Return of the Song

by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  “Mornin’, Caroline. Come on back,” Gracie said. “I’m dyin’ to hear about your trip.”

  Caroline took her seat. Before Gracie could wrap her in the black plastic cape and reach for the scissors, four faces peeped around the wicker room divider—one in curlers, another in a plastic cap, and two wet heads. “So, how was it?” Gracie asked.

  “Oh, it was fine. I went and played a recital and came home. Didn’t you read Delia’s column yesterday?”

  “Yeah, I read the column. Didn’t recognize half the names in it. And besides, you didn’t play a recital from Tuesday until Saturday.”

  A squeaky voice from the other side of the wicker divider said, “Well, from what I read, she might have played four days—that was a lot of music.”

  “Yeah, she was playing all right, but it wasn’t the piano.” Gracie gave up on getting anything juicy from Caroline. “What are we doing today?”

  “Just a trim.”

  “What about some wispy bangs? Or maybe some highlights? I’ve learned a new technique.”

  She needs to learn a new technique. Caroline had seen a few ladies in town with Gracie’s bangs. They all looked like Buster Brown. And as for the highlights, she envisioned zebra stripes. “No bangs. Just trim the ends, please.”

  “Caroline, you’ve been comin’ here for a long time and payin’ me to trim the ends. I declare I hate to take your money for that, but I guess I will.”

  Gracie probed and Caroline sidestepped until Gracie asked if she was going back to Kentucky. Caroline answered honestly. “I have no plans to return to Kentucky.”

  She paid Gracie twice what the trim was worth, but the extra paid for the entertainment.

  She headed to the Café on the Square for one of Mabel’s cheeseburgers and a basket of onion rings that Sam said would make a rabbit spit in a bulldog’s face. Then she drove around the Square. Amazing how different this place looks now that I’ve decided to stay. It’s like I’ve not really seen any of this before. Never noticed the monument in the morning light.

  Bo Blossom was on his late morning walk. How could I have thought he was the intruder?

  She waved at Brother Andy going in the post office. He’ll make someone feel good today.

  She saw Tandy Yarbrough coming out of the library. Probably a board meeting, and I’ll bet she didn’t make anyone feel good.

  Several of her students attending Bible school at the Baptist church waved at her through the chain-link fence. Why do churches have fences—to keep folks in or out?

  She parked on the square as the courthouse clock chimed eleven thirty. She crossed the street to the restaurant only to find the lights off and a sign hanging in the window: Gone fishing. Be back tomorrow if the fish don’t bite.

  Clever of Mabel. Who can determine “tomorrow” with such a sign?

  She looked across the Square. How could I have overlooked these simple pleasures for the last six years? It’s truly like I’m seeing them for the first time.

  After a grilled-cheese sandwich at home, she played the piano all afternoon. She hadn’t even minded Ned and Fred’s hammering. With the park project on the drawing board, she understood why Sam wanted a sturdy brick fence to separate Twin Oaks from the park property before Ned and Fred started clearing the land.

  She’d heard Angel bargaining with Ned last week when she showed him the picture of the gazebo she wanted in the park. “You do the best you can to protect my roses while you’re building this fence, and you’ll get to build the gazebo. People will sit in it for the next hundred years, and I’ll put a brass plaque with your name on it as the builder.” So far, Caroline had not seen one broken rose cane or bruised petal.

  She was at the piano late in the day when she heard a knock at the door. She opened it to Ned and Fred.

  “Done for the day, Miss Caroline. Just lettin’ you know we’s headed home. May be a little late tomorrow mornin’. Mabel cooks pancakes on Thursdays. She won’t cook ’em except on Thursdays, and me and Fred like her pancakes.”

  “Then you’d better pray the fish don’t bite.”

  “ ‘Fish don’t bite’? Fish don’t like pancakes, do they?” Ned said. Fred jabbed him hard in the ribs.

  Caroline laughed. Ned and Fred are as rare as Bella. “I don’t know if fish like pancakes or not, but Mabel likes to fish. I went to get a burger for lunch today, and her sign said she’d gone fishing and would be back tomorrow if the fish weren’t biting.”

