The Music Box (15 page)

Astonished glances were exchanged around the class. But Angie did not have time to explain. “Mr. Whitley, bring your book and papers and come up here, please.”

The biggest youth in the class, a traditional mischief-maker saved from being a real problem by a good heart and a fine sense of humor, gave a worried look about him as he did as he was told.

“Sit here at my desk,” she ordered, and while he recovered from the shock, she cleared a space for him. Once he was seated, she leaned over and spoke with all the urgency she could muster. “I need your help. Can I count on you to make sure that the class maintains both silence and decorum?”

“Sure, Miss Picard,” he stammered and seemed to expand at the sudden gift of responsibility.

“Thank you.” She straightened. “Remember, treat this as a test.” Then she left.

The principal was not in his office. Angie frantically scouted the halls, wondering whom she could disturb. Then Emma came down the side stairwell, her arms full of music scores. Angie rushed over. “Did you drive in today?”

“Of course. Angie, honey, what's the matter?”

“Can you take me up to the Nealeys?” Already she was urging the larger woman through the doors and down the stairs and toward the parking lot. Her words tumbled over each other. “I need to get over there right now. I didn't bring my car—”

“Is something the matter with Melissa?”

Angie waited until they were in the car and starting down the drive to respond. “She hasn't been in for six days, no, it's seven, and Carson said she had a cold. Oh, I don't know, I don't know, I'm very worried.”

“Look at you. I've never seen you in such a state.”

Angie leaned forward in her seat, urging the car to greater speed. “I've had a feeling all day that something is wrong.”

“You sound just like a mother,” Emma said, then a hand flew to her mouth. But Angie barely heard her.

When they pulled up in front of the Nealey home, Angie had her door open before the car rolled to a halt. She spotted Doctor Thatcher coming out of the front door and rushed over. “How are they?”

“I was hoping you were the ambulance.” Thatcher was old and graying and recently had brought in a young man to gradually take over his practice. But the town still revered the old man and where possible sought him out. Today he looked tired and strained. “They should have been here by now.”

Angie gripped her chest with one hand. “Is it Melissa?”

“It's both of them, and that's the problem. Bronchitis, hopefully not pneumonia, but at this stage it's hard to tell for certain.” He snapped his black bag shut. “Carson's been trying to take care of her by himself, and he's got a fever hot enough to keep him flat on his back. The girl would probably be better off staying here, but she needs watching. I don't like the sound of that chest.”

DocThatcher glanced behind him. “I've had the dickens of a time getting Carson to let me take her. And the little girl's in there crying her eyes out, which won't help her congestion one bit. She doesn't want to leave her daddy.”

“Call the ambulance,” Angie said in the same tone she used on her class. “Tell them not to come.”

“Angie Picard, what are you talking about? I'm telling you, that child needs round-the-clock watching, and the father is in no state—”

Cutting off further argument, she walked back to where Emma stood uncertainly. “Can you go by my house and pick up some things?”

“What's the matter?”

“I'm going to need to stay here and help out for a while.” She scrambled through her purse, came up with a marking pencil and an old envelope. “Both of them are down with chest colds. He wants to send Melissa off to the hospital.”

“Angie, if Doc Thatcher thinks—”

“She needs looking after, and she needs her home,” Angie said, thrusting the envelope and her keys into Emma's hands. “Doc Thatcher can look in on her from time to time, and if things get worse . . .” She stopped, then said, “Just come back whenever you can.”

Emma started to argue further, saw the set of Angie's chin, and changed tacks. “I'll stop by the grocers for some things. Never seen a bachelor's pantry that didn't need restocking.”

“Fresh vegetables and a good chicken,” Angie said. “I'll make up a big batch of chicken soup. Never seen a sickness yet that didn't respond to country penicillin.”

17

The crisis struck on the third night.

Doc Thatcher had left a few hours earlier. He stopped in every morning and evening; he first checked on Carson, then listened to the girl's chest and measured her temperature, then listened again. Angie always sat beside him, helping Melissa to sit up so he could place the stethoscope on her back.

