Glass Boys (14 page)

After days of drizzle, the late September sun was shining all afternoon, and Lewis leaned against the wooden frame of the barn door, one foot up, lit a cigarette. Lifted his face to the heat. So rare, he thought. So much had changed since he was a boy. Knife's Point was no longer innocent and isolated. The outside world had stepped right up, found all the front doors unlocked, and entered without so much as ringing the bell. But, this one event, these two days every fall, seemed to have stayed exactly the same.

Just a few feet away, he watched as Garrett Glass rubbed a rag over the large wheels of a tractor, then scattered handfuls of hay on the ground around it. Lewis could see that Garrett had rapidly grown into a young man, now tall and strong, strangely delicate in the way he bustled about. Feminine, almost. Greeting each boy, lifting him up onto a tire as though the boy were fragile. His red mop of hair was down over his eyes, and as the children approached, he kept his head down, like a shy but steady workhorse. Nothing like the boar of a man who had raised him. Lewis took a deep drag, closed his eyes again, and saw the orange glow permeating his lids. He could, if he wanted to, focus his hatred only on Eli, let the boy slip through. After all, here he was, volunteering his time. Making it a better day.

Then Lewis saw Toby crawl up the side of the tractor, settle onto the seat, feet dangling, hands gripping the enormous steering wheel. “Vroom, vroom, chuggachuggachugga!” Lewis tossed his cigarette into the dirt, stomped it with his boot. Stood for a moment, then hollered, “Hey, Tobe.” The boy looked up, along with several others. And Garrett too. All of them staring at Lewis, waiting for something further. Lewis hauled his bottom lip in over his teeth, bit down. Then said, “You having fun, mister?” And Toby grinned, nodded, bounced on the seat. “Vroom, chugga!” Lewis waved his hand, waited until the boy waved back, and then went back inside the barn in search of an egg salad sandwich.

GARRETT GLASS didn't slouch at all as he drove the tractor down the shoulder of the road towards the community barn, a grinning scarecrow balanced on his lap. The place was bustling, and people stepped aside as he chugged nearer to them, parking the tractor just outside the door. He deserved this afternoon, he told himself. Deserved to have the children playing at his feet.

For days, he had begged Eli to allow him to borrow the tractor. It was newish, Eli's pride, blood red body and shiny silver grill. Thick tires that weren't yet dimpled or cut by sharp rocks. Garrett promised to return it in better shape than when he took it. Worked past dark to finish extra chores, gain free time. But it wasn't until Garrett explained the business sense of participating that Eli conceded. “These people purchase what we grows, what we butchers. Nothing's more important in this place than being sociable. There's always another farmer. Other vegetables. Other meats.” Eli nodded, plucked the cap from his head. Said, “Get on with you, but don't expect me to have no part in it. And if I sees even a single footprint, a single nick, 'tis your goddamned skin'll be hanging on the line to dry.”

“Yes, sir.”

Garrett took a soft rag from his pocket, polished away the fine layer of dirt, spatters of muck from the fields. He cut the twine on a bale of hay, spread it around. When his set looked complete, he took the scarecrow he'd constructed out of an old shirt and pants, painted-up flour sack for a head, stuck the sharpened post in the earth.

His stepsisters lingered nearby, the older girl whining and writhing as though a worm were moving out through her bulky flesh. But DeeDee did not aggravate Garrett, not like the younger one did. Touching the tractor, running her girly fingers over the wheel, over the shiny body. He hated Angie. Eli's little treasure.

“Get away,” he hollered, leaning forward, shaking his fist. “Get on with the both of you. Bloody pests.”

“I'm hungry,” DeeDee moaned. “I neeeeds food.”

“I wants to work the tractor.” Angie, this time.

“That you won't, then.” Garrett dug into his pocket, placed a coin in each of their sweaty palms. “Take this. And don't let me see you again 'til you hears me calling for you. Not one second sooner. Or I'll– I'll– I'll skin you both.”

DeeDee tore off, in through the doors of the bustling barn, dragging Angie so she nearly tripped on her own feet. Good, Garrett thought. Free at last.

