The Soldier's Bride (28 page)

“I’ve heard so much about him. The newspapers are calling him a musical phenomenon.” She relaxed into her seat and enjoyed the scenery they passed. Colorado Springs had grown into a bustling city that spread to the far reaches of what used to be fields and other areas devoid of population. Evelyn still missed the isolated town of Aspen Falls. So many of her memories seemed to wind up and down the quiet streets of her hometown. Eventually, she’d grown comfortable in this neighborhood with its own set of memories, but Aspen Falls would always hold a special place in her heart.

The concert was held in the Colorado Springs entertainment hall and every seat was filled. When the tiny performer named Daiki approached the grand piano on the stage with the aid of a white cane, the audience quieted in awe and then cheered. The boy set his cane on the ground and seemed to transform before the piano.

His fingers flew over the keys in some familiar tunes and other new compositions. His incredible talent brought tears to Evelyn’s eyes. Jim was surprisingly attentive and only nodded off a few times. A quick nudge to his ribs brought a smile to his face, and he laced his fingers with hers.

Daiki stood to introduce his last performance. “I wrote this piece for my mother because it reminds me of her and the tune she played for me when I was a baby.” Daiki bowed, and then straightened. “It is called ‘Wind Song.’”

A hush fell over the crowd, and Evelyn listened for the first note to echo through the room. Daiki began to play, and Jim and Evelyn looked at each other then back at the child playing the piano. The music cast a spell on the crowd and the room grew quieter, the music flowing through the air uninhibited.

Evelyn squeezed Jim’s hand. It had been so long since they had searched for the music box, but she had never forgotten the power of the music—the magic of the melody.

“‘Wind Song,’” she whispered and leaned her head against Jim’s shoulder. She closed her eyes and let the music uncover that cherished part of her heart filled with so many memories of the past. She remembered the first time the wind sang to her. Jim had told her, “Don’t die with me.” And she had lived and loved more than she could have hoped for.

Jim kissed her brow and held her close as the melody ended. His bass voice rumbled as he hummed the last strain of music Daiki had played.

Emika spread her fingers and admired the beautiful emerald ring, the five diamonds surrounding the stone, and the gold band gleaming in the lamplight. How long must her father have saved for this ring?

Like the time he’d worked and saved to have Leland make that special desk. After she had been stricken with polio, the savings went to medical bills. Leland gave them the desk for Christmas. The secretary now sat in Emika’s living room. She smiled, knowing her mother cherished her father’s love more than any piece of jewelry or furniture. But Shunsaku showed his love by doing special things for his wife.

Emika settled the ring back into the folds in front of the ballerina and watched her come to a stop, the music tinkling to a close. She shut the lid and placed the music box into a carton with some of Daiki’s old toys and other keepsakes.

It would be hard to leave their home, but New York City would be a new adventure and Daiki would thrive with the opportunities to advance his talents at Juilliard. His concert had been a huge success, and Daiki practiced for hours each day preparing to perform in five more concerts over the next two months.

“This box is ready, Tony.” Emika patted the flaps and hesitated before removing her hand from the box. With Daiki’s success, they would embark on a new chapter in life, one with so many more opportunities than her family’s income had been able to provide. Emika knew it was a blessing and wholeheartedly accepted it as recompense for her son’s blindness. Children were supposed to be happy and full of joy. The times Daiki seemed truly happy were those hours when music filled the silence.

It would be up to her to help Daiki through those times when the music couldn’t. She had been trying to think of how she could share her experience with polio in a way to inspire him to keep reaching for the stars. She didn’t want him to ever think he couldn’t do something because of his blindness. Emika tried to think how she could put into words the message written on her heart, to “Live to dance again” and “Listen close enough and you can change the world.”

“I will tell him soon,” she said to herself. With a sigh, she picked up another empty box and began filling it with books.

