Glass Boys (19 page)

Toby crouched, hands cupping his business end, and his eyes widened as a few feet ahead of him Clayton Gibbon emerged with barely a ripple, Toby's navy blue trunks whirling around the tip of Clayton's finger at high speed, then lifting off, a continual arc, snagged, a dead twig on an old spruce.

“Get me my shorts, you nosebleed.” Words big, strength behind them like putty.

“Who you calling nosebleed?” Heel of palm kissing the water, spraying Toby's face. Laughter came from all corners from a hoard of water witches, brazen brutes. Other kids pretending that nothing was happening. No one dared challenge the pecking order. Not if they valued air, liked their shorts on their bodies.

“I wants them now.” A squeak.

“Well, go and get 'em yourself, loser.” And Clayton dove backwards, did a handstand, emerged, hair a mess of misplaced fins.

As quickly as he attacked, Clayton moved on, joke over, and Toby took mini-steps backwards, trying to find an edge, a corner, a muddy wall, somewhere to disappear until everyone went home. Once there, he held himself, front and back, stomped the bottom of the pond to create a continual blanket of disturbed gunk. Beneath the surface, his chest hiccuped over and over. There was a cry trapped inside there, and Toby would not let it escape through his face. Passed nervous gas instead, and it bubbled up behind his back. Though he wouldn't look directly, he saw one of the Fagan sisters, Angie, staring at him from the side. He wasn't sure whether she was peering through the water or not, trying to catch a glimpse. But, after a moment or two, he noticed her feet. She was stomping the muck in time with his stomping of the bottom. And as his stomping got angrier, more frantic, so did hers.

Just up the pathway, Melvin sat on the end of a rusty overturned barrel, lit a cigarette. His chest was bare, and he wore a coonskin hat on top of his head. Shook the tail so that it tickled the skin between his shoulders.

“You looks nuts,” Roddie Wall said, and he jumped towards Melvin, tapped the hat from his head, caught it in the air.

Melvin's shag of hair revealed, and his hand went up, clapped over the stubbly section.

Furry hair balanced atop his own sun-crisped scalp, Roddie leaned in, said, “Man, you looks really nuts. You in a fight with a chainsaw, or something?”

Hand coming down, proud, now. “Nope. Lawnmower.”

“No shit. You done that yourself?”

“Yeah. That part was bugging me. Took it right off. Did two runs over it with the mower, and said fucking A-one.”

“Shit, man. No one said nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Wish the old bag'd let me cut my own hair. I could do something cool with it. Shave it right down the middle. Give myself a set of hair ears.” Tongue wagging. “Arf!”

“That's why I'm lucky. Got no woman trying to boss me. I don't go in for that shit.”

“Yeah, but you still looks nuts.”

“That's cause I is nuts.”

“Yeah, right on.”

Roddie took the hat from his head, jammed it down his trunks, arched his back, strutted with his wings out, displaying a huge faux mound, furry tail escaping, hanging lifelessly out over the elastic waistband. “Here chicky, chicky. Got some feed for you.”

Both boys laughed, and Melvin took a drag on his cigarette, said in a voice an octave up, “You can keep that, now. 'Tis all yours, buddy.”

“Right on!”

“Do you think—” Melvin started, but a girly scream shot up from the water, cut the words from his throat. And Melvin was up, knocked Roddie out of the way, dashed down to the black path, mud sucking at his sneakers. Scanning the water, Melvin located Toby, crouched near the edge, sunlight shining through the greenish pond, showing what appeared to be a full body of flesh, arms angled downwards in a tight V.

“What're you doing?”

“Scoochin'.”

“What?”

“My trunks, Mellie. Clayton stole my trunks.”

“How do someone steal your trunks?”

“I dunno.”

Melvin shook his head. “Clayton, you says?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Fucking drip.” Melvin stomped over to the diving rock. “Get his shorts, fag breath.”

Clayton stood up. “Who's gonna make me?”

“I'll bloody make you. You fucking quiff. Trying to see my brother's dick.”

“Like hell. A fucking wiener's got more draw.”

Boys guffawed, and two slapped open palms. Five on five.

Melvin took another step forward, spoke in a monotone.

“Get his shorts. Get them now. Or I'll drown you, Clayton Gibbon.”

“You will, will you?”

“I'll drown you 'til you're dead.” Melvin did not blink the single eye not hidden by hair, and even though he was smaller than Clayton, Clayton backed down.

