The Music Box (4 page)

“Tell me how you knew, Emma.”

The big woman turned to her friend. “Your momma, bless her heart, wrote me before you came back home. She was afraid you wouldn't tell me yourself, and she thought somebody needed to know, and she was right on both counts.”

Angie slumped back, defeated. “Well, that's that, then. If you know, so does the whole town.”

“I've forgotten more secrets than you've ever heard,” Emma replied calmly. “So you can stop with your nonsense.”

“You're the one who's going on with the nonsense about bumblebees and men with hankies.”

“All I'm trying to say is, you're past time for a mending, dear.”

“You make it sound like I've wanted to hold on to this.”

“Maybe you have, at least a little, anyway. Seems like you'd have been better off telling me long before this, for one thing. Never did feel like I could bring it up until you did. Even so, sorrow is always easier to bear if you've got a friend there to help you carry it.”

Angie felt the pressure of someone seeing more of her than she felt comfortable with. “I think I hear Luke calling for you.”

“I'm not letting you go,” Emma replied, hugging her friend close. “Not until you promise if you find yourself facing a bout of the lonelies and ‘if-onlys,' you'll call me. No matter what the time.”

Angie smiled around the sudden lump, nodded jerkily, and said, “Promise.”

****

Angie stepped onto the unfamiliar flagstone porch and stopped to check the hemline of her dress. As the school's family representative, she had every right to check on students and their families. She stilled her nervous hands at her sides and walked toward the front door.

Developers had partitioned several of the gentler slopes rising from the town and drawn curving lines of asphalt. The houses and their modern designs attracted city dwellers looking for weekend retreats and retirement homes. The town was glad to have them, for they spent money as only city folk knew how.

The Nealey residence was a low-slung house of stone and glass, with a broad patio lined by a wrought-iron railing. A grand place without being overlarge, it possessed a stunning view of the valley and surrounding hills. Angie paused and looked behind her; the town stretched out beneath the star-flecked sky like a golden necklace.

Angie turned again to the door and lifted her hand, wishing she could overcome her reluctance about this visit. Life was seldom picture perfect, nor were families. She walked a careful line when expressing concern over a child, and she seldom made these visits without some clear proof. Still, she remained troubled over the quiet young girl.

Melissa Nealey had not broken down in class again, nor had Angie's other music days seemed to disturb the child. But Melissa's calm remained too fixed, her face too sad. Something was wrong, Angie knew that for certain. It was her responsibility to make sure it was nothing serious.

Angie stiffened her resolve with her shoulders and knocked on the door.

There was a long wait, so long she was wondering if perhaps she should return another time. Then suddenly the door was flung open with such force that she took an involuntary step back. A stern voice said, “Yes?”

“Mr. Nealey?”

“Who wants to know?” The porch light remained off. The inner room's illumination cast the man's features into lines and angles and shadows.

“My name is Angie Picard. I am one of Melissa's teachers.”

“Oh.” The man seemed to fumble for a moment, as though he had forgotten all his manners. “Just a minute.”

He leaned away for an instant, and suddenly light flooded the patio. When he came back into view, Angie found herself facing a man who looked so stern his intensity was almost palpable. His eyes had retreated into their sockets and peered at the world with bewildered hostility. Yet beneath the stern mantle was a subtle handsomeness. Refined, intelligent features bore marks of strength. And of suffering.

His voice sounded metallic as he demanded, “Is something the matter?”

“No. That is, well . . .” Angie hesitated, then pressed on. “May I come in?”

“What?” He appeared startled, then grudgingly gave way. “I suppose so.”

“Thank you.” She stepped into a family room of almost monastic austerity. Sofa and chair and low table were set precisely, as though the angles had been measured and the places marked. The carpet and wallpaper and drapes were all warm toned and new and expensive, as was the big television and phonograph cabinet in one corner. But there was no sign of who lived here, nothing on the walls, no pictures on the big mantel, no flowers. It held all the warmth of a hotel room.

