Glass Boys

by Nicole Lundrigan

  A mouse quivered in the shadow of a shrub, then darted across the deadly gap of open space. Reaching the boy, it pressed its body to his hardened jeans, skittered up towards the pocket of his jacket. Nose under the flap, the mouse began to tear away strips of a hand-written note, working, working with its long yellowed teeth. Bunching the damp shreds inside inflated cheeks.

  With inbred patience, the owl watched, waited, and when the moment was exactly right, she dropped from her perch, cut soundlessly through the air, diving downwards, wings extended, beak wide open. Swooped over the hapless child, and in one snap removed the tiny violator. Swallowed it whole.

  THE FIRST FEW times he’d come, Lewis had been filled with anger. Tempted to take a brick and at three in the morning smash out the front windows. Destroy the one possession she somehow managed to love. Love so much more than him and his boys. But now, the anger had faded, and only a dry sadness remained. Making him suck spit from the crevices of his mouth and swallow over and over again.

  Lewis arrived in the city and parked across the street. As he always did, he watched Wilda in the faint glow, dusting and rearranging. Padding among the items. Pausing to lean her head against a worn bookshelf. That night, as Lewis spied, she came to the entrance, stood there, hands touching the glass. Lewis hunched down, worried she might spot him. The humiliation of such an encounter would gut him. But soon, she turned and touched the wall. The store went black, and she dissolved into the shadows. He waited several hours more, until all the drunkards had passed without disruption, then cringed as the car growled into life, and he made the journey home.

  Over the years, he had watched her hair grow and her style change from skirts to trousers, and the displays in her front window shift only slightly from what was there to more of the same. Not once was she out, and not once did she have company. And as much as Lewis’s insides wanted him to step right up to her and ask why, his hand not once touched the handle, opened the door. His foot never met the ground of that thieving city.

  IN THE EARLY morning, Toby couldn’t find his note anywhere. He checked every pocket of his jacket, ran his hands down the sleeves. Had he stuffed it into Melvin’s jacket pocket instead? Same style, color, only three sizes larger. Toby dropped to his knees, checked the floor of the closet, a jumble of shoes and gravel and dust balls. Nothing. His first love note had vanished, and his face went instantly red, even though he knew Melvin wouldn’t rib him. Wouldn’t joke. Still, when he glanced at the pen and paper, he didn’t have the stomach to compose another.

  He went outside, followed the rising sun until he came across a stretch of dandelions, growing in a protected area near the side of a large rock. The flowers curled outwards, just waking up, and he plucked them one at a time, wiped the sticky milk from the stems on his jeans. He walked towards their meeting place, and smelled the intense odor of spruce, as though the warmth of morning was releasing what the night cold had consumed. By the time they met at the boulder, the flowers were closed once again and limp in his fist. He hid them behind his back, but his fist wouldn’t open. Wouldn’t let them drop into a shadow. And he cringed as he watched his hand move out around his side, and hold them up to her.

  She stuck her nose in the handful of flaccid weeds, leaned her head onto his shoulder. He thought to tell her about the note, but decided against it. When she looked up at him and smiled, a dusting of yellow powder on her nose, he realized he didn’t need to write anything. She already knew.

  26

  “TOAD!”

  Bubble at the bottom of a thick dark drink. Knocked free, floating upwards.

  “Toad! Wake up.”

  “Ah-huh.”

  Breeching the surface.

  “Something happened.”

  “What?”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  One eye open, Toby turned towards his brother, rigid and shaking in the bed.

  “What? You had a dream?”

  “No, no. I knows something.”

  “You knows what?”

  “Someone is coming for you. Coming to get you. And I knows there’s no way out from it, and these ones trying to help you can’t do nothing for you. They couldn’t stop no one. And I was just there and I was waiting in the dark for someone wanting to hurt you, and I couldn’t look everywhere at once, and I had to turn my head, and even though I got us into a corner, I still couldn’t see everywhere I needed to see, and I couldn’t even breathe, like someone was stomping on my chest, and I knew it was only a matter of time before someone showed up to kill you. Take your life away. Leave you in the black. And I decided then and there I’d rather put a gun in my mouth before I sees someone do that to you.”