~*~

The open-bed trailer overflowed with boxes, large and small, stacked high, each one filled with the family’s possessions. It didn’t take long for the wind to find the box sitting atop three others near the back of the trailer. After two hours of travel, several of the cartons had come untied, the cardboard flapping in the wind. With each bump the pile shifted until the box of keepsakes leaned precariously against the railing.

The cardboard flap rattled against the back of the trailer and the wind kept pushing. A bend in the road forced the trailer to turn and the momentum plus the force of the wind was enough to set the box flying through the air. It bumped and tumbled along the ground. The side of the box split open and Daiki’s baby shoes bounced through the weeds on the side of the road. The cardboard crashed into a barbed wire fence, toppled over it, and the remaining contents spilled out in the field bordering the road.

A gust of wind scattered papers and mementos and pushed against the damaged cardboard. But the overturned carton wouldn’t budge because the music box lay underneath, sitting atop one of the flaps. It wasn’t quite enough weight to keep the box from blowing further, but the large boulder beside it impeded its course.

~*~

It took Emika and Tony nearly eighteen months to get all the boxes unpacked. Several of the photo albums, trinkets, and other items that weren’t necessary for everyday use had been left hidden in the dark basement as Emika spent her time running Daiki to and from lessons, performances, and other obligations.

Finally on an unusually quiet weekend, Emika unpacked the last box. She felt a tightening in her chest when she realized she hadn’t unpacked the box of keepsakes that contained Daiki’s first shoes, his baby blanket, her mother’s crocheted gloves, and the music box.

A week later after searching every nook and cranny in the house, Emika wiped a tear from her cheek. The box of keepsakes was gone. The music box with its memories had disappeared. She turned her head to listen to the strains of piano music floating down the stairs. Daiki played “Wind Song” on the piano—one of Emika’s favorites. It was a variation of the song she’d heard from the music box and played for her sweet baby boy.

Emika grabbed a piece of paper and folded it into the shape of a peace crane. She climbed the stairs and took a deep breath. Music filled the hallway and she stood outside of the piano room until he finished playing. When the last note reverberated against his touch, Emika stepped forward, holding the paper crane in the palm of her hand.

“Daiki, I want to tell you a story. A story about when I was a little girl and the first time I heard a song on the wind.”

The music box lay in the farmer’s field and wind blew the dirt one grain of sand at a time over the cardboard box. For three years it lay half buried at the fallow end of the field. The crops were brought in each season and the oddly shaped heap of dirt next to the large boulder was never disturbed.

Until Henry stalked through the field and sat on the edge of that very boulder and cursed the sky that he had ever desired to make things grow from the desolate piece of sand he called a farm.

Over the last two years, after all the sweat and aching work, he had taken a loss. And this year—he grabbed a handful of wilted grain and cursed again. A killing freeze had come for the Memorial Day celebration, and the beautiful winter wheat he had praised—the full heads filling out with lovely green kernels—now hung limp and lifeless. Destroyed. All 175 acres of winter wheat ruined overnight. If that were his only problem, he might not be sitting in the dirt. But a terrible windstorm had come through only days before and blew out most of his crop of spring wheat in the south field.

He would have to replant, and in order to replant he would have to buy more seed. Henry grunted and leaned back against the boulder. The June mortgage payment was only a few weeks away.

For two years, they had scrimped and tried to get by on the operating loan that was now due. The expenses of farming and raising a family were too high, and Mallory had returned to work full-time to try to keep them afloat. Henry rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the fine grit of sand on the rough calluses of his fingers.

The wind always blew here, picking up fragments of sand and pushing them into every fold of clothing, patch of hair, or unsuspecting eye. Henry leaned over his arms and stared at the remains of the first breath of spring touching his field in hues of gold and green. A tear trickled from his eyes, making a moist pathway over his weathered and dusty skin.

His body was tired. He felt like the field at the end of the harvest: stripped, dried, and empty. He pushed his hand into the pile of sand next to him and let the wind grasp it and send it streaming through his field.

