Echo

He opened it and removed the model that the company usually exported to the United States of America. The date on the box indicated the year it was introduced, but the coverplate looked newer, and the body older. Opposite the side with the blowholes, on the black painted edge, was a tiny red letter M.

Was this the instrument someone had been playing? If so … how? He had heard music, hadn’t he?

Mike sucked in his breath. “We’re getting fostered out?”

“If they like us. What if Pennyweather tries to separate us again?”

“I’ve told you before,” said Mike. “We’re not supposed to be separated. Remember? You and me, we stick together.” Mike held up a fist.

Frankie did the same, tapping Mike’s. “Yeah. You and me, we stick together.”

“We’re going to take the train. And get all fancied up and go to a concert at Carnegie Hall, just like Granny did,” said Frankie.

“That’s right,” said Mike. “She always wanted to take us there.”

Mike couldn’t believe this was the same piano. There were no sour notes. No avoiding a sharp because it wasn’t. The man was right. The piano had a beautiful tone. Mike filled up on the sound, as if he were eating something delicious, each bite better than the last. For a few moments, there was nothing but the music. No worries. No Pennyweather. Just him and Frankie. Mike could almost believe that he was back in Granny’s parlor, playing on a Sunday afternoon with the window open so everyone in the neighborhood could hear the music and have a little beauty in their lives.

Mrs. Sturbridge’s eyes filled with tears as she looked them over and made a face as if she’d just seen a dead animal in the gutter. She turned and hurried up the stairs. At the top, she leaned over the railing and yelled, “Get them to Mrs. Potter, immediately!” She disappeared down the hallway. A few seconds later, a door slammed so hard that the chandelier tinkled. “Believe it or not, boys,” said Mr. Howard, “that went well.”

“Ever heard someone say they’re feeling blue?” asked Mr. Potter. “Means sad or they got the melancholies about life. So blues music is about all the trials and tribulations people got in their hearts from living. It’s about what folks want but don’t have. Blues is a song begging for its life.”

“But the music doesn’t sound sad all the time,” said Mike.

“No, the songs are full of something else, too,” said Mr. Potter.

He played the first verse nice and slow, like a lullaby. The second verse was the blues version with trills and chords and bended notes. It wasn’t hard for Mike to drop into the music and testify to the journey he’d been on. His eyes closed and he traveled back: arriving on Amaryllis Drive, riding in the wagon with Mouse, lying on his cot in the dormitory and staring at the wrinkled paint on the ceiling, standing at Granny’s window, waiting, and listening to his mother sing to him and Frankie.

He played the third verse like he and Frankie used to play it, the refrain sounding like a storm crashing up to the sea to shining sea part, where he slowed down, the notes calm and simple, clear and sweet.

Without thinking, Mike looked down. He was much higher up than he’d thought. Dizzy, he tipped sideways, grabbing a nearby branch. The harmonica slid from his pocket and landed in the fork of a smaller branch. He thought he could reach it, so he righted himself and leaned out, stretching his fingers until he grabbed it. But he wobbled.

And fell.

In the seconds before his body and the earth collided, the wind blew a chord through the harmonica clutched in his hand.

Ivy dawdled, playing the harmonica. She was far enough away that Mama couldn’t hear the music, but she kept the notes low and muted anyway. Next week she would be on the radio with her class. She hadn’t told Mama and Papa the surprise yet. Her teacher, Miss Delgado, had chosen her to perform a solo.

Kenny always obliged, taking it from his pocket. He cradled it in the palm of his hand and held it out for all to see. No matter how many times he showed it, he was still amazed by the miracle of the mangled harmonica that had trapped the deadly bullet meant for his heart.

Forever after, Arabella, Roswitha, and Wilhelminia lived in a safe and cozy castle with their family, who loved them and called them by name. When their happiness overflowed, as it often did, they sang, their voices blending so magically that people in the kingdom often stopped to listen and marvel at their gifts.