Glow

by Megan E. Bryant

  “These are recipes,” I said, flipping through the yellowed cards inside the box. “It’s a recipe box.”

  “I said it was a box,” he replied like an idiot.

  I ignored him as I glanced at the cards. There was a recipe for pea soup; one for fish croquettes; one for potato bread; one for war cake, which sounded like a pitiful attempt to make the best out of a very bad situation. The pudding recipe was the most tattered of all, with enough stains to prove it had been used a lot. I turned it over in my hands, imagining a young mother, maybe not much older than me, dishing up pudding for her kids after they choked down fish croquettes and potato bread.

  But that was pure speculation. They were only recipe cards, after all; there wasn’t a name or a date or a single identifier on them. War cake, though…that was worth looking into. If it was a recipe from wartime, when staples like eggs and milk and sugar were rationed, that might help me narrow down the time period. I was about to take a picture with my phone when I realized it was dead. Naturally.

  “I’ll just get the painting,” I told the guy as I put the recipe cards back in the box.

  The new painting fit, barely, in the trunk of my car, and I made a mental note to start stocking some sheets or blankets so that I could start treating the paintings better than they’d been treated so far. I plugged in my phone to charge it. When it powered up, I realized that I had a ton of missed calls and texts—all from Lauren. Uh-oh.

  Hey! When did you get up?

  Her reply was fast.

  Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for two hours!

  I didn’t notice that I’d started grinding my teeth until I caught the edge of my tongue between them. The pain was fierce and immediate, followed instantly by the tang of iron as blood seeped through my mouth. I yelped in surprise, glad there were no witnesses to such a moment of sheer stupidity.

  I had to play this carefully with Lauren, who hated to be kept waiting. She practically took it as an insult.

  Sorry! I didn’t want to wake you up. Had to get out of my house

  I was sure she’d understand that, after everything that had happened with Mom. I pushed my swollen tongue into the hollow of my cheek as I waited for the pain to subside. I kept texting, my thumbs skittering across the screen so fast that Lauren would have to wait to respond.

  So I went shopping

  Guess what?!?!

  Found a new one!!!!!!!!

  You went without me?

  I frowned at the phone; it was hard to tell over text if she was really mad or not, so I decided to grovel a little. But Lauren wasn’t done yet.

  How could you do that? You knew I wanted to go

  Please please please don’t be mad. I’m sorry!

  A pause. Longer than it should’ve been. Then, finally:

  I’m getting ready for the beach.

  Thought we’d go look for more paintings?

  You already did that, didn’t you?

  Yikes. It was time to give her a call.

  Lauren answered on the fifth ring. “What’s up?”

  “I’m soooo sorry,” I said. “Don’t be mad. I just…You know, stuff with my mom. I had to get out of there. And I really didn’t want to wake you.”

  “So what’s up with your mom?”

  Lauren’s question hung there as I squinted out the spotty window. After how careful I’d been all spring, so artfully changing the subject whenever my mom came up, answering her now was a little too complicated—especially for a day so blindingly bright. I suddenly wanted to crawl into some cool, dark place and stay there, alone, for as long as it took for this day, this summer, this time in my life to pass.

  “Do you still want to hang out?” I asked Lauren abruptly. “You can come over and see the painting, I guess.”

  There was another pause before she replied. “I’m going to the beach,” she finally said. “You want to come?”

  Now it was my turn to hesitate. I thought about my legs, which I hadn’t shaved in four days. I thought about the double indignities of last year’s bikini, which simultaneously crawled up my butt while offering way less support than any of my bras.

  And I thought about the painting in the trunk of my car, and whatever secrets it would reveal in the dark.

  “I can’t,” I replied. “I need to—”

  “Okay.” She cut me off. “Bye.”

  I stared at my phone as she hung up on me. Now I had another mess to deal with, all because—what? Because I didn’t sit around all day waiting for Princess Lauren to roll out of bed? Because I didn’t feel like going to her private beach club where everyone knew I didn’t belong? Why did she always get to be in charge?

