Glass Voices

by Carol Bruneau

  At this rate, she’d never have another kid, Harry’d groused, then told her not to wait up; there was a do that night at Babineau’s.

  That afternoon she packed half an apple cake, would’ve taken tea if she’d had something to put it in. Bundling Jewel up like a mummy, by the time she set out the sun was low. The barn door was open, and as she approached, the man leaned out, almost smiling. His eyes went to the parcel, his expression shifting like clouds. Reaching down, he touched Jewel’s head, and Jewel grimaced; then he held his finger to the baby’s lips.

  HUNGER. IN A SHIMMER OF memory as green as leaves, Lucy thinks of herself feeding people, offering pie after meat and potatoes, the carrot after the stick. Somewhere in the watery past she’d pushed cake at a lot of them, too, usually apologizing, It’s not much, or, Gee, it seemed fine out of the oven. Even when tough and doughy was more than some deserved. Well, that’d be one good thing about passing away, she thinks: no more cakes, or chewing either. But then she remembers Harry, and Rebecca’s warm weight leaning into her. Oh, mercy, please, not an invitation for supper! At the best of times, Rebecca’s meat loaves and jellied salads make Benny the traveller’s menu appealing: tinned beans and spaghetti, if what Jewel says is true. Though maybe now he’s got that woman aboard, his diet will improve. The meals’ve never been better, had always been Harry’s way, at least, of saying I love you.

  Rebecca babbles about something you can make from a box. In a jiffy, she adds. Pizza, with spices and everything, including something that tastes like licorice. “That’s a kind of pie, isn’t it. From a mix?” Lucy tries to sound interested without being too encouraging.

  Jewel quickly proposes that they go out; “We’ll grab something, how’s that?” He means well, her boy; the way he’s jumped in makes her want to pat his cheek. Yet it drags on her spirits, what’s left of them. Why can’t he and Rebecca see that the last thing on her mind is food, and that she’d rather just hole up on her own? But the evening stretches before her like a levelled street.

  THE MAN HAD BLINKED AT her offering wrapped in paper, shaking his head. Maybe he was dumb, it had occurred to her, dumb as dirt. Jewel had gnawed at his mittened fist, jabbering Mum-mum-mum, da-da-da. For an instant the man had opened his mouth as if to speak, opened it wide enough that she’d spied a gold filling. His eyes never wavered, their gratitude burning through her. When he’d touched her arm, it was gentle but sure, as if they knew one another. Under his coat was the blue of Harry’s shirt; the hollow at the base of the man’s throat made her look away. But into the gloom she’d stepped, through a plank of sunlight; her eyes adjusting as he peeled away waxed paper. Wordlessly he broke off some cake and fed it to Jewel, who smacked and sucked at it. Please don’t let him choke, she’d thought, as the man held out a piece to her. Where had his hands been? What did it matter? Slipping over to the layer of boughs, he’d crouched, smoothing a place. Making a cradle of his arms, rocking it, he patted the clothes bunched there, and like a bird-dog she followed, setting Jewel down. Sticky crumbs ringing his little mouth, he’d tried to eat spruce needles. The cold stung her nostrils as she settled herself there, and he offered more cake. She’d felt the warmth of his arm as his sleeve brushed hers. When she shook her head, he ate it himself.

  His mouth tasted of cinnamon when he kissed her, his beard grazing her cheek. Jerking backwards, she’d felt her face burn. Jewel crawled onto the dirt floor, his face shiny with bits of needle. Springing away, she’d scooped him up, the baby flailing.

  “Is there anything special you’d like?” she’d muttered into the baby’s hat.

  His cough rattling in his chest, the man had mimed a cup, his eyes bright as he’d pretended to drink. My name is Lucy, enunciating it, she’d looked away. If he responded, it was drowned out by the wind rushing through chinks in the walls, and the pigeons’ cooing. From the glassless window she’d watched the sun balance on top of the Big House. And she’d raised an invisible teacup, like Harry saluting the neighbours from their porch, her voice plying the stillness: “Next time, maybe.”

