I

This day was one of those remarkable March Saturdays where the sun streamed through the grey, pearly clouds and the grass waved in a fragrant southern breeze.  The cows were grazing in the pasture just beyond the great red barn and chickens scratched in the front yard at the seed Mama had thrown to them. 
Melly was one, two, three, four, five, and she was very proud of that.  Mama was in the kitchen behind the window making flapjacks and Papa was on the wicker chair on the porch with Melly.  He was reading the paper.  His big, black mustache quivered while he chuckled. 
Melly was drawing on some white paper with her birthday colored pencils.  There was a white bird (like the one by the lake) and an orange kitty (like Mishach, her kitty cat) and they were playing in the cattatail plants down by the cotton-brook.  She was very proud of it, and was going to have Mama put it on the icebox door when it was done. 
A pickup truck grumbled up the gravel driveway.  Melly looked up from her drawing - she had been starting to draw a green duck. 
“Granda’!”  she said.  “Granda’s coming!  Granda’s here!”
Papa looked up from his newspaper and Mama looked up from making her flapjacks.  Papa stood and walked over the truck as it pulled up to the big, white farmhouse.  A big, old man who looked like Santa but with grey hair instead of white stepped out  of the truck.  He laughed.  Melly thought he even sounded like Santa.  “Hello there, Tom!  How’ve ya been?”
“Well, Sir,” Papa replied.  He always called Granddad “Sir”.  Melly thought it was weird. 
“Eleanor, how have you been, Darling?” Granddad asked. 
“Fine!” said Mama.  She flipped a flapjack onto the big white china plate and brought it out.  Mama sat it on the porch table.  “Care to join us for a bit of breakfast?”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve got a few errands to run,” Granddad said.  “I came over to wish Melly a happy birthday.”
“What did ya get me?” Melody asked.  She jumped in circles.
Granddad walked back to his big, black truck and pulled out a package of shiny gold paper, wound with a purple ribbon.  “Happy birthday, Melody.  Five is a big number.  You’re almost a grownup already.  You know, children in other countries sometimes don’t ever get to be five years old.”
“Why not?” Melody asked.
“We’ll tell you when you’re older,” Mama rushed.  Melody thought Mama glared at Grandad like he had just made her go clean up after another kid’s mess. 
“Can I open it?” Melody said.
“Go ahead,” Granddad said. 
Melody undid the ribbon tie and tore open the pretty, gold paper.  Inside was a wooden box. 
Melody wasn’t very excited when she saw the wood.  But the more she looked at it, the prettier it got.  The wood was engraved with little rose buds - Mama grew roses and they bloomed just a little into summer - and with little birds.  Melody said “Ooh.”  She dropped the paper and the pretty ribbon and put her finger over the birds.  She could feel the feathers, delicately drawn into the wood. 
“Open it,” Grandda told her.
Melly lifted the box’s dark wood lid, and from inside a song began to play.  Melody listened in awe.  “Hm, hm hm.  Hmmm, hm hm. Hmmm, hm hm, hm hm.” Melody hummed.  She looked up at Grandda.  “I’ve heard this song before, Grandda.”
Grandda smiled.  Melody wondered what he thought was so funny.  “You know, Melody, when I first heard this song, I thought the same thing.”
Melly held out the box and she looked at it.  “I’m gonna find where the music comes from,” she said.  Melody nodded to herself.  It was a promise now.  Melody was supposed to keep promises.  Mama had said so. 
“The music’s coming from metal parts inside the box, darling.”  Mama said.
“That’s not what I mean, Mama!  I mean where the song comes from.  I’m gonna find it.  You know, Grandda?”
Grandda smiled again.  He had a nice smile.  “Why don’t you ask some other people first?”
Melody grinned even wider.  “Yeah.  I’ll do that!”

