The Glass Forest

by Cynthia Swanson

  The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted us. Paul broke away from me and dove for it, grabbing the kitchen wall phone’s receiver.

  He listened to the caller introduce himself, then said, “Yes, I’m his brother, in from Wisconsin.” He was quiet again as the other party spoke. “I understand. Yes.” He reached for a pad of paper and a pencil sitting on the kitchen counter. I watched him scratch down some words I couldn’t make out. “All right,” Paul said. “Thank you.”

  He hung up the phone and turned to me. “It was the police,” he told me. “Said they’ve finished taking all the samples they need, and . . . the . . . the body has been moved to a local funeral home.” Paul ran his hand through his thick hair and shook his shoulders. “Jesus, what a thing to be saying about my own brother.” His look was grim. “Cop gave me the name of the place, but he forgot to give me the address or phone number.” He took a telephone book from a shelf on the lower end cabinet and laid it on the counter, opening the pages.

  I got coffee on and started a bottle warming on the stove. I was looking in the refrigerator for breakfast items when I heard the baby start to wail. I poured a cup of coffee and set it down in front of Paul as he picked up the telephone receiver. I headed to the guest room with the warmed bottle.

  When I returned, Paul told me he had spoken to the funeral director and to Ruby. He was going to fetch Ruby at her teacher’s house and then go to the funeral home.

  Baby on my hip, I followed him down the hall toward the master bedroom.

  “I told Ruby we could wait a bit,” Paul said. “We could hold off on making any . . . decisions . . . until Silja returns.” He shook his head. “But Ruby is adamant. She wants to have a funeral as soon as possible.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Surely, she doesn’t get to make that decision,” I said. “She’s a child, Paul.”

  At the bedroom threshold, he gave me a long look. “Ruby is almost eighteen, Angie. She does get to make that decision.”

  I bit my lip. I wanted to say more, but I knew it wasn’t a good idea.

  Paul pulled on pants and a checkered shirt. After he finished tying his tie, he turned to me. “Do I look all right?”

  “You look quite handsome.” I stood on my toes to kiss him. “You don’t want to eat breakfast first?”

  He shook his head. “No, I should go.” He brushed a lock of hair from my face. “Ruby and I will be back soon,” he said. “I don’t know how long it will take, but I wouldn’t think more than a couple hours. See if you can rustle up something for lunch, would you?”

  • • •

  After Paul left, the first thing I did was find the vacuum cleaner and run it quickly around the living and dining rooms. The carpeting needed a more thorough going-over—everything in the house did—but it would do for now.

  Next, I rummaged in the linen closet, looking for a blanket that the baby could sit on while he played. Though I found no blankets, there was a blue and green shawl on the middle shelf, made of soft wool elaborately crocheted in a wild pattern of swirling, sweeping color. I spread the shawl over the carpeting in front of the fireplace, then placed the baby on it. PJ was just mastering sitting up, and he settled solidly on his bottom, happily surrounded by the playthings I found for him in the kitchen—a couple of metal measuring cups, a plastic mixing spoon, and a small plastic bowl. “Knock yourself out,” I told him and made my way back to the kitchen. I had to admit the layout of the house was clever; I could glance across the kitchen counter and check on PJ as he played in the sunlight coming through the big windows.

  Yes, it was pleasant in the daytime. True, the windows looked as if they hadn’t had a good cleaning for several seasons, and the kitchen countertop was grimy; I set about scrubbing it with Ajax as soon as I finished my coffee. But I didn’t get the sensation, as I’d experienced the evening before, that someone could be looking in. In daylight, the glass-walled house—while nothing like my cottage at home—wasn’t as disturbing as it was at night.

  Though the day was chilly, I opened the sliding door to the backyard, leaving the screen door in place. Fresh air would do the house wonders—get rid of that smoky stink that seemed to permeate every surface.

