The Glass Forest

by Cynthia Swanson

  “Ruby will need to pack,” Paul said. “She should be able to bring two bags.”

  I thought about Silja’s album, nestled safely in the baby’s bag. There would be no need for anyone besides me to open that bag between now and when we were home. Once we got to North Bay, I would return the album to Ruby, to keep in the attic room we’d fix up for her.

  “Can you help Ruby with packing?” Paul asked. “Maybe give her a little direction.” He shivered involuntarily. Last winter, I remembered, he had continually been cold; he was so lean, and he wasn’t used to the harsh northern Wisconsin winters. “She’ll need to bring her warmest things.”

  I headed down the hall. The baby was napping, the guest room door closed. I knocked on Ruby’s door. “Ruby? Can I come in?”

  There was a pause, and then a muffled yes. I opened the door and stepped inside.

  Other than for a quick glance the first night we spent in the house, I had not been inside Ruby’s room. The walls were painted a muted grayish-blue, like the sky on a partly cloudy day. My eyes were drawn to the big casement window on the far side of the room, which looked out on the forest. A maple tree not far from the house allowed dappled sunlight to filter in.

  I glanced at the bookshelf next to the window. It was filled with required reading—books that I’d also read a few years ago, in my high school days: The Scarlet Letter, Pride and Prejudice, Great Expectations. I smiled, thinking of Miss Wells assigning these titles.

  But in addition to classics there were more recent volumes that I guessed were not only discretionary for students but probably discouraged or even banned—if not by the seemingly open-minded Miss Wells then certainly by the school board. At least, that’s how it had been when I was in school and someone was caught with something like Lolita, Fahrenheit 451, or The Grapes of Wrath—all books Ruby had on her shelves.

  Ruby was lying on the bed holding a book titled To Kill a Mockingbird, with her thumb stuck in the pages to keep her place. She stared blankly at me.

  I explained about the airline flight, the suitcases, the requisite warm clothes. “You can bring some of those books, too, if you like.” I nodded toward the bookcase. “I know it can be helpful to have a few favorite books around.” I smiled, hoping to appear generous and motherly. “My parents have an extensive library,” I told Ruby. “We always had a lot of books in the house when I was growing up. In the cottage where Uncle Paul, PJ, and I live, we don’t have room for many books. But you’ll be able to borrow anything you like from my parents.”

  Ruby opened her book and cast her eyes back at its pages. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll start packing as soon as I finish this chapter.”

  “If you need any help,” I said. “Maybe deciding what to bring . . . ”

  I faltered as Ruby looked up, her dark eyes leveled on mine.

  “I’ve got it, Aunt Angie.” Ruby turned her attention back to the book, her large rounded nose close to the pages.

  I opened my mouth to speak, then thought better of it. I nodded and withdrew, quietly shutting the door behind me.

  I hesitated a moment, then put my ear against the door’s surface. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I could hear Ruby snapping her book shut, rising from the bed, and beginning to bustle around the room.

  35

  * * *

  Silja

  1949–1950

  Silja woke the morning after the riot feeling grateful to be safe at home. Without David’s rescue, who knows what would have happened to her and Ruby?

  The morning papers were full of articles about the riot. People had been bloodied and injured; one man was even stabbed, though it was unclear on which sides perpetrator and victim stood. A cross had been spotted burning on a nearby hillside, but no one knew who was responsible for that act.

  Reading the reports—and later, when Silja admitted to him that his truck had been vandalized and would need to be towed—Henry was shocked. His outrage was not directed at the rioters, not even at the concert organizers, but at Silja.

  “How could you bring our daughter to such an event?” he asked incredulously. “Burning crosses. Vandalized vehicles. No child should be exposed to such things!”

  Silja attempted to keep her calm, but she was astounded at his misplaced blame. “You were the one who said it was fine with you if we went,” she shot back. “Or have you forgotten that part?”

