MUSIC BOX

          He drove up to the little town’s general store in a white seventy Dodge Challenger and parked across the street from it next to a park bench that sat in front of a small community building. As he walked across the street he noticed a newspaper machine.  He bought one dated July the fourth two thousand and went on into the store. The inside of the store was well lit and clean.  Had a sweet, wholesome smell.  Nice and cool on a summer day. The man behind the register looked to be about three years younger than him.  He was fifty-one and getting older every second. 

         “Can I help you?” the younger man asked?

          “No, thank you, sir.  I just stopped in to get a little something and look around.” he replied.

          “That’s fine. Take your time. If you need some information on something just ask.” The younger man went back to his books and numbers.

          He walked slowly through every aisle in the store. Picked up a candy bar, chips, a sodawater, then came to a glass covered display case. Something made him catch his breath involuntarily. 

           The younger man behind the cash register asked, “Are you OK?”

          “Oh yes, yes, I’m fine. You have some beautiful things here.”  He paused for a moment then softly added, “Are any of them for sale?”

          “Na.  Lots of people who just stop by think we’re trying to sell antiques but everything in there has been given to our family over the past eighty years or more. Some of the collection belongs to Dad, to Mom, Granddad, Grandma, to my brothers, or to one of my two sisters.  We keep them there to show our appreciation in a way.”

         “Are all well? Your family I mean.”

         “Granddad and Grandma are gone but the rest of us are fine. Do I know you?”

         “No. This is my first time through this way.” He looked around in the case a little longer. Some pictures lay against objects within it. “Pretty family.” he commented sincerely.  With a hint of relief in his voice he asks, “Does the flower decorated music box still play?”

         “Na.  It stopped ten years ago or so.  Sis put it in there then. Said maybe someone might come by and know how to fix it someday.”

         “What did it play?” he knowingly asked.

         “Love Is a Many Splendored thing. She use to listen to it a lot. Especially after her husband got killed in a plane crass about thirteen years ago.”

         “I might be able to fix it if you would like for me to try.  I am familiar with the workings of music boxes,” he volunteered.

         “Sure, take a look at it. Hope you can.” The younger man said as he unlocked the display case.  He took out the music box and placed it in front of the stranger on the case top.

         The stranger reached out and as his right hand fingers came within an inch of the box a light blue flicker of what seemed to be static electricity arced over to the box. He held his hand steady for what seemed a long time as the younger man watched in silent amazement.  Suddenly the music box started to play.  It played clear and beautifully.  He took it up in his right hand, held it to one ear then to the other, smiled, cradled it in both hands at last, while a deep satisfying tremble slightly shook his body.  A single tear formed in the corner of his left eye and ever so slowly moved down across his happy cheek. Tenderly he placed it back down on the case top.  It played on as he walked over and picked up a couple of brass clips.

         “I’ll pay out now,” he said. He hadn’t noticed that the mother had come out from a back room when she heard the music. She stood in astonishment as her son went to the register and rang up the sale.  The stranger paid with exact change.

         As he walked toward the front door the son said, “Wait.  Let me give you back your money for fixing the music box. I don’t know what you did, but it worked.”

         “I did nothing but care, admire it and long to hear its music.  I am not the builder of it, but I respect the one who did and enjoy the beauty of it all.”

         The mother and son watched the man in wonder as he looked both directions, took a deep breath, strolled across the street and got in his white car.  The music box continued to play that special song that held so much meaning for two people who had met long ago. It had been a Christmas present from a young man to a young woman he loved.

         He sat for a moment, looked at the store once more.  Smiled a half-contented smile, finally turned the ignition switch on and the four-forty roared to life. A little smoke shot into the air out of its dull exhaust pipes.

         “You’ve still got a good engine. We’re both getting old but there’s still a lot of lightning and thunder in us.  We've got sparks and fireworks and more life to be lived than most people would believe.  We are not worn out yet.  Just got to find the right road to travel on now.  This road has been a must for us, you know. But it’s time to move on, I guess.”

         Checked his rearview mirror.  Nothing coming. Shoved the pistol grip slapstick four speed floor shifter into first, easily let out on the clutch, but the car still surged ahead barking the wide rear tires. As he shifted into second, he noticed a blue seventy Plymouth Barracuda coming toward him.  It went by. Was a woman driving it?  In his rearview mirror he watched it pull up to the front of the store.

        “May have been her, old boy.”  He shifted hard and fast into third gear as they cleared the speed zone.  “They never came to see us back then like they said they would.  Guess we were just a passing thing for them. Wouldn’t matter now. My map shows that park or rest spot just up ahead a few miles.”

         He slammed it into fourth and hammered down for a second or two, then let it settle back down to a near legal speed.   The town vanished out of sight of his mirrors.