  Silence.

  “You fucking fall asleep on me?”

  Eyes wide open at the sound of Melvin’s queer trembling voice. “No.”

  “Someone’s coming for you.”

  “No, they idn’t. Was just a dream, Mellie.”

  “’Twas fucking real, man. Scared the shit right out of me.”

  Flapped the covers.

  “It was just a dream, I said. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “Yeah. Not like everyone else.”

  “No one lies.”

  “They do, Toad. They all do. Someone’s coming to get you.

  Maybe me, too. But I don’t care about me. You got to be safe, Toad. Safe.”

  “I got no one coming for me, Mellie. I swears.”

  “You do. You do.” Starting to whimper. “I knows, Toad.”

  “Did you take something?”

  “What do that mean?”

  “I means did you swallow something that might, you know, give you funny dreams or something?”

  “It idn’t dinner, Toad. You don’t get it. Don’t you hear the rumbling?”

  “What rumbling?”

  “Like a piece of junk car. Idling.”

  “There’s no car, Mellie.”

  “Listen!”

  “Okay, okay.” He didn’t understand, and the sound of his brother’s mewing frightened Toby beyond anything he’d ever known. He would fight to the death for his brother, but how could he fight something he couldn’t see? Couldn’t hear?

  “Someone’s coming. Things is gonna change soon. Soon. And I can’t see everywhere. I got blind spots.”

  “Is your head hurting? Should I get Dad?”

  “No, fuck, no.”

  Melvin lay ramrod straight, and his skinny body shook in the bed.

  “You sleep, Mellie.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. You don’t be scared, Mellie. Sleep and I’ll watch for a while. I’m a good watcher. I won’t barely blink.”

  After a while, Melvin turned on his side, brought his knees up towards his chest, and Toby lay next to him, curled his body around his brother’s, trying to hold what was left together. He felt the sharp points of Melvin’s spine through the damp T-shirt, wished he knew how to pad them. Lids pressed back, Toby kept his promise as best he could. Stayed awake. His owl eyes trying to find some light in the darkness.

  A ROLL OF pure white shag. Garrett’s final payment. He’d lost his job at Clarey’s Paints and Carpets after working reliably for six years. Most people would guess he was fired, or maybe he simply didn’t perform well enough as a salesperson. But nothing could be further from the truth. Garrett quit. Plain and simple. He told Mr. Clarey that he would never set foot in his store again.

  What started innocently enough turned into something vile. Eventually, Garrett understood, it was bound to. During those years of work, Garrett and Mr. Clarey rarely conversed, and when they did, Mr. Clarey never met Garrett’s eyes. Instead, the man gazed at Garrett’s throat, at his Adam’s apple. And Garrett was aware of this look of appetite in his eyes, as though the three cans of wieners hadn’t quite filled him up. Garrett didn’t trust Mr. Clarey. Not in the least. A man who often pressed his nose into a roll of underpad, inhaling deeply.

  Mr. Clarey had called Garrett into his offic
e at closing that day, and when Garrett slipped in through the door, Mr. Clarey asked him to close it.

  “Close it?”

  “Yes, my son. This is a business meeting, idn’t it? These things got to happen behind closed doors.” And, eyes fixed on Garrett’s swallowing throat, Mr. Clarey winked. Winked.

  “Oh. Oh, okay.” Garrett was nervous that he’d been found out. Perhaps Mr. Clarey had discovered the box containing his supply of carpet cutters was nearly empty. Garrett had stolen over a dozen of them, hated to not have one in his pocket, in his hand. The clicking blade had become a source of comfort.

  “Come ’round here,” he said, and patted the chair next to his.

  “Come have a look, my son.”

  Garrett stepped around the wooden desk, and sat down on the chair. Seats nearly touching.

  “You want a drink?” Mr. Clarey hauled open the lowest drawer to his right, plucked out a bottle.

