As a child, Francis Xavier Opland III feared the grandfather who shared his name and had taken the place of his parents before the boy even started school. The family believed it was for the best, for the young couple left two other children behind as well, and their grandfather certainly had the means to provide for them. As Francis Xavier Opland III got older, he was less and less enchanted by the privileged home.

"What are you going to be, boy? When you grow up?" the old man asked. The first Francis Xavier Opland was short, but not stocky. He had wide, bulbous forehead with black curls that formed somewhat of a loose triangle around his head. He always wore a suit, even around the house, with a gold watch tucked in the vest pocket. His arthritic fingers were curled and stiff.

The third Francis Xavier looked up at his grandfather from a book he clutched tightly in his hands. "I want to make people cry."

The old man cocked his head in a manner that made the younger man wonder if he would have to repeat himself. "Eh? How's that, son?"

The young man held up the book in his hands. "Like this poetry. People read it to feel the poet's sorrow. Isn't that what poetry is for? It's not a bad sorrow. It's beautiful." He wasn't quite sure how to explain to the old man what the words did to him. They were like a spring, bringing sweet water to his soul. It made him feel expanded and wise.

The old man snatched the book. He examined its cover suspiciously. "Tripe! Garbage! You're too old for this fantasy nonsense, Frankie."

"Francis," he corrected. He hated the nickname.

"What do they teach you down at that school? I thought you'd get some decent learning, not this, this…," he waved his hand at the book.

"I learn more there than you ever did," he said in a tone he knew would be beneath his grandfather's hearing. Louder he said, "We learn more than numbers and figuring."

"This," and he motioned at the book, "will not give you any proper education. I have made people cry, Frankie. I have seen the criminals before my court weep like newborn infants when their verdicts were announced." He smiled a long, thin smile that made the wrinkles around his mouth grow deeper and form new creases. "It is a satisfying sound."

* * * * *

Jennifer Zeminar, as always, took the front and center seat in the small auditorium, a seat with a view. She watched the professor teach his way across the floor, a frenzied pace with tight hand gestures for emphasis on his words. He had such passion for music and the history thereof. He seemed especially excited today. He certainly was enthusiastic about whatever it was he was talking about. She was so enthusiastic about him, his long mane of black curls tied back in a tasteful fashion, his uniform dress of black and dark charcoal colors, and such an artist's face. Surely he was the somber minstrel of the gods, so magnificent and musical.

The hour and fifteen minutes of class slid out from underneath her and she soon found herself the last student to leave. He was putting the text back in his black carry sack, next to his cello. Jennifer casually shuffled up to him, waiting for his attention.

"Practiced like I told you, I hope," he said, slinging the bag strap on his shoulder. He gave her a serious look.

"Of course!" she tried not to grin like an idiot at him, but she was too excited.

"And accounting?"

"What accounting?" she said, innocently.

There was a faint smile on his lips. "Music first, always. That's good. Just don't neglect your other classes."

"I know," she said, managing to control her features into a slightly remorseful expression. It was odd that he didn't chide her for forgetting her other studies. He usually kept a careful eye on her so that she didn't lose her scholarship. She liked the attention.

"Instrument?" He craned his neck around her to see that she hadn't forgotten to bring it.

"I'd never forget Columbus, my baby." She grabbed the handle on the rectangular case she had by her seat. She had whined and complained all through high school to get her parents to upgrade her pathetic beginner's violin to a fifty-five hundred dollar semi-pro model, affectionately named Columbus.

"And I hope you have a change of clothes in there," he pointed toward her own black carry-sack.

"Yep! I'll change in the ladies room real quick and meet you back at the car. Is that alright?"

He nodded his approval and she dashed out of the classroom.

* * * * *

At the dinner table, in the middle of a clinking symphony of flatware on tableware and all the typical sounds of an Opland meal, young Francis's older sister made an announcement. A polite coughing noise was all it took to gather the attention of the whole family.

Lillian nervously toyed with her long black tresses as she spoke. "I've been thinking. About the future, what I'm going to do after I graduate next year. All the girls at school are just waiting until they get married. They don't even consider having a real job. I might get married, but what if it's much later? I don't want to marry the first guy who comes along." She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself as much as anybody else. "Anyway, I need a plan. I think, after I graduate, I'd like to go to Burns College. I want to be an accountant."

The table was quiet, each of the three children waiting to hear what their grandfather might say.

"An excellent choice, girl. It's a good, stable career. A woman shouldn't have to rely on her husband for support. That's overconfidence." He paused for a moment's though. "But I want you to go to the state university."

"But I don't think the scholarsh-" she began.