  He didn’t reply. Instead, he strode across the kitchen, pulling the telephone book from a drawer. “I hope I can find a tow truck driver willing to work on Sunday,” he muttered. Snapping the pages as he hunted the listings, he glanced at her. “That’s the last time you drive my truck anywhere.”

  “Fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can buy my own car, Henry. I don’t need your crummy truck anyway.”

  Shaking, she left the room. How could he be so nice one day—accommodating of her desire to go to the concert, even packing a picnic for her and Ruby—and the next, so harsh?

  Since they’d moved to Stonekill, since Henry had the house to occupy his time, he only occasionally lost his temper with her. But she had to admit it was happening more often lately. Just last week he’d done it, she remembered now. It was the same sort of thing; they’d had a nice dinner, and not ten minutes after it was over, he was growling at her when he discovered she’d left the back gate open and raccoons had raided the garbage bin.

  But things could be worse, Silja reminded herself. At least he didn’t rant and curse at her daily, like some of the neighborhood men did to their wives.

  • • •

  That afternoon, the truck was towed to a mechanic’s shop in downtown Stonekill. Henry rode along with the driver to pick up the truck, and when he returned, his demeanor was subdued.

  He let out a low whistle. “That was quite a sight down there at the picnic grounds,” he said. “At least two dozen vehicles in worse shape than my truck.” He reached for the teakettle and set it on the stove. “Robeson’s people must have been beyond hostile—why else would those outside the grounds become so ignited? Looks like a peaceful protest that got out of hand.” He turned the stove’s knob, then frowned at Silja. “Those Commies are always riling people up unnecessarily. Why did they need to come to Peekskill? Why couldn’t they hold their concert in the city?”

  Silja put her hands on her hips. “Because the cost to use such a space in New York would be astronomical.” She raised one hand to fan herself. “Not to mention the weather, of course. Who wants to go to a concert in the city when it’s this hot and humid?” She shook her head at him. “The People’s Artists picked the perfect location. It was the mob outside the picnic grounds that was out of control—not the organizers or the concertgoers.”

  Henry gave her a long, skeptical look. “Those American Legion folks, they’re reasonable men. They wouldn’t have started something without provocation.”

  “Trust me,” Silja said. “They did exactly that.”

  “Well, you’ll never convince me,” Henry said.

  The kettle whistled and he shut off the burner. He poured boiling water into his cup, then turned back to Silja. “Either way, from the look of things you were damned lucky to get out of there with your necks,” he observed. “How did you manage that, anyway? You never said.”

  A lie came easily to her. At the concert, she told Henry, she’d run into the beau of an old classmate from Hunter. “He gave us a ride home,” she said. “Such a nice man.” She turned to her daughter, who was seated at the kitchen table, eating a snack of grapes and a cookie. “Isn’t that right, Ruby? A nice man Mother knew gave us a ride home.”

  Ruby nodded solemnly. Silja wasn’t sure if it hadn’t registered with the child that David was a stranger, or if she was well aware that he was, but was safeguarding Silja’s lie.

  A second concert was scheduled for the following weekend. Henry strictly forbade Silja from going, even without Ruby.

  He needn’t have worried. She had no intention of getting involved in that fo
olishness. In retrospect, she realized the reason for organizing the first concert hadn’t been the music; calling it a concert merely provided a vehicle for the Robeson crowd to raise funds in a large country setting. She was disappointed but thankful she and Ruby had come to no harm.

  Silja was no revolutionary; such activities didn’t interest her. The day of the next scheduled concert, she went to the movies instead.

  • • •

  That fall they bought a car for Silja, a brand-new Buick sedan. It was large and clunky, with a nondescript gray body. She’d hoped for something sportier, but Henry insisted on the Buick. “It’s dependable and well built,” he said. “It’s the kind of car I want you driving. If you and Ruby are going to be out on the roads, I want you both safe.”

  Silja sighed and gave in. She didn’t expect to drive the car much, so it didn’t really matter what it looked like. The Buick sat in the driveway all week long; she still walked to and from the train depot daily. But at least she no longer had to borrow Henry’s ugly old truck on Saturdays and Sundays just to run errands or go to the movies.

