Glass Boys

by Nicole Lundrigan

  GLASS BOYS

  NICOLE LUNDRIGAN

  GLASS

  BOYS

  a novel

  Douglas & McIntyre

  D&M PUBLISHERS INC.

  Toronto/Vancouver/Berkeley

  Copyright © 2011 by Nicole Lundrigan

  First U.S. edition 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For a copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Douglas & McIntyre

  An imprint of D&M Publishers Inc.

  2323 Quebec Street, Suite 201

  Vancouver BC Canada V5T 4S7

  www.douglas-mcintyre.com

  Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada

  ISBN 978-1-55365-797-2 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-1-55365-798-9 (ebook)

  Editing by Barbara Berson

  Cover design by Jessica Sullivan

  Cover photographs by Peter Beavis/Stone+/Getty Images (top) and Chev Wilkinson/Stone/Getty Images (bottom)

  Distributed in the U.S. by Publishers Group West

  We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the British Columbia Arts Council, the Province of British Columbia through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

  For my husband, Zoltán Deák

  Contents

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Part Two

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  Part Three

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Part Four

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Part Five

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Acknowledgements

  PART

  ONE

  1

  NO ONE IS chasing him, but the Glass boy’s heart still pounds as he runs through the woods, soles of his canvas sneakers slapping the soft earth. When he reaches the other side of the forest he stops abruptly, removes his sneakers, steps onto a blanket of bright green grass. For a moment, he crouches to catch his breath, watches as a pair of pale cabbage moths flutter up from a dead stump. He hears a bird chirping, the branches moaning as they lift and fall in the breeze. The sun overhead is hot, and he closes his eyes, pulls a lungful of sweet air in through his nostrils. Heaven, he thinks. This sliver of land just before the water is my private heaven.

  Using his hands to shade his eyes, he scans the woods, the visible length of the stream. He is alone, and he scampers to the edge, lays down on his stomach. Slides his arm over the grassy lip, and as his fingers wiggle through drowning roots, a handful of waiting tadpoles skitter and hide. He feels around. And for a moment, when he finds nothing, his heart strikes so loudly in his ears the sounds of the stream and bird and creaking trees sink. But then his hand knocks it. Hard and slippery. It’s there. Grunting, he pulls the pickle jar from the water, heavy with the rock weighting it down. He notes it is intact, no rust on the lid, no evidence of water damage to the treasure inside. No sign that someone else has touched it.

  After he dries the jar on his T-shirt, he looks around once again. Yes, yes. He is alone. Then he sits cross-legged on the grass, pinches the jar between his bare thighs, twists the lid with both hands. Even though he had washed the jar in hot suds, the faintest smell of vinegar still tweaks his nose. His breath is shallow as he reaches in, removes his tiny treasure. So valuable, but bought for only a handful of change.

  He hauls a handkerchief from his pocket, blankets the rotting stump beside him, and examines each item before laying it down. Too much, now, to see everything at once. To have it all exposed, recklessly, where a gust could arrive without warning, pilfer a piece of his perfect puzzle, carry it off to someone who might destroy it. Hands shaking, he scoops them up, clutches them to his chest. Imagines, for a moment, they hear his blood moving through his veins.

  Time folds, an hour dissolves, and the boy wonders if he might be missed. If the man might question his absence. He places the items in the jar, seals it. One last glimpse, his eyes, wide open, pressed to the heavy glass.

  He is dizzy when he stands, and he nearly drops the jar on a flat rock. Even though he is still holding it close to his breastbone, he cannot help but see it smashed, a spray of glass, his collection scattered. The very thought makes his legs weak, and he does not trust them. Scrawny legs, even though he eats like a gannet. He shuffles, carefully, places the jar back into the stream, underneath the overhang of unkempt grass. The tadpoles are there again, grazing his knuckles with their quivering tails. Wanting him to stay and play. But he stands, whispers, “Not now, not now.”

