Glass Boys (20 page)

His hands were tied. He returned to his car, sat in the sticky space, windows only cracked. He waited, for a good while, watching her, and she glared back at him. Eyes hard and small. Distrustful, like a bird's. She kept reaching up, sticking her fingers underneath her scarf, tugging it down lower on her forehead. He wondered if she might be bleeding, if he should get out of his car, move closer. But he didn't like the way she looked at him, as though he had done something wrong. As though he had somehow damaged her. When it was her family who had stolen from him. Destroyed something irreplaceable. Here he was trying to help, and Lewis could tell from her tight mouth, narrow eyes, that she begrudged him. Hated him. But he would not leave, would not let her win. He watched her, until the bus pulled up to the bench and stopped. People coming off, going on, and it sputtered black exhaust, chugged away. Lewis looked at the bench, and Mrs. Fagan was still there, right hand holding the edge of her headscarf.

He smirked inside. Feeble woman. Couldn't even muster the strength to climb the three steps to freedom. He drove off, churning up dust behind him. Because he could.

ELBOWS ON THE table, Melvin kept his fork locked in his fist, chewed slowly with his mouth open. Even though he thought his father was waiting to catch his eye, Melvin would not look at him. Partly because he was angry at his father, and partly because Melvin felt guilty.

For months on end, he had dreamt of his mother. Dreamt of her moving around the house, a maze of rooms riddled with shadows and empty spaces, her eyes drained of color. His father was there, too, hidden in different places, behind doors, pressed against the corner of a bookshelf. She jumped every time Lewis revealed his face, no longer handsome, now foreign, frightening, having transformed into a bull, red-eyed, curls of steam shooting from flared nostrils. Melvin was between them, but they would still fight, her matador movements never enough to save her from the being speared by the animal man, dragging her about the bloodied rooms, then tossing her outside, barefoot into drifting snow spattered in red. She lay down, pleading, Melvin pleading, but an eroding wind skimmed away at her crumpled form, until nothing was left.

He saw these scenes so often in his head, with such clarity, night after night, and he had difficulty erasing them when he awoke. Even though he knew nothing of the sort had ever happened.

A second type of dream. Tucked into the intermission of the first. Starless night, and it was him now creeping through the house in pitch blackness, feeling his way along with outstretched hands, moving fingers. Melvin reached the porch, saw her blue coat, glowing ever so slightly in the closet. The flap on her pocket lifted, hovered, an invitation. And in his own bathrobe pocket, he felt the crumbs, and reached in. He was Hansel. She was Gretel. And he would fill her pockets with small morsels of cake. He had promised her that. But as he was making the transfer, his stomach growled—it
was
in the middle of the night—and he relented. Ate every sweet crumb. Licked his fingers. Cake gone, she tottered past him, tugged on her coat, wandered out into a grayish nowhere land, a distant place with undefined edges, an empty television channel. She turned, her shape fading in and out, voice carrying. Telling him she wanted nothing more than to return home, but she was unable to find her way. My darling dear, her reedy voice quivered, my pockets are empty.

She finally left him. Left his nighttime thoughts. And his dreams drifted over into other adventures, riding an invisible bicycle up into blue skies, swimming through a tangle of seaweed and nipping crabs, kissing Barbie Maloney full on her open mouth. But even now, underneath his skin, an awareness lingered. And Melvin looked down into his chipped bowl, slid a lumpy vegetable over another lumpy vegetable. Chewed and chewed without swallowing. He wouldn't look up at his father, as Melvin understood that his father was not alone in his responsibility for the loss of Wilda Trench. Clearly, he was also to blame.

LEWIS COULD SEE Melvin in his peripheral vision, refused to peer at him straight on. And he knew Melvin was doing the same. Melvin did not go to see Terry at Barber Barber's. Left his hair as it was. Two jagged streaks of baldness rising up on the right side of his scalp. Pink bandage covering his ear, pressed neatly into the grooves by Mrs. Verge earlier that afternoon. Melvin had stolen the fly Lewis had made from the metal box, poked the hook through the bottom edge of the bandage. Making it appear as though he was wearing an insect earring. At the dinner table, Toby roared, “I wants one too. I wants one too.” Lewis said nothing. Offered Melvin no reaction whatsoever, simply stared down into his bowl, repositioned hot chunks of potato, turnip.

