Glass Boys (12 page)

Before she prepared a picnic for her and the boys, she scratched a hasty second letter. A few quick thoughts—comfortably empty. Propped it up against the half-empty cookie jar, and it would wait there until Lewis mailed it.

Dear Francis,
    
It was so nice to hear from you, and thank-you for the
birthday gift for Toby. He really adores books, and is just
beginning to recognize a couple of letters. I hope you are well.

Yours,

Wilda Trench

Seated side by side on a matchstick quilt, they each held a sandwich in their hands, soft bread roughly halved. Bright orange Tang in Mason jars secured between their thighs. While Wilda and Melvin nibbled gingerly in a shaft of sunlight, Toby bounded down the muddy slope towards the water. Stripped down in a flash, shorts and T-shirt cradled in a low spruce branch, he hauled a black swimming mask on over his eyes. Stomping newly grown reeds, he waded out to the center of the stream, plunged beneath the surface. Even from her distance, Wilda could see his red shoulders, knew the skin was peeling and that she should insist he keep his T-shirt on. But she didn't call him back, watched him dance in the glistening water, pale blue underwear hanging off his backside.

“Dis is goo,” Melvin said, lifting his sandwich, smiling at Wilda. “Jus de righ mound of everydin. Don sti do de roo o yo moud.”

“Mmm,” she replied, smiling back at him. She could tell by his garbled speech that the peanut butter was indeed firmly stuck to the roof of his mouth. Lunchtime had passed by the time she'd dealt with the letter, and she had slobbered it on the bread thickly, hastily, spared the near empty bottle of raspberry jelly along. “Mmm,” she repeated. Full of little lies, that one. Lies spoken in an attempt to make her feel better about all her mini-failures—bathwater that was too cool (“Sure, that's some refreshing!”) or a sloppy cake (“That's the best one ever!”) or clothes stiff from too much soap (“Helps me stay upright.”).

Inside, Wilda felt mildly raw from writing to Francis, and she had little patience for Melvin's softness. Many times she wished Melvin would just speak the truth, rather than trying to mold it into something warm and wonderful. Making her shortcomings all the worse, all the more obvious.

Wilda glanced down the slope, saw near-naked Toby twirling in the stream, a cat's tail clutched in either hand. Each time he would wave his blossom stalks, conducting the watery music, Wilda could see fluffy bits released, drifting up into the sunlight. Toby was like those bits, floating without care, rising and falling at the whim of the wind. If only Melvin were similar to that. Ignorant to subtleties. Bounding through life like a regular boy, climbing trees and skinning his knees, entranced by bright cartoons and the wonders of a handful of mud. Melvin was so attuned to her body, even if she altered her breath, permitted the slightest sigh to escape her lips, he was beside her, touching her, offering up a lemon cream or a glass of milk.

Wilda swallowed her last bite, sighed without meaning to.

Melvin edged ever closer, held up his sandwich, said, “Do yo wan my?”

Inner sigh. “No, thank-you, Melvin. You finish it.”

She brushed crumbs from her dress, a picnic sort of dress, full flowered skirt that just covered her knees. She tried to stare at nothing, but her eyes settled on her bare calves, and she noticed they appeared slightly swollen. She could see every pore in her pale skin. Kicking off her rubber sandals, she studied her feet as well. Wiggled her toes. A yellowish callous had formed on the side of her left foot and both heels were covered in cracked skin.

Melvin laid his head against her upper arm, “You have beautiful feet, Mommy.”

Yes, when he read her mind, that troubled her as well.

“Thank you, Melvin.”

“They've taken you a long distance.”

“How do you mean?”

“You've lived on those feet for big number of years. Done a lot of things.”

She swallowed, could still taste peanut butter on her tongue.

“Yes. Yes, I have.”

“So, you should be proud of your feet. Happy with your feet.”

“I am.”

“They's good feet,” he said, between slurps.

“Indeed.” She looked down at his small face, pie-plate eyes, joker smile from the orange crescent left by his drink.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, Melvin?” He was lying back on the blanket now, staring up at the leafy canopy.

“I knows where Nanny and Poppy is.”

“That's nice.”

“Don't you want to ask me where they is?”

“Okay. Where is they?”

“Up there.” Skinny arm pointing heavenward. “Singing with the angels.”

“That's nice, Melvin.”