II

The gun went off.  Feet pounded on the track.  Hearts pumped blood to all the cells of the body.  Feet moved, legs moved, muscles and tendons pulled and shoved the body forwards. 
Bang.
The race had started, and Melody could feel the roar in her head, her ears, her entire body.  100 meters.  District race.  Varsity Women’s division.  She wouldn’t let the team down. 
Halfway there.  Lane 8 stumbled.  She fell!  No time to look, gotta keep running.  Lane 4’s pulling ahead.  That was Redwater’s runner.  Tall.  Lean.  Fast.  Melody Crass was faster. 
25 more meters to go.  10 more meters to go.  Lane 6 was making a desperate, last-minute effort.  Lane 6 wouldn’t make it.  Across the finish line.  Time. 
Wow.  The timer shouted it out.  1st Place, High Top, Melody Crass, 13.6 seconds.  That was a personal record. 
The other girls shot across the finish line.  They were good too.  Worthy opponents.  Melody was just a little bit faster.  She looked over her shoulder at the other girls, who were just starting to breathe heavily and take deep, deep breaths of beautiful clean oxygen.  Lane 8 was having trouble getting up.  Melody jogged over and gave her a hand.  The girl was younger.  Maybe a Sophomore.  Maybe a freshman.  Good for a freshman.  “Nice race!” Melody said.  “You were running really well.”
The girl blushed.  Or maybe it was just the blood and heat of the race.  “Thanks.  Better job to you.”
Melody waved it off.  “You ok there?  That’s a bloody knee.” 
“I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sure.”
Another teammate of Lane 8’s came over and walked her to their school’s tent.  Melody went over to her own.  As soon as she got near, a troop of three of her fellow athletes swarmed her. 
“Mels got gold!  Mels got gold! Mels got-”
“Shut up already!” She yelled at them.  She was beaming.  They smiled back. 
“Nice job, kid.”  Coach Travers walked up and clapped her on the shoulder.  “Amazing.  That’s your last event for today?”
“Yup.  Hey, do you mind if I go ask some of the other teams about the box?”
“Go ahead kid.  It’s your time, not mine.”
“Thanks.”  Mels jogged over to where her bag with snacks, water, a fresh pair of tennis shoes and socks laid next to all the others.  She reached her hand inside and felt around for a cold, box shape.  “There you are,” she said.  She pulled it out of the bag and looked at the cared-for wooden finish and elegant painted figures running along the edges of the music box.  She opened it and played the song, just to assure herself that it was indeed the same box.  Yup.  Same song.  Same tune.  Still couldn’t remember where before the box she had heard it. 
“Melody!  There you are!” 
Uggghhhh.  That was Mom. 
“Hi Mom.  What’s up?”
“I saw your race, sweetie.  That was great.”
“I wish Dad had been here to see it.”
Mom didn’t say anything.  She had that look.  That really awkward one.  Yeah.  Melody already knew Dad was gone.  He’d been gone for more than a month now. Of course Melody knew he wasn’t just on a work trip. 
“I heard you’re failing Algebra II.”  Mom had that disappointed look now.  Melody hated that look too.
“Mr. Davidson just hates me.  He always grades my tests the hardest.”
“You haven’t been turning in your homework.”
“He hasn’t been giving it in time for me to get it!”
“You’re doing just fine in Choir and History.”
“That’s because in Choir you literally do nothing and in History all we do is worksheets!”
“You need to start trying harder, Sweetie.  You can’t get a job if you got A’s in Choir and History, but fail Algebra II.”
“Mom-”
“Don’t Moooom me, young lady.”  She sighed.  “I just want you to do well.  Doing well is not always the fun thing to do.”
“Maybe my well doesn’t mean being a successful businessperson or a teller at a bank or a doctor or a lawyer!  Maybe I just want to have a fun life!”
“Melody-” Mom huffed, just like she did whenever she gave Melody this speech.  “I know you think right now, having fun is all that matters.  But if you don’t get a good job, if you can’t get into college and you can’t pay your bills, you might have the easiest, breeziest job in the world, but you won’t be having any fun.”  She tried to hug Melody.  Mellody pulled away.  Mom sighed.  “I know, Sweetie.  But this is what Dad would want.  This is what I want.  I’ve been in the same place you have.  Trust me on this.  You think it’s good now.  Please, sweetie.  I just don’t want to see you go through what I did.”
“Mom, I don’t care!  Please!  Just stop!”  Melody clutched the music box and stalked towards where the Simon Powell kids were camping out. 
“And stop with that silly obsession, Melody.  It’s just a music box!”
“Not to me, it ain’t.”  Melody stalked off.  She played the song to every runner there.  All of them, just like everyone else, had heard it before.  None of them, just like everyone else, couldn’t remember where they had heard it.

