Glass Boys

by Nicole Lundrigan

  Over the next few weeks, Wilda moved it frequently, on top of the dusty refrigerator, over to her drawer with underwear and stockings, tucked into the fabric band that held back the living room curtains. If she couldn’t see it, she reasoned, the constant ache inside her legs would fade.

  18

  “CALM DOWN, MRS. VERGE.” Lewis pinched the phone receiver between his shoulder and ear, slipped his hand underneath the tangled cord, scribbled notes. “A letter, you says? What’d he write?” Pause. “Yes, yes.” Another pause, high-pitched mangle of words gushing through the phone line. “Sounds like your garden variety teenaged garbage, Mrs. Verge. Garden variety.” Pause. “No, ma’am. Don’t mind in the least. He’s apt to be up there playing cards with his buddies. Joking about giving you a jolt.” Final pause. Then light laugh. “No, Mrs. Verge. You don’t need to bring me a casserole. I’m just doing my job.”

  Lewis cleaned snow from the windshield with the sleeve of his coat, slid into the driver’s seat, and let the car idle for a minute. Windshield soon coated again, and he flicked on his wipers, revved the engine. Of all the days Terry Verge had to choose to make threats. Couldn’t he have waited until spring? According to Mrs. Verge, Terry’s girlfriend had broken up with him—for good, this time—and Terry was beyond distraught. What with her husband having passed last year, she was at a loss on how to deal with Terry. All her advice just hung in the air around the boy, she said, none of it sinking in. He took the truck, a good length of old rope, and headed out to the fishing cabin just off Jebineer’s Line. Lewis had been there before. A solid thirty-minute trek in fine weather. It would take him an hour or more in this storm.

  Easing up onto the highway, car sliding over invisible lines, he wondered what he was going to say to the boy. Would he chastise him when he found him, or would he be gentle, encouraging? This predicament wasn’t entirely the fault of Terry Verge, but of the community as a whole. Everyone letting things slide by, no one speaking up. And all the youngsters, having oodles of time on their hands and nothing to do. No one was interested in clearing a pond anymore, skating over wind-rippled ice with a couple of sticks, a beat-up puck. Or hammering together a birdhouse or building a fort in amongst a few trees. Or, heaven forbid, helping out a neighbor in need. Sawing up a few logs, clearing a driveway, slapping a coat of paint on a fence. Not without a wad of dollar bills waved in front of their snouts. No, sir. Lewis shook his head, gripped the steering wheel. How times is changed.

  Lewis turned off the highway, slowed to a crawl along Jebineer’s Line. The road had been partially cleared, but in the newly fallen snow he could still see the tracks of the Verges’ pickup. When he rounded the bend, Lewis arrived at the end of the tracks, discovered the mustard-yellow box lodged in the ditch. As though someone had gunned through a heap of snow on purpose. He pulled up next to it, parked, and got out. Looked around. A few feet more, and he would be stuck like the devil, no chance of getting out of this place until the thaw. He hauled on a hat and gloves, tucked his pants into his boots, and crawled up over the mound, wiped snow away from the cab. The truck was empty.

  Only a short trek to the cabin, though parts of him were beginning to sweat as he lifted his feet up and into what he believed were Terry Verge’s prints. The air was cold, and snow drifted into Lewis’s face, stinging his cheeks. His leaking nostrils fused momentarily whenever he took a deep breath, making him curse the boy. A swirling gust, and Lewis could smell the acrid smoke pressed downwards by winter’s cold palms. As he rounded the bend towards the cabin, clapboard the color of wet stone, he could make out a dying wisp rising from the chimney. The bugger’s cooking himself up a meal, Lewis thought. A bottle of moose, molasses bread.

  He knocked first, “Constable Trench, here. Open the door,” pressed his ear to the rough wood, but there was silence. He was going to knock again, louder this time, but some sense of urgency arrived in his muscles, and his hand reached for the latch, clicked, clicked, no avail, and his shoulder banged against the heavy door until the lock broke, door open. There was Terry Verge, hanging from a rope he had wormed up and around a thick wooden ceiling beam, rickety chair tipped. Fingers curled over the rope, face and scalp like a swath of stately velvet. With an improperly tied noose, the rope had slipped, and he was left dangling there, tip of his right winter boot pushing down on the worn wool rug, slipping, pushing, slipping. His hazy mind clearly changed. The boy was alive, alive, but only by the thinnest of margins.

