The Glass Forest

by Cynthia Swanson

  I didn’t know what to think, or how to respond. PJ let out a loud laugh and tugged at my hair.

  “And now here you are,” the principal went on. “Here you are, seated in my office, on your lap this child who is the spitting image of his father—my ex-lover.” I cringed at the words, but Mrs. Hawke didn’t seem to notice. “And you are accusing me of—what, exactly?”

  “I’m not accusing you at all!” I cried. “I’m just trying to get some answers.”

  “Does Paul know you’re here?”

  I shook my head, my curls bouncing around my cheeks.

  “Well, Mrs. Glass,” she said, and I could again hear that mocking tone in her voice. “Here’s what I can tell you. Silja didn’t have an easy situation, not by a long shot. And Henry was a madman.”

  “A madman?” It seemed a harsh description, even from this severe, brutish woman.

  Mrs. Hawke laughed scornfully. “Family heritage, right?”

  I shook my head again. “I’m sorry; I’m not following you.”

  The older woman stared at me for an unbearably protracted moment. Finally, she said, “Tell me, Mrs. Glass—how long have you known Paul?”

  I shifted uncomfortably and tightened my grip around PJ’s waist. “About fifteen months,” I said. “We met last summer when we were working at the same resort.”

  “Ah. I see.” Mrs. Hawke nodded. “And how much has he told you about his origins?”

  “His . . . origins?”

  “Yes, where he comes from.”

  “He comes from California,” I said with authority. “He and Henry were raised in wine country.”

  Mrs. Hawke nodded again. “So they were. And you know about their parents, don’t you?”

  “Just that they’ve both passed,” I replied. “What else is there to know?”

  The principal’s look was incredulous. “You don’t know,” she said softly. She shook her head. “You poor child.”

  “Mrs. Hawke.” I pressed my lips together. “With all due respect, ma’am, I’m not a child.”

  Mrs. Hawke’s lips curled into a slow smile. “No, of course you’re not.” She leaned forward and shuffled some papers on her desk. “And as an adult—as the man’s wife—you deserve to know about Paul’s family. He hasn’t told you, so I shall.”

  She settled back into her seat. “Paul isn’t generally a heavy drinker; I’m sure you know that.” I nodded, and she went on. “But one night, he had a few too many—he did that every now and again, at least back in those days. And that night, he told me everything about his family.” Her expression was amused. “Everything he hasn’t told you, it seems.”

  I opened my mouth and then immediately closed it again—afraid to say anything, for fear she’d change her mind and refuse to continue.

  But continue she did. She told me that Paul and Henry had been raised by parents who fought constantly. “Whatever there was to disagree about, they disagreed,” she said. “Their father bellowed; their mother became upset. They made each other miserable, but despite their mutual disdain, they were churchgoing Catholics, so divorce was not an option. Paul said his mother could be sweet and affectionate when his father wasn’t around, but when he was . . .” Mrs. Hawke shook her head. “Every day of his childhood, Paul’s parents found something to differ on, from the starch in the sheets to the flavor of jam on their breakfast toast to the unpaid gas meter bill.”

  And they didn’t just use words, Mrs. Hawke said. It was also physical. “The fistfights went both ways, according to Paul,” Mrs. Hawke said. “The mother was a good-size woman—tall, sturdy. Had a mean left hook.” She shook her head. “But in the end, she didn’t use her fist when she attempted to kill the man.”

  “Attempted to . . . what?”

  “This is what Paul told me,” Mrs. Hawke said. “He told me his mother got ahold of a Japanese pistol called a Nambu that she bought from some fellow working the vineyards. Took the Nambu to the local tavern one night, knowing she’d find her husband and sons there. Fortunately, she hadn’t practiced much, and wasn’t much of a shot. She grazed the old man’s ear, but otherwise, no one was hurt. The place wasn’t too crowded that night, or she might have killed someone else by mistake.” She raised, then lowered her eyebrows. “Alas, the story doesn’t end there. The senior Mr. Glass couldn’t withstand the shock of this incident. He had a heart attack and keeled over on the barroom floor. Right in front of his wife, his sons, and a room full of others.”

