumblebees and men with hankies.”

  “All I’m trying to say is, you’re past time for a mending, dear.”

  “You make it sound like I’ve wanted to hold on to this.”

  “Maybe you have, at least a little, anyway. Seems like you’d have been better off telling me long before this, for one thing. Never did feel like I could bring it up until you did. Even so, sorrow is always easier to bear if you’ve got a friend there to help you carry it.”

  Angie felt the pressure of someone seeing more of her than she felt comfortable with. “I think I hear Luke calling for you.”

  “I’m not letting you go,” Emma replied, hugging her friend close. “Not until you promise if you find yourself facing a bout of the lonelies and ‘if-onlys,’ you’ll call me. No matter what the time.”

  Angie smiled around the sudden lump, nodded jerkily, and said, “Promise.”

  ****

  Angie stepped onto the unfamiliar flagstone porch and stopped to check the hemline of her dress. As the school’s family representative, she had every right to check on students and their families. She stilled her nervous hands at her sides and walked toward the front door.

  Developers had partitioned several of the gentler slopes rising from the town and drawn curving lines of asphalt. The houses and their modern designs attracted city dwellers looking for weekend retreats and retirement homes. The town was glad to have them, for they spent money as only city folk knew how.

  The Nealey residence was a low-slung house of stone and glass, with a broad patio lined by a wrought-iron railing. A grand place without being overlarge, it possessed a stunning view of the valley and surrounding hills. Angie paused and looked behind her; the town stretched out beneath the star-flecked sky like a golden necklace.

  Angie turned again to the door and lifted her hand, wishing she could overcome her reluctance about this visit. Life was seldom picture perfect, nor were families. She walked a careful line when expressing concern over a child, and she seldom made these visits without some clear proof. Still, she remained troubled over the quiet young girl.

  Melissa Nealey had not broken down in class again, nor had Angie’s other music days seemed to disturb the child. But Melissa’s calm remained too fixed, her
face too sad. Something was wrong, Angie knew that for certain. It was her responsibility to make sure it was nothing serious.

  Angie stiffened her resolve with her shoulders and knocked on the door.

  There was a long wait, so long she was wondering if perhaps she should return another time. Then suddenly the door was flung open with such force that she took an involuntary step back. A stern voice said, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Nealey?”

  “Who wants to know?” The porch light remained off. The inner room’s illumination cast the man’s features into lines and angles and shadows.

  “My name is Angie Picard. I am one of Melissa’s teachers.”

  “Oh.” The man seemed to fumble for a moment, as though he had forgotten all his manners. “Just a minute.”

  He leaned away for an instant, and suddenly light flooded the patio. When he came back into view, Angie found herself facing a man who looked so stern his intensity was almost palpable. His eyes had retreated into their sockets and peered at the world with bewildered hostility. Yet beneath the stern mantle was a subtle handsomeness. Refined, intelligent features bore marks of strength. And of suffering.

  His voice sounded metallic as he demanded, “Is something the matter?”

  “No. That is, well . . .” Angie hesitated, then pressed on. “May I come in?”

  “What?” He appeared startled, then grudgingly gave way. “I suppose so.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped into a family room of almost monastic austerity. Sofa and chair and low table were set precisely, as though the angles had been measured and the places marked. The carpet and wallpaper and drapes were all warm toned and new and expensive, as was the big television and phonograph cabinet in one corner. But there was no sign of who lived here, nothing on the walls, no pictures on the big mantel, no flowers. It held all the warmth of a hotel room.

  Angie chose not to seat herself. “I . . . Melissa has been absent a great deal recently. Nine days in the past three weeks alone.”

  Carson Nealey’s face pinched tighter, and deep-seated bitterness took hold. “I am well aware of my daughter’s health.”

  “It is standard policy to check up in such situations,” Angie persisted, keeping her tone even. “Our records show that you have been the one to call in, reporting her sick. Does she have a chronic condition that we should be aware of?”

  “My daughter is perfectly fine,” he snapped. “And so am I. So I’ll thank you to mind your own business.”

  “She can’t be fine, can she, now,” Angie responded, not willing to back down an inch. Something was wrong here. She could sense it in the air. And when it came to the welfare of one of her children, nothing could force her away or scare her off. Nothing. “Not if she’s been sick more than any other child in my care.”

  “Your care,” he spat. “You’re a teacher, nothing more, nothing at all. She’s my child. Mine.”

  “It is important that I know what is going on with Melissa, Mr. Nealey.”

  “First that meddlesome doctor comes sniffing around, and now you.”

  “Doctor Thatcher has been here? My records show nothing—”

  “That’s because I didn’t let him poke his nose where it’s not wanted.”

  “It is part of small-town life to show concern for our own,” Angie explained. She was back on familiar ground here, able to hold on to both her temper and her position until she garnered what information she needed. “Especially for our children.”

  “She’s not your anything,” he lashed out.

  “The law says otherwise,” Angie replied. It was one of her traits, this ability to respond to anger in others with calm. “Could I perhaps have a word with your wife?”

  For some reason the request brought a flush of new rage to the man’s face. He shot a finger toward the door and demanded with quiet fury, “Get out of here. Right now.”

  But she did not budge. “If I leave, Mr. Nealey, it will only be to return with the sheriff.”

  “Make sure your warrant’s in order,” he spat out. “Otherwise I’ll bury you and all your busybody—”

  He was cut off in mid-flow by a small voice. “Shame, Papa. Stop that this very instant.”