  I longed to call one of my sisters, or Joyce or Alice, and talk about everything that had transpired. I wanted to tell them about the flight, the busy airport, how easy it was to get lost in New York. Most of all, I wanted to describe Silja’s house. I wanted to chew over why anyone would live in such a fancy place yet fail to take care of it. But I was hesitant to make a long-distance call. I should have asked Paul before he left if it would be all right. I thought he would have said yes, but I wasn’t sure. And I had no place charging up Silja’s telephone bill without getting the green light from Paul first.

  I was sniffing an opened jar of mayonnaise, trying to determine whether it might be spoiled, when I heard the doorbell ring. I ran to the door and peered through the side window.

  It was the reporter from the night before. Jean Kellerman. I opened the door.

  “Hello.” She held out her hand. “We didn’t get to meet last night. I’m Jean Kellerman, Stonekill Gazette.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I remember. I’m Angie Glass.” I took the woman’s hand in my own. Mrs. Kellerman’s hand was paper dry. She smelled of lavender.

  “You’re Paul’s wife?” the reporter asked.

  I nodded. Mrs. Kellerman seemed to be waiting for an invitation to come in. I hesitated a moment, then ushered Mrs. Kellerman inside.

  • • •

  “What a lovely place.” The reporter took in the beamed ceiling, the stone fireplace, the modern furniture. She cooed at PJ, still playing on the floor.

  “Yes, it’s very . . . ” I didn’t know what to say. “Please have a seat, Mrs. Kellerman.”

  “Thank you. You can call me Jean. Is it all right if I call you Angie?”

  I nodded as we both seated ourselves. I picked up the baby from the floor and snuggled him close. Jean reached in her handbag for a pad of paper and one of those newfangled ballpoint pens. She regarded it fondly as she uncapped it, then glanced at me.

  “ ‘Writes first time, every time,’ ” I said, parroting the slogan from magazine ads.

  “Indeed,” Jean said. “And so much more convenient than carrying a fountain pen. I can’t tell you how many pocketbook linings I’ve ruined with ink spills.”

  “How many what?”

  “Pocketbook linings.”

  I shook my head. “What’s a pocketbook?”

  Jean held up her purse. “This.”

  I smiled. “Oh, of course,” I said. “At home, we’d call that a purse or handbag.”

  Jean nodded and looked down, putting pen to paper, then back at me. “Let me get to the point, Angie. I broke the story a few days ago about Henry’s death and Silja’s disappearance. I know the coroner is likely to rule Henry’s death a suicide. I have sources in the police department, and numerous facts for a follow-up story.”

  I was impressed but tried to hide it. I kept my eyes downcast.

  “What I was looking for from your husband, and what I’d love from you, would be the ‘heart’ of the story. A father is deceased. A mother has abandoned her young daughter. That unfortunate daughter must carry on—and luckily, she has a loving family to comfort her.”

  Jean sighed as she observed the baby in my lap. “I can see what a motherly person you are, Angie. I’m sure Ruby needs that right now. At a tragic time like this, a girl needs mothering. It’s such a blessing you’re here to step into that role.”

  Despite myself, I smiled gratefully at Jean. This woman understood my place exactly.

  Jean leaned forward. “Tell me,” she said. “Where do you think Silja went? Why would she run off at a time like this?” Her voice lowered. “Do you think Silja is responsible for Henry’s death?”

  “Well, clearly he was heartbroken that she’d left,” I replied. “That’s why he took his own life.”

  Jean’s expressi
on was dubious. “Do you think there’s a chance that someone else—perhaps Silja—set it up to look like Henry committed suicide?”

  I leaned back, shocked at Jean’s revolting guesswork. “No! I can’t imagine that.” I shook my head. “I didn’t know Silja well. I only met her once. But no mother . . . ”

  I trailed off. Jean waited, and then asked softly, “What were you going to say, Angie?”

  I trembled. I hugged PJ close.

  “Just that no mother . . . that I can’t imagine a woman . . . a mother . . . ” I blinked. “Could intentionally do something like that. Not to the father of her child.” I shook my head, then whispered, “I just can’t imagine such a thing.”

