Glass Boys (34 page)

With deliberate steps, she held the table, eased herself off the chair. Came over to Toby, and placed her strong hands on his shoulders. “My gosh, darling. You looks like death warmed over. You're working too hard. There's enough wood in the basement and shed for half of Knife's Point.”

“I likes to cut wood.”

“But—”

“I'm good, Mrs. Verge.”

Hands on her hips, she tutted. “All this talk of being good. Being fine. You men people. I tell you, 'tis run its course, buddy boy.” She plucked up his scarf, yanked his coat from his arms, hung them both over a chair.

Toby turned to leave the kitchen, but she clutched his wrist. “Not so quick, my son.” Spun him around, caught him in an embrace. “Now,” she said. “Now, I got you.”

“Mrs. Verge?”

“You let it out. Right out.”

He squirmed, bleated, “Let what out?”

“You knows, Tobias Trench. You knows exactly what got to be let out.” Toby tried to catch some air, and he smelled something floral and soft on her clothes. While his own mother had been nothing more than a draft, skulking around his ankles, here was Mrs. Verge, fully present, a hot oven, door wide open. He was lost in her fleshy folds, face plastered to her chest. “Nothing to let out, Mrs. Verge,” he mumbled. “Nothing.”

“You don't get off that easy,” and she squeezed, tighter and tighter until he coughed. “I idn't letting you go no time soon.”

He waited, encased in her fat arms, soft breasts. Finally, he mumbled, “You're hurting me, Mrs. Verge.”

“I'll be damned,” she said as she released her grip. “You men. The whole load of you. All alike.”

“I'm good, Mrs. Verge. Honest, I is.”

“Well, you won't escape my tongue that easy.” Hands on his shoulders again. “I got something I needs to say, and you best remember it.”

“Yes, Mrs. Verge.”

“You is you, Tobias Trench, and you is not your father or your mother, and not your brother, God love him. You is young and you is able, my son, and there's a lot of lovely things in this world, lots of good, and the snow looks so clean right now, but that will go too, and you'll have plenty of mud before you finds another spring. But spring will come, it always do, with green grass, and enough birds singing in the mornings to drive you right batty. Do you get what I'm saying, Tobias?”

“I does, Mrs. Verge.”

“You is a special one, Tobias.”

“I idn't, Mrs. Verge.”

“Yes, you is. I knowed it since you was young.”

“No, Mrs. Verge. Melvin was special. He really was.” Toby looked out the window, tried to study the blankness of the winter sky.

“You can make this all good,” she said, hugging him again. “Just grow yourself up and live a happy life. Simple as that.”

30

TOBY WALKED TWO steps behind his father. He kept his head down as he passed a man wearing only faded pajamas. Bottoms shrunk, riding up over the ankles. Feet without slippers. The walls were painted a sickly green, the color of a plant long denied sunlight, and Toby could not see a single picture, not a single image mounted to break the long stretches of nothing. On either side of the corridor, some doors creaked open, unfocused eyes peering out, others closed, moans and stutters slithering around the door frames, sounds that burrowed into Toby's head. With every breath, the smell of cleaning chemicals and sour cotton edged further up his nose, and he knew it would take some time to dislodge it.

There was nothing worthy of a giggle in the hallway, but Toby could barely keep it in. He looked up at the ceilings, so much higher than they needed to be. And Toby wondered if the building was built that way for the crowd it housed. Not enough room in your head? Well, there's plenty of extra space up here. The very thought made Toby pause, fingers touching a door frame, bent at the waist to accommodate a silent full-body laugh.

A few feet ahead of him, his father slipped to the left, disappeared inside a room. Toby stopped just outside the door, leaned against the wall. He couldn't go in, he couldn't do it. Not with this type of laughter rollicking through his body. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and chomped the inside of his cheek.

“Hey, son.” Toby heard his father's voice, and he leaned in closer to the door to listen.

“Hey.”

“How you getting on?”

“Good. I'm good.” Voice flat, and Toby thought, unfamiliar.

“You need anything?”

“Nah.”

“You sure? 'Tis no trouble, Mel.”

“Well. I could do with something to... to read.”