III

Melody had been in third period Honors English, on the last day of senior year, when the call came in.  First she heard it over the intercom- "Melody Crass to the office right away, please.  Melody Crass to the office."  She had grabbed her bag and walked to the isolated little room.  The old, grouchy secretary was sitting there.  She looked concerned. 
"Melody Crass?" She asked.
"Yeah," said Melody.   "What is it?"
"There's been an accident.  Your mother's in St. Jude's right now.  We're trying to get a bus pass for you right now, but it could take an-"
Melody ditched her backpack and sprinted out the front door.  St. Jude's was two miles north of High Top Prep School.  She could bike there in ten minutes, maybe less.  She undid the lock, threw on her helmet, and pushed off, pedaling hard. 
Three bad lights and twelve minutes later, Melody threw her bike at the wall of the hospital and ran through the glass doors.  The woman at the counter desk had a blank and uninterested lok.  Her grey-blond hair was up in a tight bun and she looked like severe disappointment.  “Can I help you, young lady?”  she said.  Her voice was dry, like breakfast cereal.
“I’m Crass, Melody Crass.  Where’s my mom?”
“Name?”
“Eleanor, Eleanor Crass.  She’s my mom.  How is she?”
“Do you know what section she’s in?”
“I don’t know.  She was in an accident, I think.  Just please, tell me where my mom is!”
“Mhm,” said the woman.  She checked the large computer.  One second passed.  Two.  Three.  “Eleanor Crass, you said?”
“Yeah.”
Four seconds passed.  Five.  Six.  “Accident?”
“That’s what the office told me.”
Seven seconds passed.  Eight.  Nine.  “Shouldn’t you be in school, young miss?”
“School called me up here!  Where is my mom?”
“Mmh...” 
Melody slammed her fists on the counter.  “Look faster, gosh dang it!”
The lady behind the counter glared heavily at Melody and clicked further at her computer.  “ICU, it says, Left wing, teal block, room 508.”
“Thanks,” Melody said.  She ran off over to the map, then headed down the left hallway.  
People may have looked at her with glaring eyes as she pushed them out of the way, running to the IC wing, but she didn’t care.  A buzz bled through her veins and even though her legs were heavy she kept running and breathing and heaven help her mother.
There was a white-robed man at the door.  “Who are you?”
“Melody Crass,” she said.  “Is my mom in there?”
"Are you Eleanor Crass' daughter?"
"Yeah."
The man in the white coat sighed and put a hand on Melody’s shoulder.  She brushed it off. 
“What is it?” she asked.  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”   The man in white rattled off a list of injuries and maladies that Melody tuned out.   “Is she going to be ok?”
“We don’t know.”
“Can I go in and see her?”
“Not right now.”
Melody waited in the hallway for an hour and a half before a white-dressed nurse opened the door and told her, “Come in.”
Melody walked  into the acrylicly light room.  There was Eleanor Melody, her mom, in the bed, head covered in little gauzy patches.  It was so wrong to see her mom like this... so wrong.
“Melody... is that you?”
“Yeah, Mom, “ Melody said.  Her throat hurt.
“Listen, I’m bad off here.  Doctor Harbinger says I won’t probably make it.  But I need you to listen to me, ‘kay?” 
“Mom-”
“Melody, for once in your life shut up and listen.  Darling child, listen to me, if you’v never heard anything else in your life, listen now.  I’m not going to be here to take care of you and coddle you any more.  You’re going to need to step up and be an adult.  Do you hear me, Melody?”
“Hic- Yes Mom.”  Melody wiped one of the million tears away from her eye.  “Mom-”
“Now listen.  You need to start being responsible.  My will has passed everything on to you.  You’re old enough to go out on your own.  Rent is paid for the next six months.  After that, go to the state college.  Get a good degree.  Mary Anne can get you a good job when you finish your bachelor's.”
“But Mom-”
“Melody, you’re going to do well.  I know it.  Go back to school now.  Good luck, my darling girl.”
Melody’s mother closed her eyes.  The nurse took Melody by her arm and led her out of the room.  She waited on a bench in the lobby just 105 feet from where her mom lay dying and she bawled her eyes out. 
The funeral was one day before graduation.  She rode her bike to both.  She got a dorm at the state school, got a full ride for track and field, and studied business and accounting.  Whenever one of her old friends asked why she was doing that, instead of English or History or Teaching.  Melody always replied, word for word, “Because I’m not going to let my mom down.  Not anymore.”

