Glass Boys (13 page)

Grabbing a cold skinny arm, Lewis hauled the entire body out of the stream. Never expected it to stay up on its own. He already pictured it crumpling down, back to its watery grave.

But instead, a surprised child, gasping and sputtering, stood before him, blinking wildly when Lewis knocked the snorkel and mask off his head.

“Why don't you answer me?” Lewis blurted, his contorted face only inches from Toby's.

“Watching tadpoles. Didn't wanna scare 'em.” Toby spoke in rapid fire. “They was trying to play with me.” Toby wanted to tell his father that he stayed so still, they were tapping the glass of his mask. Peering in at him with their black bead eyes.

“Playing with tadpoles. Jesus Christ. I thought you was drowned.”

“I'm a good swimmer, Dad. Better than half those tadpoles.

Banging about.”

“Yes, but you're too young to be on your own.”

“Do I got to come out?”

“That you do. Right this second. Your lips is purple.” Eyeballing the rest of his little boy body. “Not to mention other parts of you.”

“Aww
w.”

“Not a squeak, Toby!”

Toby glanced down at his once crystal-clear stream, saw the muddy water, mossy gunk scratched off the bottom. No sign of his mottled green friends. He pouted. All that stomping and stirring of the water had scared them away. His teeth began to chatter, his head ached, and he rubbed the reddened rectangle around his eyes and nose.

Lewis picked up Toby, carried him on his hip, forearm underneath the boy's bare backside. “And where's your underwear?”

“Around.”

“Around, hey?”

“They kept slipping. And they fell off in the water.”

“A good man keeps track of his underwear.”

“I knows.” He put his face down on the warm fabric, tucked his hands in, and made the tiniest mental note, filed it under “Ways to be a good man.”

Up on the bank, Lewis gathered Toby's clothes from the spruce branch, then strode up the incline and said through locked jaw, “Melvin!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that how you looks after your little brother?”

Wilda stepped forward. “'Twas my fault, Lew. Don't blame the boy. I wasn't paying enough attention.” Even though Toby was safe, now, panic still lingered inside Wilda's stomach. Fluttering upwards, making the skin on her neck flush bright pink. The memory of that afternoon with her father was in there, too, still churning inside her stomach. How could she make such selfish mistakes? Standing still when she needed to move. Walking away when she needed to stay.

Lewis ignored her, lunged forward and gripped Melvin's shoulders, applied enough weight to test the child's knees. “Is that how you look after your little brother, I asked?”

“No, sir.”

“You got to be responsible.”

“Yes, sir,” Melvin replied. Then, his standard catchphrase whenever Lewis chastised him, “I won't do that again.”

Testing. “What'd you do?”

“I weren't rees-ble, sir.”

Voices springing into Wilda's head.

Re-re-re-pons-ble, maid.

I don't know what that means, Daddy.

Help me, Willie.

While Melvin stood tall under the pressure, Wilda's legs weakened, and she reached her hand out to touch the warm trunk of a birch tree. She wanted to say something to Lewis, say it wasn't right to put that sort of strain on a child. It could change who they were. Who they were becoming. But she said nothing. Watched Toby, naked, cut-off jeans and line-dried T-shirt wadded up underneath his arm, toddling off through the woods towards home.

ONCE THE BOYS
were changed, completed half-hearted attempts to scrape the yellow film from their teeth, Wilda went into their shared bedroom, new book tucked up under her arm. As soon as she entered, Melvin pounced on her, locked his hands around her neck, dangled. “You are a perfect mother,” he said. “Stupendous. Splendiferous.”

Back straining, she dropped the book, tickled the taut skin over his ribs, slightly harder than necessary. “You're just showing off, now. You and your big words.”

“But you is, Mommy,” he said, letting go, squeezing her waist to the point of pain. “You're the bestest mommy in the world.”

“Well, maybe in Knife's Point,” she said, and wedged herself free, took a small bow.

“No, Mommy,” he continued, hands on his flat hips. “In the world. Say it.”

“That's enough.”

“C'mon. Say it.”

“Stop that.”

“Say it, I said.”

“Stop that, Melvin.”

“Say it, Mom!”

“If you don't quit addling me, I won't read nothing. You hear me? And you'll spend your night in here in the dark with God only knows what type of scary monster crawling 'round under your bed.” As soon as the words were out, she winced. Silence in the room, her older son stared at her, his smile punctured. Some moments, there was no disguising it. She was simply rotten.