  On the drive home, I forced myself to push Lauren from my mind and let my thoughts focus on the glow paintings and the mysterious artist behind them. LG. There were so many things I still didn’t know: Who was she? Where did she get that paint? Why was she using it? What were her secrets? What was she trying to say…and what was she trying to hide?

  And underneath them all: How did she do it?

  By the time I got home, I didn’t want to wait another minute to see the painting in the dark. I certainly wasn’t going to wait for a late-summer sunset. I took the stairs two at a time. My closet wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to squeeze inside with the painting. I closed my eyes, savoring all the exquisite anticipation. What, what, what would be revealed?

  I was ready to find out.

  When I opened my eyes, the blackness was all-consuming, just a thin sliver of light slipping in from under the door. I didn’t need to adjust to the darkness, though, because the painting—and yes, oh yes, it was one of them—glowed like a beacon calling me to it.

  I’d tried to prepare myself, but there was no way to be ready for what appeared on the canvas. In the dark, the couples had been stripped of their clothes and their skin; their skeletons gleamed, bones glowing as they danced in a fevered frenzy. What had been a charming scene, old-fashioned and romantic, was now ghastly.

  And it got worse.

  Because as I looked closer—and I had to look closer; I could not look away—I realized that their bones were broken. Not every bone, maybe not even most of them, but here and there—femurs and tibias, ribs and radii—I saw everything from hairline fractures to jagged compound breaks where needle-sharp shards of bone would’ve ripped through muscle and flesh.

  If any muscle and flesh had remained.

  The damage was catastrophic. And there were…there were teeth scattered across the dance floor. Glowing teeth, root and all, as if the skeletons had opened their mouths—perhaps to smile, perhaps to kiss—and their teeth had crumbled, tumbled to the floor.

  My fingers traced the skeletons, frozen in their grotesque dances, to feel the breaks in the bones. Whenever I moved, I could feel something brush against my head, my cheek—clothes, I reminded myself, not ghosts or specters or whatever.

  That’s when I saw the words painted in the floorboards: Avant la rupture, on voit les fissures. My phone had just enough charge to translate.

  Before you break, the cracks will show.

  I whispered the words aloud, letting them slither into the heavy stillness pressing down on me. Until that moment, I’d nearly forgotten about my bitten tongue. Still sore, still swollen, it throbbed when I spoke. Was that the taste of blood again?

  Get out of here, I told myself, flinging the door open so I could scramble into the light.

  The diary I’d bought at Lost & Found was on my bedside table. I reached for it almost by instinct, still hoping that there might be something, anything, written inside it that could connect the author to the paintings. There weren’t many entries, though, and they were all so short.

  10 July

  Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Lydia is taking me to New York City! I think I shall buy a new hat. I almost asked Lydia to buy me one in advance of our departure, but decided against it. How much better to have bought the hat myself in New York City. Not many girls here can boast of owni
ng a hat made in New York. Besides, Lydia always picks the plainest of hats.

  I turned each page slowly, methodically, until I reached the back cover. One corner of the endpaper had started to peel away from the cover, just enough to bother me. I had some acid-free glue in my desk…It would be an easy fix…

  Wait.

  Was there something under it?

  I didn’t need acid-free glue. I needed a razor blade.

  As the blade sliced through the endpaper, I felt like I should apologize. It was never my intention to deface the diary, which had obviously survived for decades before it fell into my hands. I shook the book, just a gentle shake…

  A thin edge of paper appeared.

  My fingers weren’t nimble enough to coax it out, but I was able to grasp it with a pair of tweezers. It was a letter—no, not even a letter, a note: short and sweet and deeply romantic.

  ARC

  482 DOVER STREET, ORANGE, NEW JERSEY

  My love,

  The factory is full as always, but empty without you. I’m surrounded by time: clocks ticking, watches watching, each second an eternity, because you are not here.

  I want to see your eyes.

  Touch your face.

