The Music Box Read online

  “If you did,” Angie said, feeling an echo of his nervousness within herself, “I would be mortified.”

  “It was for that reason I asked if we could join you today,” Carson pressed on, fidgeting with his hat. “I hope we haven’t put you out any.”

  “This is God’s house, where all are welcome, or should be,” Angie replied, the formal words warmed by her tone. Then she glanced at Melissa. She was watching Angie with another of those smiles, the kind that were too big to be held just by her face so that she scrunched up her shoulders with delight.

  Angie looked from one face to the other, then said, “I am honored that you would join me. Shall we go inside?”

  As they approached, Emma stepped from the front doors. In her flowing choir robes she looked vastly impressive. Grinning from ear to ear, she said, “Well, praise the Lord! And who do we have here?”

  “Melissa, you of course already know the director of our church choir,” Angie said, her tone as cool as the walk.

  “Yes, ma’am. Hello, Mrs. Drummond.”

  “Welcome to our little country church, Melissa. I look forward to having you sing with us some day,” Emma said, but for some reason it was Angie who received the wink.

  Despite strong efforts at self control, Angie found herself blushing as she went on determinedly, “Mr. Nealey, Emma Drummond teaches your daughter’s music class at school.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Drummond.”

  “You have a talented daughter, sir.” Emma cast her friend another look full of meaning and continued, “It might interest you to know that Angie Picard here also has talent and was the choir soloist for a number of years—”

  “Why don’t we go in before they start without us,” Angie urged. Father and daughter entered the vestibule, but Emma grabbed her arm as she tried to pass. Angie was growing increasingly irritated. “Don’t you have choir duties to attend to?”

  “They can survive without me for just a minute.” Emma’s grin widened. “Are you ever in for a surprise.”

  “What are you going on about now?”

  “You remember that friend at the shoe company’s headquarters? She heard something else the other day.”

  Angie refused to let herself ask the expected. “If you’ll excuse me, I have guests waiting.”

  “Something very interesting,” Emma added, flouncing about so that her robes billowed around her. “But you’re in such a hurry, I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself.”

  ****

  As with the town as a whole, almost everyone in church had some relative who had worked at one point or another for the shoe company. So to have the president arrive for Sunday worship was a cause for quiet comment. Angie attempted to discreetly trail father and daughter down the central aisle and reflected on the wisdom of accepting the invitation. Two bright red spots on her cheeks signaled her inner turmoil. But after all, she told herself, I’m only introducing a new family to the church.

  Ignoring the eyes that followed their progress, Angie joined Melissa and Carson in a pew close to the front.

  Together they sat through the first prayer and then rose for the opening hymn. Angie could not help but feel a little thrill as Melissa opened her hymnal and found the place without difficulty. Despite her feeling that Emma had been overly enthusiastic about Melissa’s talent, still she was excited to see the child show such familiarity and interest in the worship time.

  When the first verse began and Melissa started singing, Angie was so astounded she lost her place in the hymnal.

  There was none of the piping, breathy tones of a child’s voice. The sound was fragile, yes, but so clear it appeared to lift free of the earth.

  Angie fumbled and found the line and started to sing as she had sung for the past six years, holding back, restraining from giving in to the music. But it was hard. With her open vulnerability, the girl standing between her and Carson challenged her to lift her own voice up in praise.

  Heads were turning, glancing down at the girl, then at Angie, back at the girl, then around. Melissa took no notice. She kept her eyes focused on the hymnal in her hands.

  Angie glanced at the father and saw upon his features a sadness that twisted her own heart. He did not sing. He stood and watched his daughter with a look of love and sorrow. He seemed blind to the attention directed their way.

  At the end of the first verse, to Angie’s utter surprise, Melissa raised her head. She ignored the strangers watching her, looked up at her father, and whispered urgently, “Sing, Papa!”