  • • •

  In the spring of 1950, Henry’s brother, Paul, sent word that he was coming for a visit. It was the first time he’d ever done so.

  “How is it possible he’s never visited us before?” Silja asked as they waited at the Stonekill depot for Paul’s afternoon train from Manhattan. “I thought the two of you were so close.”

  Henry shrugged, the cool breeze off the river pulling at his hat. “Paul marches to the beat of his own drummer. You can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do.” He pushed the hat back on and looked south down the tracks, his eyes on the arriving train. “And generally he only wants to do what suits his own needs.”

  As Paul stepped onto the platform, Silja was taken aback. “Are you sure you’re not twins?” she asked after Henry introduced them. “Or am I seeing double? It is April Fool’s Day. Are you two playing a trick on me?” She looked questioningly into Paul’s dark eyes. The medal on a heavy chain around his neck—showing the image of a man carrying a child across a shallow body of water—caught the thin, late-day sunlight. Silja stepped away from its glare.

  Paul’s hearty laugh warmed the gusty afternoon. His smile reminded her of how Henry used to look when he laughed. It made her wistful, thinking about how seldom Henry laughed anymore.

  Clasping Silja’s hand, Paul assured her there was no trick. “Henry and I are our own men,” he told her.

  Nonetheless, Silja couldn’t help marveling at the family resemblance. Even walking back from the station, the brothers sauntered next to each other with an identical stride. Ruby trotted back and forth between them and Silja, who walked briskly ahead. She kept turning around to see if they’d caught up, but each time she did, it seemed like they’d fallen farther behind.

  • • •

  Henry’s latest project was laying wall-to-wall carpeting over the wooden floors throughout the house, which had been scratched and worn since they’d moved in. Silja knew she complained excessively about the floors, but she couldn’t stand how shabby they looked. “Let’s just cover them up,” she’d suggested time and again. “Let’s just pick out some nice carpeting and be done with it.”

  Finally, Henry agreed—but only on his terms. Other people would simply go to a carpeting shop, select what they wanted, and arrange for delivery and installation. But not Henry. He bought remnants from a distributor; he said if each room had carpeting that fit baseboard to baseboard, and as long as the pieces complemented each other where they met in hallways and doorways, it would look fine. He would install the carpeting himself, with Paul’s help.

  Early the Monday after Paul’s arrival, he and Henry climbed into the pickup truck, ready for a trip across the river to fetch the carpeting. Ruby, on vacation from school for Easter week, tagged along.

  Silja watched as Henry turned the engine and the old truck roared to life. He reversed out of the driveway and drove into the dewy daylight—Ruby seated between the brothers on the bench in the truck’s cab, Paul’s arm thrown casually but possessively around her thin shoulder.

  Silja saw Paul and Henry turn toward each other and laugh, and her first thought was that they were probably laughing at her.

  In truth, however, she doubted it. Paul’s gesture when they met had been warm, after all. And it was rare for Henry to be deliberately cruel to her. More often, he simply ignored her.

  She turned away, biting her lip, and began her brisk ten-minute walk to the station.

  • • •

  Lately, Silja had begun to think about starting over.

  She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before, but in truth she could leave if she wanted to. She could walk away from Henry and this gloomy little town. She could take Ruby and go west. Los Angeles. Silja imagined being warm all the time. Movie stars strolling down the street. Everyone driving a brand-new car. She’d enjoy living in a place where everyone had a brand-new car. She would get one herself, a convertible. On the weekends, she and Ruby would drive to the beach and swim in the Pacific Ocean. They’d get the dog they still talked about, but Henry didn’t want. Nothing oversize or slobbery—just a small dog, a pug or a Yorkshire terrier.

  Silja could take her daughter and leave. She truly could! She knew she had no grounds to divorce Henry. The only permissible reason she could use to get a divorce in New York State was adultery. And, of course, Henry being Henry, that was out of the question.

