Glass Voices

by Carol Bruneau

THE NIGHT THE ROOF GOT DONE, as the light waned she’d put Jewel to bed, then gone outside to cool off. The August sun was a rosy ball sinking over the water, the clouds pink mountains reflected on the Arm. Just as she’d settled back, a fireplug of a figure bundled in rags had come hobbling over the mud. Part of her had wanted to slink inside, but she’d stayed put. Stopping on the shore right below the cabin, layer by layer, Ida had peeled her clothes off. Not much Lucy could do by then but watch, feeling more than a little dismayed, guilty. The sad flash of drawers, skin, as the crone draped her glad rags over the rocks. If Harry’d been there, he’d have choked, laughing. Struck there against the blackening water, Ida’d gazed up once, her hair wild in the blazing prison lights—but if she noticed Lucy, neither let on. Toeing the water, she’d flinched, then ploughed in. A heavy splash broke the lapping waves as she vanished then bobbed up, that tugboat body of hers slowly straining ashore; and Lucy’d thought of a pilot whale she’d seen as a child, walking the piers with Dad. Hanging from a gaff, the creature had been gutted, its blubber curling outwards.

  A hazy moon dusted everything white as she slipped inside, careful not to get Ida’s attention, or to wake Jewel as she bolted the door and crawled to bed. The old woman’s footprints would’ve washed away by the time Harry shuffled in just shy of dawn, smelling of beer and a sweaty kind of triumph. “Wake up, girl!” he was hollering. “She’s done, dolly! Wha’d I tell you?” Done like dinner, she’d murmured back, dazed, as if dreaming everything.

  8

  WHEN SHE FINALLY DRAGS HERSELF upstairs, sleep soon rescues her; was it something in that tomato soup? Drifting off she thinks of housework, Brillo pads, and a vague image of Harry scouring something with steel wool; the thought shimmying like a bubble, of Harry at his workbench…But her sleep is alive with sounds: hammering, scrubbing, voices, all echoing as if from a basement. Lucy Locket lost her pocket, Kitty Fisher found it. Nothing in it, nothing in it, but the binding round it. It’s her father talking; Harry is nowhere, and she’s five again, rolling marbles down Roome Street—doughboys and sea-green pretties—then trundling off to work with Dad. Inspecting studs and shingles, his shadow scales planks, passing through walls and windows. The jawbreaker she’s sucking on tastes of his pocket… It’s a dream she’s dreamed before, one that used to haunt her when the house was being built.

  THAT TASTE, LICORICE, HAD FILLED her mouth one morning when she’d woken to find Jewel aiming a ball at her head and Harry whipping off the quilt. Artie had a line on some free lumber, and Harry needed a hand moving it. “Why can’t he help you?” she’d moaned, sleep pulling her back…and once again she’d been on Roome Street, a tiny, slippery version of herself, twirling around this time on the piano stool, her braids flying, and Mama yelling, “Stop!” But not before it’d tipped over, its fussy claw-like feet clutching marbles, useless. Ashes ashes, we all fall—! Her laughter the same as water splashing tin as she picked herself up and struck middle C. But then, in the dream, Mama’d slapped her, slapped her hard, and Lucy’s face wasn’t hers anymore, but Helena’s.

  “Lumber’s not cheap, you know,” Harry’d rasped, shaking her. “Artie’s doing me a favour.” The light blazing in had made her shiver, a feeling as though something—a rat?—had touched her with its tail. Then Harry’d tried to butter her up with compliments from Artie, of all people, saying how lucky he was having someone so strong to lug that kid around everywhere, and not hard to look at, either.

  His flattery went nowhere. Scrounging was scrounging, like picking bones, she said. But still she’d found herself outside the Big House, half the Babineau clan already there scavenging, trampling the lilies. As she went to scoop Jewel up, he’d beelined to the barn; Harry caught up to him first, but not before Jewel had darted inside.

  THE BLUE OF THE STREETLIGHT wakes her briefly, leaking in through the blind—slats of light, and its chilly silence. Like inside the barn that day, despite the sun baking down, warm, warm as blankets…

  The barn where people went to spoon, or watch the underboat races, as Artie said. Harry’s eyes had a funny look as Jewel wriggled and kicked, caught in his arms. He’d just set him down when the boy started for the ladder. “Coming?” he’d yelled down to her, almost banging Jewel’s head as he hoisted him through the hatch. She’d balked, mumbling about trespassing. A patter overhead as Jewel scooted from the hole, then Harry’d beckoned, “You gotta see this, dolly!” Teasing, “Joolly-Jool—don’t tell me your ma’s a candy-arse.”

