The Music Box (2 page)

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 mirror. 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.

There in the city she had met Stefan. Bold, loud, dashing, and charming. And foreign. Stefan had been everything that she was not. His family ran the town's biggest and best Greek restaurant. He had a problem with his feet, something serious enough to keep him out of the army, yet not enough to hamper either his looks or his smooth way on the dance floor. And he had, quite literally, swept this mountain girl right off her feet.

His family had been opposed to the quiet-spoken girl from the beginning. Which was one reason why Stefan had taken to her so swift and strong. He was destined to enter the family business, so tied by blood and obligations that there was little room for even dreaming of another destiny. So he had rebelled as much as he dared and brought an outsider into their closed ranks.

She truly had loved her dashing Greek. So much so that she had been willing to cast aside her dreams of becoming a teacher and accept the role of waitress in the Greek restaurant, beneath the glowering disapproval of Stefan's mother. And father. And uncle and aunt and three cousins and four others whose connections were so flimsy that she had never managed to get them straight. The only one who had granted her an open-hearted welcome was his sister, Gina, the same lively woman who had invited Angie to attend church with her. Soon after their wedding, Gina had also brought Angie to the church's Bible study and thus helped her retrace her steps back to faith.

The wedding itself had been the noisiest affair Angie had ever attended, with singing and dancing and toasts and crashing plates and more dancing and more toasts. For a brief moment, Angie had managed to believe that all the family recriminations and arguments that had marred their courtship were behind them. But instead, they had simply been set aside for a single noisy night. The men had danced linked by handkerchiefs, Stefan dragged up time after time until he had collapsed gripping his chest, the first indication anyone had of his weak heart. But that night no one had paid any mind, just laughing and pointing and putting it down to a bridegroom's nerves.

There were memories of other noisy days as well, rising unbidden to fill her mind as she had watched the road broaden and take them farther into the lowlands. Days spent in the sweltering heat of the restaurant kitchen, rushing in and out, her customers' orders going unheeded, as no one could catch her quiet tone over the tumult. Feeling the mother's sullen eyes follow her everywhere. Trying hard to please, and knowing that nothing would break down the hostile walls—nothing except a baby.

Everything would be fine, Stefan had assured her over and over, just as soon as they had their first child. Then she would be accepted as one of the family. How could they reject the mother of one of their own? It was impossible. She would automatically become a part of them, connected by bonds of flesh and blood. She had no reason to worry, Stefan had said. Their first baby would make everything right, and every child after that would only make things better.

Eleven had been the telling number of their relationship. Eleven giddy weeks of courtship, just long enough to finish the university term. Angie had held on to that, though she was giving up graduating in order to join Stefan in the family business. Eleven months of trying to make the marriage work, gradually building up her courage to tell him that it was impossible—she could not bear to spend the rest of her life in a job she hated, under the eye of people who hated her, so she was going back to finish her degree. And then on the last day of the eleventh month, receiving the news that had shattered her life yet again. And ended her marriage as finally as the waiting grave. She would never have a baby, the doctor had told her. The tests were conclusive. It was useless to try anymore.

Eleven months of marriage, followed by a brief eleven days of anger and recrimination and more tears than she thought one body could hold. And then nothing.

She had come back from her first day of class to find Stefan's family gathered in their little apartment, quiet for once, packing and bundling all Stefan's belongings into the rented truck. No word to her the entire time, not even a note from Stefan to explain or just say farewell. She had stood mute and accepting, knowing there was no way she could fight against so much shared hostility and anger.

Four months later Gina had been the one to call and tell her that Stefan was dead. Which was the only way that Angie would have ever known, as there had been no word from her absent husband or his family since he had abandoned her. Gina passed on the news, then cried with her over the phone and told her when the funeral would be held and cried with her some more. And ever since then, for these past six years, they had marked each anniversary by meeting together at Stefan's grave. It was the only contact Angie kept with all her early dreams.

****

Gradually, as though the volume knob on a radio was slowly being turned louder, Emma's voice invaded her reflections. “Her father comes into the store from time to time.”

Angie did not know whether to be grateful for the interruption or not. “Who?”

Her friend glanced over. “You haven't heard a single word I've been saying, have you?” Before Angie could protest, Emma turned back to the road and went on, “I was telling you about Carson Nealey, Melissa's father. He'll be in and out in the blink of an eye, loading up things for his garden and plunking down his money and leaving. Doesn't say hardly a word to anybody. He'd be a right handsome fellow if he wasn't so grim.”

“I wonder if maybe I ought to meet with him,” Angie murmured, glad now that what lay ahead could be pushed to one side. For now.

“Somebody ought to. Never can tell what that child is enduring,” Emma agreed eagerly. She was happy to talk about anything and anybody, so long as there was the hint of mystery or gossip, preferably both. “I'll drive you by and keep an eye out.”

“You'll do no such thing.”

“Fellow like that, surrounds himself in mystery and silence, you can't be too careful. All anybody knows about him is he's taken over running the big shoe factory on the other side of town.”

Despite herself, Angie was impressed. The shoe factory was the town's one major industry. “You mean, he's the new president?”

“The very same,” Emma confirmed. “Haven't seen hide nor hair of a wife, though.”

“That is a little strange,” Angie allowed. “Maybe she still works down in the city.”

“Locked up somewheres, more like,” Emma offered and was suddenly off and running. “I've seen his face, and you haven't. All pinched and squinty-eyed, like a mean old weasel. Wouldn't be surprised to hear he's got her tied in the cellar, feeds her through the keyhole.”

“That is quite enough, Emma.”

But when Emma had the bit between her teeth, she wasn't that easy to stop. “And that poor sweet little tadpole of a daughter, probably keeps her on a diet of rainwater and cold grits. That's why she's so little, don't you know. Half-starved little thing. They oughtta lock up that mean old possum of a daddy and throw away the key.”

“Emma Drummond, I have never heard the like.” Angie stared at her friend in astonishment. “I declare, you are worse than a roomful of ten-year-olds. Where on earth do you come up with these things?”

“Inspiration and detection,” Emma replied loftily. “Luke says there's a good dash of aberration thrown in there as well.”

“Your husband has uncommon perception,” Angie said from the heart.

“Luke says I can keep him better occupied than a double feature at the drive-in,” Emma declared proudly.

“I can—” Angie stopped. The classical radio station Emma had playing softly began a chorale. “Turn that off, if you please.”

“Why?” But Emma had heard the reason before and reluctantly did as she was told. “I sure wish you'd start back with the choir again, honey.”

“That's one road I do not intend to walk down with you today.” All through her teen years, Angie had been soloist for the church choir. Since returning from the university and the city, however, she had refused to sing at all.

“A gift like that shouldn't go to waste,” Emma complained, almost by rote now.

“It's not wasted. I talk all day long in my classes. Sundays are my only day to stay quiet.”

“That's not the same and you know it.”

The state road chose that moment to take a sudden sharp turn, and there in front of them stood the stone gates and the sign. Angie ended the argument by pointing and saying, “This is it, Emma. Pull in here.”

Emma's broad features lost their brightness. She steered the heavy Plymouth over to the side of the road. “Sure you don't want me to come in with you?”

But Angie was already climbing from the automobile. Even she could hear the flat coldness that had crept into her voice. “How long will you take in the city?”

“There's nothing in the city that's important enough to keep me from being here when you need me.”

Angie glanced at her wristwatch but could not manage to focus on the tiny hands. “Two hours,” she said, gathering herself for the long walk ahead. “That will do.”