  So if she did it—if she left—she would have to simply run. She’d have to leave without warning, taking Ruby, and running off in secret, hoping Henry wouldn’t attempt to find them.

  And would he? Silja wasn’t sure. He always said marriage was forever, come hell or high water. And certainly he adored Ruby beyond all measure.

  But sometimes she wondered if he had more affection for the house than he had for either of them. If he might just let them go and stay in Stonekill by himself. Alone in that awful old house—his mistress, that’s how she’d come to think of the place.

  So why not do it then? Why not run?

  Well, she thought—maybe she would. Maybe one of these days that’s exactly what she’d do.

  36

  * * *

  Ruby

  Ruby is waiting for them to go to bed. She opens her door and slips down the hall, watching Uncle Paul and Aunt Angie from the shadows. He’s pacing the living room rapidly, nervous as a feral cat. Aunt Angie is sitting on the sofa watching television—Bonanza, it sounds like, or some other silly thing that has nothing to do with real life.

  Ruby touches her toe to the carpeting, tracing the chevron pattern. She’s never liked this carpeting, which is everywhere in this house. She despises its orderliness. There have been studies proving an overabundance of zigzags makes people feel unhinged. Ruby is certain this is true.

  In their old house the carpeting was an array of patterns and colors—wild as a jungle, colorful as a collection of worldwide flags. The carpeting in Ruby’s bedroom was blue-green; in the hallway it was burnt orange. Uncle Paul said those colors contrasted on the color wheel, and that’s why they looked so good next to each other. The week Ruby’s father laid the carpet remnants, Uncle Paul was visiting. It was his first time coming to Stonekill, and he helped her father with the carpeting.

  Uncle Paul was the only person who could get her father to talk about certain things. Like the war. That week when Uncle Paul visited was one of the few times Ruby heard her father talk about it. He didn’t go out for beers with the men around town, like the fathers of her classmates. They all went down to Murphy’s Tavern in the evening, stumbling home late, because those who lived in that rickety neighborhood at least had the advantage of being able to walk to and from a bar. Ruby’s father, who did appreciate a cold beer now and again but was hardly a drunk, scoffed at this. “Fools,” he said when he saw them. “Can’t control themselves.”

  Ruby’s father was in control. He never let his
emotions get the best of him.

  Well, almost never.

  She remembers their drive across the river to fetch the carpeting. They took Route 202 to the Bear Mountain Bridge and crossed there, then turned south toward Haverstraw.

  With the long drive, there was plenty of time to talk. The men talked and Ruby listened, because that’s what she’s always been good at, listening. Uncle Paul told them about being an airman in the Pacific. He talked about his pilot training in Utah and Idaho—about how he thought he “knew the West like a well-worn suit”—but then he flew above it and learned a runoff-swollen river as seen from the sky covers thrice the land he thought it did when he stood on its banks.

  There was a lot of waiting, he said. “People think of war like it is in the movies—action, action, action, all day long. But we sat around a lot of days, waiting for orders.” Ruby’s father nodded in agreement, and Uncle Paul continued. “Heck, some of the guys never saw action at all. One time up in Idaho, a training plane went down. Crashed right into the Kootenai River. Poor fellas died before leaving the US of A.”

  He contrasted the northwestern United States with the smoke-ruined islands of the South Pacific. “Surely, they must have once resembled a string of emeralds,” he said. “But by the time I got there, most of them were nothing more than rubbled acres of burned-black trees and the carcasses of pigs and dogs. Not a bird to be seen in the sky or on the shores. They all died, or else flew off in search of safe haven. I’m not sure which.”

  Unlike when the men in town told their war stories, Ruby’s father didn’t criticize Uncle Paul for remembering the war. “He doesn’t rehash the same old things, just over a different beer, night after night,” her father explained to her once. “He describes a different scene every time.” Her father’s eyes warmed as they only did when he spoke about his brother. “Paul,” her father said, “is a different fellow entirely from those men in town.”