Glass Boys (11 page)

“Well, Garrett dear,” Mrs. Nearly said as she gathered the balls, dropped them one by one into her sack. “Seems you're a magnet for sin. A real magnet. You best mind you're not led astray.”

That day, Garrett wandered home, trailing a good distance behind his mother, and when she rounded the last bend before home, he stopped, fell onto his knees in the middle of the dirt road. He closed his eyes, pictured the smugness sitting so high on Mrs. Nearly's face, and he prayed to God. Fingers clasped tightly together, pressed to his chest, “Dear God,” he whispered. “Dear, dear, dear, dear God. Is I full of sin, God? Do I think bad things? Do I? Is you listening to me?”

Wind moving through his hair, and something stung his head. The back of his mother's hand. He hadn't heard her turn, clip along the road towards him, didn't notice her shadow creep underneath his eyelids. “Of course He idn't, you silly child. No one's listening to no one.”

“Why do we go to church, then?”

“Do you really got to know?”

“Yes.”

“To breathe different air, Garrett. To breathe different air.

Nothing more sacred than that.”

Garrett's face turned red, but he did not cry. Then she put her hand on his head, sighed, said, “Look, I didn't mean to crack your ear. Pray all you wants, my son. Just not in the middle of the road.”

Garrett was not swayed by his mother's crabbiness, and he waited for some sort of indication. He knew it would come, he knew God was there. Listening. Following his steps. Bringing him to the watery surface each time his head slipped below.

His answer arrived the following Sunday, by way of Mrs. Nearly's son. Eddie Nearly, already twelve years old, had been gifted with the ability to draw with near perfect accuracy. “We're going to have him illustrate some spiritual stories for the smaller children,” she had told the boys. “'Tis a fine and honorable thing to do.” The other boys didn't agree, called him pussy baby, pussy baby, said his pointy nose was jammed so far up the reverend's arse he could smell what was stuck in the old man's teeth. To redeem himself with his classmates, Eddie Nearly created a homemade deck of oversized cards, and when his mother's back was turned, he handed them around for all the boys to see.

Each card depicted a woman, in varying states of undress. There were pictures of bare torsos, breasts randomly attached, bulbous mounds with starfish perched on the tips. Women lying on their stomachs, backsides like smooth beach rocks, clinging to arching backs. The queen of spades was nothing more than a pair of enormous branches heading in opposite directions, curious seaweed arrangements where they met. And the queen of hearts had a dried jellyfish tucked between her bent legs. Tiny tentacles that might ensnare an unsuspecting male. As the cards passed through Garrett's hands, he felt a hitch inside his stomach. But that didn't stop him from studying them carefully. He couldn't fathom that these were actual lady parts, how the underwater world had imprinted itself so blatantly upon a woman's body.

“Pass 'em along, pass 'em along, Dumb-ass Glass.”

But, once again, Garrett was slow, and he thought about those black balls, and how sin stuck to him, so why should he rush anyway?

When one of the boys groaned, Mrs. Nearly's ears perked up, and she whipped around. One lunge, and the cards went from scattered to collected inside Mrs. Nearly's vice grip.

“Oh,” she breathed as she held one up. “Oh, oh, oh.” Her face grew ashen, and huge pink hives broke out on her neck. She placed a hand over the slight dip in her dress, covering her collarbones. “Oh, Eddie,” she cried, and fled the room.

Mrs. Nearly did not return, though after about fifteen minutes, the reverend entered the hall. He wore a woolen jacket over his black gown, and with each deep step Garrett could see a flash of seal fur slippers on his feet. The reverend took a seat amongst them, and folded his hands in his lap.

“Boys. Boys. Boys.”

“Hello, Reverend,” they murmured.

“I believes 'tis time enough to talk to you boys.”

“Yes, Reverend.”

“Boys. Did you know we are made in God's image?”

Grumbling, nodding. “Yes, sir. We does, sir.”

“Do you know what that means, boys?”

“Yes, we does, sir.”