  Kiss your lips.

  When?

  Name the time and I will be there, roses in my hands, love in my heart.

  I have a very important question to ask you.

  —E. M.

  At last, I thought with dizzying glee. I had been stumbling blindly, grasping in the dark for a clue, a sign, anything besides the enormous void of my ignorance. Now I had so much—so much! Initials. Letterhead. An address!

  I reached for my keys.

  Chapter 10

  December 24, 1917

  Dearest Walter,

  Christmas Eve, my love, and if not a joyful one, at least it is rich with promise that this wearisome war will end so that we may pick up the loose strands of our lives and weave them together once more.

  I have had a bit of trouble at my job, which I’m ashamed even to admit to you. Mr. Mills isn’t pleased with my work. He gave me such a dressing-down about the state of my dials that I nearly cried in front of him. With quivering voice, I asked how I might improve.

  “All the numbers must have a crispness to them, and none of these bleary smudges I’m seeing on your dials, girlie.”

  “The paint,” I said miserably. “It’s too hard to work with.”

  “I taught you how to tip, did I not?”

  “And I do tip my brushes,” I said.

  “Then tip them more,” he snapped as if I am simple.

  I am not fond of this practice! The paint is pasty and gritty, and though the taste is bland, the texture in my mouth is so unappealing.

  “Might I use the little cup of water instead?” I asked.

  “For what purpose? To rinse your mouth?”

  “No, sir,” I replied. “To rinse the brush after each numeral.”

  There was a long silence while he looked at me with incredulity. “Exactly how much Lumi-Nite would you like us to pour down the drain?” he finally asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “If you want to rinse your brush in water after each numeral you paint—poorly, I might add—then you might as well pour the paint directly down the drain,” he said. “So I would appreciate an estimate from you as to how much paint you would like to waste.”

  “None, sir. I apologize.”

  Here, Walter, I was gravely afraid that I was to be let go, and I think my eyes cast about with great desperation, because once again Mr. Mills’s voice turned kind.

  “You needn’t worry about consuming the paint,” he said. “It’s a boon to your health, is what it is. You should thank us. That same powder that makes the paint glow is used medicinally all over the world.”

  I nodded, remembering the advertisements that Edna had so carefully saved in her scrapbook. Since that night, I have seen signs in the druggist’s window making similar claims. One would have to live in a cave to be unaware of Evr-Brite’s amazing healing powers.

  “And here you have a daily dose free of charge! With our compliments! We pay you for the privilege!” Mr. Mills said, his hearty laugh booming through the office. “Surely you’ve noticed some positive effects on your health already, Lydia?”

  I wondered at this for a moment. I cannot say that I have, but I have been so reluctant to tip my brush that perhaps I haven’t benefited as I might have.

  “I know your sister has,” he continued with a strange sort of smile.

  Liza is certainly the picture of health. And now that I think on it, she looks very well lately. Her face has the luminosity of a pearlescent moon. Though she is a bit pale, that is more likely due to the grayness of winter.

  “Tip more,” Mr. Mills said with a finality that told me I was excused. “Practice at home. I expect to see improvement within the week.”

  Practice at home, Mr. Mills ordered me, but with what? This paint is unlike any I have ever used before. How should I have it at home without Liza learning that I’d snooped under her bed? But as you’ll see, I figured out a solution.

  After my meeting with Mr. Mills, I felt too upset to join the girls in the lunchroom, but I had no other place to go. Fortunately, by the time I arrived, Liza was commanding all the attention, reading her latest letter aloud for all to enjoy.

  Oh! Perhaps I have forgotten to tell you! Liza has been writing a serviceman overseas who wears one of her watches. His name is Captain Reginald Lawson, and he is a pilot. It seems to me that the war serves as a fiery catalyst for declarations of love, inflaming passions that would otherwise burn slowly. Though they have corresponded only a few weeks, Liza and her captain already exchange an intimacy that should make her blush. If I sound annoyed, it’s only because she compares her circumstances to my own. As if a flirtation of a few weeks’ duration could ever compare to what you and I have! Even Charlotte is sick of the way Liza carries on, but I suspect she also wishes she were old enough for a sweetheart of her own.

