Glass Boys

by Nicole Lundrigan

  Garrett nodded slowly, pinched his leg. Tears were welling up behind his eyes. “God’s will,” he repeated.

  “Do you fellers understand?”

  Plenty of snickers, and elbows bumping, and no one looked up. Except for Garrett. Who looked the reverend straight in the eye, replied firmly, “Yes, sir, I does.”

  “Alright, then. Get on out of here. Be good, and listen to your mothers.”

  Garrett left church, never flinched when he saw his mother waiting at the edge of the church grounds, face scowling, tongue clicking in her mouth. He skipped alongside her all the way to the farmhouse. Finally, he was happy inside. After lunch, a withered drumstick, potatoes like glue, he stole his stepfather’s magnifying glass. Went deep into the woods, found a sunny clearing, and burned a cross into the flesh of an old birch tree. As a small thank-you. Thank-you, Lord, for blessing me.

  PART

  THREE

  15

  MY DEAR FRANCIS,

  I know it’s been ages since I wrote to you, unforgivable ages, but life has gotten busier than I even thought it could. Lewis is working hard to keep the peace here in Knife’s Point. Even though you’d think otherwise, there is always something going on. Tombstones smashed, a car stolen, fistfights on Friday nights. He tells me all about it, and you’d think we was living in some big city. Just last week, we had our own miss–ing person case. An elderly woman, gone for four days. Having a few dollars to her name, I guessed she’d run off, but when Lewis suggested that, her two sons insisted that was out of character. She would never leave her things. Never skip a church service.

  They found her, well inside her home. Well, not well, really. She was crushed under a pile of packed suitcases. She wasn’t leaving, though, she just had full suitcases. Apparently, she never threw a single thing out, and had what her sons called a “sincere affection” for catalogue shopping. Parcel or two every day. They searched through the house, stuff piled up against the walls, sweaters and scarves, serving dishes and porcelain dolls, magazines—old garbage, too, mounds of it to the ceiling. Fifty-odd years of collecting. A lot of junk—good for nothing. Seems she was trying to find something in a back room, and the whole works tottered and came down upon her. Died with no water after a short while. Killed by the very items that made her happy.

  Sad as it is, I thought of you when Lewis told me—thought you might like to get in at it, sift through it all. I imagine you’d learn a tremendous amount about that woman, and find a load of treasure for the store at the same time. But, her sons wasted no time in selling it all off. Never saw such a spread of goods on someone’s lawn, and the crowds arrived from as far away as Idle Boot Bay. A hoard of hungry ants on an abandoned cake.

  On a more pleasant note, the boys are growing and growing. They get along so well together, sometimes it surprises me. They never fight, other than some typical joking around boy business. Melvin is making great strides at school, and his teacher loves him. He is ahead in his math and spelling, and they’re not sure what to do with him next year. Toby turned into a little man overnight, I really can’t believe my eyes. He is very independent and often dresses himself in a mixture of plaids and stripes. He’d make you proud with his unique fashion sense.

  Thank-you for the lovely card and gift you sent for Toby. He loves his books, as does Melvin, and though they carry some nice titles in the shops around here, it’s a real treat to get something from the city.

  I must close as I have to make some lemonade for the boys. I often wonder where your kindness comes from, Francis, and I’m certain it’s not an earthly place.

  As always, with affection,

  Wilda

  Seated at a small oak desk, Wilda laid her pen aside, folded the pages into thirds, creasing each edge with the back of her nail. Stuffed it into a white envelope, patterned interior. Then she dug through a drawer, located a stamp, pretty sailboat picture, licked it, and fixed it to the upper right-hand corner. In practiced script, she wrote out his address. Blew on the ink so it would not smear. “There,” she said cheerily to Toby, who was cross-legged in front of the big box set, squealing each time someone hollered “yabbadabbadoooooo.”

