A Maidens Grave

and a half later became total.
    Melanie Charrol knew this, for Beethoven not only was her spiritual mentor and role model but was a frequent visitor to her music room, where he, not surprisingly, could hear as well as she could. They had had many fascinating conversations about music theory and composition. They both lamented the trend away from melody and harmony in modern composition. She called it “medicinal music”—a phrase Ludwig heartily approved of.
    She now sat in the living room of her house, breathing deeply, thinking of the great composer and wondering if she was drunk.
    At the bar in the motel in Crow Ridge she’d poured down two brandies in the company of Officer Frances Whiting and some of the parents of the hostages. Frances had gotten in touch with Melanie’s parents in St. Louis and told them she was fine. They would return immediately after Danny’s operation tomorrow and stop by Hebron for a visit—news that for some reason upset Melanie. Did she want them to stop by or not? She had another brandy in lieu of deciding.
    Then Melanie had gone to say goodbye to the girls and their parents.
    The twins had been asleep, Kielle was awake but snubbing her royally—though if Melanie knew anything about children it was that their moods are fickle as the weather; tomorrow or the next day the little girl would drop by Melanie’s cubicle at school and sprawl out upon the immaculate desktop to show off her latest X-Men comic or Power Rangers card. Emily was, of course, in an absurdly frilly and feminine nightgown, fast asleep. Shannon, Beverly, and Jocylyn were the centerpiece of the action. At the moment, coddled and the center of loving attention, they were cheerful and defiant and she could see from their gestures that they were recalling aspects of the evening in detail that Melanie herself could not bear. They had even dubbed themselves “the Crow Ridge Ten” and were talking about having T-shirts printed up. Reality would hit home later, when everyone began to feel Susan’s absence. But for now, why not? Besides, whatevermisgivings she’d shared with de I’Epée about the politics of Deafness, the members of its community were nothing if not resilient.
    Melanie said goodnight to everyone, refusing a dozen offers to spend the night. Never before had she signed “No, thank you” as often as she had this evening.
    Now, in her home, all the windows were locked, all the doors. She burned some incense, had another brandy—blackberry, her grandmother’s cure for cramps—and was sitting in her leather armchair, thinking of de I’Epée . . . well, Arthur Potter. Rubbing the indentation on her right wrist from the wire Brutus had bound it with. She had her Koss headset clamped over her ears and had Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto cranked up so loud the volume was redlined. It was a remarkable piece of music. Composed during what music historians call Beethoven’s “second period,” the one that produced the Eroica, when he was aware of, and tormented by, his hearing loss but before he had gone completely deaf.
    As she listened to the concerto now she wondered if it had been written by Beethoven in anticipation of future years when the deafness would be worse, if he’d built in certain chords and dynamics so that a deaf old man might still make out at least the soul of the piece—for though there were passages she could not hear at all (as faint and delicate as smoke, she imagined) the passion of the music came from its emphatic low notes, two hands crashing down on the bass keys, the theme spiraling downward like a hawk falling on prey, the orchestra’s timpani and low-pitched strings churning out what for her was the hopeful spirit of the concerto. A sensation of galloping.
    She could imagine, through vibration and notes and sight-reading the score, most of the concerto. She thought now, as she always did, that she’d give her soul to be able to actually hear the entire piece.
    Just once before she died.
    It was during the second movement that she glanced outside and saw a car slow suddenly as it passed her house. She thought this was odd because the street in front was little traveled. It was a dead end and she kneweveryone who lived on the block and what kind of cars they drove. This one she didn’t recognize.
    She pulled off the headset and walked to the window. She could see that the car, with two people inside, had parked in front of the Albertsons’ house. This was