The Music Box by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip

Pangs of pain deep within my chest move caustically up my throat causing my mouth to fill with bitter saliva. I swallow and swallow again but I cannot get rid of the taste. Why didn’t I remember to put a glass of water on my bedside table? I could get up and get one but it has taken me a lot of shifting to discover this position where the discomfort in my back is eased.

I sigh.

Raising my head I look at the clock. Damn. Only one thirteen. The full moon’s illumination is deceiving; I’d hoped dawn was closer than this. I lower my head back down again on my mound of three pillows. Closing my eyelids I try to empty my mind and will myself back to sleep. It doesn’t work. Thoughts of what to name our baby if it’s a girl keep recycling. We have four names on the short list, each of equal weighting. I try and remind myself that it is a decision that is sometimes best left until after the baby is born.

I hear a possum outside hissing. The sound seems to alter Adrian’s phase of sleep. His breathing, rarely silent, becomes somewhat irregular and more pronounced—bordering on a snore.

I turn my head and stare through the open bedroom door into the dim landing beyond, then close my eyes again. Counting backwards from a hundred I tell myself to calm; for once it seems to help. By the time I get to thirty I feel myself sinking into that semiconscious state of almost being asleep. My body relaxes, I can’t feel the doona, my mind begins to drift.

The baby gives me a sharp kick under my diaphragm and I startle with pain. No point retrying—I get out of bed.

In the downstairs bathroom I fill the cup with water and drink. From the mirror the pallid face of a woman with dark pouches under her eyes stares back at me.

I turn away.

The tiles are cold so I go to the walk-in wardrobe for my slippers, then on through to the spare bedroom that does not contain a bed, where yesterday’s laundry hangs. Two work shirts on doorknobs, the remainder on a wooden clothes horse. Entering the open dining area I navigate by the light of the moon coming in through the French windows and move into the kitchen where I go to the fridge. My heartburn has lessened now that I am on my feet. I open the door and stand in the cool air, scanning the shelves in the bright bluish light. Sour cream, strawberries, milk, eggs, salad leaves. Nothing that piques my fancy. Despite this I remain here with the door open until my Life’s Good fridge begins its protest beep.

I let the door swing closed.

It now seems extra dark after the fridge’s glow so I switch on the bench lights. My partially read novel rests on the dining table—Ben Okri’s The Famished Road. I open it and sit down. I read several pages but can’t focus on the narrative. Closing it I look up at the clock on the mantle. It is a torsion pendulum that Adrian bought from an antique store. Over eighty years old yet it still keeps good time. It is a complementary companion standing there next to my great grandmother’s music box. Adrian is keen on his clock, but its heritage for him is recent, unlike the music box, which has been a matriarchal heirloom of my family for over a century. My mother gave it to me when I turned twenty-one.

Pushing my chair back I get to my feet, make my way to the fireplace and reach for the box. Although it is compact it weights in my hands. I trace my thumb along the line of raised silver stars that decorate its side. Above and below the stars the weaved pattern of a braid runs along the rims. On the surface of the lid is the outline of a clown, his face painted an ivory white, his nose and lips red. The colours have faded over the years, old lead-based paint spread on a surface of lead. I unhook the little clasp at the front and slowly raise the lid. The hinges tense as they resist the upward movement, then give a faint squeak before opening fully. Inside is a green velvet disc on which four pairs of animal figures stand—ponies, monkeys, elephants, lions. Tiny dull specs show on the animals’ backs and legs where the paint has flecked off. The velvet beneath them is worn as if grazed. To the right of the disc runs a shallow depression, designed for the key which is resting there.

Outside I hear a noise. I press my forehead to the glass pane of the back door and look out: all I can see is the monochromatic shapes of trees, plant beds, the garden bench and the rose arch. The sound comes again—I think it’s an owl.

Looking back at the box I pick up the key and gently insert it into the slot at the side. It turns stiffly. The spring in the mechanism feels taut after eight turns and I let go.

The animals begin to move. They follow each other around in a clockwise direction to the notes of the box’s tinkly tune. I hum as they march past me.

Clunk.

The box goes silent. The animals stop moving.

I twist the key’s handle; it pivots without resistance.

I turn and turn and turn the loose key but the box won’t wind again.