IV

Melody Crass, Senior Financial Advisor at the Merk Train Branch of the First Loan Bank, woke up at 6:00 in the morning, every morning.  She showered, put on the bland makeup, dressed in her suit and rode the bus to work.  She had never gotten her driving license.  Line 422 arrived at 6:45 on 11th Street and Thomcor every morning.  It arrived one block south of the Merk Train Branch of the First Loan Bank at 7:15 every morning.  She was usually the first banker there.  The security personnel - Joe on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays, Andrew on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the weekend - opened the doors for her.  She would set down her bag on the desk, open it, take out the date book, the records sheet, and the one pen she found suitable to use on such things. 
It was March seventh of the fifty-seventh year of her life.  She had three meetings scheduled that day.  She would probably get at least five walk-ins with an empty schedule like that.  At 12:00 she walked across the street to the bakery to get a lunch.  She had a croissant with cream cheese.  At 12:15 she was back at work.  She was the first one back after lunch, too. 
At 5:30, she would finish whatever outstanding work she had left.  She would put her things back in her large black handbag and go to the bus station.  She would reach the bus station at 5:45 and arrive back to her apartment at 6:25.
She never reached the bus station.
On the corner of 54th and Morl, a single mother was texting and driving.  Her large white minivan, full with four children, ages 8, 5, 3 and 2, passed by a stop sign with a crosswalk.  The minivan hit a large bump, something slammed against the windshield.  The mother looked up from her phone; she stomped on the brakes. 
Melody Crass, age fifty seven, died on impact on March 7 at 5:38 p.m. No one bothered to attend her funeral.

V

Melody yawned and stretched.  God, she felt so young.  Was it yoga?  Had she started trying yoga?  No- that wasn't it.  Why did everything seem so much bigger?  She looked down at her hands.  No wrinkles!  Wow, what was this?  Melody reached for her big black bag- it wasn't there.  There was something by her feet- she looked down and saw her old backpack.  What was that doing here?  She had gotten rid of that year's before- her professor had said it was very unprofessional.  And why was the bus taking so long?
Melody looked around.  She was indeed at a bus stop.  But the color was all wrong.  The paint looked new, and bright.  Everything was clean.  There were no cigarette butts on the ground, no old fast food wrappers.  And there was music playing from the speakers- since when did bus stops have speakers?  Hm.  She knew the song.  She tried to place it as she dug around in her backpack for a mirror.  Her hand felt something unexpected in the backpack.  It was large, and wooden, and carved, she thought.  Melody pulled it out. 
It was a music box.  Not just any music box, though, it was the one she had received so long ago, her last gift from her grandfather.  She was about to open the lid when the thought struck her.  She didn't need to open the box's lid.  That same song was playing from the bus station overhead.