  Lewis moved quickly, up righted the chair, fixed it underneath Terry, “Stand up, my son.” But the boy’s knees buckled, and Lewis had to abandon him for an instant to find a knife. Through cupboards, drawers, tossing spatulas and stirring spoons aside, where was a knife when you needed one, a can opener, bottle opener, forks, a knife, please, butter spreader. Finally. A bread knife, shiny serrated edge. He sawed through the taut rope, and Terry Verge, very nearly a ghost, fell forward into Lewis’s outstretched arms.

  “What the hell was you thinking, my son? What. The. Bloody. Hell. Was. You. Thinking?”

  But Terry was unable to respond, even though his mouth was wide open, swollen tongue, only hoarse bawling emerged, then retching sounds, finally full-body sobs that made Lewis tighten his grip, keep the armload of teenaged bone and flesh from bursting apart.

  “It’ll be alright, my son. Shush, now. Shush, shush.” Lewis knelt, loosened the rope, up over the tiny skull, flung it. Bruising and scratch marks all along his jaw. Ear rubbed to pearly rawness. Lewis stood, still holding Terry, and took an afghan from the back of a chair, wrapped it around the boy’s body. Out through the door, pushing his legs straight through the snow this time. “Someone got their hand planted on you today, my son.” He opened the back door of his car, laid the boy inside. “Reckons you’ll see a print on your shoulder.”

  OVER THE WEEKS, an urgency spread across Wilda’s skin, in through her ears, strapping her brain. A family of aggressve creepers, and eventually she could focus on nothing else besides the letter. So easy, so easy. And everything would be alright. Of course it would. She could picture the boys playing. Doing their schoolwork. Helping Lewis with the birch and clearing dead trees. Young brothers. Good brothers. Strong. Everyone would be just fine.

  When the first storm arrived, blanketing the entire house, Wilda could resist no longer. She slit open the top of the envelope. Standing on the back stoop in slippers and beige cabled cardigan, snow falling soundlessly all around her, she dug out the letter. Unfolded it and read each word slowly, carefully. Read it once again. Refolded it, and then placed it neatly into the side pocket of her sweater. It was exactly what she had imagined. Still, shock seized her, made her clumsy, and the old brass key she had held so many times before slipped out from between her stiff fingers. She dropped to knees, plunged her bare hands into the fluffy snow to retrieve it.

  A few yards away, Melvin and Toby were constructing opposing walls of snow. Melvin’s was a smooth and sculpted semicircle, Toby’s a fat mound that offered no protection from Melvin’s pelting snowballs. She put her hand to her mouth, was going to call out, but she saw Toby was enjoying himself. Plunked down behind his crude barrier, he snorted, rolled like a hyper puppy, gnawed away the clumps of snow that stuck to his wooly mittens.

  She stepped back inside, kicked off her slippers, hung her cardigan on a wire hanger. Gathered up her boots, her long coat, her gloves. Rolled up the good red shawl Melvin had given her last Christmas, tucked it into her purse. Lewis’s Polaroid camera was sitting just next to the canister set, and once she was dressed, ready, she plucked it up, tromped out to the boys, calling for a momentary truce between the warrior and the target.

  “Why do we got to stop? I idn’t hurting him.” Melvin packed snow between his mitts, and when Toby turned, bent over, Melvin let it fly, battering Toby’s rump. “See, he loves it!”

  “I know, I know,” she said, almost whispering. “I just want one photo is all. Let’s make one perfect picture.”

  “What do you need that
for? You can look at us every day.”

  “I just want one, Melvin. One.” She crouched down, fumbled with the snap on the hard brown case.

  “No pictures, today, thank-you, ladies.” He put up his mitten, in stop sign fashion. “Put your cameras away.”

  “Please, Melvin. Won’t take a minute. One. That’s it. I promise.” Snow landed on her shoulders, patted her face, making her blink over and over and over.