  “No. No sir.”

  “Suit yourself, my son.”

  And Garrett watched as he opened the bottle, splashed an ounce or two into the glass. Mr. Clarey had clean, shiny fingernails, and hairy fingers that made Garrett nervous. Garrett imagined Mr. Clarey could touch anything with those stubby, pale digits, and no one would ever feel upset. Think there was something wrong. Innocent doctor’s fingers. “Really, Mr. Clarey. I got to be on my way.”

  “Hold your horse, boy. I wants to talk to you.”

  “You do?” Garrett’s blood began to flow faster.

  Mr. Clarey sat back in his chair, screwed joints creaking when pushed off onto the two back legs. He rubbed his bulbous belly. One leg bent and up, trousers climbing, and Garrett stared straight ahead, would not allow the bare skin on Mr. Clarey’s leg to come into view. “Glass, you knows I got a boy, right?”

  “A boy?”

  “Yes. My boy, Wayne.”

  “Oh, yes. Wayne.”

  “My son. And I knows, after these years, you heard me complaining about his lifestyle. Having babies with any woman he could poke it into,” a nudge here, “working just enough to pay for his booze. He don’t want nothing respectable.”

  “Okay, Mr. Clarey. Okay.”

  Mr. Clarey snapped back to four legs, put his arm around Garrett, and drew him closer. “Have a look at this paper,” he said.

  Garrett saw a jumble of numbers and rows, and smelled Mr. Clarey’s breath and some spicy cologne. He was close enough to count the deep pores on his gullet, to fear what lived behind those whiskers crawling out of his nose.

  “We’ve had a stellar year,” Mr. Clarey announced, and he leaned over, gently slapped Garrett’s thigh. “Best ever. And I got some wonderful news. I wants you, Gary. I wants you.”

  Shallow breaths, dizziness, and the numbers blurred. Garrett looked down, trembled as he saw Mr. Clarey’s hand, five, ten, fifteen fat white fingers. Touching him. I wants you. He could feel the dirty adoration through the thin wool of his dress pants, and as he watched those fingers lay there until they aged a year or more, teasing, teasing, then slid down the side of his thigh, returned to their rightful space. I wants you.

  “We’re moving up. Bigger space. More selection. People is loving their floor coverings, and putting out good dollars to make their homes nice. We’s on a roll, my son.” Chuckle. “No pun intended. And you’re the best there is. You know that? You could sell ice to the Eskimos, as they says. I wants you to be my right-hand man. Do you hear me, Gary? Do you hear me, my boy?”

  But Garrett didn’t hear a word of it. He stood, knocked over his chair.

  “No,” he breathed. “No, Mr. Clarey. I won’t do nothing no more.”

  “What?”

  “You got to find someone else. ’Cause I won’t be your boy.”

  Mr. Clarey shook his head. “I’m real surprised you feels that way. I thought we had a good thing going.”

  “We never had nothing going. Nothing at all.” Garrett reached into his pocket, felt the carpet cutter. Gripped it, slid his fingers up to release the blade. He’d do it if he had to.

  “So, you’re done?”

  “I’m done.”

  “Done, done?”

  “Yes, Mr. Clarey.”

  “Well, well, well.” Still shaking his head, arms folded across his chest. “I owes you. Eight days. You can come back for that.”

  “I won’t then.”

  “Well, we got to settle something. I don’t want to be owing someone. That’s not the way I does business.”

  Garrett looked around. Saw a leftover roll in the corner. “I’ll take that. White shag.” And I’ll keep the carpet cutter in my pocket. Click out, click in.

  “Go on, then. If that’s what you wants. But I tell you, you got me run right over. I thought we was a team, Glass. You and me. Putting down carpet in every house in Knife’s Point.”

  Garrett plucked up the roll and ran out the back door. He darted down the alleyway and into the street. A group moved past him, dipping in and out of stores, nodding and smiling. Acting strangely normal. Garrett didn’t understand the world. Didn’t understand the people living in it. But he knew enough not to strip naked, even though, more than anything, he wanted the bright sunlight to clean his skin.

