The Music Box (5 page)

“Get yourself on in here.” Her offer to depart was ignored, as she knew it would be. Mother Cannon held the screen door open for her. “You can keep me company and sample my season's tea.”

Angie followed the old woman down the hallway to the big kitchen at the back of the house. “Is that blackberry I smell? And apple?” And cinnamon and brown sugar and clove. Mother Cannon's pies were known three valleys away.

“The grandchildrens have been out, having themselves a time, gathering the wild berries. Little Tommy ate so much, his mother had to dose him with castor oil and put him to bed.” She stumped over to the galvanized wood-burning stove, a prize that would have fetched quite a sum from one of the antique hunters who scoured the hills. But Mother Cannon had cooked with wood and charcoal all her life and was in no mood to change. “Been a right good season for late fruit. Got a cellar full of jams and preserves. You'll have to take a couple of jars with you.”

“Thank you kindly.” Angie watched as Mother Cannon filled the kettle at the hand-operated pump by the deep sink, the one carved from a block of heartstone granite. Five generations had been born and raised beneath the old slate roof, each content to live with ways lost and forgotten by the fast moving world. “What are we having today?”

“Bramble tea, mostly. A bit of this and that added for texture.” The old lady took down a trio of Mason jars. She measured a pinch of dried leaves from each into a strip of cheesecloth. “Found me some peppermint growing wild just beyond the vegetable patch. Don't often see it this far up.” She formed a pouch with the cheesecloth and tied the end with a long stretch of twine, then settled the pouch into a teapot. “Always did prefer making my own teas.”

The kettle began to sing. The old woman used a towel, singed black, to grasp the handle and fill the pot. The room was instantly filled with the scent of wild flowers and outdoors. “Got all the kin 'cept Robbie coming in tomorrow.” Robbie was the pastor.

“That reminds me.” Angie pulled a manila packet from her purse and withdrew several drawings. “When I told Pastor Rob I was coming to see you, he said you'd like to see what your granddaughter's been up to.”

“Well now, I am obliged to you.” She poured out two steaming mugs, placed one in front of Angie, and settled herself into a chair. Eyes turned milky blue with age examined one picture after another. She looked at them in silence, taking her time, savoring each in turn. Angie sat and sipped her tea and watched. Mother Cannon had a country woman's way of setting time aside, stilling herself, taking things in deep. Only after each drawing had been examined twice did she nod and say, “That girl is blessed with a passel of talent.”

“Her daddy says she's been accepted to art school next year.”

“Don't think much of a girl that age going off on her lonesome,” Mother Cannon sniffed, fingers tracing their way across one picture. “But you can't keep a child to nest longer than the Lord allows. She's been proper raised, so God willing she'll remember what matters when the city beckons.”

Mother Cannon settled age-spotted hands one upon the other and looked at her guest. “When are you expecting to settle down and have a family of your own?”

There was something in the calm tone that granted Angie the power to talk without shame or regret. “I can't have children, Mother.”

There was no pretended shock or pity in her reaction. Instead, the old woman simply raised her head to peer at Angie through the bottom half of her bifocals. “You talked to the doctors?”

“Three different ones. They all said the same thing.” Angie sipped her tea, wondered at how a mug could hold both nature and solace. “I've just had to learn to live with it.”

Mother Cannon sipped from her own cup, a quiet taste. “You ever given thought to a healer?”

“I tried them too”—and again she could speak with openness and candor. “Before I found out and my husband left me, I was prayed over and had my head anointed and had more hands laid on me than I care to count or remember.”

The gaze remained steady, the face calm. “You given up on God, honey?”

“No,” Angie replied quietly. “He's been too important to give up on. I couldn't have lasted through all this without Him.”

She nodded once. “I don't hold with those who say a miracle's yours by right. Leastwise, the miracle we might like to see happen.” She rose to her feet and lifted Angie with a motion of her hand. “Been through too much, seen too much sorrow to ever accept that as the Lord's truth.”