  The man’s finger dropped to his side. “What are you doing out of bed, honey?”

  “That’s no way to talk,” Melissa Nealey chided. She stood at the door of the room, wearing a flannel nightgown, bedroom slippers, and a cotton robe. Her face was flushed. “What would Momma think?”

  Carson Nealey’s anger crumpled with his resolve. “I . . . she . . .”

  “Miss Picard is just doing her job.” A very different child turned to face Angie, one who was truly not a child at all, but a very calm and steady young lady within an undersized body. “Now apologize to the teacher, Papa.”

  His eyes on his daughter’s head, the man mumbled, “I apologize.”

  “That’s better.” She stepped toward the door. “Could we talk out on the patio, Miss Picard?”

  “I . . . that is, yes, of course.” Meekly she followed Melissa from the room, suddenly unable to meet the man’s eyes. It was as though she had witnessed something too revealing about him, too personal, watching how he had simply faded beneath his daughter’s quiet voice.

  Melissa shut the door firmly behind them, then bundled her robe up tight to her neck with one frail hand. She coughed once, a weak sound, then said, “Please excuse my father, Miss Picard.”

  “Of course,” she said, unable to respond to this strange girl as she would to any other thirteen-year-old. “It’s just that I have been concerned about you.”

  “My father went through a very bad time three years ago,” she continued in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Papa has not been himself since.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Angie murmured. “I did not mean to intrude.”

  “I have weak lungs,” Melissa pressed on, taking refuge behind a protection of practiced politeness. “Every time I catch a cold, it settles there.”

  “You should let the doctor see you.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of doctors.” The words came automatically, as though they had been repeated a hundred times and more. “I’m keeping up with my schoolwork, though.”

  “Yes, I know you are.” And it was true. Melissa’s test scores remained near the top of her class. Angie searched her scattered thoughts and came up with, “Perhaps your father should see someone.”

  “Papa has seen a lot of doctors too,” Melissa replied calmly. “They didn’t help.”

  “Well.” Of all the things she had feared she might face this night, nothing had prepared her for such a discussion with a person who was both a child and a mature woman. Though the words sounded inadequate even before they were spoken, she said, “If there is anything I can do, you mustn’t hesitate to speak with me.”

  “Of course. How kind of you to be concerned. But I assure you, I am fine.”

  Again there was the sense of hearing words spoken by rote. “I’ll bid you good night, then. I hope you’re feeling better soon.”

  “Good night, Miss Picard. Thank you for stopping by.”

  Angie stayed where she was and watched as Melissa turned and went back inside. Through the closed door, she heard the rise and fall of two voices, the small light chiding and the quiet rumbled replies. There was no anger now, no sense of need or danger. Only mystery.

  4

  For some folks, Christmas was a tough time. Not for Angie. For her, Thanksgiving was the hardest season to endure. It had been right around Thanksgiving, those six years earlier, when her numbness had eased and the sorrow had struck. All the world had joined hands and given thanks, or so it had seemed, with the message blaring from radio and television and pulpit. The irony had been a bitter joke in a time when almost nothing had made her smile.

  But it was not Angie Picard’s way to mope. Instead, that Saturday she rose with the dawn and was ready to go long before her town awoke from its lengthy holiday slumber. She wore a simple brown dress, o
ne that would have been considered tatty and old-fashioned by most of the people she knew. But for the day ahead, her clothes were perfect. Angie settled a little brown hat into place, picked up her hamper and thermos, and stopped in the front hall to place her inside thoughts into the crystal jar. Then she headed for the garage.

  Starting her car was always a puzzlement, she used it so seldom. She preferred to walk herself everywhere in town and normally favored the company of someone else driving when she left her valley’s shelter. But not today.

  As she slid behind the wheel, Angie had to stop and think to even remember the last time she had filled up the tank. But the old Chrysler Windsor was as reliable as it was huge, and the motor started on the first try. It shook off the weeks of disuse with a series of complaining coughs, then purred contentedly, ready for the day ahead.

  Her way took her straight through the quiet town. Most everyone was using the Saturday holiday as an excuse to stay in bed an extra hour or so. The late November day was fresh and clear, the sky a wash of palest blue. Heralds of the coming sun streamed overhead, golden beams cresting the ridgeline to spread like awakening fingers across the heavens.

  Not far beyond the town’s borders, Angie turned off the state highway and onto a county lane. The road was not the broad rushing torrent of the lowlands. It resembled a meandering mountain stream, full of unexpected turnings and surprises and delights. Angie pressed down the accelerator to crest the first steep rise and listened as the big motor rumbled at the challenge.

  The map was open on the seat beside her, but she had carefully traced her way the night before and did not need to check it often. Besides, this was still fairly well-known territory. She liked using holidays for such journeys, as logging and mining traffic would be at a minimum. Her way took her through an old-growth forest, the mountain maples so vast they formed a tunnel through which she traveled. She came over the ridge, but the trees hemmed her in on all sides and kept her from seeing more than the road sloping down before her.

  Angie drove for an hour or more, in no hurry, stopping occasionally for a short stroll into the woods or simply to admire the view when a break came in the forest. The day’s purpose was as much an excuse for a journey as it was a quest. She passed through one highland valley after another, leaving the bustle and the crowds and the town’s civilized ways farther and farther behind.