Glass Boys (35 page)

He couldn't help but think about the afternoon she left them. Abandoned them. Though he had trouble picturing her face, he could easily recollect her back, the shape of her shoulders in that long coat. Blue or gray. He remembered hauling Melvin home through the snowstorm. How Melvin wouldn't move, and Toby thought he might be dead. And how he tried to get him to drink something sweet to make him feel better. A pitcher of purple liquid sitting in the fridge, and Toby knew Melvin loved purple. And being so young, he was certain something purple would fix things. But the two glasses were stuck together, stuck right together, and as much as he pulled at them, they would not come apart. Wedged tight, one squarish glass nestled nicely inside a round one. He was hurrying, didn't think, poured the ice cold drink into the first glass. Picked it up to bring it to Melvin, held it carefully, and the bottom glass, the one that was holding on, exploded. Shards of glass went everywhere. Fragments sticking in Toby's hands and wrists, into the mittens dangling from their strings, a spray of crystals across the countertop, windowsill, inside splashes of purple on the floor. Toby was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, gazed for a long while at the second sticky glass that somehow was cupped inside his hands. Gazed at it until forever had passed, and then he dropped that too.

“Is that smart, Dad? Is that a smart thing to do?”

“I don't know.”

“Letting that woman slink back into his life like that?”

“I don't know, Tobe. I don't know.”

“Look at all the damage she done. You know he's just barely holding it together.”

“I don't know.”

“What if she screws him over, again? Did you think of that?

Screws him over.”

“Christ,” Lewis yelped, slammed his fist on the table, plate jumping. “I. Don't. Know.” He pushed his chair back, put his face in his hands. “I really don't, Tobe. I been to see her a couple of times. She don't seem like she was. She don't. She looks like she had a hard go of it, these years. Like she's gone through some real misery.”

“Misery? Give me a break. Don't tell me you pities her. Don't tell me.”

Calmer, now. “No, Toby, I don't pity her. But I can't keep my sights on what's passed. I can't live like that no more. I don't know why bad stuff locks one person to a spot, while it drives another one off. I don't know why she done what she done. Maybe she regrets her choices. We all regret something, don't we? What I knows is that she's there for Melvin today. And she's doing him some good. I asked her to be careful with him. And that's all I can do. Is ask.”

Toby sighed.

“I should've just left you out of it,” Lewis said. “Never mentioned it at all.”

“I'd rather know.”

“Well, what do I tell her? She's waiting for me to call.”

Toby spotted a nickel, then, perched on the table. Lewis started flipping it over and over with his fingers.

“Well?”

“Where is she?”

“Not far.”

“Fine.”

“Fine what?”

“I'll go. And I'm going to tell her straight out she better watch it with Mellie.”

“That's fair.” Lewis plucked up the nickel.

“Fair?” Toby shook his head. “What do fair got to do with it?”

THEY WALKED ALONG a winding street, up a hill, past an open window. Someone inside was playing an accordion, leather wheezing, pitiful sound assaulting the air. A row of shops now, one stuck to the other, and Toby wasn't watching where he placed his feet. He stumbled on a crack in the cement, fell sideways into an alcove. He stood, brushed white dust from the sides of his navy pants, noticed a mermaid carved into a wooden placard hanging on the door. Tail curved, hair in a tumble of curls hiding the mermaid's face, chest bare, miniature breasts exposed. He stared for a moment, then glanced at his father.

“This is it,” Lewis said.

Toby was surprised, peered in through the shiny glass, saw a lot of dark wood, shelves, piles and piles of stuff. Junk.

“This?” A sign to his left read “The Curious Mermaid.”

“Yeah. Open the door.”

Pressing the metal tab with his thumb, Toby pushed the door open, stepped up into the dimly lit store. Rows of dolls and doll heads, some without eyes, a brown jug with a chipped lip, used jewelry inside a glass case, mismatched cups and saucers and plates and bowls, an old fashioned washbasin hanging from the ceiling, a tub filled with hundreds of buttons. Folded quilts draped over a rack, yellowed doilies spilling out of open drawers, a dartboard, a pair of leather shorts for a child. The only sign of life was the row of African violets lined up on a windowsill that never saw light. And an orange cat, sucking on a blanket in a worn wingback chair.