  He started at the intensity behind those words. Angie saw it happen. He straightened with a jerk, as though waking from a sleep. He looked down at the hymnal, took a breath. And he sang.

  There was no longer any attempt by those around them to disguise their interest and curiosity. Carson Nealey sang with the graceful clarity of a natural tenor. The notes blended perfectly with his daughter, forming a graceful ballet of sound. He sang in harmony one step below her, taking the more difficult middle range, and became the platform from which she soared.

  Angie watched and listened, and it seemed as though the chamber’s light became centered on them. Not upon the pair standing and singing beside her. Upon the three of them. And in that moment, the silent voice spoke to her again. There in the Sabbath worship, in the midst of people she had known all her life, in the simple stone-and-brick country church, she heard the unspoken words resound through her.

  Share Yourself. Share Me.

  She did not need to read the words of the hymn. She had been singing them since joining the choir as a teenager. Angie closed her eyes to ward out the world, and she sang.

  Gradually the long-locked inner door opened, as though her voice needed a moment to truly accept that freedom had come again. She tested it, using the first few lines as a scale, gradually allowing her voice to rise in strength and clarity. Angie felt as much as heard Melissa’s voice shift in direction as she lifted her face to look toward Angie. But Angie did not open her eyes. She dared not. She was afraid that if she did and saw others watching her she would not have the courage to continue.

  And it felt so good to sing again. So wonderful. Her voice seemed to find wings and soar, taking the third verse in joyous acclaim. Angie heard Carson’s singing rise in strength, matching now not just his daughter’s but hers as well. Gracing them both with a stage upon which they might pirouette in praise of the Lord.

  Afterward, the congregation took longer than usual to settle. Pastor Rob gave the traditional welcome to visitors, then smiled down at her as he said, “It certainly is nice to hear our congregation holding such rich talent—both the new and that already known to us.”

  “Amen!” Emma’s voice rang out from her place with the choir.

  Angie hid from inquiring eyes by studying the church program. Her gaze wandered over the page, before fastening upon one particular line. The pastor’s voice receded into the distance, along with awareness of her own previous discomfort, as the printed words sank in.

  The title of the day’s sermon was written in bold type, five words that rose up to speak directly to her heart. She felt more than saw Melissa glance her way, but she was unable to return the look. Not just then. For the moment, she could see no further than the message upon the page, one she knew for certain was meant for her.

  The title read: Sharing Is Compassion In Action.

  11

  “After my wife died, I didn’t really ever turn away from God. Not specifically. I was angry at the whole world. I never bothered to single God out for anything in particular. He just got mixed in with the rest.”

  Angie sat against the car door, not to keep herself far removed from Carson, but rather to see both father and daughter without shifting her glance. Melissa sat in the seat directly behind her father and took in her father’s words with quiet acceptance. Her face held a fading sorrow, like shadows cast by a sun lost behind thick clouds.

  “The anger died after a while; I think it had to
. Otherwise it would have consumed me. But I had a daughter to raise, and that above everything else kept me going.” Carson drove with steady intent along streets ringed by white snowbanks. His voice contained a sense of departure, as though he was discussing a life that had belonged to someone else. “After a while it seemed as though I just stopped caring about a lot of things very much. Everything except Melissa.”

  “Are you happy here?” Angie asked, more because she felt it was time to speak than because she needed to know. In truth, her mind remained caught up by the scene after church. As they had started back down the aisle, almost everyone they passed had offered Carson a solemn nod and handshake. Angie sensed that it was not just because of his position at the factory. He was gaining a reputation, this man, for reasons she did not fully understand. These hillfolk were slow to accept a newcomer, and yet there they stood, thanking him for joining them in a way that had left Angie certain that they genuinely meant the words.

  “Happiness is such an alien word,” Carson replied quietly. “But to be honest, I think I would have to say yes.”

  A little indrawn breath from the backseat was swiftly stifled. Angie watched as Melissa observed the back of her father’s head with wide eyes.

