Glass Boys (16 page)

“I got to be able to wash it, now. He makes an ungodly mess.”

“You'll be careful, now won't you?” Garrett said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, and the boy looked up, mouth open, lips and gums green from the lolly, and nodded.

“What about this one here?” she replied.

“That gets very cold in the winter. Touch it.”

And she hauled off her mitten, hand to the back of the linoleum.

“Hm. What about this?” She dug her fingers into a sample of pale blue shag.

“Yes, this one is nice. Has a long tuft, excellent quality yarn.”

“Bit much for an eight-year-old, I suppose.”

“Not at all,” Garrett replied, giving it a good rub. “He only has one childhood, Mrs. Pyke.”

“Don't we all?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Is it on sale?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Where's the owner?”

“Mr. Clarey won't be in today.” Garrett stood a little taller.

“Do you know the measurements for the room?”

“No. Mr. Pyke will be taking those.” She ran her hand over the shag once again.

“Well, when you know that, I'll see what I can do about the price. I'm sure I can shave something off it.” Garrett knew he could always take five, even ten percent off the purchase price without angering Mr. Clarey.

“Alright,” she said. “Alright. Okay. I doubts I'll be back today. With this weather. Likely Monday. And you lays it?”

“Yes, we do. We does it all ourselves, Mrs. Pyke. Whenever it works for you.”

She purchased a mop and left. Garrett watched them through the front window, mother moving at a good clip, boy marching on the sidewalk behind her, mop hoisted onto his shoulder. He saw Garrett, and saluted him, and Garrett smiled, saluted back. What a delight! What an imagination! The child was worthy of such a fine floor covering, no doubt, and Garrett made a silent wish that she would return to complete the purchase. He could just picture the boy lying on the carpet, freshly bathed, and reading comics.

Garrett perched his bony backside on the edge of the window frame, stared up at the pinkish sky. The first few sprinklings of snow were drifting down, and then in a blink, lid on the jar loosened, the air was full of fat flakes. With this weather he was certain he'd have no more customers that afternoon, and Garrett went to the counter, found a dust rag, paused for a moment to listen to the lights buzzing, mice scratching and gnawing in the walls.

Though most might be bored, Garrett enjoyed these quiet times the best. What could be better than getting paid just to stretch his legs, wander about, and play games inside his head? One game he often played was Find the Child. Garrett would walk around the store, glancing this way and that, calling “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He only played it when he was certain he would be alone, as he had the penchant to lose himself completely in his fantasy. He glanced again at the snow batting the front of the shop, then he ran the dust rag over the counter, started down the main aisle, cleaning metal stands, rolls of linoleum.

Before long, Garrett invented whimpers coming from the very back of the store. The floor creaked as he circled around, and there, in a dim corner, he conjured a small child, maybe the Pyke boy, lost and crouching. “I knew it,” Garrett said aloud. “I thought I seen you come back.” But without his mother, the boy would be timid, would not meet Garrett's eye. “It's alright, you can come out.” If the boy moved forward, what would happen? Garrett thought of a dark puddle spreading on the floor, and his heart squeezed. In his nervousness, the boy could have peed, and it was now up to Garrett to respond. He could reach into his pocket, remove the carpet cutter that was always there, and expose the blade. Scrape his thumb across it, then waggle it under the boy's nose. “You're worse than a bloody dog. One flick, my son, and you'll never piss again.” Then, of course, the child would cry with abandon, maybe even leak some more, and Garrett would haul back his words, kneel down and comfort him. “Shush, shush. I was only joking around for God's sakes. Being silly.” Or, instead, he could suggest the boy slip out of his wet clothes, offer a small towel to wash himself, dangle the promise of an icy mug of cream soda when he was dry.

For today, Garrett would imagine the second approach. From the bathroom, he tore the hardened towel from the rack, went back to the scene, and held it out. “We'll call your mommy later. Let her worry a bit, hey?” he said to the empty corner. “Serve them right.” And Garrett's tongue grew sandpaper as the dream-boy edged forward, stood, stains on his corduroys reaching his knees. With perfect small fingers, he didn't hesitate as he unsnapped his trousers, bent and pulled.