After his last inspection, he had taken Angie into the hallway and said quietly, “She might need the hospital, Angie.”

“She'd hate it worse than anything.”

“I know. But her chest is congested, and I can't seem to shift that fever. Putting her under an oxygen tent might give her some help breathing.”

She started to protest, then saw the genuine concern in his eyes, and stifled her own fears. “Do what you think best.”

He pursed his lips, studied the floor at his feet, and decided, “We'll give it one more day. If it's no better tomorrow evening, I'll have to move her over to Parker Memorial.”

“I'll have her ready,” Angie promised. “How is Carson?”

“Improving. He's older and stronger and got a powerful will, that fellow. He'll be fine, now that somebody's here to see he stays in bed and rests.” Doc Thatcher fastened her with a keen eye. “What about you?”

“Me? I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine. You look just about done in. Are you sleeping any?”

“Now and then. I get enough rest.”

“See that you do. You won't be helping anybody, wearing yourself out so you wind up flat on your back.” He patted her shoulder and headed down the hall. “You have my number in case anything changes.”

“Right beside the phone.”

Ten minutes after he left, Emma pulled up. When Angie answered the doorbell, Emma took one look at her friend and said, “You look like a used washrag. When was the last time you lay down?”

“I'm fine,” Angie said flatly and changed the subject. “What's that you've got there?”

Emma hefted the casserole dish. “Shepherd's pie. I thought Carson might be ready for some stick-to-his-ribs food.”

“Umm, it looks good. I might have some too. You're a dear,” Angie said, taking the dish.

“And you are a saint.” Emma glanced into the house. “How are they?”

“Carson is improving. Doc Thatcher's worried about Melissa. He may move her to the hospital tomorrow.”

“Poor little thing.” Emma searched her purse and came up with a pair of get-well cards. “One of these is for Melissa. All my classes signed it for her. The other one's for you.”

Angie set the casserole down on the side table. “For me?”

“I was worried about people talking—you know, you being here alone and all. But I was wrong, what I said about people talking. They're talking, all right, but it's all good. Carson's made himself some friends around the factory and the town. Folks are glad he's got somebody like you seeing after him and the child.”

She handed over the cards. “Friends from church all signed this for you. I'm off to Bible study now. We'll be praying for you as well as them in there.”

Angie repressed a sudden shudder. “Give everyone my thanks.”

“I will.” Emma searched her face. “What's the matter?”

“Oh, nothing.” But there was no place here for hiding things. Nor need. “I just had this sudden memory of a prayer group I was with down in the city. The week before the doctors gave me the final news that I couldn't have children, they prayed over me. One of the ladies looked up and said, ‘I see you holding a baby born in June.' ”

“Oh, honey,” Emma sighed.

“I wanted so to believe it,” Angie said, and suddenly felt her strength leave her. She leaned against the doorjamb and went on, “Then my husband left, and June came and went, and all I had was a hole in my heart. Were they wrong? Was God wrong? Was I not a proper believer? The questions were so painful I tried not to think for the longest time.”

“The things you've been through,” Emma murmured.

“That summer, I stayed as busy as I could with summer courses, anything to keep my mind occupied. But it seemed like every time I went out I was seeing babies everywhere. Every other person in the supermarket was a mother with a stroller. Every other person in church was part of a family.”

Emma reached out and enveloped her friend. “You are part of a family, honey.
Our
family. I love you like you were my own sister.” She released Angie and wiped her cheeks. “Now I want you to promise you'll call me if there's anything you need.”

Angie thanked her and hugged her a second time, then waved her down the walk. It was only when she shut the door that she heard a weak call from the other end of the house.

Angie flew down the hall, saw that Carson had not wakened, and raced into the back bedroom. “What's the matter, honey?”

The flushed little face looked at her, the eyes terror stricken. “I thought you had left and gone away forever.”