“What is this place, Dad?” Toby whispered.

“It's where she lives.”

Quieter, “Oh.”

Then he heard someone call, “Just one minute.”

Toby leaned to the side, saw her back, arms raised as she placed a candy dish, milky green glass, on a top shelf. Short brown hair, and he saw her neck and her ears, and his heart began its tattoo even before he saw her face.

His mother. Toby blinked. Standing there. Turning now. Facing him. Eyes, just like his own, staring for a moment, then looking down, rising to meet his yet again. A head, in the waves, bobbing, drowning. Toby wanted to take a step backwards, but didn't trust that his feet would find a solid floor.

She walked towards them. “Hi Lewis.”

“Wilda,” he replied, then he strolled away, behind a row of shelves.

She kept her hands behind her back. “Hello, Toby.”

Toby didn't say anything.

“How are you?” she said, and Toby saw her draw in a long, controlled breath.

How are you? Such a loaded first question. How was he? On the walk over, a sick heat had mounted inside him, and he had planned how he would handle it. How he would yell, tear a hole right through her. But now, face to face, he felt dizzy. Confused. She wasn't what he'd expected. Not at all.

He looked above her, beside her, around her. Then something caught his eye. A small framed picture on a table behind the till. Taking two steps forward, he was able to make it out. The image nothing more than a square of snow, and in the middle two boyish faces, ruddy cheek fused to ruddy cheek, happy and smiling wide at the camera. Oh, God. It was that very afternoon. Toby stared at the photo, at Melvin's shiny eyes. His brother. Completely oblivious to the dejection that was about to settle in his heart.

Toby's voice cracked when he blurted, “Why?”

A squeaky “Oh.”

“Why do you got that out there? On bloody display.”

He heard her breathing through her mouth, and she whispered, “I look at it every day.”

“You look at it? You look at it?” He kept his back to her. “That's the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

No response.

“Gawk at some Polaroid, when you could've had the real thing. You could've had him. That's all he ever wanted, you know. A bloody mother.”

Toby turned to her then, saw her face was contorted, chin pulled back, thin skin on her neck shaking. And he wanted to stop his words, but they barreled out. “Weren't all bad, you know, Missus. It weren't. You missed plenty of good. Plenty of good.”

He noticed her shake slightly and the air seemed heavy and stuck in his lungs. Too much going on inside of him, too many cracks and crevices filled with emotion, and he couldn't smooth it out. Part of him wanted to watch that woman cry, and at the same time another part wanted to make everything better.

“I made tea,” she said weakly.

“Tea.”

She took a few steps, sat on a wooden stool, stared for a moment at the seat opposite her.

He closed his mouth. Hadn't realized it was hanging open. Wilda. His mother. He really didn't remember much about her, but the image he had held onto all these years was far prettier than the reality. She was thin and shaky and he could count the veins on the sides of her face. If he looked at her for long enough. And when she brought her hand to her face, he saw the tips of her fingers were bluish, as though she were cold. Or maybe nervous.

“Do you drink tea?” She held the pot, filled two mugs on the small table.

“It don't matter.”

“You don't have to.”

“No.”

“Yes?” she said, lifting a tiny jug.

He turned his head towards the bay window. “Yeah. A bit.”

She dribbled milk into his tea, slid a spoon next to his cup.

“I've been to see your brother. Melvin. Been to see him quite a bit.”

Toby sat down, exhaled. “Yeah. Us too. Well, not quite a bit. We was just there.”

“We talk. A lot. He's doing much better. He had a hard time understanding what happened, but he... he's taking the help they are giving.”

“Cool.”

“That's a difficult thing, to accept comfort.” She stirred her tea in figure eights, nodding slowly. “Yes, he's doing well.”

She was wearing a worn cardigan over a flowery blouse, navy slacks, and when she crossed her legs, he saw she had bony ankles.

“Toby?”

“Yeah?”

