Glass Boys

by Nicole Lundrigan

  “FFFF-UCK, THAT wawas close.”

  “You. Yeah. Ye– yeah.”

  “If fa– father finds...”

  “Hee, hee, he’ll skin us.”

  “Swear,” Melvin breathed, hands gripping his knees. “Swear, Toad, you won’t tell. On our mother’s grave.”

  Toby stood up, took two deep breathes, squinted in the early light. “But she idn’t dead.”

  “I reckons she is.”

  “You do?”

  Melvin stretched, rubbed his backside roughly, as though trying to encourage circulation. “Else she would’ve come back.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who could resist two young fellers like ourselves?”

  “Yeah,” Toby snorted now.

  “Especially me. I’m that handsome. Got to beat the girls off with a frigging baseball bat.”

  “Charm the whiskers right off the catfish.”

  “That’s not whiskers, dumbass, they’re called barbels.”

  “Sure, Melvin. They goes around lifting weights in their free time. With their mustaches.”

  “You’re so stupid, Toad,” he said, but there was no meanness in his voice, and he wrapped his elbow around Toby’s skull, ruffled his hair.

  “Stupid? Look where we is. We’ll be dead meat if we gets caught.”

  “No one’s going to catch us. I doubts he saw us. Couldn’t hold his piss is all. Daughter unstripping in the toilet.”

  More snorting.

  “Besides, she does that on purpose.”

  “Does what?”

  “Leaves her curtains open.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Jimmy told me. Darce told him, and Andrew told him, and she told Jason.”

  “What she go do that for?”

  “She likes it. That’s why. Likes being watched.” Melvin chewed his thumbnail, spit a peeling off his tongue. “Sometimes there’s two or three of us there. Watching.”

  “Up in the tree?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Holy.”

  Nodding.

  “So you didn’t just happen across it. Like you said.”

  “C’mon. Who do you think I is, frigging Ponce de León?”

  “What?”

  “Forget it, Toad. Not much harm in it. Gets us up and out, don’t it? Bit of fresh air.”

  “Yeah,” Toby replied. “Up and out.” He felt a bit shaky, as though he’d been sick, fever just releasing him. He didn’t know much about DeeDee, but her younger sister, Angie, was in Toby’s grade, and he knew a few things about her. Toby had seen the mother once, remembered her standing outside the school at the start of a snowstorm. The bus had already slid out of the parking lot, and those who lived within a mile had to wait for someone to meet them. Walk them home, in case the storm disoriented them, lured them out in front of a car to meet their demise.

  He remembered how Angie had flung herself into that oversized navy snowsuit, hugged it, and her mother’s arms remained limp, not even gloves moving. Her face gray and thin and resigned. No tug of a smile on that mouth, while other moms bent on one knee, body braced for impact of a flying child, older brothers guffawing, jamming snow down the skinny necks of their siblings.

  Another storm, and no one arrived for Angie Fagan. Perched on the very edge of the concrete step, she waited, swiping each snowflake from the brown paper lunch bag on her lap. A young teacher asked Toby’s father to drive her home, and when Angie slid into the backseat, he joked, “Should I read you your rights?” Angie’s face was blank. Toby’s father cleared his throat as he turned the key, said, “I’ll get you right home, maid. Won’t be but a minute.”

  Peering around the edge of his hood, Toby had eyed her with curiosity. He hadn’t forgotten how she had saved him that past summer. Saved him with her squeal when Clayton Gibbon had ripped off his trunks. When she peeked back at him, he turned sharply to face the dashboard. Counted the scratches in the plastic until they reached her driveway, long and winding, lined with dead trees that no one had bothered to clear or burn.

  She jumped out of the backseat, book bag in one mitt, lunch bag in the other, and skipped past a number of white mounds towards her back door. Toby imagined what was beneath the snow, curled up dead bodies, hungry animals, dozing, pink tongues just behind sharp teeth. His eyes widened when the door slapped open, and Angie’s older brother stood there, elbow on the door frame, screen door held in place with his boot. As she began to dart past him, he grabbed her arm, yanked, her tiny head sinking halfway into the neck of her coat.

  Driver’s side window rolled down, snowflakes tumbling in, and Toby’s father said firmly, “Garrett.”

  And Garrett Glass simply responded, “Constable,” before he let the screen door slap shut.

