The Music Box Read online

  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.”

  “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 wa
s 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?”