         She got out of her blue Barracuda and walked into the store. Her mom and younger brother, by a year and a half, were standing at the family display case looking at something intensely.  Suddenly she recognized the song, the music, music box music, her old flower decorated music box song!  She rushed over and froze just in front of it.  Listened for thirty seconds, then asked, “How did you get it to play?”

        “We didn’t,” her brother answered.  “A man came in and got something to drink, a snack and a brass, no, two snaps, you know, one of those clips. He asks about the box and our family and if everyone is OK. He asked to look at the box so I took it out of the case. He reached down to touch it.  The strangest thing happened then.  When his hand got to within about an inch of the box, a light blue spark that looked like static electricity arched over to the box.  But it wasn’t just a quick spark.  It lasted longer than most sparks. Like it had been saved up for years.  Suddenly the box started playing, before he ever really touched it.  He picked it up, put it to each ear and listened awhile.  Cradled it in both hands. You know, I believe I saw a little tear on his check. He sat it down, walked over, paid out and left. Wouldn’t take any pay for fixing it. Drove an old white car kind of about the size of an old Mustang, you know, the ones before they made em into Pinto’s.  He fired it up. It did sound good.  Just drove away, just now. That box is still playing. We haven’t touched it.”

         She reached down.  A spark arched over to her. She didn’t jump, though they could hear it pop. Picking up the box she cradled it lovingly in both hands. Listened to it as thrilling emotions rushed through her whole body.  “It was him!” she softly yet excitedly said. “Had to be!  I can feel it.” 

          She turned with the music box in her right hand and swiftly walked toward the front door.

         “Where are you going?” her mother asked.

         “We’re going to visit them.  I promised him a long time ago we would.” She opened the door.

         “You and who else, and who are them,” her brother asked?

         “I’ll call home later.  Don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Don’t worry,” she ended as the door closed behind her.

         She ran from the door to her car, fired up the Cuda, made a U- turn in the street and burned rubber out of town.

         “Never saw her drive like that before,” her mother commented with a little surprised disapproval in her voice.

         “Especially not in her beloved, pampered Barracuda,” her brother added.

         “You still got it, old girl,” she said out loud.  “We both still got what it takes. Just got to find the one who wants us now, needs us today, still after all the time that has slipped away.”

         As her Cuda sped down the road after the Challenger, and him, she remembered back to a day she was at the Chrysler dealership in the big town. She was sitting and waiting for her dads and mom’s sixty-six Plymouth Fury to be fixed.  She had been looking at the brand-new blue Plymouth Barracuda that was sitting next to a new white Dodge Challenger. A young man came in and was walking around both of them.  A salesman went over to him and told a story of how both had come down from the same factory on the same car transport truck. How they seemed to belong together.

         The young man had come over and picked up a brochure on each of them off a table next to her and said, “Hi.”  Before an hour had passed they had bought both cars. She, the Cuda. He, the Challenger. A date was set. They had seen each outher at a park in the big town many times. He had had to go away for a long trip then. She had shown him on a map where a small park was near her little hometown where they could meet when he came back into the country. The date was set. When the time came she was delayed because of a funeral of a great aunt. When she finally got there, he had already gone. She could see he had been there because of the wide tire tracks that matched her Cudas tracks.

        She sped onward, toward that missed date, as if trying to go back in time. Back to meet at that little park halfway between her hometown and the big town where they had bought the cars.  He would be there now.  She knew he would. 

         She saw the white Challenger pulled over as soon as the park came into view. As she pulled up chose beside the Challenger and parked her blue Cuda, she saw a man looking at her as he sat at a gray concrete picnic table.

         She shut down the Cuda’s engine, got out, walked over to the table, sat down next to him and said, “We are here. Better late than never. I hope you agree.” 

         She placed the music box on the table in front of him. He smiled at her and said, “I agree.”

         “I have loved this Christmas present for all these years, even after it quit working. You made it work again back there. Now, let’s wind it up together and see if it will work again for the both of us,” she said with hope in her voice.

         “Are you sure,” he asked?

         “I’m sure,” she breathed out honestly while picking up the music box.  He wound it up and it played.  Blue sparks flew from both of their hands as they lovingly placed it down on the table. “We still got it!” they said simultaneously.

         That night fireworks were going off all over the country. They remembered fireworks on the Fourth of July a long time ago. This day was not only the Fourth of July for them; it was Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and their new birthday.  Fireworks were experienced anew that night. They were rare and wander filled fireworks.  Lightning and thunder and thrills of life when you find something that is even grander now than your dreams and memories of it have been through the years. The Barracuda and the Challenger sat quietly side by side and waited. They were all together again.

         END.

11-20-2002         A. L. Shipman Jr.

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