“Fucking whack-job,” Clayton said under his breath, but he turned, dove into the water, swam over to the opposite side of the pond. Cussed loudly as he shimmied up the old tree, scratched his torso on dead sticks. He retrieved the trunks and lobbed them at Toby's head.

“Got 'em! Thanks,” Toby called out to Clayton, and Melvin looked up at the sky, smacked his stubble spot with his open palm.

On their way home, Melvin said, “You can't go 'round with a ‘shit here' stamp on your head, Toad.”

Toby touched his forehead with his fingers, looked for ink on the tips. “What? I don't got no stamp, Mellie. I didn't do nothing.”

“Well, sometimes, it's not nothing you got to do. It's something. I won't be around to save you forever.”

Toby sped up to close the gap between them. “Yes, you will.”

“And one last thing.”

“Okay.”

“Would you say thank-you to a dog if it pissed on your boot?”

“No, sir. That I wouldn't.”

“What if he came back and licked it off. Would you say thank-you then?”

“No sir, Mel. No chance.”

“No sir is right. And don't you forget it.”

Toby scratched his head, wiggled his toes. Yes, he was wearing sandals, not boots, and a quick scan of the brush revealed no dog in sight. But he said, “Okay, Mel. I won't talk to dogs.

Word of honor.”

“Good boy.”

Before they cut through the trail in the bushes, Toby paused once to look back. Down by the pond, Angie Fagan was still standing there, in the shade, lifting one foot, then the other. Squelching sound lost amongst the screaming and splashing, but Toby could imagine the boggy black mess between her toes, up over her ankles, staining her shins. Claw-shaped streaks of muck on her hand-me-down swimsuit, the loose bands yanked and tied between her shoulder blades. It was her scream that'd brought Melvin to the water, her call of distress. But she was fine, in no danger, and Toby knew she was calling out to help him. He didn't understand why, because he knew the Fagans were rotten through and through. And not just the old farmer, but those sisters, too. No reason given, they just were. He watched her for a moment, until a branch whipped his face and he turned, put his arm up, followed behind his brother.

LEWIS PULLED UP NEXT to the front door, turned off his car. Sat for just a split second before getting out. How many years had it been since he had come through the woods, bursting out into that very backyard? So calm now, a pair of birds hopping, rusting but functional swing set plunked down only yards from the barrel. In the breeze, a plastic swing swayed, and he could see a length of tatty ribbon tied to the iron chain. For a moment he wondered if it had been like that when he and Roy tumbled over the grass, full of drunken joy. He had tried to replay it a million times, but those hazy patches of memory refused to clink together.

One deep breath. Two. Today, more than most days, he kept telling himself to breathe.

Lewis turned to the left, identified the reason for his visit. He saw Eli Fagan's truck parked just a few feet away from a newly constructed cement wall, a retaining wall, perhaps. About four feet high. Someone had stuck a dozen lengths of wooden doweling in front of the wall, coaxed leafy wax beans up the sticks. But it was clear to Lewis that a fine harvest had been spoiled. Leaves and beans were now smears of vegetation over the cement, a number of black contact marks, scrapes of chocolate-colored paint amongst them. As he always did, Lewis surveyed the scene rapidly and meticulously. No immediate danger. He took in everything there was to see, before eyeing the obvious. A tiny smashed car, busted windows, flattened sides.

He opened his car door and took wide strides to reach the destruction. Peered in through the open hole on the driver's side, no sign of anyone injured or hiding amongst the crumpled metal, folded steering wheel, a million sparkling shards of glass. The front of the truck was damaged as well, and it was immediately clear to Lewis that whoever was operating the truck had set about to destroy the little car by slamming it repeatedly into the cement wall. Into the pretty lineup of tender leaves and sweet wax beans.

Lewis went to the side door, rapped. “Constable Trench, here.” There was no response, and he eased open the screen door, repeated himself. “Mrs. Fagan. Is you in?” he called. One step into the porch and he could see the hefty figure of Eli Fagan, seated in a rocker. Silence, except for the quiet squeaking of the chair's runner massaging the wood floor. Standing in a patch of sunlight, Lewis began to sweat instantly. He was slightly blinded, resisted putting a hand to his forehead.

Cleared his throat, said, “Mrs. Fagan about?”

“Nope. No, she idn't about. No more.”

“I got a call,” Lewis said.

“You did, did you?”

“From Mrs. Fagan.”

“Well, now.”