  “Oh, I get it now.” Ned laughed hard. “We’ll be on our way, ma’am. Sure have enjoyed your piano playin’. It’s just plain beautiful. Yessiree, that’s what it is—just beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Ned.”

  Before she could finish, Fred interrupted her. “Me too. Me too.” He looked at his feet.

  “And thank you, too, Fred. I’m working on a new piece—three movements, and I’m almost finished.”

  “And just think, we been right here while you been makin’ it up. Fred, ain’t that somethin’?”

  Fred shook his head.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. See you tomorrow.” Caroline closed the door and went back to the piano. Through the window, she saw Fred slap Ned across the behind with his John Deere cap.

  Ned stopped in his tracks and looked at his twin. “I’m done talking about being dumb. Yeah, we’re dumb, but we’re blessed, Fred. Think about it. We gonna be building a city park, started on the wall this mornin’. It’s gonna be beautifuler than anything else in town, and we get to make it that way. Just two old dumb boys.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And figger on this: all the time we been aworkin’ on that wall this mornin’, we been listnin’ to beautiful music. People pay money, big money, Fred, to hear that kinda music. I can see it now—Miss Caroline on a stage somewhere fancy with one of them grand pianos and a bunch of fiddle players makin’ music like it’s gonna be in heaven.”

  Fred stared at his brother like he was looking in the mirror. “You got a good ’magination, Ned.”

  “Yeah, brother, I do. But that park ain’t gonna get built without somebody imaginin’ it. And Miss Caroline wouldn’t have one note of music to play if somebody didn’t imagine that neither. And think about this.” He took off his cap and swatted his brother’s arm. “We got to hear Miss Caroline imaginin’ all mornin’, Fred. We’s the first to hear that music, and I imagine it’s gonna be somethin’ beautiful.”

  He put his cap back on, and they walked down the driveway, threw their toolboxes over the pea-green picket fence around their truck bed, and left for the day.

  The sunshine on Friday morning was bright and made folks at Moss Point glad the Dog Days of August were almost over. It was hot, but at least the drive to Atlanta wouldn’t be through a rainstorm. Caroline poured a cup of coffee for the road. Standing at the sink, she saw Sam walking Angel down the stone path. She met them at the door.

  Sam greeted her with his familiar hug and cautioned her not to let Angel get too tired.

  She promised and asked, “So, what will you do without us today?”

  “Oh, important things, very important things.” He walked them to the car.

  “Everything Sam does is important; didn’t you know that, sweetie?”

  “But it’s Friday. I thought he took a break from important things on Friday.”

  “Not this Friday. Okay, ladies, get gone so I can get on to my business.” He kissed Angel and helped her in.

  Caroline cranked the car, turned the air conditioner to maximum, and began to pull out of the driveway. Angel rolled down the window. “If we can’t find anything better to do, we’ll be home by three o’clock. Remember, three o’clock.”

  Sam gave her the old “okay” hand sign, and the ladies drove off.

  Their conversation covered everything north of Ferngrove and south of Atlanta during the drive. Once there, Angel assured Caroline she was fine to walk and to leave the wheelchair in the trunk. In no time at all, Caroline was dropping her off at the entrance
to the mall and going to park. They rendezvoused at Mrs. Kramer’s dress shop. Angel wanted an elegant dress in burgundy. Mrs. Kramer seated her in the back and brought out several. Both Angel and Caroline knew the right one when it made its appearance. Mrs. Kramer reserved the keepers in the back—some kind of sales psychology, Caroline supposed.

  Next they went to the bookstore. Angel wanted to surprise Sam with a new book on the Civil War. She looked at a low-fat cookbook for Hattie.

  “I think you’re going to insult her with that, Angel.”

  “Better to insult her than strangle her.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t be so mean about Hattie. She’s just trying to take care of me. But that woman would fry butter breaded with biscuit crumbs.”

  Caroline grimaced. “Well, maybe the new cookbook is a good idea.”