“But I was wondering where's the Nanny and Poppy that comes from you?”

Heart beginning to beat, she kept her voice level. “Well, they idn't here.”

“Is they gone?”

“Yes, Melvin. They's gone.”

“Gone off far?”

“Mmm.” She stared up at the leaves, counted to three. “Pretty far.”

“Is they with the angels?”

Bending her knees, she tucked her feet underneath the cotton fabric of her dress.

“Well?”

“So many questions,” she said. “Just like your father used to be.”

“I'm seven now. I wants to know about my tree.”

“What tree?”

“Family tree.”

“Oh.” Wilda felt tightness building in her calves, a desire to walk towards the water and clean her feet. Feet that she'd lived on for a big number of years. She cleared her throat, kept a hand on her folded legs. “Your tree don't got that many branches. But you can grow it better when you're older.”

“Is they with the angels?”

Legs straightened now, achy. “Poppy Burry is with the angels.”

“Did he get there while he was sleeping like Nanny Trench?”

“I– I don't know, Melvin.”

“How can you not know?”

Why didn't the fresh air make him nap? Every other child napped. Instead, he was exercising his little fingers, reaching into places they did not belong, poking, prodding the walls of a dark papery hive. Her heart thumped in her throat. After two even breaths, she replied, “I just don't.”

“You was young?”

“Very.” But not that young.

“Did you ask?”

Firm. “That's enough about Poppy Burry.”

“Okay.”

“Good, then.”

Half a breath. “And what about Nanny? Do she play the harp up there?”

Wilda closed her eyes, twisted to grip her legs with both hands. “I don't believe.”

“You don't know?”

“Haven't a clue, darling.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“Why don't you know?”

She leaned in, hoping to offer enough to satiate his curiosity. “Can I tell you something Melvin? Swear you'll never tell another soul.”

He sat up quickly, crossed his legs. “I swears, Mommy. On my ticker.” Clenched fist thwacking little ribs.

“Do you remember when I read Hansel and Gretel to you?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Well, my mother, your nanny, was worse than the wicked stepmother.”

Jaw dropped. “Oh, wow. She wanted you to cart you off to the woods?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Was she your real mother?”

“Yes, sir. That she was.”

He shook his head. “That's the worst kind, Mommy. A real mother that's a stepmother. That's the very worst kind.”

“Mmm.”

“Did you take any white pebbles? Any bread crumbs?”

“I weren't near as smart as you, Melvin.”

“So you was lost?”

“I guess I was lost. In a way.”

“Your dad didn't want to do it, Mommy. Didn't want to leave you there.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, sure. That has to be the truth. That's how the story goes.”

“You're right.”

“But, that won't never happen to you again, Mommy. Getting lost like that. I'll make sure of it. I'm a full growed boy and I got brains enough for the both of us.”

“Okay.” She pinched his chin, and then straightened her legs. Done for now. “Finish your sandwich, and that's it for today. You got me that grilled, parts of me is burnt.”

Melvin wrenched his neck, glanced behind him. There it was, again. Heavy boots crunching through their woods, snapping twigs, crushing pinecones, coming closer towards their picnic spot. Snappy whistling that arrived in his ears in distorted strains.

“Mom?” Melvin whispered.

“I'm sure 'tis just your daddy,” Wilda replied. “Lewis?” she called. “Lewis, is that you?”

Melvin jumped up, fists clenched and lifted, ready to defend. From the long shadows, Lewis emerged, waving his hand. Wilda waved back. He was still wearing his work clothes, but had a ball cap perched atop his head.

“Whoa, whoa, young feller. Stand down.” Lewis said to Melvin with a pleasant chirp. Nudged him, and he scrambled back to his mother. Then, to Wilda, “I was wondering where you folks got off to.”

“Not far,” she said, smiling. “Too hot in the backyard, so we came here for lunch. You want a—” she began, then said remembered her sandwiches and said, “there's nothing really left.”

“No, no. I'm best kind.”

He sat down on the quilt, crossed his feet at the ankles, and Wilda noticed he kept the soles of his shoes just beyond the edge so that any dirt and needles would not land on her clean blanket. Something he didn't even have to think about, Lewis was just that way.

“How's the flies?”

“Not too bad. I guess they don't like the way we smells.”

“I likes the way you smells,” he murmured, leaned his face into her neck.