  “How awful.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

  Mrs. Hawke nodded. “Police came and hauled her away. She was tried for attempted murder, but her lawyer got her off on an insanity plea. They locked her up in the loony bin.” She grimaced at me. “Broke Paul’s heart; he adored his mother. Said if their father had been kinder to their mother, she never would have taken such a drastic step.”

  “But it sounds like she wasn’t all that kind to him, either,” I observed.

  “I guess for Paul, it was neither here nor there,” Mrs. Hawke replied. “He left because he couldn’t stand to see his mother locked up. I don’t know why Henry left. I suppose he’d simply had enough of the situation. I’m not sure either of them ever went back.”

  “Paul did—when his mother died,” I said. “He told me he traveled to California. I don’t know if Henry went or not. That was before Paul and I met. He didn’t say anything else about it—just that she’d passed.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Hawke said. “Now you have the whole story.”

  “I had no idea.” I held PJ tightly and looked down at my lap. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Mrs. Hawke picked up a pencil and tapped it on her desk. “Look, Mrs. Glass. I don’t see how I can help you. All I can say is, the more you know the better you can prepare. Right?”

  I looked up, eyeing the principal cautiously. “Prepare for . . . what, exactly?”

  “Mrs. Glass.” The principal stood. “I’ve taken enough of your time,” she said. “You should get back before anyone misses you.”

  I rose. “Well, thank you.”

  Mrs. Hawke nodded. “There’s one more thing, Mrs. Glass,” she said. “The Glass family is chock-full of secrets. Everyone in Stonekill knows that, and it’s one of the reasons few people here care for them.” She crossed her arms, looking down her nose at me. “But you should know that Paul is—always has been—well aware of everything that goes on in that glass fortress out in the woods.”

  • • •

  As I was leaving the school office, the bell began to ring, signifying the end of one class hour and the start of the next. The sound took me back. It was only a few years ago that I was walking the halls of a high school, books instead of a baby pressed to the front of my sweater.

  I was heading toward the school’s entrance when I heard my name. “Mrs. Glass? Is that you?”

  I wheeled around and saw Miss Wells standing at the doorway of a nearby classroom. Briskly but reluctantly—I needed to get back to the motel before Paul did, but I didn’t want to be rude to Miss Wells—I walked over.

  “How nice to see you again.” The teacher stepped aside to let one student out and two in. All three greeted her as they passed; she said good morning to the incoming pair and told the parting student to have a great day. Then she turned back to me. “What brings you to school, Mrs. Glass?”

  “I . . . I came to see Mrs. Hawke . . . about . . . ” A lie came quickly to me. “Mr. Glass wanted to make sure it’s all right if Ruby continues to take some time off from school. He sent me to discuss it with Mrs. Hawke.”

  “That was wise,” Miss Wells said. “I can put together a work packet so Ruby doesn’t fall behind. I’m sure her other teachers would be happy to do the same. I’ll speak with Mrs. Hawke about it.”

  I nodded, knowing that meant I’d be caught in my lie. But there was nothing I could do about it.

  “How is Ruby?” Miss Wells asked.

  The baby wiggled in my arms, and I shifted him to my other side.
“She’s managing.”

  Miss Wells regarded me silently. And then she put her hand on my arm. “Mrs. Glass,” she said. “Ruby needs a mother, you know.”

  “She has a mother,” I said. “I’m sure Silja will come to her senses and return for Ruby.” As soon as I said it, I realized how unlikely it might be.

  The teacher nodded slowly. “I’m praying for that,” she replied. “But Ruby needs someone to care for her right now. Not in the same way this child does . . .” She smiled at PJ. “But Ruby does need a mother’s care.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I realized, quickly and uncomfortably, that although Miss Wells was a Miss, she was likely several years older than me.