  “DAD?”

  “Yes, my son.”

  Toby leaned against the doorway of his father’s room. A square space filled with papers and books and hooks and feathers and rods and reels. As the years went on, Toby found his father spent more and more time tucked away inside that room, hunched over a tying vice, fashioning miniscule flies that were never used.

  Toby’s palms were sweaty, tongue dry. He was about to open his mouth, and betray his brother.

  “I needs to talk to you.”

  His father didn’t turn to face Toby. Instead, he reached up and angled the neck on the silver lamp.

  “Now?”

  “Um, I guess so.”

  “Shoot. I’m all ears.”

  “Well. I. Well.”

  Toby heard a gentle chuckle, saw his father’s shoulders lifting and falling. “Is this girl problems, Toby? You’d be barking up the wrong tree if it is. Maybe Mrs. Verge can give you some advice.

  She’s a wonderful lady, really wonderful. You know that?”

  “No, no. Not girls.”

  His father swiveled around, looked at him over the top of his glasses. “What is it, then? You in trouble?”

  Toby reached behind him, pinched his own back, and spat it out. “Mellie. It’s Mellie. I needs to talk to you ’bout Mellie.”

  Instant redness in his father’s pale cheeks, accelerator pushed, words rushing out. “I got nothing to say about your brother. He got to pull himself together, ’cause believe you me, believe you me, Toby, as soon as that boy hits eighteen, he’s gone. Earlier, if I can’t take it no more.”

  “I don’t think he’s right, Dad.”

  “Damn right he’s not right. Hasn’t got a word in his head to say to me. Gawking at me all the time like I done him over. When I haven’t done nothing but work to put food on his plate and clothes on his back.”

  “He talks to me. Talks to me a lot.”

  “I don’t want to hear none of it.”

  Toby bit his lip, stood up straight. “I think he’s fooled up, Dad. In the head. Fooled up. He keeps saying awful queer stuff. Sometimes in the middle of the night.”

  “Waking you up?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “You keep your door locked, my son. He got his own room for years now, and he got no business bugging you when you needs your sleep.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, you should. You needs to focus on finishing school. Getting a decent job. Making yourself into something.”

  Toby felt the air in his lungs grow heavier. “I’ll be alright, Dad.”

  “I’ll tell you something, Tobe. Just to let you know what we’re dealing with here. You remember when all those homes got broken into?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that was your bro
ther. Your very own brother.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Your brother. No doubt in my mind, though I didn’t catch the bugger. He’s lucky he gave it up.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Well, I don’t got to think. I knowed. Got no idea what was going through his mind, what he was after. Boggles the brain, it do. And I would’ve hauled him in, too. Treated him no different than any other beggar. There’s no honor there, my son. Not one ounce.”

  “Mellie wouldn’t—”

  “And let me tell you something else, Toby. I’ve been around a lot, and I seen what’s coming into this place as fast as some crowds can carry it. And that old crap’ll mess with your mind. Confuse the shit right out of you. Christ, two nights back, I had one rabble-rouser out doing a jig on Widow Murray’s lawn, going on about leprechauns and clovers, and then not four hours later I had another young feller up crowing on his roof. Thinking he was a bloody rooster. Could’ve at least waited until the sun was coming up, don’t you think?”

  Toby smirked slightly, nodded.

  “I can promise you this, Toad. If your brother ever cleans himself up, settles back down, he’ll be as good as new. As long as he’s got his nose in the gutter, he’s going to talk garbage. There idn’t a single thing wrong with him that he hasn’t brought on himself. And there idn’t a single thing we can do to fix him.”

  “You sure?”

  “I seen enough to know.”

  Toby sighed, allowed the faintest breeze of relief to touch him. “Don’t tell Mellie I was on about him, alright?”

  “Don’t you worry none. You go on, now. Find your friend, what’s-his-name, and tell him to get his face out of that book.”

  “Ween?”

  “See if he wants a job.”

  “Alright.”