  He searches the woods for blinking eyes, listens for foot steps or hollering. He stares at the sky, expecting to see the man’s shocked face pressing down through the clouds. He knows the man is everywhere. An almost God. With the swoop of an axe, he has witnessed the man choosing between life and death. Witnessed it more than once. Head of a piglet flying in one direction, pink body in the other. Tiny hooves on stick legs twitching, still trying to run away.

  But there is nothing. Nothing, yet. And he coils his excitement and guilt, like a greasy spring, presses it down, locks the trapdoor inside his mind. He stuffs his feet into his sneakers, stiff fabric heel flattened, and for a good distance he walks backwards through the woods. Gazing at the spot where his secret is guarded. And he tells himself, as he watches the rippling water, that no one will ever know. No one will ever find it. No one will ever get hurt. Then he turns, runs towards home. Towards the farm. Towards his life with the man.

  AS SOON AS the cloud of mud settles to the bottom, the tadpoles push through the water, and tap the glass. They are children still, barely limbs to stand on. Eyes like black beads, they see what’s inside the pickle jar, and don’t know to look away.

  2

  SOMETHING WAS STUCK down there, something decaying, and the sour smell sat in the sink, billowed up whenever Lewis turned the tap. Shining his flashlight into the hole, he saw a slick black lump just before the pipe curved, like an eyeball, blinking every time water dripped over it. He had poured a half quart of bleach into the drain, rinsed with hot water, but once the stench from that dispelled, the rot crept back. This was his brother’s fault, he knew. Rather than scraping a plate, Roy would press the bits of fish and brewis, corner of bread down through the opening. Lewis had seen him do it. More than once. And now, he was going to have to take the pipes apart.

  Wrench in hand, he slid underneath the sink, started to tap and twist. Something kicked at his leg, and he craned his neck, saw a pair of loose jeans, fabric cross-hatched with guts and grime. A pair of worn boots, tongues hanging out. He eased his head around the sink, edged out onto the floor. And there was Roy, standing there, his youthful face grinning, cigarette clamped in his shiny teeth, cheeks and nose burnt a deep red from the morning spent out jigging fish. Nellie, his dog, stood behind him, her wet snout jammed into the crease of fabric just behind Roy’s knee, sniffing.

  “You got to be a plumber now, too?” Roy said, smoke flickering as his lips moved.

  “Stick your nose down the sin
k. You tell me what I got to be.”

  Roy laughed, took a step backwards. “That I won’t, then. You can have it.”

  “Well, it reeks to high heavens.”

  “I’m sure you’ll put it to rights. Now, get your arse off the floor and come and have a drop with me.”

  Lewis came to his feet, let the wrench drop onto the countertop, gestured towards Roy’s hands, the two paper bags, twisted at the opening. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Morley.”

  Arms folded.

  “Now don’t you go getting all uppity. Morley made me swear you’d leave well enough alone.”

  “He did, did he?”

  Roy laid both bags on the table, stuck his smoke in an overflowing dessert dish, then crunched down the paper to reveal two label-less bottles, crystal liquid. Plucking one up, he ran a slow hand down over the glass. “Christ, what magic he don’t do with a bucket of potato peel.”

  “What else did he say?”

  Bottle opened, Roy reached into an already open cupboard, retrieved two tumblers. “He says you should be keeping an eye on those vagrants wandering ’round. There’s got to be some of those you can dog.”

  “We don’t got no vagrants ’round here.”

  “Well, you know, you can make sure those lassies don’t be wearing their skirts too long. Can we make that a law, Lew? Skirts no longer than,” he held his hands a foot apart, top to bottom, “no longer than that?”

  “I don’t think so, Roy.”

  “Worth a shot, Constable Trench.” He winked, filled the glasses with swift practiced pours. “But seriously now, Lew-Lew, I was talking to the fellers just the other day when we was fixing the cribbing up under Morley’s stage. And they’re not all that keyed up about some young fart bringing change.”