  I nodded at the teacher and stepped back. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  60

  * * *

  Silja

  1960

  It would be fine, Silja told herself nervously, one muggy night in July when she returned home from the city late. Getting ready for bed, she’d removed her diaphragm and noticed immediately that it didn’t seem as if she’d inserted it correctly. What a silly, amateur mistake, she told herself, shaking her head.

  But it would be fine. She was thirty-eight years old. It was only once. The likelihood of conception was very, very small.

  And if it happened? Well, she’d cross that bridge if and when she came to it.

  • • •

  “We have to find a way out of this,” Silja told David toward the end of August. “I can’t live like this anymore. Especially now that I’ve seen how happy you make Ruby. And now that . . .” She trailed off, a small smile playing around her lips. Then she sighed. “It breaks my heart, knowing that we can’t simply be together. It kills me that Henry stands in the way of . . . everything.”

  She was driving her MGA toward the Bear Mountain Bridge. Ruby had declined to join them; she was engrossed in a novel by a new author, someone named Harper Lee. Though she’d already read it cover to cover, Ruby said she wanted to stay home and read it again.

  It was risky being so close to Stonekill—and to Henry—but the road was one of Silja’s favorites to drive when she didn’t have a destination in mind. She loved the curves, the way Route 202 rose higher and higher from the riverbed until it crossed the river on the suspension bridge 150 feet above the water.

  But today, she had to admit the sharp turns in the road were getting to her. Nausea came over her in a sudden wave, like an unexpected last hill on a roller-coaster ride you thought was almost over. She slowed down and took in a gulp of fresh air. The queasiness diminished.

  David, in the passenger seat, watched her carefully. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

  She nodded. “It’s passing,” she assured him.

  “Should I drive?”

  Silja shook her head. “No, it’s better driving than being a passenger.” She smiled valiantly at him. “This way I know when the curves are coming up.”

  They reached the turnoff for the bridge and followed a sporadic line of other Sunday drivers across. The day was clear and warm, but a breeze off the river put a chill in the air. She looked down and saw the Alexander Hamilton, the large, side-wheeled sightseeing steamship that came up from the city every Saturday and Sunday, heading north just past the bridge. Tourists were waving upward from the open-air deck. Silja and David waved back, though they knew they were too high up to be seen from the ship.

  David put his hand through his graying hair, ruffled by the wind whipping through the opened top of the convertible. “Pull over when you get across,” he said. “I have something for you.”

  She obeyed, passing through the roundabout on the west side of the bridge and stopping on the shoulder near the entrance to Bear Mountain State Park. David reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a light blue, sateen jewelry box.

  Eyebrows raised, her eyes met his as he handed it over. “Open it,” he urged.

  Inside was a teardrop-shaped sapphire on a silver chain. Silja held it up in the afternoon sunlight. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “I love the color.”

  David nodded. “I knew you would.”

  She turned toward him. “But why . . . ” He’d never bought her an expensive present before. He paid for their dates and hotel rooms, and he frequently gave her flowers—often ones he’d grown himself in his laboratory’s greenhouse. But he’d never given her anything like this.

  He took the necklace from its box and unclasped it, placing it around her neck. “I thought . . . what we have together, and what we have to look forward to . . . well.” He shrugged. “It’s worth celebrating.”

  Silja glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, admiring the dazzling stone. Then she reached across the seat and entwined her arms around his neck. “I love you so much,” she said hoarsely. “I want to be with you always, David.”

  “Silja. My love.” He gently removed her eyeglasses before kissing her neck, her cheeks, her mouth.

  She sighed, eyes closed, wanting to stay right where she was. Stay there for all time.

  If only she could figure out a way.

  61

  * * *

  Angie

  The baby jiggling against my thigh, I walked frantically down the steep hill toward town, searching for a pay phone so I could call a taxi. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything I’d learned.

