Glass Voices

by Carol Bruneau

  The counter had bristled with bottles, liquor dragged in by the case. Popping a cap on his teeth, Ralphie had spit it into the pristine new sink; beer had washed the leafy floor. Then he’d dared Harry to play. “You know I’m no fiddler,” Harry said, and Artie got testy: “No one says no to my cousint. Play us a goddamn tune!”

  She’d squeezed through to cut the cake, which was lopsided—that oven had taken getting used to—then Lil’s mother and a girl in a velvet skirt had traipsed after her into the front room with their plates. The girl chewed with her mouth open, then disappeared, leaving her plate on the sofa. Erma’s eyes kept flitting to Christ’s picture, and Lucy’d asked politely after her little granddaughter, the answer drowned out by “Turkey in the Straw” and scuffling feet—Oh Dinah, the new linoleum!

  In the kitchen, things had got rowdy. “You play the goddamn thing, Boots,” Harry’d yelled, “you brought it!” Laughter rose as somebody strummed and strummed the same chord. Then Boutilier had struck up a strathspey that pulled at her heart in spite of itself, a tune gloomy enough to make you jump in front of a train. Enough of that slow stuff, Boots! Give us a jig! Erma had left, and “some glass got broke,” as Harry put it, and as Lucy was sweeping up, Lil had arrived with her little girl. Better late than never, somebody’d yelled. The child’s eyes had followed Lucy’s every move. A cute little thing, what, three years old? Never mind the hem falling out of her dress, her bird-nest hair.

  Harry’d chugged beer. “Gimme an accordion and I’ll play you one, buddy!”

  “You can’t play nothing,” Ralphie’d jeered, and Harry’d jeered back, “Watch me, you friggin’ squirrel!” Then Lil’s girl stuck her finger in the cake and licked it, talk about a wild animal: no daughter of hers would’ve done such a thing. As Lucy wiped up another puddle, the kitchen went so quiet she could hear people swallow. Artie leaned against the range, undressing Lil with his watery eyes: “Let’s hear you, then, bud: ‘Sleepy Maggy!”’ And Lil had heckled, “I hates that; give us ‘She Put Her Knee on the Old Man.’”

  Harry’d protested, but Boutilier had handed over his fiddle; then Lil laid a hand on Harry’s wrist as he hesitated, waving the bow. His gaze had jumped to Lucy clutching the dishrag as Lil tumbled into a chair. His foot on one of its rungs, his head cocked, he’d thrust the bow like a knife, dragging out a reedy shriek. His face splitting in a laugh as Lil cursed and covered her ears. The little girl had grabbed a fistful of frosting then, and Ralphie’d cut himself, everyone hooting at the blood. But then Harry’s gaze had sobered: “This one here’s for dolly, all right?” And as he walked his hand over the strings, hobbling the bow, all she’d thought of was his lost accordion shooting skyward like that ship’s anchor. Its bellows turned to dust and ivories a shrapnel of bone and teeth.

  Upstairs in his room with its sloping ceiling, Jewel had started crying. Lil had slid onto Artie’s lap, her moon face broad and empty; when the little girl whined that she was thirsty, her mother said, “Drink your spit.” And Boutilier was telling Harry he’d cut him a deal on the fiddle, figuring he’d pick it up quick. The banister still felt tacky as Lucy hurried upstairs, slipping on the tongue-and-groove Harry’d taken such pains laying. Her temple throbbed. Jewel was standing up, moonlight pooled around the crib as he reached out. The ache spread behind her eyes as he’d bounced up and down, wailing fit to raise Methuselah, as Mama would’ve said.

  Downstairs the music quit, and quarrelling rose up. Sliding to the floor, a splash of moonlight her only blanket, she’d curled like a fiddlehead. Jewel shrieking, rattling the bars like a monkey while she counted; wasn’t that what she was supposed to do?

  Sucking his fists, hiccupping, Jewel had eventually sunk to his knees, then onto his belly. From below, there’d been the squeak of the door on its new brass hinges; curled there, her cheek to the cold, polished birch, she’d felt the house empty. When all was quiet, she’d crept to the window and seen Lil and Artie kissing in the road, the little girl bashing something under a rock before the trio zigzagged into the woods.

