The Music Box (6 page)

But Angie was not listening anymore. Instead, she was thinking about an undersized girl standing in the cold night, a mask of composure held tightly in place, doing her best to keep the family name intact. Playing at being an adult, while her broken heart sapped her of the strength to stay healthy. And for some reason, the memory caused Angie to think of herself and those lonely days of returning to the university after her husband had abandoned her, picking up the pieces of her life and her ambitions, taping them together behind a pale mask of her own.

Emma glanced her way, squinted at her face, and chose that moment to stumble. The heavy woman's weight was thrown rudely upon her, and it took all of Angie's strength and attention not to fall. “Are you all right?”

“I declare, this road's rough as a washboard.” Emma stopped to check her heel, then tossed a shrewd glance at Angie. “You're worried about the child, aren't you?”

“I just said I was.”

“And well you should be.” Emma took hold of Angie's arm again and started off. “I imagine the whole story's just one big concoction. That fellow and his pinched weasel face, he's a wanted man, you mark my words. They probably shipped him off here just to keep him out of the law's clutches.”

Angie had to gape at her friend. “I've asked you this before, but where on earth do you come up with these things?”

“Products of a fertile mind,” Emma replied proudly.

Angie was no match for the woman's determined strength. “Will you ease up on my arm?”

“I told you already, we're going to be late for church.” Emma did not slacken her grip until they rounded the corner and the church came into view. “I declare, you're worse than my youngest for finding reasons to darken a good day.”

****

Sunday services were normally a time of respite. Angie was able to set aside almost everything for an hour or so and enter a quiet inner sanctuary that seemed hers and hers alone. Even in the worst of days, when the sorrow and turmoil had been such that she could not concentrate upon the songs or Bible readings, still she had felt this comforting hand of God. This to her had remained both a constant miracle, and a weekly assurance that in time the trial would ease.

Angie had never been given to outward expressions of faith. She had never felt an urge to dance her way down the aisle, or pray aloud for others, or lead a service. Yet in the depths of her sadness she had found an ability to connect with the Spirit, an experience so profound that she had resisted the temptation to turn away from God and give in to bitterness. Though her sorrow had remained hard to bear outside the shelter of shared worship, though the urge had often been great to give in to anger and hostility and enmity, she could never relinquish these moments of quiet reflection and inner calm.

But today was so different that she could scarcely concentrate on the hymn. Her attention remained drawn outward, as though the day was intent upon making her see the world beyond herself.

Pastor Rob gave the familiar call for a time of silent prayer. Angie again sought to turn inward, only to find that the pain was no longer there.

The realization startled her so much that she opened her eyes. The absence was frightening. She had lived with that gnawing ache for so long, now it felt as though something integral was missing.

Angie glanced around the quiet room, looking for something to anchor her thoughts and feelings. All she could focus upon was the brilliant sunlight streaming through the church windows. Great pillars of light, so strong they seemed solid bands of gold, fell upon the heads and shoulders of her friends and acquaintances. The illumination turned these ordinary people into beings of light and power. It transformed a simple country church into something holy, separate, divine. Here and now, this day, her sadness was not permitted. Her sorrow had no place.

She was so taken off balance by the day that Angie did not struggle when Emma invited her for a Thanksgiving Sunday dinner. Her ability to remain carefully aloof and isolated had been stripped away.

Angie allowed her friend to pull her toward where Luke and their two sons waited in the parking lot and again was struck by the power and warmth of the sun. She felt as though she had walked around for years with shades on, unable to grasp just how beautiful the world was.

As she stepped toward the car, Angie felt she was being given a message, one spoken to her heart, so forceful it could not be denied merely because the words were silent.

The message was four simple, powerful words:

Share Yourself. Share Me
.

6

Restlessness came easily to Carson Nealey these days. Especially when he felt trapped in a situation going nowhere fast. Carson tried not to fidget, but this head office executive was dragging things out to an impossible degree.

“Got everything you need?” Carson worked at keeping any impatience from his voice.

“I can't figure this out, Carson.” The man was a friend, or had been, back before his wife's illness. One of those who had urged Carson to stay in the city, work through his difficulties, and not lose his position on the corporate ladder. “You've increased production by twenty percent in four months! What did you do, stick a gun to their heads?”

“Nothing but a little applied psychology,” Carson replied, wishing he could just get up and walk out.

“That won't wash.” The executive flipped the file closed and put his reading glasses down on the pile of papers. “I want something solid I can take back to the board. They're going to demand specifics. You've already bought one new machine—why should they authorize any more?”

Carson sighed and settled back. He was the one doing the asking, and this man had to sign off on his capital requests. “This used to be a good company with good employees,” he began. “Loyal people. Some of them are third-generation employees. When the original owner died, that New York outfit bought this factory cheap and proceeded to milk it, pure and simple. Machinery was used until it fell apart. You've seen the production line.”

“Like something from the stone age,” the executive agreed.

“Then the war ended and demand for their cheap boots disappeared,” Carson went on. “So the New York group got rid of it quick. They tied the sale to another company we wanted, forcing us to pay more than it's worth.”

“I understand headquarters wants to go ahead and close it down.”

“That would be a mistake, and the figures prove I'm right. Even with the dilapidated machinery, and despite the fact that their product line is fifteen years out of date, we're already managing to turn a profit. Now I want enough assets to build a new, high-quality line. Our costs are low enough to compete with these new imports, and our standards are higher.”

“Listen to you,” the executive marveled. “You're acting like this backwater outfit really matters.”

“It does to them,” Carson shot back. “And maybe it does to me. This is the town's only manufacturer. Let things go on like they are, the firm will go bust, and unemployment around here will triple.”