  Melvin cocked his head, stared at her. “Well, okay. Just the one, though.” And he scrambled, four-legged, towards Toby, grabbed him by the scarf, yanked him in with an overzealous spurt of brotherly love. Icy red cheeks plastered together, they both hollered, “You’re feet smells like stinkeee cheeeeese.” Several teeth missing, they held their patchy grins, even though it hurt. Frost penetrating empty gums, baby enamel.

  “Thank-you,” she said after she’d clicked. She held her hand to the camera as the picture slid out, watched the dark square until the boys’ image emerged.

  Then she went back inside, tracked snow across the linoleum, and dropped the camera onto the table. Photo nestled inside a clean handkerchief, she placed it in her purse, then stooped to brush the crystals from her slacks. The clock chimed, a dozen tinny signals. She had to hurry if she was going to make it. Couldn’t count on delays just because of the inclement weather. She did not look over her shoulder as she rushed out through the back door.

  Just as she reached the bottom step, Melvin blocked her way.

  “Where you going?” he asked. “With your purse.”

  “I needs to, um... I don’t have a... I just... A little air, is all, Melvin. I needs that.”

  “We’s going, too,” Melvin replied. “Yes, siree, we’s going wherever you’re going.”

  “Okay, okay. But only for a bit.”

  “A bit of what?” he asked, but she didn’t answer.

  In the shed now, Wilda nudged Toby into the stroller. Fiddling with straps, pushing in damp fabric, she struggled to close the clasp. She shoved the stroller out through the door, wheels turning sideways, resisting the growing layer of snow.

  Melvin watched her, shaking his head and smiling. “You’re being silly. Strollers idn’t built for snow, Mom. Why don’t you use that?” He nodded towards a corner of the shed. Long plastic sled propped against the wall, straw-colored rope tied to the front.

  “Oh yes,” she replied, unbuckling Toby, straps flying backwards. “Yes. What was I thinking?”

  “Not that he got to get a ride. He idn’t so fat he can’t walk.”

  “But he’s so slow.” She lifted Toby’s feet over the edge, dropped them. “He wanders. You two don’t even need to go, you know. I just wants air. A nice winter walk.”

  “Sure, I likes air. You and air is my two favorite things.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “And Toby?”

  “He don’t count, Mom. Toad’s the same as me, and everyone’s got to be one of their own favorite things, right?”

  Snowflakes landed on her eyelashes, melted. “Let’s get going,” she said.

  They trudged down the driveway, Wilda and Melvin pushing through a drift of snow, Toby holding the sides of the sled and squealing as it sprang forward with a jerk, then stopped. When they made it to the road, it was easier to move, the ground was level, free of drifts.

  “Where is we going to anyways?” Melvin said. He was behind the sled, stomping hard into every one of Wilda’s boot prints.

  “To get the air.”

  “Not far, darling.”

  “What do we got to be out for? Couldn’t you just wait for Dad?”

  “No, Melvin.”

  “This don’t make no sense. I wants a hot chocolate. My feet is froze.”

  “Sometimes things don’t make sense.” Switched the rope to her other elbow, hauled with fresh drive.

  “Do you want some breadcrumbs in your pockets?” he joked.

  She did not smile in return.

  At the end of the laneway, Melvin and Toby were allowed to go no further. Toby climbed out of the sled, stood side by side with his brother, and together they watched their mother leaving them. “We’ll wait,” Melvin had said to her.

  “No, Melvin.”

  “We’s waiting.” He crossed his arms, spaced his boots. “Until you comes back.”

  “Please, Mom. On the side. Case the plow comes by.”

  “No, boys.”

  He stared straight into her face then, but she would not return his gaze. One last attempt. Gently. Softly. So perfectly. “Please, Mom. Please. Let us wait for you. My feet is wonderful warm. For hours. We’ll be good as gold. Better than gold. Right, Toad?” Arm slung over his brother’s shoulder, an irresistible team.

  “We’ll be good as, as, as good as hamburgers. Fat juicy ones.”

  Biting the air. “Harrumph.”

  “Okay. Okay, yes,” she finally said. A beguiling smile lit up her lower face, though it did not touch her eyes. “You fellers can wait.”