“Magazines? Word search, or something?”

“No, I means books. Some good books on places. Different places in the world. I likes to think about where I might go someday.”

A pause, then, “You got it, my son. We'll hunt you down some of that.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Toby heard the whine of bedsprings, and then his father saying, “You know. I been thinking these days a whole lot about fishing. Something I used to love when I was a young feller. And it come to me, in all these years we never fished the Grayley together.”

His father paused again, and Toby waited.

“There's a cabin upriver a good ways. Used to go with my father. Fly fishing first thing in the morning. Cooking up whatever you caught.”

“Sounds nice.”

“When you gets all better, when the doc says you're a hundred and ten, that's the first place we're going. You and me and Tobe.”

Toby held his breath at the mention of his name. Then, the bedsprings groaning relief, his father up and barking gently, “Tobe, Tobe. Where you got to?”

Don't be a puss, Toby told himself, and before he could think any further he rolled himself around the corner, into this new home. A small room, practically empty, a bed, a pressboard closet, a stretch of curtainless windows near the ceiling. And a boy.

He hadn't seen Melvin in months, and some days Toby wondered if Melvin were even alive. But there he was, sitting up and seated on the side of the bed, dressed in pale blue drawstring pants and a white T-shirt. Skinnier, and his once long hair now shaved close to his round skull. A winding scar, reminding Toby of the accident, visible in the black fuzz on the back of his head. Melvin's tongue kept daubing his bottom lip, and every few seconds he winked. Hard. With both eyes.

Toby stared at the marks on Melvin's skull. Then he glanced at his father, wide smiling mouth but wet eyes. Inside Toby's gut, the desire to laugh suddenly tumbled across the floor, now replaced with something else. Flat fish flopping over, pale soft belly exposed.

Toby couldn't look his brother in the eye, mumbled. “You good?”

“I'm alright, Toad.”

Toad.

Toby choked out, “I miss you, Mellie.”

“Yeah.” Big sigh. Melvin rubbed his crown with his knuckles, and then he stood, moved towards Toby. “You been missing me a long time.”

The tips of warm fingers moved across his back, Melvin's hand touching him, and Toby hiccuped. He leaned forward, cheek against his brother's ribs, and at once the hiccuping broke through, and sobs tumbled out. Toby wrapped his arms around Melvin and cried. Long and hard. Cried for not being good enough to keep a mother, and cried for the ghosts that moved through the walls of their home. Cried for Melvin, and the voices that spoke to him, whomever they might be. Cried for the anger that filled up their father, and the words that were trapped in the man's throat. Cried for Mrs. Verge, a spoonful of human sugar. Cried for how beautiful the world could be whenever Angie smiled. Toby held on, and Melvin curled his tall frame over him.

“Gonna be okay, Toad. Things is gonna get better. They is.

You'll see.”

After some time, Toby sat on the bed, pressed his runny nose into his sleeve. He stole sideways glances at Melvin until he was shy no longer. Then, as they chatted about nothing and everything, he reached over and took Melvin's hand. His brother's fingers were cool and slightly swollen, didn't feel quite normal. But they didn't feel bad either.

“HE DON'T REMEMBER none of it.”

“He don't?”

“Nope. I'm sure it's all in there somewhere, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Not like you. I knows you'll remember it. And I don't know what's worse. Either way, Toby, it don't never really leave you.” Lewis placed a hand on the back of Toby's neck as his son bent his head, shoveled fries from the shiny plate. He could feel Toby's spine on his fingers, several points and dips, and Lewis had to swallow when he realized how rarely he touched Toby. He expected the boy to draw back, but he didn't. Instead, he continued to eat, managed a quiet, “Mmm.”

“But that's a better place for him there, Tobe. Than behind bars. He got a chance there. To figure out what's going on with his head and make himself better.”

More fries.

Lewis stared at his reflection in the window, watched his mouth open and a few brave words emerge. “You know, we was always together. Me and him.”

“You and who?”

“My brother.”

“Uncle Roy?”

At the mention of the name, Lewis bristled, waited for the inevitable jolt of grief to clamp his jaw. But instead, he was surprised to discover some sense of pleasure residing in his chest. Uncle Roy. And the curious desire to share with Toby.