“Well, now,” she said, smoothing her hair, weak smile. “Shall we start in on the book? A new one from Francis. I flicked through and it does look like a lovely set of stories.”

Melvin slunk over towards the bed, and when within two feet of the edge, he leapt, pulled his legs up, and landed near the middle of the mattress. Wilda sat between the two boys, and after a few moments they crept up next to her, each nestling into a side. She read several short stories about two best friends, a frog and a toad. Each had a distinct personality, Toad being a little slower and carefree, Frog a bit more intellectual and considerate. She read about a new season, a lost button, a letter written for a friend. All three of them giggled when Wilda recited the story of when Toad went swimming, and his shyness over his ugly swimsuit.

“Toby didn't mind his swimsuit,” Melvin squealed.

“What swin-soot?”

“That's right!” Melvin rolled onto his back, feet and arms straight up, dead bug pose.

Toby looked up at Wilda. “What swin-soot?”

“Well,” she said. “Toad didn't need a swimsuit. Just like you. Come to think of it, you are a little like Toad, and Melvin is a little like Frog. You'll be friends forever.”

Melvin jumped up, bed converted into trampoline, achieving impressive heights in his alligator-print pajamas. When airborne, he cried, “You're just like Toad.” Bump. “Naked Toad.” Bump. “Sun cooking your arse red.”

Wilda stood, allowed Toby up into arms. “Now, Melvin.”

“Frog is the smart one.” Bump. “Mother said so herself.” Bump. “She admitted it.” Bump. “You're a toad.” Bump. “Toad-head.” Bump. “Warty toad-brain.”

“Melvin! Don't be mean to your little brother.”

“You loves Toad-in-the-Hole.” Bump.

“Frog would never, ever jump on a bed, Melvin.”

Frog froze, mid-leap, returned to earth in a wrinkled mound of abused sheets. With immediate seriousness, he smoothed the bedding, climbed beneath it, squeezed his eyes shut, lips puckered to obliterate the smirk.

“Is I a toad, mom?” Toby spoke directly into Wilda's ear.

“Not, really. I was just joking.”

“I don't wanna be no toad.”

She hauled back the covers on his side, slipped him in, kissed his smooth forehead. Leaned in closer. “Frog may be wise,” she breathed. “But my little Toad will find his own path. You wait and see.”

At the door, she turned, made sure the two lumps were still in the bed. Yes, they were, and she flicked out the lights.

In the darkness, Melvin said, “Good night, Toadstool.”

Toby never responded, pulled his feet up closer to his body. Though he felt overheated on the inside, his sunburnt skin was covered with goose bumps. As he lay there, he could feel his mother's words, swirling down into the drain hole of his ear. His own path. His own path. Even though he didn't quite understand what it meant, those whispers made him panicky. How could he ever exist on a path where Mellie did not?

WHEN SILENCE FINALLY arrived inside the boys' room, Wilda tiptoed back in, stood at the base of the bed. Open curtains, a waxing moon threw light into the room, and she could see her sons, a picture composed of a myriad of gray tones. They were sleeping, face to face, covers kicked off, backsides jutting out, knees and toes touching. Joined, like two halves of a lopsided heart. She watched their chests, rising and falling in opposing rhythm. Melvin gradually exhaling, Toby gradually pulling that very air into his pink lungs. Toby exhaling, Melvin's mouth drawing it back in. Over and over. A single breath shared between them.

And Wilda considered then they weren't as fragile as she often imagined. They weren't made of thin clear glass. If she opened her hands, let them go, they wouldn't shatter on the floor. Surely, they wouldn't. In the golden moonlight, she saw that each one was just enough for the other.

16

EVER SINCE LEWIS Trench was a little boy running amongst the stalls, he had always loved the fall fair. He believed that during those two days, a magic was trapped in the damp shadowy barn, transformed with lights dangling from high rafters, the proud smell of hard work. Nothing much had changed over the years—quilts and homemade sweaters were still displayed on the walls, loaves of banana bread and supper rolls and jams and sweet cucumber pickles still graced the makeshift tables. Enormous heads of cabbage and bulbous turnips waited patiently to be measured. As Lewis wandered, everyone was smiling and laughing, farmers and fishermen and store owners coming together. Children tearing about, begging for a pinch of Miss Nettie's fudge or Aunt Bertha's peanut brittle. Lewis's mother had been a frequent winner of the baking contest, and each year they reminded Lewis of the loss they felt when she died. How much they still mourned her, and her perfect pastry recipe, long gone to the grave.