  Once the car was turned around, Toby said, “How come no one come get her?”

  “Don’t concern you,” his father replied, shutting off the heat. “You steer clear of that whole crowd. Like I told you a thousand times, nothing good ever growed in or around that house.”

  But Toby couldn’t help but be a little interested in the rumors. Kids would yammer on about Angie Fagan and her sister, say their father made them pee behind a drape, but when they were bad, he burned the drape, and they had to pee in front of him. They said that Angie got her cowlick from her father’s fat tongue, and when she walked by they let their tongues hang out, called her “calf brain.” “When you gonna grow your udders, calf brain?” Someone told Toby that Angie’s father diddled her, and Toby didn’t quite know what diddled meant, so he had just said “Cool.”

  Melvin snapped a stick over his thigh, tossed the two halves into the ditch. “Don’t take it so serious. They’re all fucked up, anyway.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Toby said with a faint smile, but inside he felt a dampness, a musty cloth squeezed over his guts. He thought of his metal soldiers, the intricate setups, troops advancing, the battles. That miniature world on the nicked surface of his desk seemed so distant, and he didn’t want to let it go. Panic boiled up in his intestines, as he sensed something was happening, and he wouldn’t have a choice. His head was full, dizzy, overflowing with a soup of images that made him queasy and giddy at the same time.

  “Shit, Toad. You looks like someone just died.”

  Toby wiped his nose, bit his cheek, wasn’t sure whether a laugh or a cry was tucked in his throat.

  “I figured you was eleven. Old enough to be a man. See some things.”

  “Yeah.”

  Melvin plucked up a shard of shale. “Hand me your finger.”

  “What?”

  “Hand me your finger, I said.”

  “What? Do you want me to crack it off?”

  Melvin grabbed Toby’s fist, forced a finger out, pressed the sharp edge of rock into the fleshy tip.

  Toby hauled back, shook his hand, “Shit, man,” sucked his finger. Mumbled, “What’d you do that for?”

  “Get it out of your mouth,” Melvin shouted through clenched teeth. “Do you think I wants your spit in me?” He slit his own finger, then pressed his finger to Toby’s, let the blood mix and smear.

  “Blood brothers,” Toby said, and he looked up at Melvin and smiled. “We’s blood brothers, now.” Sins of the morning losing color as he considered this new and deeper connection.

  “Yep. ’Bout time.” Melvin licked his finger, smeared the remainder on his jeans, then hugged his brother’s shoulder. “We’ll do some big things together, Toad. Some day. Wilbur and Orville. That’s us two.”

  Squinting in the sun, Toby cocked his head to one side, looked up at his brother, “I knows who Wilbur is. That pig. With the spider. But who’s Orville?”

  Melvin stepped aside, made his eyes go googly. “Haven’t you never opened a history book? Never in your life?” He shook his head. “You knows, the Wright brothers? Airplane? Human flight? Ding, ding. Any bells?”

  Toby smirked sheepishly, said, “Oh, yeah, yeah. I knows.

  Right. Yeah, yeah.”

 
“No you don’t. But it idn’t your fault. You don’t learn shit in school. Moms is supposed to teach that stuff.”

  “I just forgot is all.”

  “I’ll kick it up, Toad. Get you going on some books.”

  “Alright.”

  “Get you some good art books too.” Wink.

  “I can’t draw for nothing.”

  Base of his hand knocking his head. “Not those kind, numbnuts. I meant nice art. Pictures of paintings and stuff.”

  “Yeah. Okay, I guess.”

  “Man, those books is filled with tits. Asses, too. And you can leave it right out on the counter, and the Verge’ll pat you on the back, tell you how good you’re doing.”

  Toby laughed when Melvin grabbed him, one hand to his armpit, the other to the back of his trousers. Hoisted him in the air. “I’ll show you human flight. Fly you to the moon, Alice. To the moon.” Melvin grunted as he tried to swing Toby, managing a quarter-circle turn before Toby flumped back to earth.

  “Could’ve told you, Mellie. Reptiles don’t belong in space.”

  “Amphibians, Toad. Toads is amphibians.”

  Grinning. “Yeah, yeah. I knew that. Just testing you.”