He glanced about, saw two curious boys watching and waiting. Girls, generally, had no interest in big tires and tractors and scarecrows with crooked faces, and for that, Garrett was relieved. He didn't want to have to deal with the twittering and the squealing that accompanied braids and pierced ears. The awkwardness of lifting somebody who was wearing a tiny skirt, flashes of loose pink underwear. He waved his hand at the few boys, said, “C'mon with you, then. Have a look, sure.” And they scrambled forward, nudged Garrett out of the way. As one kicked the large tires with rubber boots, the other jumped into the sturdy seat, pulled the steering wheel, and made screeching sounds. “Easy does it,” Garrett said. “Whoa, now. This is a powerful machine, fellers.” But there was no irritation in his voice, and as more boys stepped up to investigate the tractor, Garrett's intestines began to quiver. Like he'd drank too much of the cold coffee still sitting in the percolator, and he had the sudden nervous urge to find a toilet.

When he returned, he saw a boy standing off to the side, maybe eight, maybe nine. Hair that needed a trim, jean shorts, snug and blue, and a white and navy striped T-shirt. In his arms, the boy held an enormous turnip, and he stroked the clean purplish skin. Garrett felt faint, lost his breath for just a moment. He reached for the wood horse that pinned the barn door in place, and when his hands found it, he sat down. A dozen children were hanging off the tractor, trying to unhitch the snaps that held the body closed, testing the bolt and nut on the steering wheel, but Garrett didn't notice. Everything was haze, except for that one child. Who was stamped, now, upside down on Garrett's retina, and glowed with brilliant clarity.

SOME INNATE ABILITY, maybe, Garrett wasn't sure. But he was able to scan an entire group of children, and identify the odd one out. The youngster who was desperate for a connection, longing for a few kind words. Maybe it was the way those children kept their gaze locked on the touching tips of their shoes, or how they shrunk ever so slightly when any grown man spoke. Or maybe how they stretched their spines whenever a positive phrase drifted down upon them. Like an animal tucked inside a burrow: shine a bright light into the black hole, and that creature would look up.

Once he caught his breath, he pushed his hair from his eyes, went and stood beside the boy. Not too close, but just close enough so that the boy would sense he was there. Without looking directly at him, Garrett said in a light, gentle tone, “Wow, that's some kind of big turnip you got there.”

The child squinted, held the ball with its thick root a little tighter.

“Did you grow it all by yourself? I'm guessing you did.”

Foot kicking the dirt.

“I bet you took good care of it. Watered it and weeded all 'round it. Turnips don't grow big unless you treats them nice.”

“Yeah. I done that.”

Ah, his first words. A feather tickling Garrett's abdomen, and he slid a hand in through the front placket of his overalls, up underneath his shirt, rubbed his muscles.

“I knows that stuff. I farms too. That's my tractor over there.”

“That's yours?”

“Yup.”

“Oh.”

“'Tis hard work. Farming. Man's work.”

“That's not what my daddy says, Mister. We just moved here and he works in the bank, and he says men with real brains don't need to get their hands filthy digging up potatoes or feeding slops to pigs or smelling the stink of filthy chickens. That's only if you got no choice you does that.”

Well. Not so quiet after all. Not as nice as he'd imagined either. “Is your daddy here?”

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Garrett shifted from one foot to the other, jammed his hands in his pockets, adjusted himself though the thin fabric. “Where'd you get that turnip, then? Steal it, did you?”

Eyes wide. “I never stealed nothing, Mister, honest.”

“Then where'd you get it.”

“My mom. She got a little garden. I helps her every day, I does. I really does.”

“How come?”

“I wants to be a farmer when I grows up.”

Garrett knelt down, put a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. “I likes the way you thinks, my son. What's your name?”

“Alvin.”

“Alvin, hey? Like the chipmunk?”

The boy blushed. “Yeah.”

“Well, Alvin. My bet is on you. You'll take the prize, my son.”

“Yeah? You think?”

“What're you going to do with that fifty cents, saying you wins and all?”

“I'm going to save it.”

“Not buy nothing?”

“No, sir.”

Garrett liked being called “sir.” “Well, I never seed such a young gaffer with such good sense. I woulda spent it in jig time, if 'twas me. Candy and junk like that.”

“My dad don't let me eat candy. Your teeth got to last 'til you're dead.”

