The Music Box

by T. Davis Bunn

  Melissa raised her head then. Grave eyes inspected Angie’s face, eyes wanting to believe, wanting to be sure that what Angie said was true. “Really?”

  “With God, and in God’s time,” Angie replied. “And now my inside thoughts are just memories. They are sad ones, a lot of them, but still special. I still keep the jar there in the hallway, because I can look at it now and remember, and it’s okay.”

  “It doesn’t make you sad?”

  “Not anymore,” Angie said, meeting the gaze full on. “I feel glad. Glad to be alive, glad to be teaching, glad for all the joy that life still holds for me. It’s not perfect, and a lot of things aren’t how I would have them be. But I still have a lot to be thankful for.”

  Big gray eyes continued to regard her. “I wish . . .” Then Melissa stopped as she caught sight of something behind them.

  Angie turned around to find Carson standing in the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, so still he appeared planted there. His arms were crossed, and he was watching the two of them with an expression that Angie could not identify. His eyes went back and forth from one to the other, then he said quietly, “Lunch is ready.”

  “Thank you,” Angie said, her voice as soft as his.

  He turned and walked back down the hallway. Only then did Angie decide what Carson Nealey’s expression had seemed most of all was hopeful.

  12

  The remainder of the month was spent observing. Angie saw Melissa in class and both of them at church. But other than the occasional smile and brief conversation, there was no contact between them. Angie did not mind. There had been so much contained in that day.

  The month’s final Friday dawned clear and brilliantly sunny. The temperature was iron-hard cold as she walked to school, but by lunchtime the valley had captured the warmth so that even her sweater felt heavy. As she waited for her last class to gather, she found herself impatiently staring out the window and hoping the weather would hold.

  “Miss Picard?”

  Angie swung back around. “Hello, Melissa. You caught me daydreaming.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She held out the folded sheet of art paper. “This is for you.”

  “Why, thank you.” She raised up the paper, read the penciled inscription, “To my friend, Miss Picard. With love, Melissa Nealey.” Angie smiled at the girl, anticipation on her face. “This is just too sweet.”

  “You can open it if you want to,” she said shyly.

  Angie checked the rapidly filling room. There was little attention cast their way. She knew from experience that the final class before the weekend concentrated mostly on what was to come. She returned to the page in her hand.

  The paper had been carefully sealed with a little ribbon. Angie untied the bow, opened the page, and gasped aloud.

  “The teacher asked us to draw a picture of spring. I knew this was for you even before I started.”

  Angie turned so she faced the blackboard and away from the class, all without lifting her gaze from the picture. She swallowed, the sound made loud by the tightness in her throat, the same tightness that turned her voice hoarse as she whispered, “This is beautiful.”

  “It’s the best thing I ever drew,” Melissa said simply, standing so she could see both the page and Angie’s face. “You like it. I can tell.”

  “Very much.” Angie had to struggle, but she managed a little smile. “I am very touched that you would want me to have this.”

  “You’re my best friend,” Melissa replied simply. “I like being able to give you something.”

  The drawing was mostly pen and ink, done with a minimum of line. It showed a tree trunk, one chopped off a few inches above the ground. The trunk’s upper surface was smooth and clean, displaying the whorls and age lines. But that was not what held Angie’s attention.

  “I got an A for it,” Melissa was saying, her voice full of quiet pride. “Miss Jenkins looked at it and got the sniffles.”

  A single branch had sprouted from the side of the trunk. It rose, slender and fragile, sending out a few tiny shoots of its own. At the top bloomed a single blossom, its pink petals a lone splash of color upon the page.

  “It’s a cherry tree,” Melissa went on. “We had one in our front yard, but it got sick and Papa had to cut it down. Then the spring we left to come here, it started growing that little branch. I’ve thought about it a lot since we talked. I don’t know why.”

  Angie forced out the pressure in her chest with a long sigh, then folded the sheet, turned in her seat and set it purposefully down on her desk. “I was thinking about taking another trip up into the hills this weekend.”