  “I’m coming to love this town,” Carson went on, turning into their drive. “And the factory. You can’t imagine how nice it is to work with my hands again, to deal with issues that relate to people I know. Problems aren’t just numbers on a balance sheet here. They are people and their jobs and their lives.”

  Carson Nealey cut off the motor and said in the silence, “If I never go back to the city again, it will suit me just fine.”

  As Angie climbed from the car, Melissa came around and asked, “Would you like to see my room, Miss Picard?”

  “I think perhaps I should help out with lunch.”

  “You are our guest,” Carson said, returning to nervous formality now that they were home. “Go on ahead, I’m a fair cook. I’ll call when things are ready.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.” Angie followed Melissa through the front parlor, a room as void of soft touches as it had been the last time she had seen it. They moved through the kitchen, the dining room, a smaller formal parlor, and down the hall to the bedrooms. Everything stood in its proper place, some fine pieces here and there, but most of it new and unscarred by time or use. There was little on the walls except occasional prints of famous paintings, bright splashes of color that seemed somehow hollow hanging there.

  “You have a very nice home, Melissa,” Angie noted truthfully, despite its lack of homeyness.

  “It’s okay. Papa said we needed to start fresh, you know, when we came up here.”

  Angie avoided looking into a darkened room to her right, one whose bed was still rumpled. “You don’t agree?”

  “I guess it’s all right. Maybe he needs to do it.” She opened the hall’s last door and said, “This is my room.”

  “It’s very . . .” She stepped inside and finished, “Oh my.”

  “I asked Daddy and he said it was okay, if it was really what I wanted. And it is. I don’t mind Momma’s stuff being here. I like it. It makes me remember better.”

  It had the look of a grown woman’s room—the curved dressing table with its hanging pink velvet skirt and mirror top, the big four-poster bed, the grand oval mirror, the two bedside tables, the lamps.

  “Daddy doesn’t like to come in here much.” Melissa went over, and with a little twisting jump she bounced onto the bed. Her legs dangling over the side, she said, “I remember bouncing on the bed on Saturday mornings when I was little. Papa used to growl at me for waking him up, but Momma always giggled. I liked the way she used to laugh.”

  Angie started a polite response but was halted by the sensation that something important was going on here. Something bigger than what appeared on the surface. “Did your momma sing as beautifully as you and your father do?”

  “No, not really. Momma claimed she sounded like a hungry goat. She always said God would need to do a major corrective miracle before He ever let her sing in heaven.” She slid from the bed and headed for the double closet. “Momma played the violin. She was very good.”

  “I’m sure she must have been.” Angie watched as Melissa pulled over a chair, climbed up, stood on her tiptoes, and pulled a box off the closet’s top shelf. “May I help you with something?”

  “No, that’s okay.” She almost stumbled when descending from the chair, but managed to keep hold of both her balance and the box. She walked over, put it down at Angie’s feet, and pulled off the top. “This was Momma’s. It’s real old.”

  Angie peered inside and gasped. “Melissa, it’s beautiful. May I touch it? I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “All right.”

  Angie seated herself on the dressing table stool. Melissa stepped back and to one side, as though wanting Angie to shield her from whatever was inside. Angie pressed back the wrapping paper, then lifted up the contents. Melissa told her quietly, “It’s a music box.”

  “I know it is.” Angie inspected the small porcelain box with the exquisite figure of a ballerina on the cover, then lifted it up to see the trademark underneath. “Vienna, Austria,” she read. “This is simply beautiful, Melissa.”

  “It plays the song ‘Greensleeves,’ ” Melissa offered quietly.

  Something in her tone caused Angie to pause just as she was reaching to lift the top. She turned and saw how the girl was watching, her eyes big and sad. “Would you open this for me?”

  Very slowly, Melissa shook her head, back and forth, her eyes not leaving the box.

  “Why not, Melissa?”

  She did not reply.