Melvin pressed in closer to Wilda, knotted his fingers in through her hand, fake sneezed. Twice.

“Speaking of smells,” Lewis said. “What a day I had. Got a call from Gordie Tripp, three sheets to the wind, telling me someone made off with his best sow.”

“How can you make off with a pig?”

“I was thinking the same thing. Just wrap a rope 'round her neck? Someone'll see you meandering down the road, right?” Lewis tapped a cigarette from the case, cupped his hands to light it, replaced the case in his shirt pocket. “Well, you wouldn't believe it, but I was driving down Belty Street, and lo and behold, a young feller cruises past me with a most unusual companion riding shotgun.”

“Not the sow!”

“Yes, ma'am. Sitting up all prim and proper like the nastiest looking prom date.”

Wilda put her hand to her mouth. “Well, I never.”

“I goes after them. Hauls them over. Three of them. Three, plus the missy.” Leaned back on his elbows, several deep drags, smoke curling from his nose, mouth as he spoke. “Turns out, they says, Tripp gave them the pig for a few bottles, bought and delivered. But then she went right wild when they jammed her into the backseat. Wouldn't have none of it. Only way to get her home was to let her ride up front, blast Janis Joplin or some such garbage.”

“Well, what do you say to that?”

“Yes, what do you say? I told them to bring her back. Make it right with Tripp. No discussion.”

“Now that don't seem fair to the boys.”

“Give him his pinch of snuff,” Melvin announced proudly.

“Barber, barber.”

“Yes, Melvin.” She patted his knee, and he peered up at her, all smiles.

“Or fair to the missy. Her run cut short like that. And she was getting all kinds of annoyed without her music. Grunting and huffing, pawing the dash with her hoof. I told them to swing her around for a burger, plate of chips, and have her back in jig time. Make sure they don't break her curfew.”

“Quite the story, Lewis. Poor pig. They should've just let it be.”

“Stench so bad, now, my eyes is still watering.” He tossed his cigarette towards the base of a tree, watched it smolder beneath a dead leaf, then stood, went over and crushed it. “'Tis good to be away from it all. Find a bit of peace here.” Reaching down, he scooped up Wilda's jar of Tang, gulped it after she nodded. Scanning the branches, he said, “Where's Toby anyways? Up in a tree?”

Wilda turned her head sharply, stared down at the water.

“Not today. He's...” looking up and down the length of the empty stream before her, “he's in the water.”

Lewis dropped the jar, took two deep steps. “What do you mean he's in the water? Where in the water?”

Wilda was on her feet then, Melvin too, an extra appendage growing from her side. “Down there. Wading in the stream. It idn't even above his knees, Lew. He's just 'round the bend, I'm sure. You can hear him.”

All three of them silent for a moment, holding their breath, Wilda willing the sound of splashing to rise up from the water below. But there was only silence, other than the rustling leaves, squirting sounds from Melvin's stomach, and an incessant chick-a-dee-dee-dee from an invisible bird.

“I don't hear nothing.” Lewis stomped down the slope, heels of his boots sinking into the muck. Hollering over his shoulder. “Is that what you does? Is that how you takes care of my son? Lets him alone in the water?”

“We was talking.” Her voice faint, legs rubbery. She placed her hand over her mouth, spoke into the cup of her palm. “Me and Melvin was talking.” For how long, she couldn't say.

Lewis waded out to the middle of the stream, water frothing around his pants. “Tobe,” he called, voice gentle, panic controlled. “Tobe, where's you at, my son?” Turning, turning, and it occurred to him that this was the very area he used to play duck, duck, goose with Roy, and the loss of his brother somehow oozed out of its container, made Lewis's heart constrict. “Tobe!” he cried. Then he saw the tiny body, face down, stubby legs extended, a million iridescent bubbles tangled around his floating hair. Toby's bare backside bobbed slightly with the current. Sunlight penetrated the watery ripples, making Toby's skin appear bleached and dead. Panic in his limbs, Lewis leapt forward. But the water refused to solidify, to withstand his weight. And each time he kicked, his boots slipped through the surface, struck the greasy bottom. Distance between him and Toby expanding into miles. “Tobe! Oh Tobe!” But Toby never lifted his head, and a silent roar ripped through Lewis's mind all because he failed to notice the orange band at the tip of his son's snorkel.