  Downstairs, lights blazing, Harry’d slumped, snoring into what was left of the cake. Someone’s cigarette had blistered the lino, greasy footprints sullying its pattern; glass glittered in the sink. The front room at least was untouched, not a smudge or ring anywhere. She gave Harry a little push, but he’d snored on as she worked away at the burn, and from somewhere a long way off, the doorbell whirred stiffly.

  The sight of Ida’s wizened face through the pane was a shock, her rheumy eyes absorbing everything. “Don’t tell me I missed it,” she cracked, “or maybe you forgot me? Well, well, missy. I remembered, if you didn’t.” Harry’s snore burbled behind them. The bundle Ida pushed into Lucy’s hands smelled of hen: “A novelty, my darling, to brighten your digs.” And she said how Lucy’d come up in the world, and how she never could see why anyone would run with that crowd by the jail. “Them Babineaus,” she’d sucked her spit; “that Marryatt one.” Blowing her nose on her sleeve, she wheedled about something being Harry’s business, saying if there was anything a-tall Lucy’d like to know, she could tell her a thing or two—

  Lucy’d thanked her hastily, shutting the door, Ida’s brittle laugh coming through the letter slot. Wouldn’t tell you nothin’ bad, dear. Nuttin’ you wouldn’t want to hear. Then she’d gone and sat in the front room with the bundle on her lap, the hall light casting its gleam on the picture above the pretty mantel. In my Father’s house are many mansions. Who else hadn’t she invited? Father Marcus; now that would’ve made for entertainment. The business of the prisoner in the barn a downed tree across her conscience, for months now blocking her way to church.

  Harry stumbled up to bed, by some fluke remembering to shut off the oil, so the fire was dead. As she scrabbled for matches, the wrapping on Ida’s parcel gaped, the gift inside made of cloth a twilight shade. It was a tea cozy crudely stitched together—sweet of Ida all the same. Like it, missy? Something you can use? that croak seemed to rise from it. Then something opened up inside Lucy, a feeling like falling through ice. It was forget-me-not blue, the blue of Harry’s shirt.

  She’d thought of Ida watching her trek up past the Big House—water under the bridge?—the wind nipping as she slipped outside, across the yard. The burning barrel was heaped with scraps for kindling; striking a match she’d watched the flames eat through the lumpy cloth and burrow down. The sky had jumped with stars, the upstairs windows black as rinks on a snowy pond; and letting the fire consume itself, she’d made the night’s last trip to the outhouse. Comforting herself: Be like Harry; worry about what you see, not what you cook up but the here and now right in front of your schnozz, as he’d say. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, eh?

  But curiosity gnawed like hunger, and steeling herself she’d later gone knocking. Ida, old wag that she was, delighted to see her. “I knew you’d come,” she said, “sooner or later.” She’d joggled Jewel on her knee while Ida boiled water. No beating around the bush, she’d drunk the tea, spun the cup, then asked what Ida knew about Lil Marryatt. Ida’d picked at something on her head. “I see a fan,” she’d said, waving a stubby hand, “flirtation. A bunch of grapes on a big, long table: prosperity.” Then, her gaze narrowing, she told Lucy not to be scared, but there was an eye. Jewel squirmed to the floor. “Caution, missy.” Ida’s voice dead calm as she spat into a bucket, saying not to fuss, because there was a harp.

  “A violin?” Lucy had piped up, which seemed to irk her. “Love, harmony, missy,” she’d snorted. “And a horse’s head! There. A lover, dearie,” she said, “galloping off” Blushing, Lucy had pointed at a tiny fleck: and what was that? “A mouse,” she’d grinned, “thievery.” And despite a feverish feeling, Lucy had pressed: one more thing, did she see a child, a girl—? “Ah, Lily’s, you mean,” Ida sneered dismissively. “No girl-child, missy. But there’s a chair: a guest. And an ostrich; see the neck? Gossip, scandal…and somebody goin’ on a trip.” Then, scowling
, she’d pointed to what she said were a knife—“Are ya blind, girl?”—and a cat, saying they were the friendship Lucy’d flung in her face. Rising stiffly, she’d hawked into the cup and said if Lucy didn’t mind, she had her birds to feed.