Eyes adjusted, and Lewis could see Eli Fagan's long face, thick jowls, gray skin. Lewis closed his eyes, breathed through his nose. This was the first time he'd been this close to Eli since, since that day in court. He didn't look quite as Lewis had conjured. There was no sneer, no show of small teeth. No slit eyes, and satisfaction sitting on the crinkled bridge of his nose. Lewis couldn't look at him for more than a few seconds, couldn't see someone who was deflated. Last thing Lewis could imagine was that Eli Fagan was a weak man.

“I need to speak with her direct, sir.” Assessing the porch, instead. Piles of shoes and coats. Peeling wallpaper. A damp pink swimsuit balled in the corner. A mess, but nothing unusual.

“That'd be a trick.”

“Why might that be?”

“She's done here.”

“Done?”

“Yeah, she's done.”

“Done how?”

“Gone off.”

“When might your wife return?”

“She's gone off for good.”

“Has your wife been injured, Mr. Fagan? I did notice the damage to the car before I came in.”

“Not that one would see, sir.”

“Would you like to tell me what happened? I got a call.”

“She was leaving. And she left. Car or no car.”

“Yes.”

Eli Fagan was quiet for several minutes.

“Yes, Mr. Fagan. Where is she gone to?” A little louder.

“I do believe I killed her.”

Lewis's heart began to beat double-time, and he stepped out of the sunshine, deeper into the stale air of Eli Fagan's kitchen. Overturned radio, children's clothes in an unfolded pile, frying pan sitting in the sink with a peeling ring of yellow egg. A stained pair of rubber gloves bunched on the linoleum.

An unopened bottle of whiskey sat on the cluttered table beside Eli, and he held a dry glass in his oversized hand. He began to turn the bottom of the glass around and around the flat arm of the rocker, making a tinkling sound that pecked Lewis's ears.

“Is Garrett here? Your daughters?”

“Nope. Not a soul.”

“How much have you had to drink, Mr. Fagan.”

“Not a single drop.”

Lewis reached to touch a chair pulled out from the table.

Glue on the joints loosened, and the chair wobbled when he leaned on it. He spoke slowly, clearly. “I need you to tell me what happened, sir.”

“I don't need to tell you nothing. Not one word.”

“I believe you do, Mr. Fagan. You gone and told me your wife is dead.”

“Did I now?” Soft chuckle.

“Yes, sir. You did.”

“Well, then, you needs to be working on your listening, my son. I said nothing of the sort.”

“Did you kill your wife, Mr. Fagan?”

“Killing someone don't got nothing to do with they being dead.”

Lewis felt his hands turning into fists. Second time today.

“You playing games with me, sir? There's no humor in it, let me tell you.”

“Go on,” Eli Fagan growled. “Leave me be. Leave me down where I is. Down like an old dog on the floor.”

“Your wife, Mr. Fagan. Tell me where she is, or we'll take our conversation to someplace else.”

“Well, I don't rightly know, now, Constable Trench, her exact location. If I got no car, and I'm right set on leaving, where might I be?” He leaned forward, boots planted squarely on the floor. One workhorse hand gripping a thick knee. His words an auger drilling through black ice. “How did your wife do it, Constable Trench? Just how did your wife do it when she left you?”

Slaps to his cheeks. Lewis stepped back, back through the kitchen, back through the shaft of sunlight, back through the porch and into the backyard, passed the squished little car and the beat-up truck, back into his still-warm seat, down the driveway, unswallowed and suddenly, back out onto the dirt road. He pressed down on the gas, a cloud of rolling dirt behind him. Took a sharp left when he reached pavement, headed straight towards the bus station.

LEWIS FOUND MRS. FAGAN, hunched and scrawny, wearing a long beige coat and a navy scarf tied over her head. Seated on a forest green bench, she was waiting for the four-thirty bus to take her to the ferry. From there, she told Lewis, she was going to head across to Sydney where she would meet her sister. She had thought to drive, but well, that was that. Still, it'd been years since she saw her sister, and it was well within her rights to make a little trip. “You better believe it.” Eli and the rest of them be damned. “Going for as long as I wants.” Sample a perfect life. Feel a store-bought rug beneath her feet. Did she want to talk about what happened to her car? No, she said. She hadn't meant to call, but she couldn't stop her fingers. Hoped Eli would leave it right where it was, think about what he done. “Eli does on a Monday. Don't think until Friday.” If then. “What're you saying, Mrs. Fagan?” “Nothing,” she'd snapped. “I idn't saying nothing more than I already said. And I already said too much.”