“Mine neither,” Garrett lied, and his tongue darted out for a split second, touched the scar on his upper lip. “But you don't got to listen to your father all the time. Some day you got to be growed up, and make your own mind. Decide stuff. You know, decisions.”

Whispering. “I don't want to get into no trouble.”

“You won't.”

“My daddy says I was born in hot water. And never got out of it since.”

“Yowch. That must hurt.”

“He's always mad.”

“Well, of course he is. I understands.”

“You do?”

“Sure. He wanted a son, and he got a soup instead.”

The boy giggled.

“C'mon now.”

“C'mon where?”

“Some candy. I got some. Right here in my pocket.” Garrett patted the front pouch of his overalls.

“What kind?”

“'Tis a surprise. You got to come with me.”

“But they're coming 'round. My turnip.”

“We won't be long. Besides, what I got is better than some dumb prize.”

“Really?”

“But you got to be a gambling man. Is you a gambling man?”

“I s'pose. But I idn't supposed to go off with grown-ups I don't know.”

Garrett laughed, then closed his mouth to hide the black molars. “I idn't a grown-up. Sure I'm still mostly a boy. Like yourself. And you knows me already. I can tell you're a good judge of people. Just like I is. And you know what? I likes you, Alvin. I just knows you're good at keeping secrets.”

Garrett slid the turnip from the boy's hands, walked over and tucked it behind the wheel of the tractor, covered it in hay.

Like a magnet now, the boy was right beside Garrett.

“Can I sit up on the tractor first?”

“Sure,” Garrett said. “You betcha.”

“Can you lift me?”

“I can try.”

Garrett tucked his hands around the boy's birdlike ribs, lifted. Felt the thump of the child's heart just beneath his rough fingers. The child leaned back, his shoulder blades pressing against Garrett's chest, his small feet climbing up the deep grooves in the tire, smell of his hair, like wet rocks by the river, curve of a thin white neck, T-shirt sliding and lifting, smooth skin of a belly, bumps of a perfect, perfect curved spine. Oh God, a small ripple of fat just beneath the belly button. Could this be, could this be, could this be the beginning of love? Garrett's breathing grew shallow, and his mind took rapid snapshots of the boy, edging up the tractor, slender hand gripping Garrett's hairy forearm, innocence of dirty fingernails and knotted hair, and the boy slipped, fell a few inches backwards. For a single moment his full weight rested on Garrett's chest. His full weight. And Garrett arched his back, held the boy up, the two of them touching, body to body. Back to front, front to back. Warmth commingling. Garrett panted. Oh. Oh. A quick recovery, too quick, and the boy's hand reached for the shiny steering wheel. “Almost,” the boy sang, and he grabbed the wheel, pulled, broke away. And Garrett felt a sudden involuntary pulse in his pants. Looked at the boy, looked at the woods behind the barn, looked down at the lump of candies in the front pocket of his overalls. Spell snapped, and that sick wet feeling of loneliness began to spread, a mouth without edges yawning just underneath his skin.

“Can you get me down?”

“Find your own way.”

“Hey, Mister. Can you get me down? I wants to go now. My turnip. I wants my turnip.”

Garrett turned and walked towards the woods, left the boy perched on the tractor, short legs swinging. He came to a tree, leaned against the trunk, body frozen. Gradually the earth slid upwards, and Garrett found himself seated. He felt around him, in the dimming afternoon light, located a sharp stick, and jabbed it into the fleshy part of his thigh. Over and over until the skin broke, and he could see a stain seeping through the fabric of his overalls. He wouldn't think about it now, wouldn't allow himself to reflect. He would wait for a day or two to fold away, wait until the emptiness was pale, and then he'd dip inside his mind, and see the boy again.

“LET'S GO HOME,” Wilda said.

“But, sure the fun is just getting started up. They're going to clear a space so the folks can have a bit of a dance.”

“I don't want to dance.”

He nudged her arm. “Of course you do.”

“I'm tired, Lewis.”

“You're too young to be tired, maid. And the boys'll love it.”

“On my feet all day, barely a morsel to eat.”

“What? Sure there was loads of food, left and right of you.”

“I didn't want nothing. Didn't want to have a lunch with that crowd.”