“Shhh, sweetheart, it's all right. It was just a fever dream.” Angie reached for the bowl of ice and water, dipped in the cloth, and wiped Melissa's face. She looked so tiny in that giant bed. “Everything is going to be fine.”

“Just like Momma.” A hot hand gripped her own with surprising strength. “Promise me you won't go away and leave me alone.”

“I'll be right here,” Angie soothed, but her heart had become so full that the words were a little hoarse. “You try to rest now.”

“I woke up and you weren't here and I got so scared,” Melissa said.

“I'm not going anywhere; don't you worry.”

She was silent for a long moment, comforted by the cloth and by Angie's touch. Then she started to rise. Angie pressed her back, saying, “Stay still, Melissa. What do you need? I'll get it for you.”

“The box,” she whispered, looking toward her closet.

“Your music box?” Angie hesitated. “You want me to bring it here?”

Melissa nodded, her feverish gaze on the closet door.

Angie wavered a moment, then walked over, reached to the top shelf, and brought down the box. She carried it back to the bed. “Do you want me to set it here on the table?”

“Let me do it,” Melissa said, reaching over. With difficulty she turned the gilded key, hesitated a long moment, then lifted the lid with the ballerina seated on it. The silvery tones of “Greensleeves” filled the room.

Melissa lay on her side, listening to the music. A single tear welled up and traced its way down her cheek.

Angie started to close the lid, but before she could move, Melissa whispered, “Leave it open, please. Will you hold me?”

“Oh, my dear, of course I will.” Angie set the box on the side table, moved the bowl, and stretched out beside Melissa. She felt hands reach over and curl up under her chin as the small body pressed close. From the table, the music chimed along in brilliant cadence.

Angie found herself remembering an early Christmas, when she had sung her first church solo. The song had been “What Child Is This,” sung to this very melody. She held the little body close. Strange that she would think of such a thing now.

And then Angie heard, soft as a whisper, Melissa sing, “This, this, is Christ the King, whom shepherds guard . . .” But the voice drifted to a stop as she caught her breath. Angie squeezed her tightly.

“I wish Momma could have met you,” Melissa whispered, snuggling even closer. “She would have loved you. I just know it.”

Angie searched for something to say, but could only lie and stroke the silken hair. Then a thought occurred to her. She looked down at the little auburn head and asked, “When were you born? I don't think I know your birthday.”

“The first of June,” came the whispered reply as Melissa drifted ever closer to sleep. “Momma always called my birthday the herald of summer.”

June
.

18

Angie awoke to sunshine and birdsong and a small form still tucked up against her. She raised her head and discovered that Carson was standing in the doorway, robe wrapped up close to his chin, his eyes fastened upon the pair of them. As quietly as she could, Angie eased her arm out from beneath Melissa's head. The child stirred but did not awaken. She slid from the bed, walked over, studied his face, and whispered, “You're feeling better.”

He nodded. “So is Melissa.”

Angie turned back to the bed and felt an enormous flood of relief when she saw that it was so. The fever-flush was gone, replaced by the pale shadow of weakness. In that instant Angie knew for certain that recovery had begun.

“I've made coffee,” Carson whispered. “Come join me when you're ready.”

When Angie entered the kitchen, Carson filled a cup and put it down in front of her, then seated himself across from her. “I can't thank you enough for everything you've done. I don't know how we would have managed on our own.”

His gaze was gentle and deep, filled with a peace that Angie felt disarm every one of her barriers. Carson went on, “I've watched you these past few days and seen how you care, and I've felt so reassured.”

“Reassured?” Angie set down her cup. “Why?”

“You've been so distant the past few weeks,” he said slowly. “I was afraid I'd done something to drive you away.”

“Carson—”

“No, wait, let me finish. I've never been good at talking about my emotions, and even worse since, well, for the past three years. You've taught me so much, and shared so much, and when I felt you drawing away from me . . .” He hesitated a moment, then lowered his eyes and finished, “I felt as though I had lost you. And it hurt worse than I could bear.”