  “I can’t help that.” A squirt of anxiety darted through Lew–is’s stomach. He knew, even before Roy opened his mouth, that once he returned home, everything would be different. That the faults beneath his feet would shift, and he would be standing on new ground. His role in Knife’s Point was clearly laid out, but the tactics he should employ were cloudy. Hard-nosed and they would hate him, laid-back and they would spin circles, until he was out there alongside them, salting the very fish they stole from the sea.

  “You knows how the crowd was when the Ranger’d pass through.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And now, you. Having gotten the nod from some paper sorter up along. Not really much sense.”

  “What do that mean?”

  “That’s their words, not mine.” Roy sat, legs straddling the back of the chair, and Nellie followed, lumbered underneath the table, turned and turned, flumped, lay her jowls on Roy’s boot. In one fell swoop, he grabbed his glass from the table, emptied it into his mouth. Visual shudder, slishing sound through lips pulled back over pink gums. Nellie stirred, opened a single eye, tucked her muzzle underneath her paw. “Christ. That’d rip the hair off the rabbit,” he hissed. Fingers dove in around his scalp, pulling black curls.

  Lewis smirked, took the chair across from him, laid his palms on the table. “Or, the rabbit off the hare.”

  “Even better.” Roy knocked a glass towards Lewis. “Now, go on with you.” When Lewis hesitated, Roy looked upwards, growled playfully, “Christ Almighty, Lewdy-Lew. Don’t be telling me you can’t do nothing illegal in your own home. I means, if a growed man can’t be breaking the law under his own roof, then where can he?”

  “Shut your trap.”

  “But you got to see what they’re saying. Most of them knowed us now since we was youngsters. Pissing in the grass.”

  “You’re still pissing in the grass, Roy.”

  “Yeah, yeah. They just don’t want you counting snares or following moose around or telling them what sort of stuff they can or can’t cook up in their cellars. Rushing in with your guns blazing.” Roy laughed, emptied his glass again. “That sort of thing.”

  “Ah.” Lewis sighed. One more go, he thought as he looked at the temptation near his fingertips. One more go before I settles in. Then he lifted the glass, dumped the works down his wide throat. Audible gulp. In only moments, once the shock glided out through his flesh, he sensed that familiar tickling, a door creaking open, cavernous thirst hiding below. Deep and difficult to get in under it. He tapped his glass for a refill. “I don’t know, Roy, my son. I don’t know.”

  “’Nuff yammering. You’ll make your way. We always got on fine.”

  A second swig, smoother entrance this time. “I’m apt to be bored out of my tree.”

  “That’s what we wants, Lew-Lew. That’s what we wants.” Leg cocked, Roy struck Lewis in the thigh with his stained boot. “You got her scald, my son. Hauling in a wad of quid for doing shit all. Good on you, if you asks me. Should’ve done it myself, but I idn’t that smart.”

  “I wants to do a good job.” Lewis clanged his tumbler on the table, and Roy filled it again until it rose at the brim. Leaning forward, lips touching glass, he slurped Morley’s offering, let it coat his mouth, preserve his tongue. Several more swallows, and the questions that prodded his hackles were leaving. Flaked away, old paint in summer sunshine.

  Roy pushed his nose with the heel of his hand, emitted a sound like a knife cutting through cabbage. He went the sink, snorted again. “Besides,” he said and spat. “They takes what they can. That’s human nature. Grab after the bit of elastic in my fucking underwear if that’s all I had to give.”

  Effortless, old-time laughter erupting. “If some poor fuck was after your underwear, if they could manage to snap it off your dirty arse, they should be locked up, keys tossed in Grayley River.”

  “Only be so lucky,” he replied, turning the taps.

  “Christ, Roy. The pucking fipe is off.” He wiped his mouth. “Fucking pipe.”