“Well, just in case there's some misunderstanding, let me clarify that for you. The human body is a sacred thing, boys. Sacred. Not a source of amusement. Not the brunt of a joke. Our bodies are beautiful things. Works of utter art.”

“Yes, sir. They is, sir. Beautiful things.”

“Scary, too,” the youngest boy, Darcy Brown, exclaimed.

“Sssshhhushhh!”

The reverend rubbed his face, and Garrett caught a faint whiff of sweat.

“I don't want to come in here and snap down hard on you fellers. Like part of me thinks I should. I told Mrs. Nearly to keep the transgression to herself. And considering 'twas you, Eddie,” he shifted to face the boy, “who created the filth, I'm sure she'll abide by my wishes.”

Eddie coughed, tugged at buttons near his shirt collar.

“Uh-huh.”

“But, all you fellers had some hand in this. All of you took part. And I want to say a few things before I turns you out. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Garrett sat up, had a feeling something important was on the way.

“You are on the verge of being young men. Good young men. Decent young men. You should all know by now that physical expression of love is a gift from God. Do you know what I means by physical expression? 'Tis a gift, boys. A gift. A private gift between two people.” He paused, dark hooded eyes looking around the room. “I won't try to kid you fellers, and feed you some line that 'tis all about making babies. Cause it idn't. That discussion is best left between you and your dads. But I will say this.” Slowly and carefully. “Having that form of relationship with someone else, well, now, it takes a great deal of courage and trust. Courage. And. Trust. We need to share ourselves, boys, when the time is right, and accept another if we ask, and they are willing to share themselves with us. That's one of the most sacred things on earth. To look upon another's body, well, that's to look upon God.”

Garrett nodded slowly, pinched his leg. Tears were welling up behind his eyes. “God's will,” he repeated.

“Do you fellers understand?”

Plenty of snickers, and elbows bumping, and no one looked up. Except for Garrett. Who looked the reverend straight in the eye, replied firmly, “Yes, sir, I does.”

“Alright, then. Get on out of here. Be good, and listen to your mothers.”

Garrett left church, never flinched when he saw his mother waiting at the edge of the church grounds, face scowling, tongue clicking in her mouth. He skipped alongside her all the way to the farmhouse. Finally, he was happy inside. After lunch, a withered drumstick, potatoes like glue, he stole his stepfather's magnifying glass. Went deep into the woods, found a sunny clearing, and burned a cross into the flesh of an old birch tree. As a small thank-you. Thank-you, Lord, for blessing me.

PART     

THREE

15

MY DEAR FRANCIS,
I know it's been ages since I wrote to you, unforgivable ages,
but life has gotten busier than I even thought it could. Lewis
is working hard to keep the peace here in Knife's Point. Even
though you'd think otherwise, there is always something
going on. Tombstones smashed, a car stolen, fistfights on Fri
day nights. He tells me all about it, and you'd think we was
living in some big city. Just last week, we had our own miss
–
ing person case. An elderly woman, gone for four days. Hav
ing a few dollars to her name, I guessed she'd run off, but
when Lewis suggested that, her two sons insisted that was out
of character. She would never leave her things. Never skip a
church service.

They found her, well inside her home. Well, not well, really.
She was crushed under a pile of packed suitcases. She wasn't
leaving, though, she just had full suitcases. Apparently, she
never threw a single thing out, and had what her sons called a
“sincere affection” for catalogue shopping. Parcel or two every
day. They searched through the house, stuff piled up against
the walls, sweaters and scarves, serving dishes and porcelain
dolls, magazines—old garbage, too, mounds of it to the ceil
ing. Fifty-odd years of collecting. A lot of junk—good for noth
ing. Seems she was trying to find something in a back room,
and the whole works tottered and came down upon her. Died
with no water after a short while. Killed by the very items that
made her happy.

Sad as it is, I thought of you when Lewis told me—thought
you might like to get in at it, sift through it all. I imagine you'd
learn a tremendous amount about that woman, and find a
load of treasure for the store at the same time. But, her sons
wasted no time in selling it all off. Never saw such a spread
of goods on someone's lawn, and the crowds arrived from as
far away as Idle Boot Bay. A hoard of hungry ants on an aban
doned cake.