  She stood, paced back and forth for several minutes, fanned herself with the letter pinched in her fingers. Of course, she realized what she should have written once the envelope was sealed. She should have spent more time describing her family life, Lewis, the boys, the vegetable garden, and a lot less time on that hapless old woman and her houseful of junk. She squeezed her hand, heard the crinkle of paper inside. Perhaps, if the saliva was still wet, she could peel back the closure and reread it. Just to make sure.

  Fingers prying at the seal, but the glued paper began to tear. Evidence of tampering. So, she took a deep breath, tore it open, and the neatly folded letter popped out of its enclosure as though it was relieved to be free. She scanned it quickly, eyes jumping over her script, “My dear,” “I thought of you,” “your kindness,” “with affection.” Phrases lifting off the page, and her cheeks grew hot as waves of embarrassment moved through her. She crumpled the letter in her fist, suddenly aware that Toby was only several feet away from her and his program was ending. What if he looked at her, somehow discovered the childish game she was playing, sensed her humiliation?

  Wilda could not explain these emotions, her slight shame whenever Lewis arrived home with the mail, presented her with yet another letter or parcel from Francis. Early on in their marriage, they repeated the same conversation: “Why don’t you ever invite your uncle to visit?” “He’s too old to travel.” “Well, we could go, it’s not that great a distance, you know.” “Too busy, Lewis. Maybe next year.” And now Lewis simply handed her each letter with a smile, some sort of trivial comment. “Business must be good. He got his own letterhead.” And with her thumb, she would quickly cover the whimsical urchin now seated to the left of his return address.

  Francis had only ever been kind to her. Beyond kind. A godsend. There was no confusion about that. He never asked for a single thing, only an ounce of companionship as he went about his daily rounds, buying other people’s treasures, shining them up, and reselling them. But Wilda could not deny the fact that when she left him, when she kissed him goodbye on his dusty cheek that last time, she felt an odd sense of relief to be out from underneath it all. The damp sensation that accompanied being loved.

  Since she moved to Knife’s Point, she did not welcome his letters, the monthly reminder of his misplaced fondness. Wilda had tried hard to move forward through her life, and she kept a stiff broom at her back, made wide sweeps to obliterate each footstep. Always existing in the present moment. How else could she be expected to survive? But her broom was unable to disrupt his reasonable claim on her. And there, in the distorted tracks behind her, she could see his ignorance. He was unaware that she was a fraud.

  From the top of the refrigerator, she retrieved Lewis’s brass lighter, and then went to the fireplace, moved the screen away, tossed the letter onto the empty grate. She knelt down, flicked open the lid, thumb bringing forth the flame, and she lit the corner closest to her. Within moments, the letter curled inwards, and her highfalutin thoughts were transformed to ash and dust.

  Before she prepared a picnic for her and the boys, she scratched a hasty second letter. A few quick thoughts—comfortably empty. Propped it up against the half-empty cookie jar, and it would wait there until Lewis mailed it.

  Dear Francis,

  It was so nice to hear from you, and thank-you for the birthday gift for Toby. He really adores books, and is just beginning to recognize a couple of letters. I hope you are well.

  Yours,

  Wilda Trench

  Seated side by side on a matchstick quilt, they each held a sandwich in their hands, soft bread roughly halved. Bright orange Tang in Mason jars secured between their thighs. While Wilda and Melvin nibbled gingerly in a shaft of sunlight, Toby bounded down the muddy slope towards the water. Stripped down in a flash, shorts and T-shirt cradled in
a low spruce branch, he hauled a black swimming mask on over his eyes. Stomping newly grown reeds, he waded out to the center of the stream, plunged beneath the surface. Even from her distance, Wilda could see his red shoulders, knew the skin was peeling and that she should insist he keep his T-shirt on. But she didn’t call him back, watched him dance in the glistening water, pale blue underwear hanging off his backside.

  “Dis is goo,” Melvin said, lifting his sandwich, smiling at Wilda. “Jus de righ mound of everydin. Don sti do de roo o yo moud.”