Angie chose not to seat herself. “I . . . Melissa has been absent a great deal recently. Nine days in the past three weeks alone.”

Carson Nealey's face pinched tighter, and deep-seated bitterness took hold. “I am well aware of my daughter's health.”

“It is standard policy to check up in such situations,” Angie persisted, keeping her tone even. “Our records show that you have been the one to call in, reporting her sick. Does she have a chronic condition that we should be aware of?”

“My daughter is perfectly fine,” he snapped. “And so am I. So I'll thank you to mind your own business.”

“She can't be fine, can she, now,” Angie responded, not willing to back down an inch. Something was wrong here. She could sense it in the air. And when it came to the welfare of one of her children, nothing could force her away or scare her off. Nothing. “Not if she's been sick more than any other child in my care.”

“Your care,” he spat. “You're a teacher, nothing more, nothing at all. She's my child. Mine.”

“It is important that I know what is going on with Melissa, Mr. Nealey.”

“First that meddlesome doctor comes sniffing around, and now you.”

“Doctor Thatcher has been here? My records show nothing—”

“That's because I didn't let him poke his nose where it's not wanted.”

“It is part of small-town life to show concern for our own,” Angie explained. She was back on familiar ground here, able to hold on to both her temper and her position until she garnered what information she needed. “Especially for our children.”

“She's not your anything,” he lashed out.

“The law says otherwise,” Angie replied. It was one of her traits, this ability to respond to anger in others with calm. “Could I perhaps have a word with your wife?”

For some reason the request brought a flush of new rage to the man's face. He shot a finger toward the door and demanded with quiet fury, “Get out of here. Right now.”

But she did not budge. “If I leave, Mr. Nealey, it will only be to return with the sheriff.”

“Make sure your warrant's in order,” he spat out. “Otherwise I'll bury you and all your busybody—”

He was cut off in mid-flow by a small voice. “Shame, Papa. Stop that this very instant.”

The man's finger dropped to his side. “What are you doing out of bed, honey?”

“That's no way to talk,” Melissa Nealey chided. She stood at the door of the room, wearing a flannel nightgown, bedroom slippers, and a cotton robe. Her face was flushed. “What would Momma think?”

Carson Nealey's anger crumpled with his resolve. “I . . . she . . .”

“Miss Picard is just doing her job.” A very different child turned to face Angie, one who was truly not a child at all, but a very calm and steady young lady within an undersized body. “Now apologize to the teacher, Papa.”

His eyes on his daughter's head, the man mumbled, “I apologize.”

“That's better.” She stepped toward the door. “Could we talk out on the patio, Miss Picard?”

“I . . . that is, yes, of course.” Meekly she followed Melissa from the room, suddenly unable to meet the man's eyes. It was as though she had witnessed something too revealing about him, too personal, watching how he had simply faded beneath his daughter's quiet voice.

Melissa shut the door firmly behind them, then bundled her robe up tight to her neck with one frail hand. She coughed once, a weak sound, then said, “Please excuse my father, Miss Picard.”

“Of course,” she said, unable to respond to this strange girl as she would to any other thirteen-year-old. “It's just that I have been concerned about you.”

“My father went through a very bad time three years ago,” she continued in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Papa has not been himself since.”

“I'm so sorry,” Angie murmured. “I did not mean to intrude.”

“I have weak lungs,” Melissa pressed on, taking refuge behind a protection of practiced politeness. “Every time I catch a cold, it settles there.”

“You should let the doctor see you.”

“I've seen a lot of doctors.” The words came automatically, as though they had been repeated a hundred times and more. “I'm keeping up with my schoolwork, though.”

“Yes, I know you are.” And it was true. Melissa's test scores remained near the top of her class. Angie searched her scattered thoughts and came up with, “Perhaps your father should see someone.”

“Papa has seen a lot of doctors too,” Melissa replied calmly. “They didn't help.”