  Maybe it was how Alice had felt passing through the rabbit hole. The loft was sweltering, the air soupy as she emerged. Sunlight striped the rafters. Bouncing on Harry’s shoulders, Jewel had gripped his dad by the ears, squealing. “He’ll get heat stroke!” she’d protested, feeling faint. But Harry was busily inspecting a wall: petals of pine cone nailed in place to form names, dates. A tingling had started in her neck. Squirming, Jewel had let out a yell as Harry ran his finger over a rusty nail. “Wouldja look at the work,” he’d marvelled, wincing as Jewel yanked on his sideburn. There were dozens of names: couples. Boutiliers, Babineaus, Babineaus and the odd Marryatt, dates going back years and years. Like the Book of Genesis without the begats, Harry’d smirked. A throb in her ears, she’d read till the names themselves pulsed. Then a pair had caught her eye: Franz Heinemann & Luzia, 1918.

  The heat and the birds’ cooing made it hard to breathe. As everything swirled, she’d reached for Harry. Forgive us our trespasses. But already he’d made for the hatch with Jewel, and was helping her down, taking her hand. His face smooth and ruddy, impassive, when surely hers had been a notebook, everything written there. But at the bottom he’d kissed her cheek, anxious to get a move on before the wood was too picked over.

  At the Big House, Artie and his cousin Ralphie were just climbing out of the cellar, the door propped open with a rock. “Beat me to ’er, you sons of bitches,” Harry’d yelled, wasting no time lowering himself down. A throaty laugh then, and Lil had appeared, blowsy as ever, that chestnut hair a burning bush. Pressed up against the shingles, she’d groaned as Artie licked at her, like she was an all-day sucker. Mutton dressed as lamb, sang out a voice, an inner one, alarmingly like Mama’s.

  “We don’t got all day,” Ralphie’d yelled, and something about the floor caving in.

  Lil had moaned, and Lucy’s ears burned but she wouldn’t look. Finally Harry’d poked his head out, holding a couple of rusty nails and a hook. A waste of time. Then he’d gone pale, Lil snickering and batting her eyelashes: “Well hullo, Harry.” He’d coughed, eyeing the ground then swooping Jewel up and seizing Lucy’s arm. Out of earshot, she couldn’t help saying it was a funny way to act in front of her husband. Then, reddening, he’d looked at her as if she were stupid, saying he doubted Lil was the marrying kind. Doted, was how he said it, adding—with a tinge of bitterness?—how she wouldn’t tie the knot with anyone unless she was desperate.

  DESPERATE IS HOW SHE FEELS once the light is too bright to ignore any longer. If dread had a colour, it’d be the same as the grey behind the blind; its dullness bores through her innards. Lying there just makes it worse, and reluctantly she gets up, making the bed with a fussy care before going downstairs. No amount of sleep and not even the sweetest dreams could prepare her for what’s ahead. In their own way, perhaps each of them feels just as desperate, Jewel and Rebecca, maybe even Robert, even if they haven’t come out and said so; desperate for something to shake Harry awake, to bring him back to life.

  She’s not the only early riser. Even Robert’s up, Jewel says when she phones. “Up and at ’er, and about to load the hi-fi into the car.” The what? “Worth a try,” he says vaguely, offering some rambling explanation, some idea Rebecca’s cooked up. “Who cares?” he gets a bit defensive when she asks, a bit cagily, if the hospital will allow it.

  “Can you do something for me?” he cuts her off, rudely she thinks. This is no time for rudeness; besides, when has she not? Done things, that is
. It’s like asking if she’ll cook. There’s a sigh, well, more of a wheeze, the sound of him exhaling. “Ma, can you dig out a few albums?” Albums? At first she thinks he means snapshots, which is silly, since Harry’s never gone in much for sentimental stuff. If he’s got anything left upstairs, in his head, all the pictures he could ever want are stored there, safe and sound, the way hers are. Then Jewel explains: Harry’s records, the Islanders and whatnot, saying it would please Rebecca. They’ve talked Bucky into coming, too, he says, hoping they can get him to spin the disks.

  So Robert’s in on this, too. The thought cheers her as she rounds up Harry’s favourites, just about everything put out by Don Messer and his crew, and Marg Osburne and Charlie Chamberlain. Dusting off the sleeves, she slides them carefully into a big brown grocery bag, then puts on lipstick, forcing a smile at that face staring back from the mirror. Before long, they come for her. Robert bounds up the steps to get the records; he’s all for his mother’s idea—till he opens the bag between them on the back seat, and sees the selection.

  “It must be so dull, lying there,” she murmurs, almost but not quite as an apology. In the hospital, she means, thinking of poor Harry as still and useless as a punky log.