  “Mmm,” she replied, smiling back at him. She could tell by his garbled speech that the peanut butter was indeed firmly stuck to the roof of his mouth. Lunchtime had passed by the time she’d dealt with the letter, and she had slobbered it on the bread thickly, hastily, spared the near empty bottle of raspberry jelly along. “Mmm,” she repeated. Full of little lies, that one. Lies spoken in an attempt to make her feel better about all her mini-failures—bathwater that was too cool (“Sure, that’s some refreshing!”) or a sloppy cake (“That’s the best one ever!”) or clothes stiff from too much soap (“Helps me stay upright.”).

  Inside, Wilda felt mildly raw from writing to Francis, and she had little patience for Melvin’s softness. Many times she wished Melvin would just speak the truth, rather than trying to mold it into something warm and wonderful. Making her shortcomings all the worse, all the more obvious.

  Wilda glanced down the slope, saw near-naked Toby twirling in the stream, a cat’s tail clutched in either hand. Each time he would wave his blossom stalks, conducting the watery music, Wilda could see fluffy bits released, drifting up into the sunlight. Toby was like those bits, floating without care, rising and falling at the whim of the wind. If only Melvin were similar to that. Ignorant to subtleties. Bounding through life like a regular boy, climbing trees and skinning his knees, entranced by bright cartoons and the wonders of a handful of mud. Melvin was so attuned to her body, even if she altered her breath, permitted the slightest sigh to escape her lips, he was beside her, touching her, offering up a lemon cream or a glass of milk.

  Wilda swallowed her last bite, sighed without meaning to.

  Melvin edged ever closer, held up his sandwich, said, “Do yo wan my?”

  Inner sigh. “No, thank-you, Melvin. You finish it.”

  She brushed crumbs from her dress, a picnic sort of dress, full flowered skirt that just covered her knees. She tried to stare at nothing, but her eyes settled on her bare calves, and she noticed they appeared slightly swollen. She could see every pore in her pale skin. Kicking off her rubber sandals, she studied her feet as well. Wiggled her toes. A yellowish callous had formed on the side of her left foot and both heels were covered in cracked skin.

  Melvin laid his head against her upper arm, “You have beautiful feet, Mommy.”

  Yes, when he read her mind, that troubled her as well.

  “Thank you, Melvin.”

  “They’ve taken you a long distance.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You’ve lived on those feet for big number of years. Done a lot of things.”

  She swallowed, could still taste peanut butter on her tongue.

  “Yes. Yes, I have.”

  “So, you should be proud of your feet. Happy with your feet.”

  “I am.”

  “They’s good feet,” he said, between slurps.

  “Indeed.” She looked down at his small face, pie-plate eyes, joker smile from the orange crescent left by his drink.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, Melvin?” He was lying back on the blanket now, staring up at the leafy canopy.

  “I knows where Nanny and Poppy is.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Don’t you want to ask me where they is?”

  “Okay. Where is they?”

  “Up there.” Skinny arm pointing heavenward. “Singing with the angels.”

  “That’s nice, Melvin.”

  “But I was wondering where’s the Nanny and Poppy that comes from you?”

  Heart beginning to beat, she kept her voice level. “Well, they idn’t here.”

  “Is they gone?”

  “Yes, Melvin. They’s gone.”

  “Gone off far?”

  “Mmm.” She stared up at the leaves, counted to three. “Pretty far.”

  “Is they with the angels?”

  Bending her knees, she tucked her feet underneath the cotton fabric of her dress.

  “Well?”

  “So many questions,” she said. “Just like your father used to be.”

  “I’m seven now. I wants to know about my tree.”

  “What tree?”

  “Family tree.”

  “Oh.” Wilda felt tightness building in her calves, a desire to walk towards the water and clean her feet. Feet that she’d lived on for a big number of years. She cleared her throat, kept a hand on her folded legs. “Your tree don’t got that many branches. But you can grow it better when you’re older.”

  “Is they with the angels?”

  Legs straightened now, achy. “Poppy Burry is with the angels.”

  “Did he get there while he was sleeping like Nanny Trench?”

  “I– I don’t know, Melvin.”