“Well.” Of all the things she had feared she might face this night, nothing had prepared her for such a discussion with a person who was both a child and a mature woman. Though the words sounded inadequate even before they were spoken, she said, “If there is anything I can do, you mustn't hesitate to speak with me.”

“Of course. How kind of you to be concerned. But I assure you, I am fine.”

Again there was the sense of hearing words spoken by rote. “I'll bid you good night, then. I hope you're feeling better soon.”

“Good night, Miss Picard. Thank you for stopping by.”

Angie stayed where she was and watched as Melissa turned and went back inside. Through the closed door, she heard the rise and fall of two voices, the small light chiding and the quiet rumbled replies. There was no anger now, no sense of need or danger. Only mystery.

4

For some folks, Christmas was a tough time. Not for Angie. For her, Thanksgiving was the hardest season to endure. It had been right around Thanksgiving, those six years earlier, when her numbness had eased and the sorrow had struck. All the world had joined hands and given thanks, or so it had seemed, with the message blaring from radio and television and pulpit. The irony had been a bitter joke in a time when almost nothing had made her smile.

But it was not Angie Picard's way to mope. Instead, that Saturday she rose with the dawn and was ready to go long before her town awoke from its lengthy holiday slumber. She wore a simple brown dress, one that would have been considered tatty and old-fashioned by most of the people she knew. But for the day ahead, her clothes were perfect. Angie settled a little brown hat into place, picked up her hamper and thermos, and stopped in the front hall to place her inside thoughts into the crystal jar. Then she headed for the garage.

Starting her car was always a puzzlement, she used it so seldom. She preferred to walk herself everywhere in town and normally favored the company of someone else driving when she left her valley's shelter. But not today.

As she slid behind the wheel, Angie had to stop and think to even remember the last time she had filled up the tank. But the old Chrysler Windsor was as reliable as it was huge, and the motor started on the first try. It shook off the weeks of disuse with a series of complaining coughs, then purred contentedly, ready for the day ahead.

Her way took her straight through the quiet town. Most everyone was using the Saturday holiday as an excuse to stay in bed an extra hour or so. The late November day was fresh and clear, the sky a wash of palest blue. Heralds of the coming sun streamed overhead, golden beams cresting the ridgeline to spread like awakening fingers across the heavens.

Not far beyond the town's borders, Angie turned off the state highway and onto a county lane. The road was not the broad rushing torrent of the lowlands. It resembled a meandering mountain stream, full of unexpected turnings and surprises and delights. Angie pressed down the accelerator to crest the first steep rise and listened as the big motor rumbled at the challenge.

The map was open on the seat beside her, but she had carefully traced her way the night before and did not need to check it often. Besides, this was still fairly well-known territory. She liked using holidays for such journeys, as logging and mining traffic would be at a minimum. Her way took her through an old-growth forest, the mountain maples so vast they formed a tunnel through which she traveled. She came over the ridge, but the trees hemmed her in on all sides and kept her from seeing more than the road sloping down before her.

Angie drove for an hour or more, in no hurry, stopping occasionally for a short stroll into the woods or simply to admire the view when a break came in the forest. The day's purpose was as much an excuse for a journey as it was a quest. She passed through one highland valley after another, leaving the bustle and the crowds and the town's civilized ways farther and farther behind.

Her first stop was a farmhouse she had come to know well. It was very important, building a bridge into these close-knit mountain clans. Doors were seldom open to strangers, but almost never closed to friends. The family who lived here had a son who had left to study at the biggest seminary in the state and now pastored Angie's church. Angie had taught two of his own children, and through this connection had been invited into the homestead and the clan.

Mother Cannon was out on the porch and wiping her hands on her apron before Angie emerged from the car. “A good day to you, Miss Angie. Been wondering when we'd see you again.”

“Hello, Mother.” She started across the swept yard. The call of pigs and chickens resounded from out back. The house was redolent with the smell of baking. “Did I catch you at a bad time? I can come back. I don't want to be in the way.”