  That Sunday the priest’s words were darts. Covet not thy neighbour’s wife. Love thy neighbour as thyself. As if that weren’t enough, after Mass Father Marcus pulled out a catechism. “To get you started,” he’d said, “the little fella too, once he’s ready.” When it was Harry most in need of commandment, waltzing off and leaving her to suffer the insult of that sleveen of a woman next door showing off her wares. Lucy’d slid the catechism under a cushion, for his benefit if he’d have sat long enough to warm his scrawny arse.

  “You could come too, if you wanted,” he’d offered once, as enticingly as if asking her to come for a dip—in the swamp by the old barn, where someone or other was supposed to have drowned. And then, hadn’t Lil appeared at their door, all dolled up—all right, so she was striking. Those almond-shaped eyes green as a cat’s peering in; that loopy russet hair, never mind the dress half-undone, which up close resembled upholstery goods, or that flirty drawl: “There you are! Harry, you’re keeping us waiting.” Lucy had tugged on his sleeve. But his smile wasn’t for her. What’s wrong with a guy having a bit of fun?

  He was very late that night, her loneliness like the tide washing the rocks, shifting and dislodging things. With the baby asleep, confronting him meant tiptoeing around the worst of it: Hadn’t he said this was temporary; they’d move when they could, in the spring? Yanking off his socks, he’d slurred, “Break ground, maybe.” Despite her hurt, despite her anger, she’d been seized by a new terror: what if they moved, and word came, not like the message from Mrs. Edgehill, but legitimate, an answer to their prayers, and they missed it? Reading her mind—even on a bellyful of rum he could do that sometimes—he’d thumped the pillow. “For the love of Christ,” he’d griped, “give it up.” Helena was gone, he said, and the sooner she accepted it, the better—for them all.

  Then Jewel had started wailing, and he’d asked, “Can’t you do something about that?” saying she could barely handle the one kid, and wouldn’t have a hope with two. “What would you know about hope?” she’d said right back, burying her face in the baby’s curls. And he’d pointed to Jewel on her lap: “There it is right there, missy. Girly name and all—just like Lil says: a boy loaded down with a handle like that!”

  7

  TIMES LIKE THAT SHE COULD’VE laced his stew with bluing, or served him nightshade berries right off the vine: What do you mean, dear, a funny smell? Nothing wrong with those teeny tomatoes! Later on, when he acted up she could’ve chopped up one of her houseplants for a salad—a houseplant like the one in the restaurant she finds herself in now, squeezed next to Rebecca in a gold vinyl-upholstered booth. It’s a dumb cane, the spindly yellow thing showcased in the plate-glass window. Dieffenbachia, she pushes the word slowly through her mind, not to be confused with that spluttering politician, Diefenbaker, whom Harry still admires. Swallowed, one small bite will strike you dumb if not deaf, so the books say; a mouthful and you’ll lose more than your voice forever, she seems to recall, shame creeping over her like a prickly rash. Truth be told, she might’ve munched on such a salad, too.

  Besides that dumb cane barely clinging to life, the Armcrest has a scruffy philodendron climbing the wall around the big, smudged window. Come to think of it, philodendrons are even more troublesome, quite possibly deadly. One that size would’ve silenced that whole rowdy bunch in the Grounds, back in the day. She could nibble on some herself, though, for thinking it—although, as Rebecca prattles on about this and that, which heels to wear with what, and what goes best with orange and lime, maybe dumb cane salad wouldn’t be a bad thing. But then, if Rebecca went mute, God forbid, the silence would be deadly.

  They’re the only diners in the place, tomato soup and crackers the only things on the menu with any appeal. Swinging through a door with a grimy porthole for a window, the waitress tugs a pencil from her hairnet, and Jewel and Rebecca order coffee, liver and onions, fries. The v
ery thought of liver, of its chalky, metallic taste, makes her queasy. “Too bad Robert’s not here,” she volunteers all the same, as brightly as possible, as if it’s up to her to spark some sense of occasion. It’s not every day, after all, that she dines out.

  “Gawd—the last time he came out to eat?” Jewel shakes his head and she waits for him to explain, but he doesn’t. Rebecca lights a cigarette, twisting her mouth to exhale away from Lucy, thank you very much. She stubs it out in her saucer when the food arrives with a speed that’s as suspect as the plants. There’s something even more suspect in the soup, a short, dark, brittle hair, or perhaps it’s a bit of wire.