  “How can you not know?”

  Why didn’t the fresh air make him nap? Every other child napped. Instead, he was exercising his little fingers, reaching into places they did not belong, poking, prodding the walls of a dark papery hive. Her heart thumped in her throat. After two even breaths, she replied, “I just don’t.”

  “You was young?”

  “Very.” But not that young.

  “Did you ask?”

  Firm. “That’s enough about Poppy Burry.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good, then.”

  Half a breath. “And what about Nanny? Do she play the harp up there?”

  Wilda closed her eyes, twisted to grip her legs with both hands. “I don’t believe.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Haven’t a clue, darling.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you know?”

  She leaned in, hoping to offer enough to satiate his curiosity. “Can I tell you something Melvin? Swear you’ll never tell another soul.”

  He sat up quickly, crossed his legs. “I swears, Mommy. On my ticker.” Clenched fist thwacking little ribs.

  “Do you remember when I read Hansel and Gretel to you?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Well, my mother, your nanny, was worse than the wicked stepmother.”

  Jaw dropped. “Oh, wow. She wanted you to cart you off to the woods?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Was she your real mother?”

  “Yes, sir. That she was.”

  He shook his head. “That’s the worst kind, Mommy. A real mother that’s a stepmother. That’s the very worst kind.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Did you take any white pebbles? Any bread crumbs?”

  “I weren’t near as smart as you, Melvin.”

  “So you was lost?”

  “I guess I was lost. In a way.”

  “Your dad didn’t want to do it, Mommy. Didn’t want to leave you there.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Oh, sure. That has to be the truth. That’s how the story goes.”

  “You’re right.”

  “But, that won’t never happen to you again, Mommy. Getting lost like that. I’ll make sure of it. I’m a full growed boy and I got brains enough for the both of us.”

  “Okay.” She pinched his chin, and then straightened her legs. Done for now. “Finish your sandwich, and that’s it for today. You got me that grilled, parts of me is burnt.”

  Melvin wrenched his neck, glanced behind him. There it was, again. Heavy boots crunching through their woods, snapping twigs, crushing pinecones, coming closer towards their picnic spot. Snappy whistling that arrived in his ears in distorted str
ains.

  “Mom?” Melvin whispered.

  “I’m sure ’tis just your daddy,” Wilda replied. “Lewis?” she called. “Lewis, is that you?”

  Melvin jumped up, fists clenched and lifted, ready to defend. From the long shadows, Lewis emerged, waving his hand. Wilda waved back. He was still wearing his work clothes, but had a ball cap perched atop his head.

  “Whoa, whoa, young feller. Stand down.” Lewis said to Melvin with a pleasant chirp. Nudged him, and he scrambled back to his mother. Then, to Wilda, “I was wondering where you folks got off to.”

  “Not far,” she said, smiling. “Too hot in the backyard, so we came here for lunch. You want a—” she began, then said remembered her sandwiches and said, “there’s nothing really left.”

  “No, no. I’m best kind.”

  He sat down on the quilt, crossed his feet at the ankles, and Wilda noticed he kept the soles of his shoes just beyond the edge so that any dirt and needles would not land on her clean blanket. Something he didn’t even have to think about, Lewis was just that way.

  “How’s the flies?”

  “Not too bad. I guess they don’t like the way we smells.”

  “I likes the way you smells,” he murmured, leaned his face into her neck.

  Melvin pressed in closer to Wilda, knotted his fingers in through her hand, fake sneezed. Twice.

  “Speaking of smells,” Lewis said. “What a day I had. Got a call from Gordie Tripp, three sheets to the wind, telling me someone made off with his best sow.”

  “How can you make off with a pig?”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Just wrap a rope ’round her neck? Someone’ll see you meandering down the road, right?” Lewis tapped a cigarette from the case, cupped his hands to light it, replaced the case in his shirt pocket. “Well, you wouldn’t believe it, but I was driving down Belty Street, and lo and behold, a young feller cruises past me with a most unusual companion riding shotgun.”