  THAT NIGHT SHE TRIES WATCHING some TV; there’s a nature show that’s usually quite nice, featuring exotic animals that Harry likes comparing with folks they know. Ah, look dolly, isn’t that baboon that Chaddock woman? Look at her, to a T, bet she’s even got a blue arse like that under her stretchies! Or, Dolly, quick, isn’t that critter just like your friend, buddy with the wagon? Like a friggin’ road-runner, looka that! But she finds it hard to concentrate, and has to change channels when a gazelle gets stalked by a lion. The other station just has baseball, which is like watching cement set. But at least it makes her sleepy enough to go upstairs, and in bed she thinks of all the other creatures Harry’s linked with people. Rebecca a baby orangutan these days, with that orangey hair, and quite a while ago now, poor old Father Marcus a pigmy-type boar, and Edgar Boutilier a platypus. Lord knows what she was, or had been—a kangaroo or an anteater, or maybe a bitch; at times she could’ve been a stingray. Then she thinks of Lil, and how on the Hillbillies anything with a face and fur is a varmint.

  1917

  BUT IN HER DREAMS, IT’S all machines. Instead of animals stalking each other, there’s a train: rails sticky with soot, an engine pulling from a platform as stealthily as glass being tweezed from a wound. Even the snow is smoking; everything reduced to black and white. Inside the cars are passengers, quite human. Nobody speaks as they cradle bloody stumps, weep black tears from sightless eyes. It’s just like at the Front, a nurse in a uniform white as rabbit fur murmurs as a baby whimpers and a little girl cries over and over and over, Mumma, Mumma… There’s one man who can see, his eyes like a husky’s, one blue, one brown. But his face has the dazed, vacant look of a soldier’s. Did you see her go up? he keeps asking, and finally someone answers just to shut him up, a moon-faced fellow as grey as stone: Had the sense to run, bud; you don’t know what’s on these fooking ships.

  As the train gathers speed, she herself is a bird growing wings, a crow hovering over. Through the falling snow she can see things floating in the Basin: doors, rooftops, pieces of ship. Half a hull lies under the thickening blanket, a carcass. Then her feathers fall away, wafting gently through white—pepper and salt—and once more she’s back onboard, invisible but jerking to the cars’ rhythm. In the caboose a marble rolls in a galvanized pail. Where’re we going? a chorus of animal voices whispers. The herd has its own language, which she understands. Frigged if I know. Hospitals are full up, bud. Sit tight—The conductor is a wolf with no eyes. They’re heading up to the Valley, he tells everybody; there’s room there. She hears herself caw about the weather; that’s right, someone agrees, it’s too goddamn early for this. Put up or shut up, the wolf orders, saying they’ll be the last ones out today, if it keeps up. Their bloody stares are lost on him. But a whistle blows: a signal from heaven?

  The Ocean Limited, they’ve made it! the wolf cheers. We will too! And then its head spins, threaded like the seat of a piano stool, and when it stops they see it’s got eyes after all, brown-bean ones, and a different face, the face of an old woman: Ida.

  When Lucy wakes, the air in the room tastes black.

  9

  SHE’S JUST MADE TOAST WHEN the hospital calls, the voice on the phone cool and transparent, a man’s. It takes a moment to put name and voice together: Doctor Sheridan. He asks how she’s doing, which makes saliva pool in her throat. Preparing her for the worst, she thinks, and then he explains how they want to try weaning Harry.

  “Excuse me?”

  From the respirator, the doctor says, too patiently. They want to try it little by little, he repeats, to see how Harry does on his own. “If he can breathe on his own,” he adds quickly, and she imagines his white-coated presence behind a desk or even, absurdly, filling a phone booth with vapour like the stuff these long-haired so-called musicians have at concerts. Dry ice, Robert calls it, and wouldn’t that describe Doctor Sheridan’s tone?