For the first time in years, Lewis did not feel well. He wondered if he had caught a summer flu, and if the first symptoms were a waning appetite and a powerful ache behind his eyes. As though there was a storm inside his head, pressure mounting, and the only possible relief valves were his locked tear ducts. He laid down his fork, rubbed his hands over his face, and then opened his eyes. Once again he was introduced to the empty chair, and resented the fact that there was no one to talk to. No one with whom to share the turmoil of the day. No one to make him a cup of tea, and say,
Things are going to turn out just fine,
Lewis. Just fine.
No one to assure him that he had nothing in common with Eli Fagan. Nothing at all. And that the faintest hint of pity he had for the old farmer, that faintest hint trembling on those skeletal legs inside his head, would soon fold in on itself. Fade away. But Lewis knew he had married a ghost of a woman, and that even if she were here, she would still be gone.

Melvin. Ah, Melvin. What was he going to do with Melvin?

So gentle as a child, and now he was like an apple dropped one too many times. Skin still shiny, bright, but Lewis knew there were soft spots, bruises, some hint of sweet rot if he were to smell close to the core.

“Melvin?”

Mouth full, he mumbled, “Huh?”

Lewis put down his fork. “Been a long old day, hey?”

“Yeh.”

“You alright?”

He didn't look up, grunted.

“Yeah, we went down to the hole, Dad,” Toby said, jumping in. “You know, the swimming hole, and me and Mellie had a real good time. No one bugged us. Not even Clayton. No one even tried to steal my trunks, and Mellie didn't need to even save me—.”

“Shut it, Toad!”

Lewis cleared his throat. “That's good, Toby. You had a good time too, Melvin?”

“Look. I just wants to eat. Alright?”

“Eat, then,” Lewis said, picking up his fork. “Eat, for God's sakes.”

Lewis didn't speak again, decided against rehashing the events of the afternoon. It was stupid trying to talk to Melvin when he would barely respond. Besides, he had probably already forgotten about their fight. Kids were like that. Forgetting things in a blink. So Lewis bent his head, watched his hands doing what was normal, healthy. What was right. Holding a fork, tines grappling with a mushy potato, lifting it to his silent mouth.

AS THEY ATE together as a family, Toby never so much as glanced at the fourth empty chair. He never noticed his brother's elbows on the table, or the mound of stringy meat lingering in his cheek. He was not aware his father's vision contained no color, was strictly black and white. Everything was normal to Toby. His father was his teacher. His brother, Toby's fierce protector. His little world was exactly as it should be. Toby smiled wide, and with his tongue pressed a soft carrot out through the spaces between his teeth. Heart beating with the excitement of making Melvin laugh.

LIGHTS OFF, DOOR clicked shut, Toby climbed onto a chair and leapt onto the bed. Scampered over the quilt, and dove underneath the sheets to safety. Complete darkness in the room, and Toby reached his foot down between the cool sheets, felt another foot trespassing onto his side of the bed. He ran his sole over it, felt the hard toes, sharp nails, bones of the ankle.

“Get your foot over, Mellie.”

“What foot?”

“Your foot.” Toby knocked it with his heel. “Keep it over on your side.”

“My feet is over here.”

Toes reaching out again, prodding the icy limb. Pinched it with his big toe. No ouch.

“Stop that.” Toby nudged it again.

“Shut up, Toad. I'm sleeping.”

Then a notion spread through Toby's mind, that there was another foot in the bed. A dead foot. Belonging to no one.

Attaching to nothing. Exploring toes stroking the extra foot once more. Sharp nails. Rough sole. He could picture it perfectly. An animal foot, claws and coarse hairs and patches of gray-green skin.

“That's not your foot? I idn't touching you right now?” Poke, poke.

Irritated. “Will you shut up? I'm not nowhere near you.”

Toby screamed, tore off the covers, ripped open the curtains.

Moonlight illuminating the contents behind the sheets. Two feet. Tracing them up the legs. Clearly belonging to his brother. He scowled when he saw the pure joy pulling the muscles of Melvin's face, heard the laughter bursting forth. Melvin's arms and legs assaulting the air, body bouncing, like a roach flipped on its back.

“Gotcha!” Melvin cried when he settled down. “Gotcha good.”

