One night when the baby was sound asleep in his crib, I took out the packet of Henry’s letters to Paul. With the shawl that had belonged to Silja’s mother wrapped around my shoulders, I sat by lamplight in my tiny living room, reading each letter word for word.
They didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. All they did was make me sorely regret not reading them sooner. If I had, maybe Silja would still be alive.
The next morning I took those letters, plus the items Ruby had given me, and sealed everything in a wooden box I bought at the hardware store in town. I wound twine around the box and double-knotted it.
Once I had it all boxed up, I hauled every bit of Paul’s presence to the attic. I stacked it in a corner and didn’t look at it again.
After that, I wasn’t sure what to do. Before I could make any real decisions, I needed to know what my immediate future held. There was no answer for that except to wait until a few weeks had passed.
My family monitored me carefully and anxiously. I told them the barest of facts about what had happened in New York—just enough so that they wouldn’t push me to alert the authorities. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “If the only way to get Paul to return to me is by force, then I don’t want him back anyway.”
I received a telephone call from New York a few days after I got home—regrettably from Officer Hill, rather than Brennan. He wanted to know any details I could provide. “They’re gone, is all I know,” I told him. “They have passports and cash. They could be anywhere.”
The next day, a local cop—a boy I do know from school, actually—showed up at my doorstep with a warrant. I let him look around, but it was clear Paul and Ruby weren’t there and hadn’t been there. After that, the police left me alone.
My mother and father stopped by the cottage daily. I didn’t tell them what truly concerned me, but I assured them that the baby and I would be fine. “We just need time,” I told my parents. “Time to figure out the next chapter of our lives.”
Ten days after I got home, my period arrived. I cried tears of joy and relief. There wouldn’t be a second child, at least. That was a blessing.
• • •
In the spring, after the last thaw, I celebrated Willie’s first birthday by reading him the listings in the Sturgeon Bay Vocational School catalog. “Secretary?” I asked him. “Teacher’s aide? Or maybe Mommy should get really crazy and learn accounting.” He looked at me with that curious, amiable expression of his, then reached for the catalog, crumpling it in his chubby hands.
In the end, I chose a business administration path—remembering that it had been Silja’s path, too, or something akin to that. Despite everything else that had happened, no one could say Silja hadn’t provided for her family. I needed to do that, too.
Less than a year into the program, I began dating a boy I met on campus. Jack is my age and hails from Little Sturgeon, in the southern part of Door. I’ve made no promises to him, but I enjoy his wide-eyed grin, his closeness with his parents and siblings, how easily he’s welcomed not only me but also Willie into his life.
All along I’ve known I could get my marriage to Paul annulled. It might be a long, tedious process, but it was possible, given my youth when I’d married and my parents’ good standing in the Church. Not to mention the fact that I’d had not a word from Paul in almost two years.
“Maybe,” I told Jack not long ago, when he asked me if I’d ever consider getting hitched. “Maybe, Jack, but don’t rush me.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “We’ve got all the time in the world,” I whispered in his ear. “No need to move fast.”
• • •
And then one day last week, I received a letter from Ruby.
It was postmarked Karavostásis, Greece. I looked it up on a map, and found the Greek island that was home to the town of Karavostásis.
The death certificate fell out of the envelope first. Paul had died in Barcelona six months before. I studied the official seal. It was in Spanish, but I could decipher Paul’s name, date of birth, date of death. And the words in Spanish: Causa de muerte : caída accidental.
The next day in the college library, I looked up caída in an English-Spanish dictionary. It means “fall.”
Dear Aunt Angie,
I put something in this envelope that might be useful. I don’t know if you’ve thought about marrying somebody else. If you did, it seems like having a first husband’s death certificate would come in handy.
Long ago, Paul and I gave up the names we traveled under. If you have money, it’s not at all difficult to acquire documentation saying you’re somebody else. So Paul’s actual death certificate is under a different name, and it’s with that name on the tombstone that he lies in a Spanish graveyard. But I figured the extra step of obtaining a death certificate with his real name on it might be helpful to you.
It’s an unfortunate way to die, a fall. The body often contorts in all sorts of ways you wouldn’t think possible if you didn’t see it with your own eyes. For Paul, though, it happened quickly and maybe not too painfully. But still quite sad, as I’m sure you’ll agree.
Paul and I flew to Madrid, but we didn’t stay there. He was afraid we’d be tailed. We moved around for a few months, then settled in Barcelona. It was not only scenic, but also an effective place to hide because it’s a big city where no one knew us and by then we were pretty sure no one cared. We had plenty of money—thousands from my father’s account. Since he earned barely a dime the entire time I knew him, my assumption is he’d been siphoning my mother’s earnings for years.
So money wasn’t a problem. What was a problem was Paul. He turned out to be so controlling. He wanted to decide what I wore, where I went, the books I read.
And other things, too. Everything, really.
I tried to run away from him a few times, but he always found me and brought me back. I put up with that as long as I could.
His death means those days are finally over. I have to say I’m glad of it.