  “To buy old things?” The girl’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Can I—?” and she stopped, looking embarrassed.

  “Yes, please come, if your father says it’s all right.” Angie patted the folded page once, twice. “Thank you for this gift, Melissa. I’m going to find just the right frame for it. And I will treasure it always.”

  ****

  The highlands at this time of year were great reaches of snowy starkness and lonely roads. Icicles dripped from every branch and rock outcrop. They sparkled like brilliant prisms as the sun marked their passage. Angie drove with determined concentration. The sun meant that the road was clear. But she needed to be back long before the winter-shortened day ended and the water dribbling across the road refroze.

  Melissa remained plastered to her window and the front windshield for much of the journey, exclaiming over snowy vistas and half-frozen rivers and vast, empty stretches.

  An hour into the drive, however, she announced, “Mrs. Drummond has been talking to me.”

  “Emma? What about?”

  “She wants me to sing a solo for the church this spring.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I don’t know.” She kicked absently at the seat. “Sort of.”

  Angie risked a quick glance. “You’re not scared, are you?”

  “A little.”

  “Do you want your father to sing with you?”

  Melissa leaned forward, planting both hands upon the dashboard and setting her chin on her knuckles. “I don’t want to ask him.”

  “You don’t? Why not?”

  “Because he might do it for me,” she said, staring out the front. “And he might not be ready to do it for him.”

  Angie slowed so that she could give the girl a longer glance. “You are very remarkable, Melissa,” she said.

  Melissa took that as an opportunity to swivel in her seat and ask, “Will you do it with me?”

  “Me? I don’t . . .” Angie stopped herself. A brilliant shaft of sunlight filtered through the trees and transformed the windshield into a sheet of solid gold. As quickly as it came, it disappeared. Angie drove on, searching within, asking herself, Am I ready?

  With a sudden billowing of excitement, she announced, “I would be delighted to sing with you.”

  Melissa squeezed her hands together in excitement. The words rushed from her lips. “Mrs. Drummond said if she asked you, you’d say no, but you might do it for me. She said if I asked you and you said yes, she was going to do a jig in front of the whole class.”

  Angie had to laugh. “You be sure and wait so I can come and see that one for myself.”

  The rutted lane leading to Mother Cannon’s homestead was cleared only as far as the first gate. As they left the car and began trudging through the snow toward the distant cottage, Angie knew this was the only stop they would make that day. Even so, the drive had been a grand success. Despite lingering moments of panic, she was thrilled by the thought of singing again.

  Mother Cannon’s eldest son came around the side of the house as they drew near. He laid down his ax and basket of kindling and said in greeting, “Got yourself a pretty day for a visit.”

  “Hello, Clem.” Angie stopped at the bottom porch step to kick the snow from her boots and catch her breath. “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “No, ma’am. Maw was just saying she’d h
ope you’d be stopping by. How you been keeping, Miss Picard?”

  “Very well, thank you. This is a young friend of mine. Melissa, this is Clem Cannon.”

  Tall and rawboned, Clem had work-hardened hands sprouting from an ancient but clean shirt. “How do, Missie.”

  “Hello, sir.” Melissa pointed and asked, “Are those suspenders?”

  “Yes, ma’am, they surely are.” He stuck one thumb behind the elastic and gave it a snap. “Don’t they like to keep their pants up, where you’re from?”

  “They use belts,” Melissa replied seriously. “Aren’t you cold out here without a coat?”

  Clem gave a strong grin. “I got enough work to keep two folks warm.”

  Mother Cannon pushed through the front door. “It ain’t proper to keep guests hanging about in the snow, Clem.”

  “It’s not his fault,” Melissa explained for them. “I’ve never seen suspenders before.”

  “Is that a fact.” Mother Cannon stepped out into the sunlight. “And just who might you be, young lady?”

  “Melissa Nealey, ma’am. Miss Picard invited me to come with her.”

  “Well, if Angie Picard invited you, then, that’s good enough for me.” She turned back toward the house. “Y’all come on in before you catch your death.”