  Melvin’s heart leapt, then plunged when he heard her say, “Until you gets cold.”

  And when she turned, so close to him, Melvin could feel a sharp wind coming off her, and even though he was still young he knew it was a door slamming shut.

  They could not see her feet moving, and she appeared to be floating over the snow in her ice blue coat. Floating, until there was no way of knowing where the storm ended and she began. Melvin’s arms went out, navy mittens waving, as though he thought he might find her among the crowded air, bring her back. But she was long gone, and his arms soon returned to his sides. Toby reached up, and Melvin’s hand opened wide, one damp mitten closing around the tiny other. Finger pinching fingers.

  “I don’t see her no more,” Toby murmured. “Do we got to wait?”

  Melvin stood there, staring.

  “She’ll be back, Mel. After she finds some bread. Or eggs. Or butter. That’s what moms does. Looks ’round for milk and stuff.”

  He never wavered.

  Toby sensed something different, now. He wiggled. “I got to pee.” Pressed his knees together. “Bad. Real bad.”

  “Go home, Toad.” His voice crackled. “Go home.”

  When Toby could wait no longer, he brushed his brother, nudged him towards the sled, and Melvin did not resist. He sat in the sled, then lay down, and Toby lifted Melvin’s legs in, folded his arms across his chest. Toby stepped into the rope, hauled it up to his hips, and began to walk. One step after the other, don’t stop, don’t stop. Made his way through the snow. “We’re going home, now, Mel. She’ll come back. I knows she will. She got to.” And the words, this new need to take care of his brother, propelled him forward, even though his bladder had let go, and the cold jean was rubbing his thighs.

  ON THE DRIVE to the hospital, Lewis had to keep his window cracked, icy breeze numbing his watery eyes, his exposed neck. He felt sick to his stomach. If he’d been any more dismissive of Mrs. Verge’s claims, this young life would have been extinguished. He glanced into his rearview mirror, saw the curled form of Terry Verge on the seat. Though well into his teens, he appeared small, deflated. No one’s life should be so bad that they’d give it all up for a girl. Let alone one of the Chafe sisters. Witchy women, the lot of them. Lived in a rundown trailer, hiked onto cement blocks, sour drunk of a mother and four daughters. He’d heard the oldest one provided a kneel-down service for gentlemen in the storeroom of Stubby’s Pub, but he’d yet to catch her. He would though, and for a moment he thought to say something to Terry about his choices, but stopped himself.

  He rolled up the window, considered that Terry might be cold. The nausea was passing, and what lay beneath it was tender awareness that he was blessed. By his wife, his two good boys, their cozy clean home tucked away from the drone of the small town. This sort of turmoil would never happen to him, not these days. Together with Wilda, he would raise his boys up properly. Not with slaps from a belt, but with unambiguous expectation. Clear guidance. A good example. They would grow up to be good me
n. Contributors to society. Nothing like the trash he scraped off the sidewalks or hauled up out of ditches every second day. Or worse, the lost souls, wiping their arses in the grim reaper’s cloak, taunting him. Catch me if you can you dirty bastard. For no good reason whatsoever.

  “You alright back there?” Craned his neck to see Terry’s swollen face. “You doing alright, my son?” Eyes off the road for only a second, and Lewis glided over the hidden yellow lines, almost striking a bus that had formed out of a thick swirl of snow, barreling along in the opposite direction. Quickly, he corrected himself, swerved, backside of his car shivered, then straightened. “Jesus,” he said, the word a single breath out. Two eyes, two hands on the wheel. From here on in.

  Pulling into the hospital, he unloaded Terry, told the tale, said he’d make the drive over to see Mrs. Verge, bring her along as soon as he was able. Back in the car, he leaned his head against the steering wheel, closed his eyes, and there on the inside of his eyelids was a likeness of the bus. When he nearly collided, his police mind had taken a snapshot, the many rows of empty seats, a single person, familiar silhouette, seated two-thirds of the way back. A flick of bright red, a scarf perhaps, covering a head. He opened his eyes, looked out at the road. Turned the key. Desperate to get where they’re going, Lewis thought, as he turned out onto the road. Or else, desperate to get away from where they already was.