  They were up on the road now, banging about, Melvin smoking cigarettes while Toby kicked stones and stomped in puddles. Toby found a thin stick, dragged it along the soft ground, writing his name, ringlets of mud falling away from the edges of his letters.

  “Do you really think Mom’s dead?”

  “Nah. She’s probably off somewhere in some big city.”

  “Like where?”

  “Like Paris.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Eating.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s probably three hundred pounds and she got her fat arse stuck in one of those chairs in front of a coffee shop, and all they can do is feed her and splash a bucket of soapy water over her once a week, and she’s growing and growing.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. What did you think?”

  “I don’t know. I figured she found better kids. Kids she liked.”

  Melvin shot his cigarette to the dirt, squashed it. “That’s dumb, Toad.”

  “Yeah, I knows.”

  “Stop saying you knows everything. ’Cause you don’t. She was my mother for eight years, and let me tell you, I don’t miss her. Not one bloody bit.”

  “Yeah, me neither.”

  “She wasn’t much of one to begin with. Selfish bitch, if you asks me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I knowed, as sure as there’s shit in a frigging cat, she was just waiting to get out. Get on with it. I knowed that my whole fucking life. Since the fucking second I was born.” Authority in his voice. “When she trotted off to frigging la-la-land, I said to myself, fuck that, now I can fucking relax.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t mean—”

  “And I tell you this, too,” he said, scraping a sharp line with his sneaker, “if someone don’t want you, if someone don’t think you got at least a few squirts of sunshine poked up your ass, you’re better off without them. You and me, Toad. That’s all we needs.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.”

  “And the occasional glimpse of DeeDee Fagan in her baby suit!” Snickering.

  Muscles pulling at the side of his cheek, Toby couldn’t resist a half smile. As long as he could remember, Melvin had had the capacity to shock him, delight him, empty him out, or fill him up. When it mattered, when Toby wavered on the edge of some gloomy revelation, Melvin was there, shoring up the walls, forcing the sadness out. Toby looked at his brother, lanky body, long limbs, shaggy brown hair, boundless energy, infinite knowledge about the world, even though he’d never left Knife’s Point. And Toby knew that whatever well-being existed within him came from having Melvin as a brother.

  They heard the slow and steady grind of car wheels creeping along the gravel. They both looked at each other, surprised, as this was a road that rarely saw a vehicle. Toby had the notion to dart into the woods again, but instead he fell in step with Melvin who stood tall, whistled a jaunty tune as though they were out for a morning stroll instead of spying on a naked girl.

  They never turned or looked, but kept walking at their even pace, one, two, one, two, as the car approached from behind. Edging into their peripheral vision now, they saw that it was a brown Chevette, rusting holes along the corner of the door, front side nose dented inwards. Wheels slowed their turning, helpless crackles as shale split beneath their weight.

  Melvin stopped, turned to look. “Fuck, man,” he whispered.

  “That’s her brother.”

  “Whose?”

  “Who do you think, dickwad?”

  Toby emitted a low hum, mind awash with the thought of angry hands gripping his testicles, yanking until that thin strip of skin tore. Ow. Ow. Bloop. Gone. Fear squirted from somewhere inside his mouth, tasted like old sweat on his cheeks and gums.

  Heads touching, Melvin said, “Jesus, Toad. Wake up a pack of wolves with that sound. Act cool. Act normal.”

  “Yeah,” Toby managed.

  “Someone must’ve seen us. Just say nothing.”

  “Uh– could be just a run. Sunday drive, sort of thing.”

  “Yeah. Sure. On Wednesday. Makes good sense, Toad.”

  They heard coughing. “Hey, bud. How’s it going?” Jovial tone.

  Garrett Glass’s voice plucked a tight thread inside Toby’s chest, and he reached out to touch his brother, but Melvin shook him off.

  “Going good, Garrett. Out checking a few snares is all.”

  “Is you, now?”

  “Yes, we is,” Toby announced, louder than necessary.

  “Snares,” he repeated, eyelids drooping slightly, head bobbing in heartbeat time. Then he ran his tongue along his top lip, paused in the middle.

  Toby imagined he looked somewhat hungry, said, “You can have one if you likes, Garrett. For yourself. One of our rabbits.”

  Elbow to the ribs, “But we didn’t get none. Did we, Toad?”

  Garrett cocked his head, smiled at Toby. “You want a job, bud? Earn ten bucks?” His left hand, dangling out the window, lightly stroked the side of the car.