  • • •

  It was only after Jean left—after she gave me a business card and urged me to telephone if I thought of anything else, after she’d gotten in her Chevrolet and drove away on hilly, winding Stone Ridge Road—that I recalled something from the encounter with Jean the night before: the reporter had asked Paul if he remembered her, and he’d said he didn’t.

  I was sure Jean didn’t believe him. I wished I’d thought of it while Jean was at the house in the morning. I could have asked about it. I could have used it as a bargaining chip before agreeing to speak with her.

  Tell me how you know my husband, Jean. Then—and only then—will I answer your questions!

  Too bad I only remembered when it was too late.

  14

  * * *

  Ruby

  Uncle Paul doesn’t think they should have a service for Ruby’s father this soon. On the drive to the funeral home, he tries to talk her out of it. “It’s not necessary,” he says. “We can wait a bit, see if your mother turns up. There’s no rush.”

  “There is a rush,” Ruby tells him.

  Uncle Paul doesn’t press the point. Instead, he asks, “And who exactly do you think will come to this proposed service? Only the morbidly curious and the entirely unsuitable. You know that, Ruby.”

  “Of course I know that.”

  But here’s the thing (she doesn’t tell Uncle Paul this): one time, not long ago, her father told her exactly what his wishes would be when he died.

  “No funeral,” her father had said. “No fanfare, no grave, no burial. Just have them cremate me and toss the ashes somewhere, anywhere. The garbage heap, for all I care.”

  Ruby isn’t sure if her father ever told anyone else—her mother, Uncle Paul—these wishes. She hopes he didn’t.

  Because it doesn’t seem right to her, what he said he wanted. Ruby thinks when a person dies, his death should be acknowledged.

  When she met Shepherd in the woods on Tuesday, she told him she wanted to have a funeral for her father. “A public recognition that he’s—well, gone.”

  Shepherd had shrugged. “That’s up to you,” he said quietly. “If you want to recognize his death, I think you should do so, Ruby.”

  Shepherd agreeing with her—or, at least, not disagreeing—sealed it for Ruby. So now, in the car, she tells Uncle Paul they should have a service for her father right away, and then get him in the ground. “There’s a nice Catholic cemetery not far from Stonekill,” she said. “I know he wasn’t practicing anymore, but in the end, he’d surely want to be there.”

  Uncle Paul comes to a stop at a red light. He shifts his shoulders toward Ruby.

  “Sweetheart,” he says. “I need to ask you something.”

  She waits, her mouth shut.

  Uncle Paul frowns and then he says, “Ruby, do you know where your mother is?”

  She stares at him.

  The light turns green.

  15

  * * *

  Angie

  I heard the car pull into the driveway at eleven forty-five. Two car doors slammed. I hurried to the front steps to greet my husband and niece.

  The girl who emerged from the passenger side of the Ford seemed less gangly than I remembered from my wedding the year before. Ruby was still lean, but she had grown into her height, with shapely legs and supple arms. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face with a navy-blue headband. Draped across her body was a large cloth purse, patchwork-patterned like a quilt. Ruby’s eyes were downcast, but as she approached the steps, she looked up, and I saw the blazing dark brown that was the same as Henry’s and Paul’s eyes. And PJ’s.

  “Ruby.” I held out my arms, and the girl allowed herself, stiffly, to be enfolded in my embrace. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  Ruby nodded and stepped back, brushing past me and going inside the house. Disappointed, I watched the girl’s back as she retreated down the hallway toward her bedroom.

  Paul came up the steps. “How did it go?” I asked him.

  “It went all right,” he replied. “Everything is arranged. We just need to provide a suit for . . . for Henry to wear.” He shrugged. “There were all these things that had to be decided. Casket, flowers . . .” He rubbed his eyes. “I had no idea.”

  “Didn’t you have to decide that sort of thing when your parents passed?” I knew both of Paul’s parents had died—his father when Paul was a youth, and his mother just a few years ago.

  Paul’s expression became dark. “Those were entirely different situations,” he said stiffly. “Nothing like this.” He swept past me into the house.

  I chided myself inwardly for my impulsiveness. “I’m sorry,” I said, following him inside. “I didn’t know.”