  “And?” Roy clomped back to the table, topped up his glass again, spilling colorless liquid over the wood. He took another cigarette from the pack hidden in the roll of his T-shirt sleeve, stuck it behind his ear. “Look at you,” he said, slurring slightly. “Coming back with a paper, some boots, and enough airs to burst a pig’s bladder.”

  Lewis grinned, and smacked the table.

  “Here’s to that.” Roy raised his glass, clinked Lewis’s harder than necessary, liquid spilling over his hand, wetting his wrist. Starting with his palm, his tongue trailed up and over the back of his hand. Then he bent down, slurped the spill from the table.

  Lewis blinked once, twice, then grinned again. His brother was older by less than a year. Thinking back, he couldn’t recall ever really being apart from Roy. Since they were children, they had trudged through the world together, occupying the same space. Complementary shadows, Lewis’s leaning slightly towards the orderly, Roy’s towards the thrill of upheaval. They were loved, too. Loved more than most, he knew. He remembered Sunday dinners, and he and Roy were always fed first, offered up the most tender morsel of meat or an extra scoop of cream on their pudding. Once, after receiving a thin scrap of bone-riddled fish, their father stared into his plate, shook his head, said, “Do you want to know when ’twas clear I was in for trouble? When ’twas clear you two gaffers had made off with her heart? Let me see.” Picking bones from his teeth. “Two of youse, Tit and Tat, now, in your cribs, sticking your hands down your drawers, wiping shit on the walls. Do you know what she did? Your mother?” Shaking heads, wide eyes, mouths stuffed with food. “Washed your fingers off, and told you fellers what lovely pictures you gone and made. Pained her, it did now, to clear it off the wall. Pained her, I tell you.” “Saints preserve us,” she had cried, swatted the back of his bald head with a damp cup towel. “What garbage you don’t get on with! And language! On a Sunday.”

  Their father lived a hard life, with an abundance of drinking and harmless carousing and gambling. Even with the trouble, he never allowed a cross word to curdle the air, and Lewis could not recall a single time their father’s open palm kissed their oversized heads. Their mother tolerated it all, would only
throw down her hands, shake her head, giggle over the foolishness of boots pushed onto the wrong feet, brandied fruitcake jammed into a pocket, thick eyebrows burnt clean off.

  As soon as Roy could stand, he was down on the stage, kicking guts into the heading hole, rinsing fish in the dipping pan. Midget amongst the fishermen, he would grapple a fish, cart it over and spread it out on the boughs, douse it in salt. Mimicking hand motions. Learning how to flick. Back and forth, every season, every year, until his body was sinewy, teenaged shoulders broad and brown. Sips here and there, but the first time they offered him a mug, Roy swallowed like an awakened baby, comical desperation. Once he dozed off, they poked him underneath a flake, in the triangular patches of shade, curled on his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. Common phrase bestowed upon him, “You’re your father’s son.” Roy worked hard to verify that appraisal.

  Not that Lewis didn’t like a drop. Only his binges were far less gritty than Roy’s, and Lewis rarely left the stool where he drank, mostly kept his consumption within the hours of darkness. Roy placed no such limits on himself, and in recent years he had developed a reputation for falling whim to his stomach, giving free rein to his wandering feet. “Gut on two legs,” he was often called. Any given time of day, folks knew Roy might be banging on a patio door looking for a slice of molasses bread, or stealing the few scraggly tomatoes tied up in the garden, or dozing on the steps of The Good Fryer waiting for someone to drop a chip. Occasionally, people let him in. Sometimes they left him, and sometimes they carted him home. The afternoon Lewis was leaving for training, he passed his neighbor wavering along the road with a loaded wheelbarrow, Roy’s splayed body being the contents. “Bringing him back, is all, now.” Resting on Roy’s stomach were two blue platters, one turned upside down over the other. The neighbor had noticed Lewis staring, said, “That’s nothing. Roy never got to his bit of stew. Missus took pity on the poor bugger, sent it along.”