  That reminds me of a sorry exchange I had with Charlotte three nights ago. She slipped into my room and sat on the edge of my bed, as she used to do every night. I was glad to see her, calling her my pet and brushing her hair the way she always used to love. But after a few moments, Charlotte turned to face me with moon-shaped eyes and tremulous hope in her voice.

  “Lydia, there’s a factory set to open in the new year,” she began. At that, I knew what she was going to say: that she wanted a job outside the home, longed for the independence of working on her own. Of course, at thirteen years old, Charlotte is not too young for factory work, but as she is the baby of the family, we have all taken special pains to coddle her. Perhaps these indulgences have gone on for too long. Anyway, as I listened to my little sister, I vowed to take her part however I could.

  I soon realized I had misunderstood the purpose of our conversation.

  “The factory will make masks,” she continued. “For the soldiers. The special kind for use in a chemical attack.”

  I shuddered then to hear her words; I shudder now to write them to you. I am so afraid of these terrible poisons, concocted in chemists’ labs, that blister the lungs and larynx. When you think that war cannot become more horrifying, the men in charge find a way to make it so. How can they find honor in the poisoning of soldiers? Or is honor now counted in the number of incapacitated troops?

  Change is so rapid in these modern times, perhaps too rapid, I fear. Do the scientists ever pause to consider the consequences of their alchemy? Or does technological progress require the momentum of a locomotive? But these are dizzying times for us. The lab that churns out barrels of toxic mustard gas for harmful purposes is a close cousin to the lab that purifies a powder that not only makes watch dials glow, but cures cancer and holds astonishing regenerative properties. It is the way of the world, I suppose, that goodness so frequently conceals a dark side.

  But I digress. As I was preparing to praise Charlotte
’s industriousness and encourage her to get a job at the mask factory, she spoke again.

  “They will only hire girls with a loved one in the war,” she said all in a rush. “A husband or a brother or a sweetheart. And I have none of these.”

  “But why, Charlotte?” I asked, dreading her answer. “Why should that matter?”

  “Because the work is so very delicate and important,” she replied. “They believe a girl will show greater care if she knows the mask she makes might cover the face of a man she loves.”

  I stayed silent in hope Charlotte wouldn’t continue the conversation, but she pressed on.

  “Lydia, you could apply for work there,” she said. “And then I could have your job at ARC. I know they would take you on at the factory. I know it. Your hands are so fine for such work, and considering you and Walter—”

  “No, Charlotte,” I said, and my voice was not as gentle as it might have been. “I will not do what you ask. I cannot.”

  She looked as if I had slapped her in the mouth. “Why, Lydia?” she burst out plaintively. “They won’t have me! I am of no use to them! But you, you could work there, and then we would be the only ones to know that you were leaving ARC. I know that Liza would take me to meet Mr. Mills, and I am sure they would bring me on. Then I could work at ARC with Liza, and you would have a fine position at the other factory, serving the war effort.”

  “There are other factories,” I told her. “Other factories that have no such strident eligibility requirements for their girls. I would rather see you return to school, but if what you desire is work outside this apartment, I will support you when you make your case to Mother. But I will not leave my position at ARC so that you may take it.”

  Her eyes were full of such reproach, Walter, that I turned away and began to tidy the bureau, hoping to signify that the conversation was over. It worked; Charlotte slipped out of my room.

  What I share with you in confidence, Walter, and what Charlotte could never know, is that those masks have haunted me since I saw them in a newsreel at the picture show. In my dreams, a monstrous army marches onward, masked with unblinking fly’s-eye goggles and elephantine hoses swinging in the wind that swirls poison gas around them. I wake, gasping, as if I, too, were surrounded by clouds of oily droplets in shades of decay: foul greens and browns and yellows.