On a more pleasant note, the boys are growing and grow
ing. They get along so well together, sometimes it surprises me.
They never fight, other than some typical joking around boy
business. Melvin is making great strides at school, and his
teacher loves him. He is ahead in his math and spelling, and
they're not sure what to do with him next year. Toby turned
into a little man overnight, I really can't believe my eyes. He
is very independent and often dresses himself in a mixture of
plaids and stripes. He'd make you proud with his unique fash
ion sense.

Thank-you for the lovely card and gift you sent for Toby.
He loves his books, as does Melvin, and though they carry
some nice titles in the shops around here, it's a real treat to get
something from the city.

I must close as I have to make some lemonade for the boys.
I often wonder where your kindness comes from, Francis, and
I'm certain it's not an earthly place.

As always, with affection,

Wilda

Seated at a small oak desk, Wilda laid her pen aside, folded the pages into thirds, creasing each edge with the back of her nail. Stuffed it into a white envelope, patterned interior. Then she dug through a drawer, located a stamp, pretty sailboat picture, licked it, and fixed it to the upper right-hand corner. In practiced script, she wrote out his address. Blew on the ink so it would not smear. “There,” she said cheerily to Toby, who was cross-legged in front of the big box set, squealing each time someone hollered “yabbadabbadoooooo.”

She stood, paced back and forth for several minutes, fanned herself with the letter pinched in her fingers. Of course, she realized what she should have written once the envelope was sealed. She should have spent more time describing her family life, Lewis, the boys, the vegetable garden, and a lot less time on that hapless old woman and her houseful of junk. She squeezed her hand, heard the crinkle of paper inside. Perhaps, if the saliva was still wet, she could peel back the closure and reread it. Just to make sure.

Fingers prying at the seal, but the glued paper began to tear. Evidence of tampering. So, she took a deep breath, tore it open, and the neatly folded letter popped out of its enclosure as though it was relieved to be free. She scanned it quickly, eyes jumping over her script, “My dear,” “I thought of you,” “your kindness,” “with affection.” Phrases lifting off the page, and her cheeks grew hot as waves of embarrassment moved through her. She crumpled the letter in her fist, suddenly aware that Toby was only several feet away from her and his program was ending. What if he looked at her, somehow discovered the childish game she was playing, sensed her humiliation?

Wilda could not explain these emotions, her slight shame whenever Lewis arrived home with the mail, presented her with yet another letter or parcel from Francis. Early on in their marriage, they repeated the same conversation: “Why don't you ever invite your uncle to visit?” “He's too old to travel.” “Well, we could go, it's not that great a distance, you know.” “Too busy, Lewis. Maybe next year.” And now Lewis simply handed her each letter with a smile, some sort of trivial comment. “Business must be good. He got his own letterhead.” And with her thumb, she would quickly cover the whimsical urchin now seated to the left of his return address.

Francis had only ever been kind to her. Beyond kind. A godsend. There was no confusion about that. He never asked for a single thing, only an ounce of companionship as he went about his daily rounds, buying other people's treasures, shining them up, and reselling them. But Wilda could not deny the fact that when she left him, when she kissed him goodbye on his dusty cheek that last time, she felt an odd sense of relief to be out from underneath it all. The damp sensation that accompanied being loved.

Since she moved to Knife's Point, she did not welcome his letters, the monthly reminder of his misplaced fondness. Wilda had tried hard to move forward through her life, and she kept a stiff broom at her back, made wide sweeps to obliterate each footstep. Always existing in the present moment. How else could she be expected to survive? But her broom was unable to disrupt his reasonable claim on her. And there, in the distorted tracks behind her, she could see his ignorance. He was unaware that she was a fraud.

From the top of the refrigerator, she retrieved Lewis's brass lighter, and then went to the fireplace, moved the screen away, tossed the letter onto the empty grate. She knelt down, flicked open the lid, thumb bringing forth the flame, and she lit the corner closest to her. Within moments, the letter curled inwards, and her highfalutin thoughts were transformed to ash and dust.