"I will fund your tuition in full, young lady. You should get a proper education." And then he smiled at her. It was not sarcastic or cynical, but it conveyed a kinder, loving message that Francis Xavier III had never received.

The girl smiled back with a new confidence that radiated on her face.

Francis Xavier Opland III tipped his head down, mentally removing himself from the scene. He jabbed at the food on his plate, careful not to touch the meat.

* * * * *

Waiting at his car, Francis Xavier Opland III checked his voice mail via cell phone. There was a couple of student messages claiming, cough-cough, that they couldn't make it to his music appreciation class that day. The rest of the seven messages were from his sister, which he chose to delete at the first sound of her voice. He already knew what she wanted, and he wasn't about do it. Besides, he had another engagement.

He spotted Jennifer, half running, toward him. She wore a simple black dress: not too dressy, not too informal. It seemed made for her slender figure. He had to admit she was a pretty girl, but his interest in her was purely based on her talent. The girl was made for the violin. She had musical fingers, delicate and nimble fingers that were too short to be suited for a pianist's, too thin for string bass, but perfect to curve around the small fingerboard of a violin. She knew her stuff and she played with heart. She had chosen the path of a musician, as all musicians had, because she couldn't live without music. He could see it in her eyes, the passion there, behind that silly, adolescent exterior she projected. When she played, she left her juvenile nature like one sheds a coat or a hat. It was like she was at peace.

"I'm ready!" She was a little out of breath as she carefully laid her violin in the trunk. "Let's make some music!"

* * * * *

"What, are you going to a funeral or something?"

Dressed in black, from head to toe, Francis Xavier Opland III held his cello between his knees like a shield. He had bought the instrument after two long years of working in the local grocery. His grandfather would fall dead in his grave before he would spend three grand on a "pretty wooden box." Francis glared at the old man. "Life is a funeral, sir."

"Is that why you got that fancy coffin, there, Frankie?"

Francis made no reply. He stroked the strings softly with his bow.

"I don't like this little show of yours. You better get up and do something with your life, boy. You're twenty years old. I'm not playing your nanny anymore. You're going to start paying rent." He waited for a response. When he got only soft musical pitches for a reply, he raised a wizened finger at the boy and said, "Are you going to pay or not?"

"Why can't I go to college?" he asked, his tone unaffected.

"To study your coffin, there?" His grandfather laughed, half coughed. "Are you going to play on the street corner for pennies? I don't think they take pennies at the university. Or Burns, for that matter."

"You paid for Lillian."

"She's going to learn a real trade. She'll make her own fortune, no doubt. She's getting herself a proper education. And your brother says he wants to be a lawyer. Now that's a good, decent job. He's a fine boy. He's got a good head on his shoulders."

"I could learn to be a professional. I could be in an orchestra, like the Philharmonic."

"That's a fairy dream, Frankie. You got to get your head on straight and find yourself a job that pays."

"Fine." Francis had put more emotion in the word than he had intended. "If you won't help me, I'll do it on my own."

* * * * *

Jennifer had inched her fingers along the shelf of the door for long enough. She had read the knob with "lock" and "unlock" labels over and over. She had to fill the silence. "Um, so you went to MSU too, right? I mean, as a student."

He nodded slowly, eyes on the traffic ahead. "Those were tough times. I paid my own way. I had a part-time job with full-time hours. I never drank coffee till my first semester at MSU. You don’t drink, do you? Caffeine's bad for you. "

"Oh, no. I'm more of a hot chocolate kind of person," she replied. She glanced over at him. He was facing forward like a statue. His left hand rested at the base of the steering wheel. He had such beautiful hands, she thought. And bare of any encumbering rings. How very nice. "So, ah, how did you become interested in the cello?"

She waited for his reply, but none came. Her attention became focused on the road ahead then. There was an orange diamond-shaped sign in the middle of the road with the words, "Road Closed." There was a detour sign pointing right. "Oh no! Well, we have a little extra time anyway, right? We left early. The party doesn't start for another, um, forty minutes."

He nodded. "Of all the days," he muttered, raising both hands to the steering wheel to turn.

She let her mind wonder, thinking about the best opportunity she had ever had, to work with her idol, her role model, and get paid. She was learning so much from him. It was because of him that she changed her major to music. If it weren't for Mr. Opland, she would still be on the dead end road to a career in law. He opened up her eyes to recognize her own possibilities.

