The Music Box by T. Davis Bunn Page A

them.”
    â€œThings 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.”
    â€œYeah, 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