Silence expanding between them, and her mouth smiled. Her head wavered slightly, lids lowered, and she whispered, “I don't even know how to begin.”

Her voice, so soft, connected with some sleepy part of him. He glanced at the framed picture again, and felt that scheming laughter tickling his voice box. Dying to burst free. He wanted to hold his rage, grip it in his fists, but he couldn't manage, and it was slipping, slipping. He leaned, his head just over his tea, felt the steam warm his chin, his cheeks. He thought of Mrs. Verge then, squeezing him, telling him not to judge. Not to be angry. It don't make anything no better, she'd say. Only blacken your own heart. He held the handle, wrapped his left hand around the cup. And pulled it across the wooden table towards him. What could he say to her? What could he say? He slurped, stared at his hands. Hands that, even after all these years, still remembered touching her. And he opened his mouth, managed, “You make good tea.”

31

STANDING BY THE side of the stream, Toby bent over, rolled up the wide legs of his jeans. Too hot for the heavy fabric, but when he dressed earlier that morning to fish with Terry Verge, the salty air had made him shiver.

He sat down in a bed of flowering clover, let his legs dangle over the grassy lip, and dipped his feet into the cool water. A gentle current made his legs sway, and tadpoles grazed his soles each time he flicked his numbed toes. Leaning back on his elbows, he thought about Melvin. Slowly, things were improving. While living in that building Melvin had finished high school, and they encouraged him to teach some of the others math and physics. Today, for the first time, Melvin was allowed to leave for a couple of hours. A lunch out with Wilda. Both Toby and his father laughed when Wilda called, said Melvin had requested fish and chips, peas, dressing and gravy. A meal so simple. There was talk of an afterwards, of a down the road, when Melvin would be allowed to come home. But Toby didn't think about that. Didn't like to think too far into the future.

He heard someone approaching, and twisted, saw Angie coming through the woods behind him. When she reached the grass she flicked off her sandals, plunked down beside him, and slid her feet into the water. She drew in a sudden breath at the chill, then edged closer to Toby, hooked one white ankle behind his.

“How did I know I'd find you here?”

“You could smell me?” His jeans were smeared with blood from the fish he and Terry had cleaned on the stage.

She laughed, nudged him. “You is ripe, I give you that.”

He gripped her hand, felt the tiny stab of her ring on his palm. A square green stone, a bright yellow band. Something from Wilda's store. At first he was concerned about giving his girlfriend a used ring, but Wilda insisted that jewelry wasn't the same as people. It didn't hold on to history. Toby gave the ring to Angie at Christmastime last year—they were watching television in her basement apartment, and he had hidden the box at the bottom of the popcorn bowl. With Angie's father and brother gone, her sister lost and wandering in Toronto, and her mother living somewhere in Cape Breton, he wanted her to know that she'd never be alone. He wanted her to have that promise.

“How's it going with Mrs. Verge?”

“I don't know. Alright, I guess.”

During the winter, Mrs. Verge had moved into a spare room. Terry came over and painted it bright yellow, brought a mattress, a night table, a lamp, and a few boxes in the back of his truck. Toby's father had claimed he was reluctant to have Mrs. Verge move in, but when he began complaining of curious aches, a dry cough no one actually heard, everyone agreed it would be easier to have her close by. After her first night, the aches disappeared, and his father never again mentioned a cough. Not a week later, Toby had walked in on the two of them, sitting side by side reading, shoulders touching, and unless he was mistaken the air had more charge than what he'd expected.

“Three's getting to be a crowd.”

“Yeah?”

“I think Father's trying to oust me.”

“I doubt that.”

“He said I needs to start thinking about my future. Think about where I's going.”

“Going?”

“I idn't going far.”

“Far like distance, or far like becoming a big honcho type far?”

He reached up, removed her glasses. She had pretty eyes, green with perfect flecks of yellow, and he liked to see them without the distraction of those thick lenses. He slowly cleaned the smudges using the inside of his T-shirt. “I don't know. I idn't good at nothing.”

She grabbed her glasses, pressed them onto her face. “Will you stop saying that? It idn't true.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“No, Toby. It idn't. You're very good at some stuff.”