She took hold of Angie's arm and guided her to the back door. Sunlight streamed through trees stripped of all but the last few remaining leaves. Beyond the split-rail fence bordering the pens and vegetable patch, a rough farrowed field rose at a gentle pace to meet the steeper slope beyond. Angie followed Mother Cannon's gaze as she looked farther, out to where a pair of elms sheltered the old family graveyard.

A rusting iron fence squared off a segment of carefully tended ground. The central markers were worn to blank slates by wind and rain and years. Those closer to the lower edge were bordered by flowers and markers of still-fresh memories.

“All I can say is, the Lord has been with me in my darkest hour and my time of deepest need. Got more questions than answers and lots of things I hope to goodness will come clear when I go Home.” Mother Cannon turned and walked to the corner cupboard. “That's not much help to you, I imagine.”

“Words from the heart are always a comfort,” Angie replied softly, leaning against the doorjamb.

The old woman rummaged a moment and came out with a bundle wrapped in newspaper. “My eldest came across this in her attic. Thought it might be of use to you.”

Angie accepted the parcel and returned to the table. Carefully she unwrapped the newsprint, until she found herself examining a small chest of pressed glass. She lifted the palm-sized lid and instantly smelled the scent of ancient flowers. It had probably sat in a forgotten bedroom, filled from time to time with jasmine and spices found growing wild up on the hills. “It's beautiful, Mother.”

“Goodness only knows how long it's been up there.” Mother Cannon lifted her cup for another sip, then turned to the stove and opened the heavy door. “They bought the Cooper homestead back when the winter took the old folks, and none of the childrens wanted to leave their citified ways. Been after them for ages to clean out those upper rooms.”

Pressed glass, also known as Depression crystal in these parts, had been a favorite of country families for three generations. It was cheaper than genuine crystal and heavy enough to survive the use of years. This one was decorated with carvings of hearts within hearts. “Anything else they happen upon that they don't want, please be sure and let me know,” Angie requested.

“I'll do that,” she said, reaching into the oven and setting one pie after another on the counter to cool.

While the old woman's back remained turned, Angie reached for her purse and slipped several bills under the sugar bowl. She had learned long ago never to talk money with hillfolk who chose to treat her as kin. She rose to her feet and wrapped the little chest back in the newspaper. “I'd best be off, then.”

“Heard tell the Hawkinses over in Mill Valley might have a spinning wheel for you. Take the road over the rise east of here, ask anybody how to get there.”

“I'll do that. Thank you.”

Mother Cannon followed her down the hall and out onto the front porch. When Angie turned to thank her once more, the woman stopped the words with one upraised hand. Her gaze rested on Angie with the quietness of one who had endured the test of patience. “I'm going to speak to you as one of my own. There's unwanted trials that come to us all. It's important at such times to remember that when I suffer, the Lord suffers with me. He touches me at a level beyond words and offers me more tenderness than a mother does her child.”

She cast a glance behind her, as though searching an unseen hillside. “Beyond that, all I can say at such times is, I try. I try to understand. I try to accept. I try to love both my neighbor and my Lord. I try to stay ready for when His call comes. I try to be worthy.”

5

Thanksgiving Sunday greeted Angie with the tickle of sunlight. She had to shield her face and roll over before she could open her eyes, it was that bright. Rising from her bed, she saw how the sun positioned itself to come through the one crack in her shade and fall precisely where her face had been. She stood by her bed a long while, held, without understanding why, by the sight of that single ray of light falling soft and golden upon her pillow.

The gift of sunshine lifted her spirits as she prepared for church, which was a surprise, as Thanksgiving Sundays were normally a trial. It was hard to hold to her quiet resolve and keep the memories tightly encased in her crystal bowl, while all the world seemed caught up in a holiday that meant nothing to her anymore.

But today was different. Why, she was not sure. Yet different all the same, as though it was going to be a good day whether she liked it or not. She even found herself humming a favorite hymn as she slipped on her coat and gloves and let herself from the house.