  The interior was warm and fragrant with Mother Cannon’s baking. Angie let Melissa go first and watched her fascination with everything. She explained to Clem, “She’s just moved up from the city.”

  “Well, I hope she’s happy here.” Clem was a carpenter whose skills were known throughout the mountain communities, and he could have had enough work to keep him busy ten times over. But he and his quiet country wife loved the hills and the uplands’ slower ways, so he took on only what he needed to support his family. He turned to the girl. “You miss the big city and all them lights and noise, Missie?”

  “Sometimes.” Melissa gave him a quick grin and entered the kitchen. After a slow sweep, she said, “Oooh, this is nice. What smells so good?”

  “Been using the last of the cherries I put up to make Clem’s brood a few pies.” She cast the two adults a smile. “I don’t reckon they’d miss a piece or two.”

  “Long as they don’t know about it, and long as you cut the biggest piece for me,” Clem joked, pulling out a pair of chairs, then winking at Melissa. “What brought you up to these parts from the city?”

  “My momma died,” Melissa said, her tone matter-of-fact. She settled into a chair, unaware of the sudden stillness that gripped the room. “Daddy left his big job and took another one at the shoe company.”

  Angie cleared her throat. “He’s running the factory now.”

  “You don’t say.” Mother Cannon came over and took the chair across the table from Melissa. “I’m right sorry to hear about your momma, child. You must miss her.”

  “I do. A lot.” Melissa gave a solemn nod with the words. “But Miss Picard’s been teaching me things, and it doesn’t hurt so bad anymore.”

  “Well, I think right highly of Angie Picard.”

  “Me too.” Melissa looked back to where Angie stood alongside Clem. “She’s my best friend.”

  “We all need friends, don’t we?” Mother Cannon reached across and took one of the soft young hands with both of hers. “Especially when times get hard.”

  Clem slipped from the room and returned bearing a hardboard case. “City-bred girl like you, I bet you never heard a country picker before.”

  “Play us some hymns,” Angie encouraged, slipping into the chair beside Melissa.

  “Girl’s a churchgoer, is she?” Mother Cannon patted the soft hand. “That’s good. Real good.”

  “I stopped going for a while, but Miss Picard has started me back. Papa too.” She watched Clem put the strap around his shoulder, run a finger down the strings, then slip the thumb and finger picks into place. “Is this bluegrass?”

  “Yes, ma’am, the real thing.”

  “My momma loved bluegrass.”

  “Did she, now.” He hitched a leg onto a nearby chair. “Then, you can just sing along.”

  He started with a toe-tapping rendition of “Blessed Assurance.” Melissa’s auburn hair bobbed up and down in time to the music. Angie exchanged a smile with Mother Cannon, then leaned forward and said quietly, “It’s okay, honey. You can sing, if you like.”

  So she did.

  Clem was so startled he lost his place. Mother Cannon settled back in her seat, so as to watch the both of them. Clem glanced at Angie, widening his eyes a trace, and softened his playing to match the girl’s voice.

  They followed that with “Beulah Land,” then “I’ll Fly Away.” After that, Clem stopped, exchanged a glance with his mother, and asked, “You got any favorites, honey?”

  “Momma used to love ‘How Great Thou Art.’ ”

  “I believe I can recollect how to play that one.” It sounded so good Angie found herself unable to hold back anymore and joined in the singing. Mother Cannon tapped one gnarled hand on the tabletop. Clem swung them back through a second time, then moved directly into “I Surrender All.”

  When he stopped, the room rang with the fading notes, then silence. Clem slipped off the guitar, walked over and seated himself at the table. He asked his mother, “Did you ever hear the like?”

  “A pair of angels have come to tea,” Mother Cannon agreed, her eyes on Angie. “Four years I’ve known you, and this is the first I learn of you having such a voice.”

  Angie accepted the rebuke with downcast eyes. “I lost it for a while.”