“YOU GOT ME,” Eli whispered into the darkness. “Got me good.” He was lying in bed, staring at his wife who was breathing softly beside him. He could smell her breath, sour and empty, and he knew she hadn't eaten. He reached out and touched the scarf still covering her head, expected her to flinch even in her sleep.

She hadn't wanted much. A few weeks with her sister. But when he came home and found the strange car in the driveway, discovered his wife had purchased the rusty heap with her own few dollars, and intended to drive there, take the ferry, something snapped inside Eli. All he could imagine was her leaving, full of joy, riding in her own car. A sense of permanence stuck him in the throat, and he recalled his wife and her sister dancing at the Legion. Holding hands, swaying their hips, tossing back their heads and laughing. Then, when he saw her that afternoon, head like a plaster of black mud, ring of ink across her forehead, dirty rubber gloves over her hands, he realized she was dying her hair. And his suspicions were confirmed. She wasn't running off to Cape Breton for a simple visit. She was going there to remember who she was.

He destroyed it. Got into his truck and rammed the teacup of a car into the cement wall. Smash. Slam the gears. Reverse. Slam the gears. Drive. Slam the gears. Over and over until all that remained was concave doors, folded hood, smashed glass. Destroyed her chance to ride off in style. When he stepped back into the porch, heart filled with a curious calm, she was gone. Stained rubber gloves crumbled on the kitchen floor.

Eli would be the first to admit he didn't know much about women. How to keep them. Eli's father rarely spoke, used nods and grunts and smacks and shaking fists to get his points across.

The advice he gave Eli was concise. “My son, you're either a farmer or a pussy—you can't be both. You can run your farm, or you can trot around letting the farm run you. That goes for your woman, too. If you ever gets one. And with an ugly mug like that, I got my doubts. But, if something dumb enough ever crawls into your bed, you remember this. Women is no better than those animals on your farm. Only they wears clothes. When you wants 'em too, that is.” Thin grin.

His wife took a deep breath and rolled away from him. Maybe she wasn't even asleep, Eli couldn't guess, found it difficult to think. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been sober in this bed. Tonight, his backside and legs were shaking, but he knew what they were trying to do. Trying to get him to sit up. Stand. Walk downstairs and crack open the bottle he had left on the table. His hands shook too. Fiercely. He could hear his rough fingertips scratching the cotton sheets.

He thought of Lewis Trench, then, swaying inside his kitchen. Eli wondered what that felt like, for Lewis to be so close to someone he hated. Eli couldn't fathom what Lewis Trench had said to his wife. What he had said to make the woman turn around and come home.

But then again, maybe it wasn't Lewis at all.

More likely, she came home for the boy.

20

IN THE BACKYARD of the farmhouse, Garrett Glass squeezed into one of the old swings, leaned his cheek against the chains. He could taste rust from the warm metal, like blood on his tongue. Pressing his bare foot against the hardened clay, he swung gently, and examined the curving woods bordering the yard. Years had passed since he'd ventured down that path. His path. And now, with all the leafy growth and unkempt grass, he doubted if he could even find it.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the creaking of the swing frame as he pushed himself back and forth. So easy to remember those carefree days when he was young. When he was in possession of something perfect and beautiful. Something he had actually created. It had all started with a gift, meant for his mother, but stolen by Garrett. He had just turned eleven years old.

He could recall the very day he had sat on a stool near the kitchen counter, puppy eyes moving between his mother, as she pounded the life out of a mound of sticky dough, and the wrapped gift pushed back into a corner. This gift was not a birthday present, but the one shred of proof that Christmas had come and gone in the world. Other than an evening church service, they did nothing to celebrate—no tree, no shaped sugar cookies, no tasteless orange hidden inside the thin toe of his sock. “'Tis only a godforsaken reason to drink,” his mother had said. “And he don't need more of those.”

Last day of school for the year, and the gift appeared on the counter. Garrett was hopeful that perhaps it just might be for him. But on Christmas morning, when he placed a cold palm on the top of the box, his mother snapped, “Do that got your name scrawled across it?”

Of course it didn't. “I was just wondering is all,” he said now as his mother lifted and slammed the bread on the countertop. Head cocked, eyes wide. “Jesus would want to know, Mom.” He blinked sweetly. “He'd want to know what present Aunt Sally sent for his birthday.”