  “Would you like me to put it back?”

  “You can hold it if you want,” Melissa replied, her voice as soft as the wind.

  “I don’t want to make you sad.” Hesitantly, Angie reached out and stroked one hand down the side of Melissa’s face. The hair beneath her fingers was as fine as silk. “You must have brought this out for a reason. Did you want to tell me something about it?”

  A tiny shrug, then a whispered, “When she got sick, Momma listened to this box a lot. She said it reminded her of all the good things, and remembering helped her face what was still to come. That morning, I went in to see Momma, and she asked me to sing. I tried, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. So she asked me to open the box and hold her hand. After a little while, Momma closed her eyes. And she didn’t . . .”

  “Oh, honey.” She reached out both arms and enveloped the child. One hand continued to stroke through the soft auburn hair as the other held her close.

  They stayed like that for a long time. Then Angie glanced down at the box in her lap and saw how one of Melissa’s hands had reached over, and one finger was tracing its way around the delicate figure on the top. The other arm remained wrapped around Angie, as though drawing the strength to reach over and touch the box. And remember.

  Angie took a breath and said quietly, “I have a crystal bowl with a cover back at home. A very pretty one. Not as nice as this box, but pretty in its own way. It was the first antique I ever bought. Oh, my mother had some nice things I suppose that’s where my interest in antiques comes from. But this was the first one I found for myself. So it has always remained very special to me. It’s called a compote jar. Have you ever heard of that?”

  A soft voice said, “No.”

  “Back in the last century, people used to keep a bowl of sweet drink handy for when guests came calling. Sometimes it had spirits in it, sometimes not. And because it was sweet and might attract insects, the bowl had to have a lid on it. In nice houses, the bowl was shaped out of crystal and silver and looked like a plump round vase with a lid.”

  She did not understand why she was telling Melissa this. But the simple rightness she felt could not be denied. It was not just for Melissa, either. She knew this. “After my husband died, I went back to the university and finished learning how to be a teacher. Then I came
home. My folks had retired down to the coast, where Daddy got ill and couldn’t travel. They left the house here for me. I discovered that it was very hard not to think about my troubles. Even though they had all happened somewhere else, I couldn’t just leave them there.”

  Melissa laid her head against Angie’s shoulder. Her arm shifted to the soft space just under Angie’s ribs. The quiet voice said, “Neither can Papa. He doesn’t say anything, but I know.” The auburn head moved back far enough to fasten wide gray eyes upon Angie’s face. “And today was the first time I ever heard him talk about, you know, everything.”

  Angie nodded in understanding and Melissa nodded back. “It made me sad,” she explained, “but it was good. I don’t know how exactly, but I think it was good Papa talked to you like that.”

  Angie searched for words but could come up with nothing. She watched the small head nestled back against her and stroked the fine hair. Finally she said, “Where was I?”

  “You had problems with your thoughts.”

  “That’s right, I did. And so I decided that something had to change. I couldn’t be a good teacher if I was always thinking about the past. But I knew I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about those things all the time. I had tried, because I wanted to. But I couldn’t. So I decided I could think about whatever I wanted whenever I was home and by myself. But when I went out, I had to leave all those thoughts there at home.”

  “That must have been hard,” Melissa said softly.

  “It was at first. But then I put that crystal jar of mine in the front hallway. And every time I left the house, I stopped and saw myself leaving all my inside thoughts there in the bowl. That’s what I called them, my ‘inside thoughts.’ ”

  She stopped for a moment. She had to. It was only then that she realized the story had an ending. Angie sat there at the dressing table, the music box in her lap and the small form snuggled at her side.

  Melissa stirred and without releasing her embrace asked, “What happened next?”

  “Well,” Angie said with a great sigh, a release of years and years of having nothing next to speak of. “One day I discovered that I didn’t need the container anymore. And now the bowl has become simply an object of beauty again, not a storehouse for everything that was painful to remember.”