  Toby exhaled. All was well. They hadn’t been caught.

  “What do you got in mind?” Melvin.

  “Come here. I shows you. You got to have a look is all.”

  “What?”

  “Come ’ere.” Lazy wave. He didn’t blink, breathing slowly.

  “Just you. The little one. See what you thinks of my prize.”

  They both sidled up to the car, window rolled completely down, and they looked in, newspaper across his lap.

  “So, we wants the ten bucks.”

  Garrett locked eyes with Toby, then shifted the newspaper. One hand was moving beneath, and it took them several moments to realize what he was doing, gripping a purplish shaft, pumping, pumping. He stared at them, eyes glassy and excited, pumped faster.

  Melvin knocked Toby sideways when he thrust his hands through the window, pinched his fingers around Garrett’s chicken neck. “Dirty fucker,” he screamed, and Garrett gagged, banged his head from side to side, gripping Melvin’s fingers. Newspaper had fallen to the side, jeans and blue briefs pulled down, bare ass slapping the vinyl seat, Garrett bucking, the prize suddenly limp, knees pressed against the steering wheel.

  “Sick fuck,” Melvin spat. “Gonna kill ye, ye sick fuck.”

  Hands on the wheel now, foot stamping on the gas, and the butt of the car shivered, sprung forward, but Melvin didn’t release his grip. Didn’t let go, even when his feet were running sideways as Garrett drove, feet tripping over themselves, then feet gone out from underneath Melvin, car gaining speed, sneakers bouncing, Melvin yelling but still holding on. Dust cloud choking the fresh air, rocks flying. One second of eternity. Two. Until his elbows buckled, body slid down the side of the car, and he dropped. Head striking a rounded rock near the side of the road. Like fruit splattering.
The sound of it coming at Toby in waves.

  AT THE HOSPITAL, doctors were hasty when they looked him over. “You gave yourself a good knock, young man.” Then to Toby and their father: “A concussion.” “What does that mean?” “Essentially, bruised brain tissue.” “What does that mean?” “Can’t say for sure. There’s a lot of uncertainty with concussions.” A nurse, flat feet, flat face, shuffled in, snapped on gloves, rinsed bright blood from the oozing gash underneath his hair, bound his head with strips of white gauze. “Vomiting. Headache,” she said without emotion. “You might expect some shift in personality. Most likely temporary. Time will tell.” She sent them home with instructions on how to properly keep the road rash on his back clean and dry.

  Toby placed a red bucket beside Melvin’s bed, rinsed it each time the bottom was carpeted with strings of spit, greenish bile. There were hours of fidgety dozing, and Toby gripped Melvin’s hand, waited it out. “You should eat to the table, Tobe,” their father said. “Else you’ll be drawing in the mice.” Toby shrugged, chewed more carefully on his peanut butter and squashberry jelly. Even though his father said Melvin was tough, would be just fine, Toby didn’t want to leave his brother, didn’t want to stop watching his eyes, flickering constantly beneath lids stuck tight, dreaming, rerouting pathways. Body working to bring him back good as new.

  When Melvin awoke in the early evening, pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, he looked at Toby’s smiling face, growled, “What the fuck is you gawking at?” He kicked off the blankets, jolted upright, then clutched his head, two raking hands, “Sweee-eet fuck. Uh—” Sputtering, vomit shot from his mouth, nostrils, and he fell back onto his pillow, back into the faint halo of dried blood and sweat. “I got to get the fuck out of here,” he squealed, still gripping his head. “Get the fuck.”

  Toby stood, backing away, just as their father rushed into the room. “What the hell’s happening?” he said, looking from Melvin to Toby. “Don’t give me that goofing around garbage. How the hell did you strike your head?”

  “How the fuck do I know?” Melvin growled. He remembered nothing of the accident. Aggravated by the question. Toby blinked, opened his mouth. Closed it. Wished he could extinguish his own memory. Furtive hands sliding up the thick shaft of a candle, clapping the flame. Words tangled inside his head. “Do you wanna see something?” Brother. “Do you wanna see something?” Garrett in the car. DeeDee, too. Naked and aware. Happy birthday. The snarled thoughts all binding his chest, arousing a sick sense of pressure inside his trousers.