  “If he stops breathing,” that chilly, distant voice winds through her, a voice like a gas, like ether perhaps? “We’ll resuscitate, don’t worry.” Resuscitate sounds like something you’d do to a car. But the thought is slightly cheering, somehow; didn’t Harry say once in the middle of Ben Casey that we were all just like old Fords anyway, the heart like a carburetor, whatever a carburetor was? “But I need your permission,” the voice seems to echo; maybe it’s the phone that’s bad, bad like the radio.

  “Permission?”

  “To try weaning…” he clears his throat, and she thinks not so much of Harry as a baby being offered a sugar-tit, but of him being mad and saying she was weaned on a pickle. Weaned on piss, he’d even said once in the heat of the moment. But then she thinks of Jewel taking his first steps and refusing the breast; her relief back then chased instantly by a slippery feeling of loss. “Mrs. Caines?” The doctor sounds wary.

  Let Jewel do it, let him say yes, she thinks wildly. But the doctor knows best, or should, she tells herself, not convinced. Suddenly she’s on a Ferris wheel again, the very feeling as when she’d accompany Robert, swinging her legs at the top and dreading the downward rush, but desperate to have it over with, too. Forcing all her worry, her fear, into a dizzy grace, slowly she says, “If it’s for the best, if it’s something you have to do?” As if the question will let her rest at the bottom, her stomach in her mouth, but still in one piece—even knowing the wheel will jerk upwards again, having a mind of its own.

  “We’d like you to be present, then,” the doctor says—no escaping—“you and your son.”

  SHE’S COME TO SEE THE plastic snake as almost friendly, as good as a snake can be with Harry’s poor lips closed around it. But the gauze holding it in place is frayed and bloody; the corners of his mouth are raw. Except for that, the rawness, she realizes that she’s gotten used to this, the way one gets used to anything if one has to. Harry lying there like a landscape, constant yet still, there but not there, hills hidden by mist. She can’t even think about what’s locked inside him, the dips and bends of memories.

  Jewel’s face is stony as he grips her hand; she feels like the child as they watch, and in a dizzy way the scene becomes framed, wavy, as if there should’ve been a test pattern first, that Indian in a headdress that Harry’s been known to stare at. She tries to imagine that they’ve been plunked into an episode of Ben Casey, only Doctor Sheridan isn’t nearly as handsome. The whole picture tilts as the nurse snips through the gauze strips knotted too tightly to untie. There’s a dreadful gurgle and Lucy stops breathing as the tube slides out, slowly, slowly; could it be like a magician extracting a dove? Please, please, she wills Harry to breathe, but then comes a choking sound, like water coughing through a hose. Another nurse, the gap-toothed one, holds Harry’s wrist as the doctor murmurs something, and Lucy sees that they’ve already unrolled fresh gauze.

  And then Harry’s chest flattens, his body a brook under snow; or is this an illusion too, a cruel sleight of hand? For it looks to be the moment, the fine, sharp sliver of time that, for as long as she can remember she’s dreaded seeing, the passing of someone—someone else—the line dividing life from death finer and maybe fainter than the horizon between grey sky and sea. Hadn’t she thought it would be like watching a blade drop from heaven, silence stretching forever on the other side?

  Someone else: Harry. But she’s already somersaulted ahead of herself, so intent on seeing the line that it’s as if he’s a specimen, a dummy for their experiments, and none of it real or serious or permanent, just a game someone’s decided to play, a lark. A trick to jog him from his sleep, a slap to shock him back to life. Except that Jewel’s eyes are the eyes of a little boy marooned on the rocks, hollering. His grip on her hand is so tight it hurts, and suddenly he gasps No! It’s like having her knee tapped with a
mallet, or receiving a karate chop from behind, as Robert had once demonstrated, long past his cute phase. The doctor’s mouth forms the hard line she’s been looking for as he shakes his head. Not yet, says his look, and the little nurse nods and the snake is quickly replaced. Not yet. And before her very eyes, hers and Jewel’s, once again Harry breathes, pulled back to the safe side; of this much she’s certain.

  In the wake of it, she barely feels Jewel leading her to the lounge with its flowered curtains and ripped magazines; it’s as if she’s had her oxygen cut off, then been lassoed from the dead. “Take me home,” is all she can say, relief spilling and tumbling over, leaving her all but paralyzed.