  “Oh dear,” she says quietly, speculating. A piece of Brillo pad?

  “Send it back,” says Jewel, but suddenly she’s starving, too weary to fuss, picking out the offending object with her spoon—yes, yes, it is steel wool—then slowly, mechanically making her way to the bottom of the bowl. Never mind that it has no taste; its blandness fills her, and she fancies herself Mike Mulligan with his steam shovel in that picture book Robert was obsessed with at five. Bent over their plates, Jewel and Rebecca chew quietly through their dinners, and she focuses on the sweet, greasy smell of the onions. The only sound is the squeak of cutlery against their plates, until from the kitchen a radio crackles to life, rattling out some tinny music, the waitress singing along. Pushing her plate away, half the food untouched, Rebecca asks for more coffee as Jewel wipes up every last bit of gravy with his roll, and finally, groaning, they sit back, arms folded.

  She never could abide liver. Once their plates are removed, the atmosphere feels a bit more pleasant; even the gold decor takes on a certain coziness in the twilight coming through the big blank window. Suddenly appreciative, she could sit here for a good while; the Armcrest is limbo, a hopeful sort of purgatory, it occurs vaguely, all that gold vinyl a slippery, cheerful netherworld between the empty blue of home and the hospital’s dismal green. The squeak of the seat underneath her, the salt and pepper shakers squared against the ashtray, the salt with its grains of rice like fingernail parings; even the plants—all of it fortifies ordinary, the kind of ordinary Harry loves, that she’d give anything to have back. An ordinary that, temporarily at least, holds the doctor’s words at bay. Yes, she could sit, and sit. Until, her mouth no sooner empty, Rebecca starts in again.

  “What else can we getcha? Come on, Ma. That wasn’t enough to feed a bird! You gotta eat more than that. You’ll get sick if you don’t!” As if one person’s nagging isn’t bad enough, Jewel sits there nodding, and she pictures herself like a hydrant full of orangey soup. Hollow-eyed, he lights a cigarette for Rebecca, and one for himself. The pair of them inhaling expectantly, as if prepared to sit forever till she consents to Jell-O or soggy pie. Monkey see, monkey do, she feels like saying, gazing back. But to please them, she opens the crackers that come with the soup.

  “You might try cutting down, yourself,” she lets slip, not meaning to sound snarky, though they both scowl, and it’s funny, how alike they can be when they least intend it. Don’t try to figure them out, she scolds herself, just love them. “So. Tell me,” she changes tack, hoping this is acceptable, because she’s genuinely curious, “about Robert’s little friend.” Friend? “The little girl he’s—”

  “Oh.” Rebecca snorts, then holds her breath, grinning at the ceiling. The rest comes out in a smoky choke, then laughter. “In lust with, you mean.”

  Jewel laughs too, but in his eyes she sees Harry hooked up to those wires and tubes, and the doctor’s expression, and the thought of his cool, medicinal manner creeps in like a weed. It twines itself round the thought just rooted, whatever it is Rebecca’s just said, even as Jewel starts explaining, “Well, the latest is…now he’s talking about living in a teepee, or some stunned thing. Can you imagine? Je-sus Christ.” It doesn’t matter what he’s saying, really, for his words alone are a balm. Even the cussing, under the circumstances, because surely the Lord God himself, if he’s listening, given their troubles, would forgive it too.

  BEFORE THE BABY’S NAP TIME she’d done her hair, and as brazenly as you please, before she could talk herself out of it, had thrown together root beer, a mug, biscuits and Harry’s favourite cheese. Jewel was sound asleep by the time she tiptoed into the barn, where dust had sparkled in the frosty striped light, and wings beating from the rafters stirred bits of straw. Swallows? Hanging there was that row of clothes, all but the blue shirt, and Harry’s plaid one balled into a pillow on the boughs, beside a little stash of paper.

  She’d heard herself breathe, then a patter from the loft, scuffling. Rungs creaked; there’d been a whisk of greenish wool as the man descended, his look marbled with a fear that quickly melted. Touching his mouth, he pressed that finger to Jewel’s cheek, a butterfly kiss, then drew it along her jaw, his fingertip cool. Bending closer, he’d traced her lip with his tongue.