“No, I mean, here you are, worried over three hundred jobs, when before you used to manage something like ten times that.”

The personal observation brought Carson out of his seat. “I've got to get downstairs. We're expecting delivery of the new stamper this morning. Tell me you're going to sign off on the capital injection.”

“Sure, sure.” The executive picked up his glasses, flipped them back and forth. “No problem. But I've got to tell you, Carson, this has got people talking.”

“Let them.”

“Things like, Nealey's lost himself out in the back of beyond,” the executive warned. “You stay here much longer and you'll have a tough time finding a place back at head office.”

Carson grabbed his coat off the chairback and headed for the door. “See you in a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, I got enough to keep me busy that long. Say . . .”

But Carson was already past his secretary and heading down the hall. He pushed through the reinforced door and stepped onto the catwalk. To his right was the glassed-in office of the production supervisor. Carson returned his wave and started down the metal stairs.

He had come to love the wide-open production hall, with its clanging noises and pungent smells of oil and hot steel and leather. The people greeted him calmly now, with the hillfolk's quiet acceptance. They were accustomed to him being around—not to inspect but rather simply to be a part of their work. In truth, it was what they had always been used to, up until the company had been purchased by the New York conglomerate. Before, managers were expected to spend as much time on the line as they did in their offices. Then the old owner had died, and the city executives had moved in, and the door at the top of the catwalk had only opened to deliver bad news.

But Carson Nealey had known none of this when he had arrived. He had come down to the floor simply because it was a way of keeping busy. Working with his hands, learning the business from the ground up, filling his mind with the twanging voices of the hillspeople and the banging, rattling sound of the machines—it had kept his mind too full to think.

Nowadays, there were few of the bad days, but his original habits stayed with him. He found that he liked the work, liked the satisfaction of a well-made pair of shoes coming off the line, liked the simple strength of the people employed here.

Carson joined the small gathering around the loading platform and ignored the slightly guilty glances tossed his way. There was no need to say anything. They would not stay away from their work for long. In fact, it was important they come and see for themselves as the tall crate was being dismantled and the packing stripped away, to reveal the gleaming new stamping machine. The first new machine to arrive here in nine years. Carson heard voices murmur over the cost—ninety thousand dollars—and wanted to tell them about what he was arranging—a credit line for an entire new production line. Almost half a million dollars to be spent over the next eighteen months. But now was not the time. For the moment, it was enough to see the reassurance and the pride they were feeling, that this new boss believed in them and their work and was investing in their future. A future he shared. Because as far as Carson was concerned, he was never going back to the city again. Not ever.

It struck him then, as it had many times over the past week. He found himself flung back to the night Melissa's teacher had come by. And once more he felt the flush of shame over how he had acted. But of all the nights for her to arrive, of all the nights to confront him with anything.

Carson tried to force away the memory by grabbing a crowbar and attacking the crate. Chuckles rose from the gathering at their boss working like a stevedore unable to contain his impatience. But Carson scarcely heard them. For despite his efforts, this time the thoughts would not be banished.

He did not have many bad nights anymore. Most of the time, he simply lived with a void. His heart usually felt as if it were filled with cold ashes from a fire long gone out. But the night the woman had come by, that was different. It was three years to the day since he had heard that his wife was dying.

The news had been so stunning, he had little memory of actually hearing the doctor's voice. For the life of him, he could remember almost nothing about the hospital at all. Only a few words had pierced his numbness, quiet words that had struck at him like hammer blows—tumor, inoperable, hopeless, not long. Four days later, she was gone.

The night Melissa's teacher had stopped by, he had been caught up in the feelings from before, all the rage and pain and helpless frustration. He had struck out at her for no other reason than because she was there.

But now, the shame would not let him be. That plus the memory of how she had stood there before him, the small mountain lady with the pale eyes, appearing so fragile as to bend in the slightest breeze. And yet she had stood up to his wrath, refusing to budge, defiant in her quiet country way. And all because she cared for his daughter—the one person who gave him a reason to not allow his life to fully unravel.

Carson Nealey stepped back from the crate, his chest heaving. He wiped at the sweat on his brow, wishing there was something he could say, some way to apologize and explain. But he never had been any good with words. He joined the group in exclamations over the efficient new machine.

****

Angie sat at her desk, the sheet of paper held in both hands. The empty room seemed to echo with the recently departed students. She sighed her way around to the window, sat staring at nothing for a time, and then looked back at the paper again.

It had long been her habit to follow a test with some exercise that would lighten the mood. All people needed restoring after a tough time. The issue was how to help the children accept the discipline of learning, while also pushing them to stretch their wings and learn to fly. Angie had neither the presence nor the confident strength of many of the other teachers. Yet the students took to her. Even the wildest children calmed down and did their best to listen. And she, in return, bestowed on them the love and the enthusiasm for learning which she yearned to give.

Angie glanced at the paper in her hand. Her heart felt squeezed by the words. The class had been instructed to think over all the cultures and places they had studied so far that year and then select a profession and a place and a time to practice it. Anything at all, anywhere in the world. If they wanted to stay here, she had informed them, that was fine, so long as they could explain what it was that held them. There was no right answer, she had said over and over. What was important was that they use this time to explore their minds and hearts.

Once more she looked over the page. Melissa Nealey's name was neatly printed in the top right corner. The writing was precise, the loops big and distinct, the i's dotted with little round circles. All the signs of careful thought, a quiet little girl who had done exactly as the teacher had instructed, and who had plumbed the depths of her soul. But her answer. Angie heaved a deep sigh. Oh, her answer.