My life is better now. I came here because I missed living in a small town. Isn’t that ironic? I left Stonekill because I thought it was too tiny to contain me. And I wasn’t even willing to come to your small town, Aunt Angie. I thought I’d had enough of small-town life. But after Barcelona, I realized it wasn’t the size of Stonekill that was the problem. The problem was being kooky high schooler Ruby Glass.
There’s an open-air café in Karavostásis, and I’m a waitress. I rent a room in town and go to the beach every day. Locals call me Chrysi. That’s short for chrysafénios, which means “golden.”
Once I got here and settled in, I wrote to Shepherd. I was afraid to write to him from Barcelona—I was worried he’d write back and I knew how Paul would react to that. Like I said, he controlled everything. I couldn’t even get to the post box without Paul beating me to it.
But now Shepherd and I write regularly. He can’t visit me—he still has his father to care for—but he says someday he hopes to.
Here’s a story for you, Aunt Angie. I thought you might like a story:
Today, a woman with blond, upswept hair and cat-eye glasses walked into my café. She wore a green linen dress that was tight at the waist, full in the skirt, capped in the sleeves. The whole shebang accentuated her full figure in all the right places.
I was in my usual getup—sandals on my dusty feet, cutoff shorts, and a gauzy top because it’s hot here even this time of year, when most of the tourists are gone and business is slowing down.
The woman took a seat in the back of our outdoor café. After she’d ordered and I brought her food, I watched her from the corner of my eye.
She wasn’t my mother, of course. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Aunt Angie. I wish she’d been my mother, of course. But what is, is.
When she finished her meal, she came to the counter to pay. “Delicious,” she said to me in English, because she could tell I’m not Greek. One look at my hair and it’s obvious I’m not Greek. “Best spanako
pita I’ve had since I’ve been in Greece.”
I nodded but didn’t answer.
“I’m just passing through Karavostásis,” she went on. “The ferry made a stop here. I was hungry, so I got off for lunch.”
“It leaves in twenty minutes,” I told her. “Don’t miss it or you’ll be stuck here until Friday.”
She smiled at me. “Doesn’t seem like such a bad place to be stuck.”
Well. She’s right about that.
As I watched that stranger walk toward the dock, I thought about my mother.
I hope the things I’ve done, the place I’ve landed, would please her. I couldn’t give my mother peace, Aunt Angie. I couldn’t help her live the life of her dreams. And for that I’ll always be sorry.
But I can give myself peace. I hope she’d be happy for me. I think she would.
Take care of yourself, Aunt Angie—and your sweet son, too.
Love,
Ruby
I started the engine, pulled the lines from the dock, and maneuvered onto Lake Michigan. The breezes moved my hair back, and I stood, one knee on the seat, gunning the motor as the boat sped onto the lake.
The eighteen-foot craft, powerful beneath me as it zipped over the water—as powerful as my young, strong body—made me feel fearless.
I thought about the youthfulness of my body and mind. About how much I’m capable of.
I’m twenty-three years old. I have my whole life ahead of me.
I drove northeast into the swells of Lake Michigan. I passed Toft Point, Moonlight Bay, the Cana Island Lighthouse. I pushed the throttle until I was at full speed. The boat jolted over the waves, but I held fast to the throttle and looked straight ahead with clear, open eyes.
Despite its depth, nothing about this lake frightens me. Once, when my son was only a baby, my quick thinking saved him from drowning in these waters. I know I can handle anything the lake—or life—puts in my path.
Looking back toward the shore, I could see Gordon Lodge. The resort is thriving. The original wood-beam lodge has been replaced with a larger, modern building, but the Top Deck looks the same as always. I drove far from the shore, until Gordon’s and the cottages on North Bay were mere specks on the forested land in the distance.
Finally, I killed the engine and let the boat drift. From a leather satchel I’d brought along, I took out the wooden box. Once it was sealed, I’d never opened it again. But I knew everything was there. Paul’s letters to Henry, and Henry’s letters in return. The packet of bomb shelter drawings. And the horrible, confessional love letter Paul wrote to his niece.
Under the string binding, I added the letter Ruby sent me.
The letter that, more or less, implicated the girl. For the second and—I hoped—the last time in her life.
On top of the box, I placed a heavy stone I’d found near my parents’ dock. I wound a rope tightly around everything and tied it fast.
I tossed the weighted packet over the side of the boat. It landed on the water’s surface with a plunk and slowly sank into the depths of the lake. I knew that soon it would be covered with sand, and in a short while, it would be indistinguishable from the rocks around it.
Not once did I doubt my actions. Not once did I wonder whether I was doing the right thing.
I turned over the boat’s engine and looked across the lake. I pressed down the throttle and steered toward the shoreline, heading for home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
So much gratitude is due. To Tara Parsons, thank you for your relentless passion and razor-sharp edits. Much appreciation to Susan Moldow for the opportunity to join the Touchstone team. Thanks to Isabella Betita, Courtney Brach, Kelsey Manning, Sydney Morris, Jessica Roth, and everyone else at Touchstone. Agent extraordinaire Susanna Einstein and foreign rights maven Sandy Hodgman have my gratitude and friendship.
