She brought out an object I had seen once before. It was about the size of a deck of cards, with a tiny funnel and a small crank that she wound quickly before putting it on the pillow next to me. It played a melody I always liked to hear, whether from her phonograph or from this small thing, the music box her father had given her. “Two birds with one stone,” Ellington repeated, over the tinkly music. “My father always hated that expression. He said nobody should be throwing any stones at any birds.” “He sounds like a very gentle person.” “He is. He doesn’t belong in a place like this.”