  Paul’s look softened. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you.” He took off his jacket and we crossed the big room toward the kitchen. “Having to make these choices when I’m at my worst . . . it got to me. It affected Ruby, too. But the funeral director—his name’s Wagner—he was helpful. Got us through it.”

  I nodded. “Did you meet the teacher when you picked up Ruby?”

  “No. She was at school.” Paul sat down on a barstool and put his head in his hands.

  I touched his shoulder. “Paul,” I said softly. “I’m so very sorry. About . . . everything.”

  He looked up. “How could this happen?” he asked. “How could he have taken his own life?”

  I had no answer for that. I thought about what Jean Kellerman said—how she speculated that Silja might be involved in Henry’s death.

  I didn’t believe that for a minute. And even if I did, I’d never mention such a thing to Paul.

  Paul shook his head. “I don’t understand this at all.” He stood. “All I know is there’s a young lady who’s left to pick up the pieces. She’s so heartbroken, Angie, she—”

  He broke off. I waited. I followed Paul’s gaze as he glanced across the room toward the hearth. After PJ’s morning nap, I had deposited him back in his new favorite location on the blue and green shawl, and he was happily chewing on the plastic bowl.

  “This is hard, Angel. Really hard.” He paused a moment before adding, “Ruby’s a swell kid. Always has been. Smart as a whip, just like Henry. And resilient. She’s had to put up with a lot.” His look became bitter. “Especially from Silja.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Paul shrugged. “Silja has never been easy to get along with, that’s all.” He shook his head, his eyes still on PJ. “Not like you, Angel. You’re a great mom. You’re warm and loving, and that’s what children need.”

  I smiled gratefully. It was similar to what Jean Kellerman had said, but it meant more coming from Paul. “Do you think Ruby will eat some lunch?”

  “I’ll go ask her.”

  • • •

  We sat at the countertop, on the backless stools. I fashioned a high chair for PJ using one of the dining room chairs, a phone book, and a dish towel tied around the baby’s waist. I leaned over to feed him small bits of bread from my sandwich, which he gummed happily.

  Paul sat at the far end of the counter, his stool facing toward the forest. He contemplatively chewed his meal as he studied the woods through the sprawling back windows of the house.

  Ruby nibbled her tuna fish sandwich and said nothing. I not
iced that she kept glancing at PJ, then hastily turning her gaze away, as if she didn’t want me to catch her looking at my child.

  “After lunch, you can give the baby his bottle if you want,” I offered to the girl. But Ruby shook her head.

  I stood and went to the stove, turning on the burner to warm a bottle. “I’m going to need a trip to the market,” I announced, reaching for the can of powdered formula I’d brought from home. “For milk and eggs and bread. Fresh fruit would be a good idea, too.”

  Paul turned toward me and nodded. “I’ll take you this afternoon.”

  • • •

  After we finished eating, Ruby retreated wordlessly to her room. I glanced at Paul, who shrugged. “What do you expect?” he asked.

  Paul cleared the countertop of dishes while I filled the sink with soapy water. There was a dishwasher, but I didn’t know how to use it, so I just washed up the regular way. As I was rinsing the plates, Paul told me the funeral would take place the next morning.

  “No wake?” I asked. Every funeral I’d ever been to at St. Mary’s had been preceded by a wake the night before.

  Paul glanced away. “Given the . . . circumstances . . . we decided not to have one. It would only attract a lot of lookie-loos, rather than genuine mourners.” He picked up a dish towel and began drying the plates I stacked beside the sink.

  I nodded. I’d never before known anyone who committed suicide. But it made sense that—even if the person was Catholic like Henry—the survivors of a suicide wouldn’t go through typical Catholic bereavement rituals.

  Personally, I believed Henry was in hell, making eternal payment for what he’d done. I felt terrible about it—especially since Henry must have killed himself because of heartbreak caused by Silja’s abandonment. It didn’t seem fair, really, but that’s how things were. Suicide meant the soul went to hell. It said so in the Bible, it was said in the Church. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to Henry. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been forewarned.