“Oh, and what an uncle he would've been. Always finding some way to have a bit of fun, he was. Sometimes good ways, sometimes not so good ways. If Roy didn't find trouble, trouble was bound to find Roy.”

Toby smiled.

“Every year when we was little, we'd get a barrel of clothes and magazines and stuff sent down from Montreal. Well, one year there was a mix-up, and we ended up with a barrel of mannequin legs. Mother couldn't figure out what use we could make of those legs, but she wouldn't dare toss them out. Told Roy and me that we could have the load of them if we wanted, as long as we didn't waste.”

“Did you?”

“Sure did, Tobe. Balanced them up on a sleigh, dragged them over to Stark Pond beyond Dilly Green's house. Cleared away the ice, and had ourselves a hockey game using the legs, now, as sticks. Bit awkward, and you're apt to get struck with a scrap of plaster in your eye, but they worked alright nonetheless.”

“You're joking.”

“That I idn't, my son. We played a good bit, the fellers took good care of their legs. Dilly and his brother stole their mother's black stockings, pair of shoes, dressed up the legs we gave them. Leaned them against a tree, pair of her pink drawers stuffed with rags balanced up on top, and her garter belt clipped around and on to the hose. God, we all had a good laugh at that, as you can imagine, until she showed up at the ice, calling the boys for supper. Saw her lower half naked in the woods, and I swears she looked down at herself first, like she was checking, and then turned like the beet, snatched those legs, tore off up to the house. So mad now, the snow melted around her. Dilly and the other one never saw their legs again. Said she took a hammer to them. Crushed every bit of plaster 'til all was left was a metal rod.”

Toby laughed, shook his head.

“Dilly was some upset. He had plans to get his leg signed by The Rocket.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, sir. Best laid plans, they say. Funny how it seems like just yesterday.” A sigh.

Toby munched, said through his cheeks, “That's a good story, Dad.”

“Yeah. You can't make that stuff up.”

“You should tell that one to Mellie, too. Next time.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

“I just might.” Lewis shook his head slightly, smiled to himself. Then, to Toby, “You full?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure? Could get another plate if you wants. We're not in no rush.”

“Nope. Stuffed.” Belly clap.

Lewis placed four one dollar bills on the table, wedged the corners underneath Toby's empty glass. Toby looked at him, expectantly, but Lewis did not stand up.

“We ready?” Toby said.

Lewis swiped his hand over his face. “Tobe?”

“Yeah?”

“There's... there's something else I wants to mention.” Lewis noticed Toby's body stiffen, his mouth close, and he quickly added, “Don't worry, my son. Nothing serious. Nothing serious. It's about Wilda.”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

“My. Mother.”

“Yes.”

“You talk to her?” Aggression in the boy's tone.

“Yes, Toby. I have.”

When Lewis called the day after, he expected her to answer in a singsong voice. But, she didn't. Her hello was timid, questioning.

He never introduced himself, used his constable tone to announce the news, “It's about Melvin.” Then, just in case, “Your son.”

Shallow breathing on the other end of the line.

“There was trouble. An argument or something. He, ah, he... nearly died. I thought you should know. What's happened and all. Where he is. And...”

A strangled, “And?”

He bit his bottom lip, closed his eyes. Pushed out the words. “He killed a man, Wilda. Killed someone.”

Sucking sound, then. Like water lapping over the opening of a dark hole.

“But it weren't his fault. No. It weren't. He didn't know what he was doing.”

Lewis waited a long minute for her to say something. But there were no words. Silence on the other end of the line, and he wondered if the connection were broken. Wondered if she had the gall to hang up on him. But then, he caught it. A grunt, followed by some snuffling. Ever so quiet. A riddle of sounds, making him think of a newborn pig.

“And what do she want?”

“She's been to see him a number of times, you know. I don't know what to make of it. She wants to see you, too, Tobe. Wants to talk to you. When you're ready.”

AS HIS FATHER spoke about Wilda, the fries tucked inside Toby's stomach felt hard and sore, and he hunched forward. Toby stared down at the greasy plate, wished he hadn't finished everything.