  “Well, it’s a delight to know you’ve found your treasure again,” Mother Cannon said, rising and walking to the oven. “Now, who’s going to help me serve this pie?”

  They sat and chatted until the shadows began creeping their way along the kitchen cabinets. Reluctantly Angie rose. “We have to be getting back.”

  “You don’t want to risk them high roads at night,” Mother Cannon agreed. “Just one second, now, I’ve got something you might like to take a look at.”

  While she rummaged in the cupboard, Clem said, “Sure would be nice to have y’all come back and sing with me another time. Got two buddies I’d like you to meet. One picks a mighty mean banjo, and the other can fiddle up a storm.”

  Melissa turned in her chair, eyes shining. “Can we, Miss Picard?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Angie replied. “Long as your father doesn’t mind.”

  “Bring him along, why don’t you,” Mother Cannon said, returning and setting a large parcel upon the table. “He might enjoy a nice country meal.”

  Angie unwrapped the brown paper. As soon as the item came into view, she exclaimed, “It’s perfect!”

  “Don’t know about that,” Mother Cannon replied. “Used to hold a mirror, but one of the young’uns knocked it off the wall.”

  The oval frame was carved from wild cherry and lined with a second inner frame of hand-beaten copper. “I’ve been looking for something just like this,” Angie said.

  “Well, I’m glad you can put it to good use. Now you folks better be getting on the road.” As she came around the table, she took hold of Melissa’s hand. “Come along here with me, my lady.”

  Melissa cast a questioning glance back toward Angie but allowed herself to be guided down the hall and through the front door. Angie followed along behind them and watched as Mother Cannon led Melissa to the porch’s edge. The old woman slowly bent over so that she could drape one arm across the girl’s shoulders. “You see that old maple growing out there in my yard?”

  “Sure is big,” Melissa said.

  “That tree’s older than either of us, older than this house, and my daddy’s daddy built this place with his own two hands. Look close now, and tell me what you see.”

  Melissa hesitated, staring out across the snow-covered expanse. “Branches?”

  “Looks awful empty, don’t it? All them bare limbs, all dark and lonely and cold. You might think that tree is dead, wouldn’t
you? A sad sight, some folks might say.” Mother Cannon shifted slightly, bringing her face up closer so her eyes were level with Melissa’s. “But them who know, they understand how times like this are important. More than that, they’re vital. You know why?”

  “No, ma’am,” Melissa answered quietly.

  “What you’re seeing there is only half the tree. You’re looking at only what’s visible. But down underneath the earth, deep where only the good Lord can see, them roots are growing. They’re reaching out, gaining hold, anchoring themselves stronger for the spring that’s sure to come.”

  Mother Cannon eased herself upright, looked down at Melissa, and asked, “You hear what I’m telling you?”

  Melissa’s gaze did not leave the tree. “I think so, yes, ma’am.”

  “Then, you just reflect on that a time.” She stroked the girl’s hair a time or two, then added, “And know I’ll be keeping you in my prayers.”

  13

  February became March, carried by a steady flow of beautiful days. That Friday, Angie was clearing her desk, hearing the excited chatter and laughter of youngsters escaping the confines of schedule and school fade into the distance, when there came a quiet knock on her door. Carson stood in the doorway. He wore a well-cut gray suit, a fine silk tie, camel-hair overcoat, and a wool scarf. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No, not at all.” Although finding him here, in the center of her little world, was disturbing. “Won’t you come in?”

  “I heard from Melissa that you like to walk in the afternoons,” he said. “I . . . I was wondering if you might like some company.”

  Her mind searched for some response but could only settle on, “Melissa has spoken to you about my habits?”

  He smiled at that. “My daughter talks about you all the time.”

  It was his smile and not his words that caught in her heart. She had never seen him smile before, and it transformed his face. All the somber lines lifted at once, gentling the sharp edges. Like a sudden shaft splitting the darkness of an afternoon thunderstorm, the act transfigured him. Angie rose from her chair almost before she realized she had moved. “I’ll just get my coat.”