  The rest of her had turned to kelp. Mustn’t wake…mustn’t…Rock a bye baby, the lullaby swung and lifted through her as the man took Jewel and gently laid him on the branches. A baby in a manger, he didn’t stir. When the wind blows the cradle will fall and down will come ba—

  His kisses were grass tickling her neck. No protest as his hands had slid under her coat, a chill like raw silk brushing her skin. They’d lingered on her nipples tough from nursing, and his teeth had grazed hers, that metallic taste…his hands cupping her. He’d pressed his face to her coat, parting it, tugging her blouse free; run his tongue along the valley of her ribs.

  Overhead, feathers rustled, and on his spruce bed the sleeping baby made sucking noises as the man worked at her underthings. Turning liquid, her heart blubbered. He’d slid her stocking down, his mouth tasting like bark—the way she imagined sap tasting: bitter, with the hope of sweetness. Her hat had snagged on something. Her heel was in his palm, the air cooling her sole; her leg like a cup handle. Gently, silent as a fog bank moving up the Arm, he’d pushed inside. That strange, sharp jolt of delight, a peculiar heat. The shudder of life as dust danced in her head, before the dimness had sifted back, and shrouded her. The two of them, perfect strangers, stumbling apart.

  Her foot had hit cold earth. His eyes had been calm and blue as the water above a shipwreck. “Tell me your name,” her voice so proper, properly desperate. Expressionless, silent, he’d held her, his arms like fallen branches.

  NIBBLING A SALTINE, SHE PUTS the rest of it back. “Robert’s going camping, then.” As bland as the cracker, her remark dangles, neither Jewel nor Rebecca rising for it. “He’ll want to be going soon, then,” she prompts, “won’t he?”

  “I don’t think the weather matters, somehow.” Exhaling, Rebecca rubs her eyelid, then painstakingly wipes the greenish smudge of shadow from her finger onto a serviette. She can be so fastidious—about some things.

  “Next he’ll be joining buddy on his houseboat—taking a cruise.” Jewel grunts, patting his stomach. If it’s supposed to be a joke, no one laughs.

  “No room,” Rebecca says after a while, leaning forward to poke him.

  “Serves you right, I guess,” she tries to add her two cents’ worth, “raising him right next to the cove.” What price, humour? It’s all she has by way of applying brakes, of forestalling things, sticking a finger in a dyke and enjoying the dryness while it lasts. But the joke falls flat, and Rebecca sniffs, and before any of them can think how to salvage it, the waitress sidles up with their bill. Tearing it off, she anchors it with three stale-looking candies: humbugs. She seems in a rush, though it can’t be late, and they’re still the only customers.

  But Jewel stretches back as if just getting comfy. He always was that way, obtuse; wear your blue socks, she’d say, and he’d want brown ones. They can see themselves in the plate glass now, their reflections against the deepening dark. “Last time it was chicken bones, wasn’t it, hon?” he says as if they have all night, and she realizes, just as obtusely, that in a way perhaps they do. “Bet
ter than a kick in the arse, I guess,” he sighs when Rebecca doesn’t answer. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. They could murmur and shrug like this forever, avoiding what needs to be discussed. The thing that presses in on her urgently now, a murky, soundless wave, all its smothering force merely put off by liver and onions. The restaurant feels cheap now and worn, the wood-grain and vinyl smudged and sticky and cracked in places. Rising as quickly as possible, Lucy snatches up the bill—she’s the mother, after all, only right that she treats them, and it wasn’t a bad thing, coming here—but opening her purse she finds only change.

  “Here, Ma. Don’t worry about it.”

  Such a funny thing to say in the wake of everything; she could as easily laugh as cry waiting with Rebecca as he pays then trudges back to slide some coins under his saucer. The waitress waits before she wipes the table, pocketing her tip along with the humbugs. Soon, too soon, Lucy thinks, there’ll be just the dark house and the chilly spacious bed, its lopsided sag in Harry’s place. Almost better to stay and help the waitress wipe and tidy; how foolish is that?

  Outside, in the crisp darkness, the smell of onions fills the car’s interior, and Jewel fumbles with a toothpick, holding it like a little spear, the heel of his other hand braced against the wheel. “So, Ma,” he finally puts the question so carefully avoided till now: “What’re we gonna do?”