  Letting the car idle, Jewel sighs, “Oh boy,” and she can tell what he’s going to say: “It’s not like he knows, Ma.” But then, brightening: “Good on you for coming, Buck. You know it’ll make your grampa happy.”

  Robert’s scowl hurts, though she should be used to it; they all should be. It’s an act, this behaviour, sure it is, put on just to irk people. Still, it’s like fighting a current, seeing through it. But for some reason nobody’s moving, though they’ve got to get the show on the road, as they say. It’s as if something refuses to budge, the atmosphere in the car as heavy as the dripping leaves overhead. “I said I’d come. But you said I’d pick the music,” Robert’s voice is sour, surly; he could’ve been weaned on a dill. What did he expect, rock ’n’ roll? She thinks of the word he made up once, no doubt influenced by his mother’s expression, an especially rude one about poo on a stick: That’s a shitsicle, Gran. Just as she thinks it, before anyone can stop him, doesn’t the little cuss open the door and jump out?

  “Wise-arse!” Jewel hollers, then, stepping on it, pulls away without him. As if things aren’t bad enough. Twisting around, she sees Robert slouch off in the opposite direction. Glory! She watches till the crick in her neck forces her to look forwards, Rebecca staring straight ahead and blowing her nose. They drive the entire route without a word.

  In the parking lot, there’s a fuss as Jewel unloads the record player. “You sure about this, Becky?” he says, wondering what the nurses will say.

  “Not like it’s hurting anybody,” Rebecca sniffs indignantly. Complaining that the least Robert—“the little turkey”—could’ve done was stuck around to help, Jewel smuggles everything past the nursing station. Whispering, he and Rebecca set things up on the floor by Harry’s bed. Except for the respirator, the room’s as quiet as a chapel, and Harry’s face like a statue’s. Lucy has the odd feeling that she’s invisible. But maybe Rebecca’s idea isn’t so crazy, though it wouldn’t do to disturb anyone. They’re already bending the rules.

  “Softly, now, dear,” she says, “not too loud.” Jewel resembles a large child, a balding teen, kneeling by the record player, holding the needle.

  “Who do you think I am, Ma? Bucky?” A gurgle comes from Harry; the rattle of spit in the respirator. They’ve replaced the old gauze with a fresh strip, and his lips glisten, swabbed with Vaseline. “You think this is a good idea?” Jewel tries to joke, embarrassed.

  “We won’t know, hon, till we’ve tried,” Rebecca snorts. You’d think they were doing something illegal. But when he finally gets the record going, fiddle leaps out, a jaunty reel echoing from the room’s bareness. So much green, and so ugly: battleship green and avocado bleached to a faded mint. If dying has a colour, this would be it. She’s never been a fan of this shade, or of this music either. Yet, she can almost picture herself and Harry bookending the sofa, tunes from the Messer show shaking the window panes, and him feverishly bowing along.

  A nurse peeks in, baffled, then smiling, wiggles her fingers in a wave, and leaves.

  It’s good for the spirit, Lucy has to admit, softly tapping her knee in spite of herself—the Islanders never were her cup of tea. Then the music switches to a mournful solo, that baggy-eyed Mr. Chamberlain accompanying himself on ’cordine: “Oh Danny Boy.” Even with her jaw clenched and the annoying tweedly-dee of the violin starting up, she thinks she’ll dissolve, those piddly hospital tissues inadequate. But there’s a scratchy sound, silence, and then, thank heavens, a jig, hick music like something Granny and Elly May would dance to on the Hillbillies, back before the bubbling crude. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, she feels herself murmur inside, her own pulse breaking up the deedly-deedly-deedly-dee.

  Jewel, meanwhile, slouches there poring over the newspaper he’s brought along. Pretending to read; she can tell by the pucker of his chin. “Remember, dear?” She nudges him, smiling suddenly through the blur, and the years are like bandages peeled back one by one, the pictures in her mind’s eye almost transparent, gauzy squares of light. It feels like just a blink ago, she says, the two of them hiding out downstairs, his dad making him guess the tune.

  “Yeah, and thanks a lot—you’d never rescue me,” he swallows, without looking up. “Thank Christ for the ’cordine. I was never so glad as when he quit that damn fiddle.”

  “Your dad and his music,” she murmurs, saying how she’d have rather stuck needles in her ears than venture to that cellar when they got going.

  “Music?” Jewel shakes his head. As if she didn’t know. “Just an excuse to get polluted!”

  There’s a noise almost like the radio’s static, a rattling sound coming through the tube in Harry’s mouth that makes her think of a vacuum hose and a nail being sucked up. Next comes a twitch under the blanket, and they all stare at the shape outlined there. A tiny, almost microscopic flutter—an involuntary movement, the nurses might say, the ones who keep insisting that having a tube like that down his throat doesn’t hurt. A sign of life, or have they just imagined it? The needle bumps round and round as Jewel struggles to his knees to lift it from the record.