A second novel rides the coattails of a debut’s patronage. To the dedicated booksellers and librarians, book clubs, friends and fans who attend readings and events for The Bookseller, gracious radio hosts, journalists, and book bloggers who help get the word out—thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
Details make the story, especially in historical fiction. Clare Miller Wood (1936–2016) was the resident expert on North Bay; I’m grateful she shared her memories with me. Thanks also to Lynn Corriveau for help with Door County specifics. Mary Hauser and Jerry Randall open their North Bay home to my family every summer; their gift of unplugged, imaginative time together is one for which I’m grateful. Thank you to Peter Bracichowicz of Corcoran Group Real Estate, who gave me an extensive tour of the Alku and illuminated the history of Sunset Park, Brooklyn (a.k.a. Finntown). Kiitos to Annette Lyon and Arlo Pelegrin for help with the Finnish language, and gracias to Grethel Van Epps for the Spanish. Although Stonekill is fictional, it wouldn’t feel genuine without details of the sights, sounds, and scents of northern Westchester that still resonate with me. I drew on my own childhood memories, those of my sister Susan Wright, and stories and photos shared by natives of Peekskill, our hometown. Thank you.
Standout research materials include The GI’s War by Edwin P. Hoyt; the 1946 John Huston documentary Let There Be Light; Howard Fast’s Peekskill USA: Inside the Infamous 1949 Riots; and Amy Stewart’s Wicked Plants. (I also appreciated Amy’s input when I had deeper questions.) Two slim volumes provided authentic details: The Blue Book of Crime (1948), which Henry would have received as part of his correspondence course, and the 1959 government booklet The Family Fallout Shelter. Note the booklet’s copyright date; I hope readers grant me poetic license in allowing Henry to pore over this booklet a year before its publication. Any other historical inaccuracies are either my mistakes or intentional in the interest of story.
Kudos to Jennifer Kincheloe and Gary Schanbacher for insightful early reads. Pat Mulcahy, thank you for helping me see the forest through the trees (pun intended). For standing by me every step of the way, I thank Gillian Braun, Mary Elliott, Robin Filipczak, Shana Kelly, Jocelyn Scheirer, Sandra Theunick, Maura Weiler, my book club members, everyone at Lighthouse Writers, and my multifarious online tribes.
Thanks to Daphne du Maurier—who, by penning Rebecca, gave birth to the contemporary literary thriller, and to Richard Yates—who, in writing Revolutionary Road, put into beautiful words postwar suburban angst.
Finally, I’m grateful to my family. Thank you, Sammy, Dennis, Jane, and Charlie—for your commitment, your smiles, and your love. I’m a better person, and a better writer, because of you.
A Touchstone Reading Group Guide
The Glass Forest
Cynthia Swanson
This reading group guide for The Glass Forest includes an introduction, discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author Cynthia Swanson. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
Introduction
In the autumn of 1960, newlyweds Angie and Paul Glass are enjoying the serenity of their home in Door County, Wisconsin, on Lake Michigan when a phone call changes their lives forever. On the line is their seventeen-year-old niece, Ruby, calling to tell them that her father, Paul’s brother, Henry, is dead and her mother, Silja, has disappeared. Angie and Paul fly to the small town of Stonekill, New York, to be by Ruby’s side. Through Silja’s flashbacks, Angie’s discovery of astonishing truths, and Ruby’s strategic dissection of her parents’ affairs, a story of love, secrets, and ultimate betrayal is revealed.
Topics and Questions for Discussion
1. What is the significance of the opening scene of The Glass Forest, where baby PJ nearly falls out of the canoe?
2. The Glass Forest takes place in the decades following World War II, a time of major transition for women in the United States. How do the political and cultural shifts influence the female characters in the book? W
ould you consider them feminists? Why or why not?
3. Why do you think Henry refused to give Silja a divorce? How do you think Henry and Silja’s story would differ if it were set in the modern day?
4. In 1950, Silja considers taking Ruby and running off in secret, hoping Henry won’t try to find them. How might the characters’ lives have unfolded differently if Silja had made that choice at that time?
5. The book contains many descriptions of the Glasses’ home décor, cleanliness, and style. Why do you think the author chose to include these details? What do the descriptions reveal about the characters?
6. Henry becomes obsessed with the need for a family bomb shelter. What drives this obsession? If the story were set in modern times, are there other ways Henry might have attempted to protect his family instead?
7. Discuss the characters’ religions. How do religious traditions influence the actions of Angie, Ruby, and Shepherd? How does religious heritage impact Silja’s, Paul’s, and Henry’s choices?
8. Jean Kellerman tells Angie, “The police won’t investigate based on a reporter’s speculation” (p. 283). Why do you think the police suspect Silja of murdering Henry?
9. What role does Miss Wells play? What does Ruby learn from her teacher? In what ways does Angie learn from Miss Wells?
10. Compare Angie at the beginning of the book to Angie at the end of the book. How does she change, and what inspires the change?
11. Describe Angie and Ruby’s relationship. How does it evolve, and what causes the shift?
12. Describe Ruby and Shepherd’s relationship. How does it differ from Ruby’s relationship with her father?
The Glass Forest Page 33