April 13, 1995

Sandy Richards looked at the face staring back at her from the bathroom mirror. She had dreaded the arrival of this day for months, and now it was here. Turning forty wasn't the end of her world. At least, that is what she had been telling herself for months.

Dressed in a gray VanderCook College of Music T-shirt over green plaid pajama bottoms, she leaned closer to the mirror and touched her left temple. Was she imagining it, or were the lines around her eyes more pronounced? She took a step backward and studied herself. She was still thin and shapely where it counted, but not what anyone would call skinny. Her hair was now a washed-out blonde, a semi-successful effort to mask the gray that had begun lacing through her hair the previous year. Her youthful appearance had always been important to her. She wasn't vain. At least, she didn't think she was.

She stepped closer until her tummy once again touched the sink. Through the eyes of a child, people forty and older seemed ancient. Even her own mother looked elderly when she turned the big 4-0. A quiet chuckle caught in her throat when her thoughts turned to her music students at Walton Center Middle School. She probably reminded them of an old schoolmarm, the kind she used to watch in old Western movies. Had the inevitable occurred? Had she become old?

Her gaze dropped down to the yellow note stuck in the lower right corner of the mirror and froze there. Her father had just been admitted into Riverside Medical Center in Kankakee for testing, and she had an appointment to meet with the doctor later that afternoon to go over the results. She wasn't expecting anything too serious. Her dad was more fatigued lately than usual, and, when pressed by her mother, admitted he didn't feel like his normal antagonistic self. And he was coughing a lot.

She rolled her eyes, sighed deeply, and looked back into the mirror. Her left index finger traced the line running from the bottom corner of her nose to the end of her lip. She had never noticed how pronounced it had become. Her father's face had the same line on either side of his nose. Great, she thought. Just what I need. To look like him.

Sandy turned away from her reflection to begin the morning ritual of showering, applying make-up, dressing, and heading out to bring the joys of music to her students. Every morning she sang while getting ready for school.

On this morning, she did not.

* * *

"How's your dad, Sandy?" asked Rodger Jones. The Walton Center Middle School's assistant principal was standing at the front desk reading the morning sports page when she pulled open the door and walked into the office.

"Stubborn as ever, Rodger," she said with her lips stretched thin. She walked around her colleague to the wall of cubbyholes that doubled as mail slots. Hers was jammed with announcements, most of them useless. "Why do you ask?"

Rodger folded the paper and waited until Sandy looked over at him. "I heard he was at Riverside for tests. I'm praying for good results."

"Thank you," she replied, glancing down and pretending to study papers and envelopes clutched in her hand. "Have a nice morning," she concluded as she pushed open the door and stepped quickly down the hallway toward the band room. "Small towns," she muttered to herself.

Walton Center was the sort of place where everyone knew everyone — and all the details. The lack of privacy was bad enough, but no one was shy about asking the sorts of questions requiring answers most people didn't want others to know anything about.

Advances in communications and transportation had drawn the formerly sleepy little northern Illinois town into the gravitational clutches of Chicago. Truth be told, what was once a country village was rapidly becoming little more than a bedroom community for the Windy City. Its population was increasing, and strangers were more common here than ever. But it was still the kind of place that harbored few secrets.

Sandy paused outside her classroom to recall something she had overheard her older daughter Emiley remark to a friend: "Hey, I found your nose. It was in my business again." That pretty much summed up life in small-town middle America. The thought nearly brought a smile to her face, the hint of which just as quickly vanished. Smiles came rarely these days. When they did, Emiley and her younger sister Sarah were usually the cause.

She was about to open the door to her room when one of her students came bounding toward her, his arms outstretched for a hug. "Mrs. Richards!" It was a daily routine they both enjoyed.

"Hi Tyler! How's it going?" Sandy tousled the tow-headed boy's mop of wild hair with one hand while reaching into her pocket with the other to pull out a dollar bill. When she was sure no one was looking, she let it slip through her fingers onto the floor.

"I'm going to join band next year, Mrs. Richards. I'm going to play the drums!"

"I know, and I bet you'll be the best drummer ever!" She glanced at the floor and pretended to be surprised. "Oops, did you drop your lunch money, Tyler?"

Tyler glanced toward the crumpled dollar lying at his feet, scooped it up, shot her a wide grin, and took off down the hall.

Tracey Shirk, Walton Center's choral instructor, walked up next to Sandy and watched Tyler hoop and holler his way through the throng of students beginning to pour into the school and crowd the hallway. "That kid just always has money falling out of his pockets," she said to her best friend before lowering her voice and adding, "You can't feed them all, you know."

"Most of them feed themselves just fine," replied Sandy with a gentle nod. "With Tyler's broken home and a mom working third shift ..."

"She usually forgets his lunch money." Tracey finished the sentence for her. "Do you think his mother ever wonders who's feeding him, or if he's even eating lunch?" she continued. "And how about those new sneakers you bought him? She has to notice."

"I don't care if she does. He's a good kid. I'm sure she works hard, and she's a single mom. It doesn't hurt to give a little help," replied Sandy.

"You're a saint, girlfriend," Tracey whispered in her ear as she slipped one arm around Sandy's shoulder and hugged her. "Not to change the subject, but ... how's your dad doing?"

Sandy stepped away a few inches, just enough for Tracey's arm to fall away. "My father's sure getting a lot of attention today."

"People are concerned. You know that. How is he?"

Sandy took a deep breath and exhaled. "I think he's fine. He's tired. He drinks too much. He's still busy trying to start some kind of business." The words shot out like a machine gun. Cold. Rapid. Empty. "As for his other business projects, if you can call them businesses," she added before stopping herself. "Never mind," she shook her head. "I'm sure he's OK."

Tracey remained silent for a few seconds, cocking her head to one side as she always did when contemplating whether what she was about to say next was a good idea. "Well, Shadow, you need to come to grips with him. He could be gone faster than the Cubs can blow a 10-game lead in September. You two have unsettled business. You shouldn't leave it unfinished." When Sandy raised a hand to object, Tracey raised hers a tad faster, and they met palm to palm, a high-five frozen for several seconds at eye level. "We've been...