  Angel looked at her watch. “Okay, one more stop before we eat.” She wanted to go to the craft store. “I need a few tubes of paint and a canvas.”

  “Oh, you’re going to paint? You haven’t painted in a while, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. Remember when I told you it was time for you to dance? Well, it’s time for me to paint again. I have a couple of things in mind.”

  Caroline carried the shopping bags while Angel filled her basket with tubes of paint—mostly shades of pink—a linen canvas, and a couple of new brushes. They checked out and headed for the food court, where they chatted over lunch until Angel looked at her watch.

  “Okay, we can go now,” Angel said.

  “You mean we have permission?”

  “No, I mean I’ve done all I need to do, and we told Sam we’d be back by three.”

  “That’s right. Then I suppose we’d better head for the barn. Can’t leave Sam alone too long doing important things. We’ll walk to the entrance together, and I’ll get the car and pick you up at the front door. No more walking for you today.”

  Angel napped on the drive home while the third movement of Caroline’s new composition ricocheted around in her head. She preferred composing at the piano, but the driver’s wheel wasn’t a bad second. She hummed the new melody, hoping it would help her remember it. She had already entered the first two movements into the computer and printed them out.

  Stopping at the traffic light as they entered town woke Angel. “Are we here already? What time is it?”

  “We’re here and it’s about quarter till three.”

  “Oh, we’re early. Could we stop and get something to drink—a soda or lemonade maybe?”

  “You don’t want to get something at home? I have sodas, and you know Hattie keeps fresh lemonade.”

  “But . . . I think . . . I think I want something . . . maybe with ice cream in it.”

  “Oh, you mean like a real soda, an ice-cream soda?”

  “Yeah, a real ice-cream soda.”

  “Is an ice-cream soda on your doctor’s Angel-can-have-that list?”

  “No, but maybe Harvey can make it with low-fat ice cream or sherbet or something.”

  “Or something? Okay.” Caroline parked in front of Kimbo’s Drugstore. “Should I get something for Sam?”

  “No, I’ll just share mine with him.”

  Their last-minute detour managed and with Angel sipping an ice-cream soda, they turned the corner to Twin Oaks. “What’s with the big white van parked there?” Caroline asked.

  “What van?”

  “ ‘What van?’ What do you mean ‘what van?’ The one I just squeezed by turning in the driveway.”

  “Oh, maybe Mrs. Dickey across the street bought some new furniture. Lord knows she needs some. Those cats of hers have ruined everything in that house.” Angel looked at her watch and opened the car door.

  “I’ll carry your packages up to the big house.” Caroline got out of the car.

  “I don’t think I can make it, Caroline.”

  Caroline dropped the packages and ran around the car to Angel.

  Angel unfastened her seat belt. “What are you doing, child?”

  “Are you all right? You said you didn’t think you could make it.”

  “Yeah, my bladder is just about to go boom.” Angel carefully swiveled around, taking Caroline’s arm to get out of the car.

  “Good.”

  “Good? So now you think a bursting bladder is good?”

  “Beats a heart attack, I think. Don’t you scare me like that anymore, you hear?”

  “I think I can make it to the studio. Then you can walk me home.”

  Caroline, laden with shopping bags, followed Angel to the terrace. Angel turned the doorknob and walked in. Caroline frowned. She was certain she had locked the door before she left. She said nothing and stepped inside just behind Angel.

  “Well, it’s about time you got home,” said Sam in his judge’s voice.

  Caroline looked up. There sat Sam in the chair where Bella always sat.

  And there sat Roderick in the chair next to him.

  “Yes, we’ve been waiting for you.” Roderick rose from his chair.

  Caroline dropped the bags in surprise. Angel giggled, and Sam applauded.

  Caroline wanted to run to Roderick, but instead she turned to Angel. “Did you know about this?”

  “Of course I knew about this. You don’t think I really wanted to go to Atlanta today, do you? You’ve been duped, sweetie, just plain duped.”

  Caroline went to Roderick and hugged him politely.