EVERY MONTH, like clockwork, a letter would arrive from Francis. When six weeks has passed with no word, Wilda began walking to the mail every afternoon to check. In sunshine or slanting rain, she often left the boys playing tin soldiers on the carpet, and walked down the lane, up onto the main road, and into the corner store. Past all the canned foods, bags of bread, freezers filled with Popsicles and Drumsticks, she would slip into the shadowy back hall. Box sixty-one. Twisting the key, she'd bend, peer though the tunnel and into the office hidden behind, a counter with brown-papered boxes, an abandoned sandwich on a plate. Most days, the box was empty, or holding only a bill or a curled catalogue, but on this particular afternoon she spied a cream-colored envelope. She reached in, let her hand and wrist cover it, slowly slid it out with her fingertips. A letter. For Mrs. Wilda Trench.

Nothing like the regular notes she would receive from Francis. This was a formal envelope, typed address, printed business-style stamp rather than a licked square. At first she believed it was related to her mother. Perhaps, in the weeks since the woman had died, someone had decided to track Wilda down. But when she looked closely, Wilda saw the return address: The offices of Johnston and Eddy. A letter from the city. Francis, then. Oh, oh. Francis. She held it up to the low-wattage lightbulb, squeezed the quality paper. There was something hard inside. Something that was surely a key.

Envelope tucked into her pocket, she hurried home in a downpour, stopped on the mat in the kitchen, water dripping off her coat, splatting near her feet. She looked at the papered walls and painted cupboards, the red plastic tub in the sink still filled with iridescent bubbles. The dusty glass light fixture hanging over the table, the linoleum, hexagonal pattern, the two small heads blocking the television set. As she stood there in her sodden clothes, everything suddenly felt foreign. She could not identify a single trace of herself. As though, all those years ago, she had stepped into a world fully formed. Had existed in it ever since.

She placed her hand against her abdomen, heard the envelope crinkle. Her head began to pound as a stampede of emo–tions charged her. Recent news of her mother's death clanging against her awareness that Francis was gone. Missing from this world. The two thoughts, opposing spectrums, smashing, disintegrating, leaving Wilda curiously numb.

Toby squealed, cried “slug bug, slug bug,” and she saw him punch Melvin in the arm. Wrestling now, they dove into the displaced cushions, laughing hysterically and pinching each other. In moments, she knew one of the two would be crying. Likely Melvin, and Wilda slipped quickly into her bedroom, closed the door, drew the curtains. She could not be a comfort, now. Could not do the motions, bending, kissing, cuddling, when her chest was bruised. Seated on the edge of the mattress in her cold coat, envelope now beside her on the peach-colored bedspread, her hands shook, she did not trust herself to open it, reveal the certain opportunity inside. She bit her nails, waited, listened for the crying, and when none came, she plucked up the letter. Began to search for a place to hide it.

Over the next few weeks, Wilda moved it frequently, on top of the dusty refrigerator, over to her drawer with underwear and stockings, tucked into the fabric band that held back the living room curtains. If she couldn't see it, she reasoned, the constant ache inside her legs would fade.

18

“CALM DOWN, MRS. VERGE.” Lewis pinched the phone receiver between his shoulder and ear, slipped his hand underneath the tangled cord, scribbled notes. “A letter, you says? What'd he write?” Pause. “Yes, yes.” Another pause, high-pitched mangle of words gushing through the phone line. “Sounds like your garden variety teenaged garbage, Mrs. Verge. Garden variety.” Pause. “No, ma'am. Don't mind in the least. He's apt to be up there playing cards with his buddies. Joking about giving you a jolt.” Final pause. Then light laugh. “No, Mrs. Verge. You don't need to bring me a casserole. I'm just doing my job.”

Lewis cleaned snow from the windshield with the sleeve of his coat, slid into the driver's seat, and let the car idle for a minute. Windshield soon coated again, and he flicked on his wipers, revved the engine. Of all the days Terry Verge had to choose to make threats. Couldn't he have waited until spring? According to Mrs. Verge, Terry's girlfriend had broken up with him—for good, this time—and Terry was beyond distraught. What with her husband having passed last year, she was at a loss on how to deal with Terry. All her advice just hung in the air around the boy, she said, none of it sinking in. He took the truck, a good length of old rope, and headed out to the fishing cabin just off Jebineer's Line. Lewis had been there before. A solid thirty-minute trek in fine weather. It would take him an hour or more in this storm.

