More Than a Memory. Roz Fox Denny

after she walked through the doors and didn’t know where to start asking questions, that Jo wished she had accepted the offer.

      City schools had security guards at the entrances. Here, a person could wander at will. Jo stopped to study trophies in a case that ran the length of the main hall. There were awards for soccer, wrestling, basketball and 4-H ribbons. She looked for Colleen Drake’s name but didn’t find it. The name Logan figured prominently on a number of plaques and trophies. Jo concluded it was a big family.

      In the office she was greeted by a woman working at a computer. “I came across some old yearbooks from this school when I was cleaning out a closet after my mother died. I just wondered if there are any teachers who would’ve taught here eight or nine years ago still on staff. I’d be willing to make an appointment to see someone after school or during a break. I’d really like to talk to them.”

      “Eight or nine years ago? The board offered a really great retirement package four years ago. Most people who were eligible took the offer.”

      “That’s disappointing, but I’m not surprised. Thank you anyway.” Jo had nearly reached the door, when the woman called her back. “Wait. Mr. Rice, our music instructor, came out of retirement at our new principal’s request. I don’t know if he’d be of any help, but he has a prep period that runs for another fifteen minutes. You’re welcome to see if he’s in the music room.”

      Jo’s heart beat faster at that news. “I’ll go straight there. Where is the music room?”

      “It was moved to the annex last year. Take a left out the door and follow the walkway. It’s the brick building in front of the ball field. That made it easier for students going to and from the field for marching-band practice.”

      Some of Jo’s excitement drained as she left the office. From what she’d seen of high-school marching bands in Boston parades, none had violinists. And a small school like this might not have an orchestra. But, as this was her best lead, she followed the walkway to the music room.

      A man with almost completely white hair and stooped shoulders sat behind a desk, changing reeds in a clarinet. Jo felt no connection to the room, or to him. She hesitated in the doorway, wondering if she should leave. But her shadow fell across his desk, causing him to glance up. His pale eyes, magnified by tortoiseshell glasses, widened, and the clarinet mouthpiece slipped from his fingers. “Colleen?” The teacher jumped up and adjusted his glasses. “Heavens to Betsy, we thought…Well, clearly the papers were wrong.” He brushed his hands down his sweater vest, then removed his glasses. “What have you been doing since you left here, child?”