The Music Box by T. Davis Bunn Page B

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.
    My favorite job in the whole wide world is not in the world at all. I would like to go to heaven and be the person who collects all the balloons that have floated out of children’s hands and disappeared. When I was little I lost a balloon at the county fair. It was the last summer my momma was well. When I started to cry, my daddy told me all the balloons wanted to be close to God, and when we let them go, they went up and made God happy. So he explained that I shouldn’t cry.
    I would collect them and give them out to all the children who have been called home early. And I would live with my momma, who left me and Daddy three years ago when God called her home .
    There was a quiet knock at the door, then it pushed open with a creak. “Miss Picard?”
    â€œMelissa.” Swiftly Angie set down the paper, as though caught doing something wrong. “What are you doing still at school?”
    Timidly the girl entered the room, walked over and stood near the desk, fidgeting with her bookstrap. “I was wondering if I could have my assignment