Lewis searched for Wilda, found her standing silently among a gaggle of aproned ladies. A variety of pies on the table before them. He waved, but she shifted her body, folded her arms. It was Lewis who signed her up for the contest every year, and this time he'd pressed and pressed and pressed until she gave in, agreed to participate. And why not? He thought it was an easy opportunity for her to connect with the neighbors, show them that she was capable. “Better late than never,” he'd said to her frowning face. “You'll see.” Lewis found it odd that Wilda showed no interest in meeting the other women of Knife's Point. When his mother had been alive, the door of their house was always swinging, visitors coming and going. Cups and saucers empty on the table, crumbs scattered on the floor beneath.

Over the course of two weeks, Wilda made nine or ten blueberry pies. Not a one to her liking. Crust too thin, too thick, too hard, too goopy, filling either liquid or firm. Lewis had counseled her not to take it so seriously, “'Tis only a bit of fun,” and she complained, “How do you think I feels being around those ladies?” “You feels happy?” “No! I feels like this,” and she picked up her latest effort, top burnt from bubbling sugar, and dropped it into the sink. Lewis would never admit to her that seeing the pie destroyed was a relief. Somehow, he and the boys had managed to consume each of her labors, and they confided to each other that they all had the troubles because of it. Runs the color of midnight.

“Woot, woot for Wilda's pie!” Lewis called out, and the ladies turned, stared at the redness as it filled Wilda's cheeks.

“Oh, no,” she said, one hand to her mouth. And Lewis laughed. Sometimes the shy ones just need a more forceful shove.

He wandered over to the stalls where the church ladies—The Tiny Trio, they called themselves—were fundraising. Signed his name down and paid for four church suppers, slices of ham, potato salad, coleslaw, beet. Maybe a leaf of lettuce and a slice of under-ripe tomato. For a quarter, he got to guess the number of Purity taffies stuffed into a jar. Prize was a lovely set of handkerchiefs, white tatting on the edges. “Tobe, Tobe,” Lewis called out, as his son tore past. “How many do you think?” Toby stopped for a moment, ring of chocolate around his mouth, cried out, “two three gazillion,” and then he continued his rampage, sticky fingers reaching for a young girl's pigtail. Lewis couldn't help but smirk, said to The Tiny Trio, “how many zeroes do you think that got?”

A few feet over, perched on a low wooden stool, old Dolf Neary hollered, “You got a live one there, Lewis. Startin' young, wha?” Dolf had spent his life on the water, and his face was like wrinkled leather, eyes smiling.

“That's right. He's my boy.”

Net draped across his lap, Dolf's fingers held needle and twine, worked to repair broken mesh. “Just like Roy, he is. Roy coulda shat him out.”

Squirt of vinegar to Lewis's gut. “You think?”

Dolf coughed, lifted his ball cap, scratched his bald head. “I minds when Roy was that age. And he do, he looks right like him.”

Lewis sighed, nodded. “I knows, Skipper,” he said. “They both do. Some days I finds it tough to even look at them.”

“Like you would,” Dolf replied gently. “Like you would, my son.”

The two men watched Melvin, nuzzled in amongst the judges who were sampling the pies. “Delightful,” one judge announced as he took a bite of Dolf's wife's pie. And Melvin stabbed his hips with his fists, hollered, “You just wait! My mom's pie is the more delightful. And I should know—I ate a dozen of them!” Dolf and Lewis roared, shook their heads. “Now I believes that's undue pressure,” Dolf hollered. “Cause for disqualification.”

Wilda appeared mortified at the attention, and Lewis couldn't watch her. Couldn't watch her lose the contest. If they gave her an honorable mention, the pity ribbon, that would be worse than no mention at all. So he clapped Dolf on the back, meandered down through the barn, past a table that held salt fish, another table covered with doilies and Barbie doll tissue box covers and crocheted snowflakes for future Christmas trees. On the wall was a grand display of string art from Miss Squire's elementary class, and Lewis searched for Melvin's. Wasn't hard to find. While all the other children created simple circles or single-colored tear drop shapes, Melvin's was intricate, layered, shape inside shape. Blue and red and yellow and black. Lewis leaned in closer, saw neat penciled words on the painted wood. “For mom. Gods eye to watch you.” Shaking his head, Lewis didn't know whether to smile or scowl. He wished Melvin would let go of Wilda's apron strings, spend more time kicking the ball around. Like a real boy.