The next handful was not sand but a piece of splintered wood, and Henry swore when the rickety fence board granted him a sliver for his carelessness. He shoved the board away from the rock with his foot and a piece of disintegrated cardboard followed the movement.

Henry knelt on the ground and dug out another scoopful of sand. Under the first layer of dry sand, the dirt was packed and he pulled another piece of mushy cardboard out of the dirt. His hand knocked against something solid. He pushed away a few tumbleweeds and brushed the sand off the solid surface.

Henry squinted and pulled the object closer to him. He ran his hand over the oblong box, brushing away more dirt. “Now what do we have here,” he mumbled to himself as he examined the box decorated with dirty ivory paper and a gold leaf edging.

With careful movements, he opened the side compartment and his eyes widened when he saw several colorful necklaces made of glass beads. His fingers traced the edge of the middle compartment and fumbled with the lever to open it. The lid popped open and music began to play as he lifted it higher. He nearly dropped the lid when he saw movement, but then he smiled at the twirling ballerina.

“I’ll be,” he said. Henry glanced around him at the lonely stretch of road twenty yards away, the sagging fence line, and the boulder at his feet. “Where did you come from?” he asked aloud and looked at the sky. He lowered his face closer to the ballerina and sucked in a breath when he noticed the twinkling diamonds surrounding the large green stone.

With trembling fingers Henry picked up the ring and examined it. The sunlight glinted off the many facets of the jewels set in the gold band and he shook his head. “This can’t be,” he murmured. “This just can’t be.”

He returned the ring to the soft velvet cushion and turned over the tin badge, noting the inscription for the March of Dimes. Another bracelet with shining stones set in gold caught his eye, and he studied it wondering how a music box had made it to this little piece of earth.

The music had run out and Henry felt around the box until his fingers identified the brass crank. He wound it and watched the ballerina dancing in front of the oval mirror. The tune sounded beautiful, new to his ears, but almost reminiscent of some other tune he’d heard before. He thought about the days he and Mallory had danced to music, always holding hands, cheek to cheek, the rhythm of their favorite songs interwoven into their lives. But for too long now there had been no dancing, only work and worry and frustration with the downward spiral of the farm.

His daughter, Sabrina, carried her own weight of worry as she watched her parents struggle. A fifteen-year-old shouldn’t have to be concerned over whether they would lose the farm, their house, everything. Neither should a ten-year-old boy. Garrison understood the dilemma they faced, especially after the killing frost, with no money for seed and no money to pay the mortgage on the land or the house. Something would have to give.

The ballerina slowed her pirouette and stopped midtwirl as the melody ended. Henry looked at the jewelry and closed the lid with his calloused hands. Dirt etched deep into his fingers magnified each line earned by hard labor.

He scrutinized the distance from the road to the spot of earth where he knelt. He rose and stepped lightly through the stalks of dying grain toward the highway. Looking in every direction, Henry inspected each pile of dirt, kicked at tumbleweeds, and examined the bits of trash in the brush. There was no sign of how the music box had ended up lodged against the boulder.

He traipsed back to the music box and knelt again. Moving his hands over the earth, sifting through sand, he looked for any clue of the box’s origin. There was nothing else to find on the barren ground. Judging by the amount of dirt and weeds that had surrounded it, Henry guessed the box had been there for more than a year. By all rights the music box shouldn’t have even survived its sojourn in the field.

He stood, his joints creaking, and cradled the music box in his arm. He was no expert on fine jewelry, but if that ring was genuine, it could be worth almost as much as the seed bill and mortgage combined and a good portion of their operating loan. His heart fluttered with hope as he plodded through the field toward the house.

When he thought of what he would tell Mallory, the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile and his eyes sparkled, but then his steps faltered. He looked at the music box and sniffed. The jewelry belonged to someone, someone who would know what the box looked like.

He altered his course and ended up in front of the shed. He pressed his lips into a line and walked inside. The music box fit snugly in a corner between some clay flowerpots. Once he had hidden his treasure, Henry headed for the house, found a newspaper, and placed an ad in the classifieds.