The Music Box (3 page)

“I'll be here.” Emma leaned her heavy frame across the seat to better see Angie's tight face. “Just know my prayers are right there with you, honey. Every step of the way.”

****

Angie had always felt the place to be not so bad, as cemeteries went, though she hoped and prayed she would be laid to rest back on the hilltop that had served their village for a hundred and fifty years. Numerous valley families had kin who had moved down to the city, and this had brought her to the main cemetery several times. The hillfolks' custom was to be present for all births and marriages and deaths, no matter if the ties that bound had been stretched thin as ribbons. No matter that letters might come seldom as Christmas, or that arguments might have driven the kinfolk away in the first place. All such things were set aside at the passage of human seasons.

Angie trekked up the steep slope, staying to the small side paths that wound their way through carefully tended lawns. She reached the crest of the rise and stood in the gray overcast afternoon. She recalled how it had been, those six years earlier, when Stefan's funeral procession had come into view.

In the distance the black shapes had unfolded from their automobiles and gathered about the hearse, their cries rising in the still air. Angie had found herself unable to weep, as though the noise from below had robbed her of the ability to express anything of her own. The wails had risen to a crescendo when the coffin had been shouldered. Angie had avoided the church service, knowing she could not possibly have endured more accusations and anger. She had remained hidden upon the hillside, listening to the cries of anguish as the coffin had been lowered into the earth. Angie had gripped the limb of a nearby pine until her knuckles were white and had forced herself to watch. The air had been so still, the incense waved about by the black-robed priest had wafted up to where she stood.

Then to her surprise, in the silent void of a quietly exhausted heart, she had heard the prayer arise. A prayer of forgiveness for the husband who had abandoned her, for the family who had shut her out, for herself. And in the prayer had arrived the fragile beginnings of peace.

As the group had begun to drift back toward the waiting automobiles, Gina had turned and searched the hillside. Then she had bent over and pulled out a single flower from those surrounding the grave, before walking steadily up the hill toward Angie. Others had stopped to watch and had discovered the reason behind Gina's direction. Angie had fought back the impulse to turn and run. Instead, she had taken a deep breath, straightened up as tall and erect as she could manage, and stepped from behind the tree.

A low murmur had run through the gathering. Angie had watched Gina mount the rise, until she came close enough to reach out her hand and say quietly, “For the honor you have done both Stefan and my family. For the wrong they have done you in return.”

Angie had accepted the flower with a whispered thanks, then looked on as Gina retraced her steps. She had stood there beneath the pine, the white rose held with both her hands, and waited as the procession wound its way back down the long drive. Angie had then dropped her gaze to the flower and finally found the freedom to weep.

****

The western hills remained shrouded in shared sorrow, veils of gray mist hanging motionless about the verdant slopes. Angie sighed and felt as though she were trying to breathe around a chest full of broken dreams. This was always the hardest part of her annual visits. The memories seemed so recent, so immediate when she came here.

And yet even here, even now, there was a sense of the same peace she had known when she had prayed at her husband's funeral. As though the prayer had been a turning. And in the turning she had received a gift that was to remain with her forever. The same comforting presence that had been with her ever since those first days of returning to the university and to God. Knowing that both moves were right. Knowing that she would be healed and that she would somehow find her way through it all.

When she spotted Gina coming along the path, Angie picked her way down the rise to meet her. Gina had her brother's dark eyes and hair, as did all the family. But where they were loud and bitter and held grimly to anger, Gina was cheerful in a matter-of-fact way. Little seemed to faze her, and what did rarely was allowed to for long. But as she approached, Angie could see how time had laced more gray within the dark tresses and etched more lines out from her smiling eyes.

“So. You came.” Gina settled her bouquet against the gravestone, then turned and gave Angie a fierce hug. “You of all the family.”

“I really come to see you.”

Gina gave her another hug and one of her quick flashing smiles. “How have you been?”

“Fine. And you?”

“Four children and a husband, and now they have me in charge of the kitchen; how do you expect me to be?” Shrewd dark eyes inspected her carefully. “You do not look fine. You look like you are still carrying the past with you.”

“In this place, what else do you expect?”

“Exactly, in this place.” Gina guided her over to the marble bench across the path from the family's plot. “Why, I ask myself, does this lovely young lady come back year after year to this place?”

Such directness was Gina's trademark, but still Angie was not expecting it from someone she saw only once a year. Especially here. “I just said—to see you.”

Still Gina persisted, “Why, I ask, does she honor the anniversary of a man who abandoned her in her hour of most desperate need? One who then died without making amends?” Her challenge hung in the air between them like a shroud.

Angie stared at the dark granite tombstone. “He was still my husband,” she said quietly.

Gina took hold of Angie's hand. “You are a fine person. I do no dishonor to the family in saying the truth. And the truth is, Stefan wronged you. He wronged us all. On behalf of all my family, I ask your forgiveness.”

“You have it,” Angie replied, her eyes still on the grave. “You always have.”

Angie could feel the gaze searching her face but did not turn back. Finally Gina asked, “You have found a man who deserves you?”

“No man. Not anymore. I'm not really interested.”

“Of course you're interested. A lovely young woman in the prime of life is not meant to be alone.”

“A lot of things in life aren't what they're meant to be.”

“No.” A sigh, a moment's pause, then, “But you are young. You have faith. Why do you not let the good Lord heal your wounds?”

“I think He has,” Angie replied slowly, wondering at how she could remain sitting here, feeling such comfort in the presence of questions she would never have asked herself.

“And
I
think you still hold to the past and have done so for too long.” Gina opened her voluminous purse and extracted a card. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“Something I read the other morning in my daily devotionals book. It's from a poem by Byron. The instant I saw it, I knew it was meant for you.”

Reluctantly Angie accepted the card. A tingle passed through her fingertips and up her arm, as though the gift held some special energy. Some intended challenge.

“I pray for you,” Gina said simply. “I pray that whatever shadows remain from your loss and your hardship will vanish, that the Lord will heal you fully. That you will
let
Him finish what He has already begun.”

“Thank you,” Angie murmured. Her fingers still pulsed, a quickening surge that drew her gaze. She raised the card and read:

“My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are—even I
Regained my freedom with a sigh
.”

“Now turn it over,” Gina instructed quietly.

Angie did as she was told and saw the back was inscribed with a verse from the hundred and twenty-sixth Psalm: “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.”

“I want you to do something for me,” Gina said, her straightforward tone softened with concern. “Don't come back.”

Angie tore her gaze away from the card. “What?”

“We can find a happier place to meet from now on.” She reached over and patted Angie's shoulder. “Go. Go and finish your restoration. Go and start a new life. Too soon we will join all these others. Our bodies will lie beneath earth and stone; our souls will stand before God. When He asks us, ‘What did you do with your life?' What will you tell Him?”

“That I tried,” Angie replied softly and still felt the current pass from the card through her body.

“Yes, of course, you tried and you held to faith, and this is good. But did you try your hardest? Did you accept a full healing when it was offered? Did you serve your Father when He called? Were you everything He asked you to be?”

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.”