  “Goin’ to the barn dance, are we?” a voice butts in, a fellow in white who barely looks old enough to shave, but calls himself an intern. Right behind him, a nurse bustles in and pulls the curtains around the bed, the billowing wall shutting everyone out. Once more it’s as if Harry isn’t hers at all, but some poor beached creature whose carcass is to be further picked and poked.

  Jewel clears his throat—“Sorry for the noise”—sheepishly sliding the record into its case.

  “Noise?” All you can see are their shoes, the nurse’s white ones with soles like thick fat, and the intern’s scuffed Wallabees. There’s a pause, and a popping sound: the cap coming off a thermometer? “Oh, the music. I’m sure he can hear it—somewhere in there,” the young man mumbles.

  Then the nurse trills, “Knock, knock, hey, Mr. Caines?” as if to say, Anybody home? “No harm in a little hootenanny. As long as you keep the door closed.” After what feels like an hour, they both emerge, the intern fidgeting with his stethoscope.

  Nobody mentions Harry’s breathing, or his feeding tube, or anything about a decision or choices to be made, and Lucy doesn’t ask. So this is how it is, she thinks, Harry in this bed in this room, like a scene inside a little plastic globe: if you don’t give it a shake or turn it upside down, the snow won’t fall. Or the poop hit the fan, as the look on Rebecca’s face says, that tongue of hers as foul when bitten as it is wagging; they’ve all been around her long enough to know exactly what she’s thinking. Cheerily, the nurse tugs back the curtains; cheerily, Lucy decides, because there’s no point, really, in imagining otherwise. In this spirit she hopes for some small, encou
raging murmur, but instead it’s back to business. Visiting’s over, the nurse says, adding, “If you wanted to leave the record player, I don’t see why not…”

  But Jewel’s already unplugged it, and glancing up once more like an oversized boy fiddling with a new toy, jokes uncomfortably: “Not a chance. My kid’ll think he died and went to hell without it.” Saying the H word like that to a stranger is something Rebecca would do, but that’s not what gets Lucy. It’s the fact that Robert’s hissy-fit is water under the bridge, as if it never happened. Harry would have something to say about that, she’s pretty sure. But, she’d ask, why not? Maybe that’s how parents should be with kids. Slow to anger and quick to forgive, love like quicksand—most of the time, proper thing.

  ALL SHE’D WANTED WAS A house with a weather-tight roof and room to move without bumping into things. Harry gave her the moon: a big kitchen with wainscotting and a dining room, an upstairs with a landing, a basement, a carved mantelpiece and lintels, hardwood floors, plate rails and linoleum in the latest leaf-pattern—everything but an indoor loo. She’d ordered a decoration for the parlour from The Family Herald, a picture of a blue-eyed, blond Jesus crowned with thorns. As she hung it, Harry told her to mind the mantel; the varnish was still sticky. But she’d touched it anyway, distracted by the blueness of Christ’s eyes, the colour of forgiveness, she’d thought, something you couldn’t put into words, like the sun lighting a mackerel sky. The crimson of his robe matched the sofa Harry purchased from Eaton’s.

  She’d balked at the expense, but they couldn’t furnish the place with junk, he’d said. In the corner where the plate rail dovetailed, she’d placed the little pink cup, that relic from their life before; and when the last coat of shellac was dry they threw a party. His idea, inviting half the Grounds and the shipyards, never mind her fear of a houseful of ghosts; the party rivalled the wedding one, with Artie bringing most of his relatives and their old neighbours, Edgar Boutilier the fiddler, and his wife, Birdie, and a few she’d never laid eyes on. Harry acted like he’d known everyone forever, slapping backs and handing out drinks. The gals he passed off on her: a ragtag bunch in cheap dresses and laddered stockings, who ogled everything when she gave them a tour. Her heart had swelled—Lord, forgive me the sin of pride—as they ran their fingers over the balustrade, and flicked lights on and off, cooing at Jewel asleep upstairs. Ain’t he some sweet? She’d saved the front room for last, but Birdie and the others filed right past to the kitchen, even when she tried herding them through the dining room with its gleaming birch floor and rose-patterned paper. It was no use; around the kitchen table they gathered, the red one saved from the cabin—like bluebottles to manure, as Harry said; maybe they were just hungry. Ralphie Babineau had a guitar, and Boutilier dangled his fiddle while Artie knelt, sawing away with the bow between his teeth. She had to holler, offering tea; only Lil’s mother, Erma, nodded.