  What else was Paul hiding from me? What other secrets did he have?

  If only I hadn’t been so smitten. If only I hadn’t been so damn trusting.

  I furrowed my brow. It was my mother’s words drilled into me—my sisters’, too, though of course they had also learned at our mother’s knee. Trust your man. Find a man you can trust, and then let him handle all the big problems.

  Raise your babies, and forget about everything else.

  I glanced at PJ. He was so small, so innocent. He had his whole life ahead of him. Who knew what life would bring for him? I was thankful for his maleness. Things would be easier for him because he’s a boy.

  That’s the way it’s always been. Life is easier for boys.

  And yet, I reminded myself, Senator Kennedy has a young wife, not much older than me, with opinions and interests of her own. Recently I’d read in the papers that before she was married, Mrs. Kennedy was a photojournalist—interviewing people on the street and taking their photographs. It seemed so brave—but terrifically fun as well. I was sure that I’d love doing something like that.

  And what about Miss Wells? True, she was only a teacher—anybody could become a teacher, it was the most accessible path for women into the working world.

  But Miss Wells had broken barriers. She could’ve worked in a Negro school district, but she chose to apply for a more well-paying position. I thought about my implication the other night at dinner—how I’d wondered, but hadn’t asked, why Miss Wells would want to work in Stonekill.

  Remembering the moment, I felt my face redden with shame. It was no wonder Miss Wells had felt defensive. She probably spent half her life defending herself for doing what any smart person would try to do: become the most successful person she could be.

  Look at Miss Wells now. She was respected—maybe not by everyone, but by her students and her boss. And they were the people who mattered the most.

  Could I do that? Could I become respected? Could I be a woman who did brave, adventurous things?

  Or was it too late?

  • • •

  The rental car was parked at the motel when my taxi pulled in. “Damn,” I said softly to myself. “Damn, damn, damn.” I tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Please, just let me out around the corner,” I said. “Behind the building.”

  When I came around the motel and unlocked our room door, Paul stood up from the chair he’d been seated in. “Angel,” he said. “Where were you? Why would you go off like that?”

  “I . . . I just needed some fresh air. I couldn’t sit around in a motel room all day. So PJ and I went for a walk.”


  The lies were becoming easier and easier, the more of them I told.

  Paul frowned. “Well, all’s well that ends well, I guess. But please don’t do anything like that again—at least without leaving me a note.” He shook his head. “I was so worried about you,” he said, gathering the baby and me in his arms. “You and PJ.”

  I smiled, slipping from his grasp. He picked up the phone and ordered a room service meal. But before it arrived, he took his car keys off the dresser. “I haven’t found Ruby yet. I’m really starting to worry,” he said, jangling the keys. “I need to go out and keep looking. You sit tight, okay? Turn on the television or something. I promise to be back as soon as I can.”

  I didn’t answer. I watched the door close behind him, then peered through the curtains as he got into the rental car, parked just outside our room, and drove away.

  I wanted to call someone—Carol Ann or Joyce or Alice—and tell them everything. But I had no idea if I could do that from a motel room. How would that get charged? Would the county pay for that, too? And besides, it was all so far-fetched by now, I didn’t even know how I’d explain it to someone back home. I wouldn’t know where to start.

  Should I call Jean Kellerman? I took Jean’s card from my purse and looked at the handwritten telephone number on the back.

  No, that was silly. Sympathetic as Jean had seemed at the newspaper office, at the end of the day she was a reporter hungry for a story. She wasn’t a friend.

  I answered the door when room service arrived. I ate one of the three sandwiches, leaving the other two for Paul and Ruby. After settling the baby into the crib that had been brought in for him, I sang softly to him, rubbing his back until he went to sleep. Sitting in the chair next to his crib, I dozed off.

  The sharpness of car headlights outside the room’s window woke me. I straightened my back and turned to see Paul and Ruby entering the room. I held a finger to my lips and pointed to the baby. Paul closed the door softly behind them.