Easing up onto the highway, car sliding over invisible lines, he wondered what he was going to say to the boy. Would he chastise him when he found him, or would he be gentle, encouraging? This predicament wasn't entirely the fault of Terry Verge, but of the community as a whole. Everyone letting things slide by, no one speaking up. And all the youngsters, having oodles of time on their hands and nothing to do. No one was interested in clearing a pond anymore, skating over wind-rippled ice with a couple of sticks, a beat-up puck. Or hammering together a birdhouse or building a fort in amongst a few trees. Or, heaven forbid, helping out a neighbor in need. Sawing up a few logs, clearing a driveway, slapping a coat of paint on a fence. Not without a wad of dollar bills waved in front of their snouts. No, sir. Lewis shook his head, gripped the steering wheel. How times is changed.

Lewis turned off the highway, slowed to a crawl along Jebineer's Line. The road had been partially cleared, but in the newly fallen snow he could still see the tracks of the Verges' pickup. When he rounded the bend, Lewis arrived at the end of the tracks, discovered the mustard-yellow box lodged in the ditch. As though someone had gunned through a heap of snow on purpose. He pulled up next to it, parked, and got out. Looked around. A few feet more, and he would be stuck like the devil, no chance of getting out of this place until the thaw. He hauled on a hat and gloves, tucked his pants into his boots, and crawled up over the mound, wiped snow away from the cab. The truck was empty.

Only a short trek to the cabin, though parts of him were beginning to sweat as he lifted his feet up and into what he believed were Terry Verge's prints. The air was cold, and snow drifted into Lewis's face, stinging his cheeks. His leaking nostrils fused momentarily whenever he took a deep breath, making him curse the boy. A swirling gust, and Lewis could smell the acrid smoke pressed downwards by winter's cold palms. As he rounded the bend towards the cabin, clapboard the color of wet stone, he could make out a dying wisp rising from the chimney. The bugger's cooking himself up a meal, Lewis thought. A bottle of moose, molasses bread.

He knocked first, “Constable Trench, here. Open the door,” pressed his ear to the rough wood, but there was silence. He was going to knock again, louder this time, but some sense of urgency arrived in his muscles, and his hand reached for the latch, clicked, clicked, no avail, and his shoulder banged against the heavy door until the lock broke, door open. There was Terry Verge, hanging from a rope he had wormed up and around a thick wooden ceiling beam, rickety chair tipped. Fingers curled over the rope, face and scalp like a swath of stately velvet. With an improperly tied noose, the rope had slipped, and he was left dangling there, tip of his right winter boot pushing down on the worn wool rug, slipping, pushing, slipping. His hazy mind clearly changed. The boy was alive, alive, but only by the thinnest of margins.

Lewis moved quickly, up righted the chair, fixed it underneath Terry, “Stand up, my son.” But the boy's knees buckled, and Lewis had to abandon him for an instant to find a knife. Through cupboards, drawers, tossing spatulas and stirring spoons aside, where was a knife when you needed one, a can opener, bottle opener, forks, a knife, please, butter spreader. Finally. A bread knife, shiny serrated edge. He sawed through the taut rope, and Terry Verge, very nearly a ghost, fell forward into Lewis's outstretched arms.

“What the hell was you thinking, my son? What. The. Bloody. Hell. Was. You. Thinking?”

But Terry was unable to respond, even though his mouth was wide open, swollen tongue, only hoarse bawling emerged, then retching sounds, finally full-body sobs that made Lewis tighten his grip, keep the armload of teenaged bone and flesh from bursting apart.

“It'll be alright, my son. Shush, now. Shush, shush.” Lewis knelt, loosened the rope, up over the tiny skull, flung it. Bruising and scratch marks all along his jaw. Ear rubbed to pearly rawness. Lewis stood, still holding Terry, and took an afghan from the back of a chair, wrapped it around the boy's body. Out through the door, pushing his legs straight through the snow this time. “Someone got their hand planted on you today, my son.” He opened the back door of his car, laid the boy inside. “Reckons you'll see a print on your shoulder.”

OVER THE WEEKS, an urgency spread across Wilda's skin, in through her ears, strapping her brain. A family of aggressve creepers, and eventually she could focus on nothing else besides the letter. So easy, so easy. And everything would be alright. Of course it would. She could picture the boys playing. Doing their schoolwork. Helping Lewis with the birch and clearing dead trees. Young brothers. Good brothers. Strong. Everyone would be just fine.