  As he pulled away from her to look at her face, he moved his hands to her shoulders and guided her to turn around. “Yes, we’ve been waiting to hear you play.”

  And there was her piano—her beloved 1902 Hazelton Brothers piano that had supposedly found a home in Rockwater. It sat, as if on display, in the alcove in her studio.

  “My piano?”

  “Your piano, Caroline,” Roderick said.

  “But I don’t have . . . I can’t afford . . . And the piano that was here?”

  “Let’s just say we’ve made an even trade. Your baby grand is in the white truck right outside. The driver will take it back to Rockwater. That is, if you’ll allow this one to stay here. Let’s hear how it sounds. Would you play for me right now?”

  Sam and Angel slipped quietly out the back door as Caroline sat down at the piano. Angel blew her a kiss before Sam closed the door.

  Caroline sat there a moment, amazed. Her piano keys were under her fingertips. Here, in her studio. And Roderick was in the armchair a few feet from her.

  She began to play.

  She played the first movement of her new piece. It was a simple, romantic melody—gentle and soft. Then, a moment of silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Roderick move to applaud. But she wasn’t finished.

  She started again. This time the melody disappeared and reappeared several times in bold, dark, and vibrant sounds, like a summer night’s thunderstorm. Again the music stopped to silence. Caroline breathed deeply and began the third movement, a variation on the first theme.

  And then she stopped midphrase. She turned to Roderick with a smile that coaxed her left dimple to appear.

  “I’m stunned. Caroline, what a lovely and powerful piece. But I’ve never heard it,” Roderick said as he stood.

  “No one’s heard it. I’m writing it. It’s the ‘Rockwater Suite.’ ”

  “But finish playing it. I want to hear it.”

  “I will finish it . . . someday. Trust me,” she said as she stood and walked toward him.

  —The End of the Beginning—

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I am grateful for readers. Thank you for your time spent in the pages of this book. It is for you that I write. Return of the Song combines story and the metaphor of music. Both make my heart sing. With this book, I worked to create a space where you could visit and feel at home in Moss Point or at Rockwater. I hope that you will try on the skin of more than one of these characters as you read. See what he sees. Feel what she feels. If you can do t
hat and maybe chuckle a time or two or feel a tear escape your eye, then I will have been successful. Thank you for your time in taking this story from the page and bringing it to life in your imagination.

  I owe a debt of gratitude to Dr. Darold Treffert, world-renowned psychiatrist, who has studied savant syndrome for more than forty years. He has appeared on many television programs and has written extensively about savants and mental health. It was most important to me that I depict Bella, a musical savant, with absolute integrity and authenticity. Dr. Treffert graciously read this manuscript and put his stamp of approval upon it.

  Piano teachers everywhere deserve our thanks. They are vital citizens in communities across our nation. They serve our churches. They teach our children. They provide entertainment. And they provide the gift of music for poignant times in our lives—times such as worship services and weddings and funerals. I salute you for the giving of yourselves and your music. Like me, you could write volumes about your personal experiences with your students and with your communities. I had the gift of a wonderful piano teacher who instilled in me the love of music and the discipline to develop the skill. Thank you, Mrs. Verran. You shaped my life.

  A squad of professionals made sure this book ended up between its covers. Thank you, Gilead Team, for every big and little thing you do to publish clean fiction and to make it available to discerning readers. I’m so grateful you understand the value of words and the turn of a phrase and the importance of the story. Leslie Peterson, I am indebted to you. You know how to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to editing. And how blessed I am that you get Southern.

  There would be no music and no stories without my Bill. As an artist, you’ve taught me to see. As a theologian, you’ve encouraged my faith. And as a philosopher, you have engaged me to think. And always, you’ve given me freedom to imagine. You are the music of my heart.

  Phyllis Clark Nichols’s character-driven Southern fiction explores profound human questions using the imagined residents of small town communities you just know you’ve visited before. With a strong faith and a love for nature, art, music, and ordinary people, she tells redemptive tales of loss and recovery, estrangement and connection, longing and fulfillment . . . often through surprisingly serendipitous events.