Halfway down the walk, Angie stopped with a sudden realization. She had left the house without closing her inside thoughts into the crystal dish. The habit was so ingrained she could not imagine a morning without it. And yet she had done so.

Astounded, she whirled about, but as she did, the sun emerged from behind the sky's only cloud and struck her full in the face. Angie felt as if she had walked into a solid wall. The light both blinded and halted her. She turned her head and felt the sun's warm fingers keep her turning away from the house and moving toward the street.

Angie was baffled by this sensation which she seemingly could not resist. She continued on down the walk, but at the little gate she hesitated again. She would have turned back, but a car chose that moment to pull up and stop.

“I'm not even going to ask if you want to ride,” Emma announced, climbing from her side of the Plymouth and shutting her door. “It's far too pretty a day to be wasting my breath.”

“Good morning,” Angie said weakly.

Angie started to raise a hand back toward the house but was stopped by her friend coming up and taking her arm and lacing it with her own. “Don't tell me, let me guess,” Emma chirped. “You were going to walk to church and, along the way, see if you couldn't find some reason to drag a couple of dark clouds into this beautiful day.”

That was enough to bring her back around. “I should never have trusted you with a single secret, Emma Drummond. Not a single solitary one,” she said, slipping into their easy repartee.

“Then you'd have swollen up and popped open long ago. Because you keep more to yourself than anybody alive, and that's the truth.” She pointed at the car. “Now go on and bid my husband a proper good morning so he can get himself on down the road. Deacons don't like being late on Sundays.”

Angie nodded at Emma's husband. “Luke, if I have never said it before, I'll say it now. You are positively a saint to put up with this woman like you do.”

The rawboned mountain man tipped his hat in reply. “You ladies have a nice walk, hear.”

“Come on.” Emma tugged on her arm as Luke drove away. “Don't want to be the last ones in on Thanksgiving Sunday.”

“Why ever not?” But Angie allowed her friend to hurry her on down the road, though she did manage a single confused glance back at her sun-dappled house.

For some reason, the glance was enough for Emma to pick up the pace. “That reminds me. You know Louise Hollister. Her son Brant is in your class.”

“Buddy,” Angie corrected, having almost to skip to keep up with her friend. “Brant Hollister is a year younger.”

“Whatever. She's a secretary over at the shoe company. You'd never believe what she told me.”

“I know there's not a hope I'll be hearing it from you,” Angie replied, lips pursed in mock rebuke. “You haven't been able to tell a proper story since kindergarten.”

“You know that's not true.”

“Emma Drummond, the day you lay out a story from beginning to end is the day I keel over dead.”

“Now just hush up and listen. Last week Louise had cause to call long distance into the city to that big company, the one that owns the shoe factory. What's it called?”

“Allied Products.”

“That's the one. Louise got to talking to somebody over there. And the woman, the one she was talking to on the phone, asked Louise how Carson Nealey was getting on.”

“What?”

“There, see, I thought you'd like to hear. But oh no, Miss High and Mighty's got to go and bad-mouth her best friend, like she didn't enjoy a good gossip as much as the next person.”

“You know good and well the only reason I'm listening to you is because I'm concerned about his daughter.”

“Oh, and I suppose that means your earhole's any cleaner than mine.”

“Emma Drummond, you are about to get a piece of my mind. Now tell me what the woman said.”

“Well. It seems that Carson was one of their top executives. I mean, right up there. Then his wife passed on sudden like. One day she woke up with a headache, then just a few days later she was gone. Brain tumor. Nothing anybody could do about it.”

“Oh,” Angie said, the gasp pushed from her chest, as though a giant's hand had suddenly reached out and squeezed the air from her. “That poor child.”

“Poor is right. Seems both of them were just devastated. Carson fell to pieces. Didn't come in at all for a while, and then he never could work up a full head of steam again. Finally he asked to move someplace in the mountains, take over a small factory. And you know what, Allied never did plan on owning this shoe company at all. They got it when they bought a company somewhere else.”