Now they were here, together, on their way to play at something out of Life Styles of the Rich and Famous. That must be all rich people do, have parties and hire musicians. Mr. Opland must get these gigs all the time, she thought. When she got rich one day, as concertmaster of the Philharmonic, no less, she would have parties every day. She'd hire aspiring young students to play. She could hire Mr. Opland, even. No, he would be first chair cellist in the orchestra, a seat across from hers. Oh stop gushing, she scolded herself. It wasn't like they would be the only two playing at the party, anyway. A pianist and a violist were supposed to meet them there.

She noticed a cemetery coming up and sucked in a lungful of the car's pine-scented air without even thinking about it. She had always been superstitious as a child, but it carried over a little bit, into her adult life. The graveyard was by no means short of length. It seemed to stretch out forever and Jennifer began to feel the pressing urge to release the air in her lungs.

"Of all the days," Mr. Opland sighed again. The car was slowing down, to Jennifer's chagrin. He was pulling the car over to the side of the road.

She expelled her breath in an embarrassing whoosh, and tried to ask without gasping, "What's going on?"

"Gas," he told her, glumly. "That's the one thing that slipped my mind. There's always something isn't there?"

She nodded. Surely this was no monumental crisis. Why, they could get a lift somehow. She remembered the triple-A sticker on the back bumper of the car. Don't they give rides?

She waited for her professor to give an order, make a plan, something. He sat there, staring past her into the graveyard. She turned to look and saw a lone blue tent in the distance. It was sad to see the realm of death in action, no matter if she knew the deceased or not. She felt that same sweet melancholy she felt whenever she saw her professor in one of his especially somber moods. She made out a few figures around the tent, not many at all. Had the deceased been that disliked? Or perhaps he outlived most of his friends and family.

"Fate," Francis Xavier Opland III commented.

"We all gotta go sometime."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

She didn't know what to say to that. His tone had stayed somber. They needed to take action, though. She looked around for a phone, but there were no public buildings around, except for the office inside the cemetery. "Maybe there's a phone in there," she said, pointing to it. It was positioned behind the blue tent.

Francis fished in his pocket for a quarter. He gave the coin and a business card to her. "This is our pianist. He should be able to pick us up in time."

She felt odd that he should make her call, especially since she he was the one that knew the pianist.

He must have picked up on her quizzical expression, because he said, "I'm, ah, a little funeral shy." He gave her a strange smile.

"Oh. That's ok. I'll be back." She exited the car and headed off.

Cemeteries were so lovely. The headstones were made of polished marble, inscribed with loving messages and poetry. People put flowers around the stones. Funerals were a showcase of flowers. The object of funeral seemed to bring as much beauty as possible, in a tasteful way. Coffins were pretty boxes of lacquered wood. The corpse itself became an object d'art. It was dressed up and painted to look lively and pleasant. This was all to mask the death in the shell of life. Maybe to represent the life after death, in a better place. It was strange, but so interesting. Was there a cleaner, greener place than a cemetery?

As she approached the tent, Jennifer was a little disappointed to see that the funeral was indeed quite small. The last two mourners were leaving, heads hung low. There was only one row of chairs in front of the coffin. And there were only two wreaths. One had the photo of the deceased. He was pictured frowning, with gusts of familiar black curls around his head like a three-cornered halo. He looked a trifle angry.

Jennifer was about to continue on her way when she noticed a note tucked in the lid of the coffin. It was the steak in front of the hungry dog.

"I shouldn't, but…they'll never know. I'll read it to you," she said out loud, addressing the casket. She had often seen people leave envelopes on gravestones, and sometimes she would open one and read it aloud. She likened it to the parents who ate the cookies left out for Santa. The analogy made her feel a little more justified in her actions.

As she began, she wondered if it wasn't a note to the deceased at all, but rather from him. "To my namesake: It is now, on my deathbed, that I choose to make this confession. This is something I do not do out of hate or love. Those emotions are lost to me. In my youth, my father gave me my very own pretty wooden box. It was a gift that consumed me, wholly. I was twenty-seven when I began to show signs of the crippling disease in my hands. By the time you read this, my body will have expired, but I died fifty years ago, buried in that pretty little box. Music is not our decision. It is our fate. And our end."

Jennifer inhaled a shaky breath. Wow. He was a musician, then. She felt tears sting her eyes and let them roll down her face to drop to the earth at her feet. She wondered what the man did for those fifty dead years of his life. If that ever happened to her, she'd spend her days vegetating and moaning, useless to the world. Or maybe she would go back to law studies. Law was so plain and bleak.

She folded up the note and replaced it, realizing the time. She jumped when she found Mr. Opland behind her. Tears were streaming down his face too.

He held out a dime in the palm of his hand. "You needed thirty-five cents for the call. I'm sorry." His voice quavered a little.

Jennifer shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have read the note. It wasn't for me."