The Glass House People (24 page)

Beth sat staring at him for a long moment, then she put her hand on his wrinkled arm. "Grandad, listen. You didn't push Clifton Becker."

"I said I did and so I did."

"I know you didn't!"

"You can't know that, Beth. There are some things that can't be known."

"Please, Grandad! Tell me why you said you pushed him."

"Look, I'm old, Beth." He crossed his long legs under the sheet. "I've learned a lot in my time. I've learned that people have their own little views of the world, and they try to fit things into their own narrow scopes of vision." His mouth pursed bitterly. "And if something doesn't really fit—they often twist it until it does."

"But you're the one who's twisting things. You
know
someone else pushed him. You know it—so why take the blame yourself?"

"I know nothing of the sort." Grandad frowned at her. "You're not thinking clearly. You want to blame someone because you've been told that someone pushed him. Right?"

Beth looked puzzled. "I guess."

He leaned forward. "Then listen carefully, my girl. Hanny told you Iris must have done it. And Iris told you Hanny Lynn certainly did it. And Grandmother, hasn't wanted to believe either of them did it, but because she has always favored Iris, she has tended to believe Iris. And I have tended to think Iris sometimes can't tell an egg from her elbow, and I've seen her in her rages, so I've half-believed Hanny was right. But what if we're all wrong? What if
no one
pushed him?"

"You mean, what if he just fell—by himself?"

"Right—tripped over his own big feet and fell while all of us were shouting at him. It was a nasty scene on that landing, Beth, but I can tell you my mind was certainly not on murder. And if mine wasn't, perhaps no one else's was, either."

Beth's thoughts were racing along with his, trying to keep up. "But if it was an accident and he just fell by himself, how come there were accusations of murder in the first place?"

"Because of the problems between Iris and Hanny Lynn!" He lowered his voice, and she leaned closer to the bed. "Because of the jealousy, maybe even hatred. I'm not saying either girl accused the other just to be vindictive; I'm saying that things were so bad between the sisters that each one truly
believed
she had seen the other stick out her arm and push him—" He broke off and kicked away the sheet. He was sweating, despite the air conditioner. "That's the saddest thing for me, Beth. That each girl believed the other capable of murder—and
wanted
to believe. Makes me feel we've failed as parents somewhere along the line." He rubbed his forehead.

"Then just last night it came to me that the only way this family might be saved would be if each girl stopped seeing the other as a possible killer. I've thought for years that the whole thing could have been a horrible accident, but when I brought up the idea, just after the poor lad fell, everyone pushed it away. You see, they were all too angry about the circumstances of his death." His eyes held hers, intent. "Don't you get it? They needed to think someone pushed him."

Beth stood up and walked to the window. She looked down at the boxwood hedge, at Romps still lying in the grass. "I don't see why you don't just tell everyone you saw him fall. That you know
absolutely
it was an accident."

"No one will believe me. Even after all this time, they still need to blame someone. It's better this way."

"No it isn't! I'm not going to sit back quietly and let people say you're a murderer!"

"Well, it
could
have happened as I said it did. Maybe my hands
were
the last he felt before he fell, after all. We just can't know."

Her words burst out loud and sharp over the hum of the air conditioner. "It isn't
right!
"

"Come here, Beth."

She walked back to his bed, rebellion making her eyes sting. She would tell everyone! She would announce Grandad's lie at the breakfast table!

He put out one arm to pull her closer, and his voice was very low. "You listen, and you keep quiet. I don't want this to leave this room. I hope I can trust you."

She didn't like the sound of this at all.

"Now, you listen hard," he whispered. "I haven't been the greatest father, I know that. But if I
had
seen the whole thing really was an accident, there is no way I would have kept quiet." His voice rose. "What man in his right mind would stand by for twenty years and let his daughters accuse each other of murder when he knew there had been no murder? I can't think what kind of man would do that—can you?"

She couldn't.

"So let them think I'm a weak old man who was too cowardly to face his own guilt all these years. If they can believe that, they can believe the whole thing is finally over now that I've confessed. You saw how quick they both were last night to forgive me!"

He rubbed his head. "I think a lot of the angry accusations came about because each one worried secretly that she had been the one to touch him last.... Believing I pushed him relieves each girl of that burden of guilt as well. I think it's about time the hating stopped around here."

Beth traced a pattern on his white sheet with her finger. "It makes you into a martyr," she whispered. "Why do you have to do it?"

Grandad snorted. "Martyr! Don't be ridiculous! I should have thought to do this years ago." He shook his head. "I'm a selfish old man, Beth."

"Grandad, that's not true! God, what a thing to say."

"I insist you never tell anyone about this talk we've had. Promise me, Beth."

She shook her head stubbornly. "I don't want people believing a lie about you."

He patted her hand. "We all believe lies. We just don't know how many lies we believe."

She pulled her hand away. "Murder is a serious crime, you know! People can't just go around confessing to murder!"

He cleared his throat, and she thought for a moment the cough overlaid a chuckle. "I promise I'll never confess to another one—how about that? And it wouldn't be murder, anyway. Manslaughter, at the most."

"Well, people can't go around lightly confessing to manslaughter, either." Her voice remained stubborn. When he reached for her hand again, she twined her fingers together in her lap. "You think you're safe from the police because we're your family. But what about this—I bet you never thought about what might happen if Bernard or Monica tells the police what you said last night!"

"Justice must be done, eh?"

"You can't mean to say you don't even care!"

"I'm not going to live forever, my girl. I want to leave my family something worth having when I go."

Beth didn't like this kind of sacrifice, didn't understand it. She resolved to beg Bernard and Monica not to turn Grandad in to the police.

Footsteps in the hall made Grandad sink quickly back into his pillows, and Beth jumped up and stood by the chair. Tom opened the door. "Good morning! I'm here to help you down to breakfast, Grandad."

"Breakfast, is it? Well, you go along now, Beth. I'll just stay here and rest up for lunch." He smiled. "Those stairs are sometimes too much of a challenge."

"It's a special breakfast," Tom told them. "Everybody's waiting. I have orders to bring you down, Grandad." He grinned. "Even if I have to sling you over my shoulder."

"Spoken like the gentleman that he is," muttered Grandad, getting out of bed.

Beth followed them down with a frown on her face. At the entrance to the dining room, the frown changed to a look of amazement. The table was set with the best china again and groaned under the weight of the platters of scrapple and bacon and fried potatoes, the baskets of muffins and fresh fruit, and the uneaten peach pies from last night's dinner. Frosty pitchers of orange juice and milk stood in the center, next to a large bouquet of zinnias from the garden. But most astonishing of all was the sight of both Bernard and Monica sitting there, hands folded neatly atop the table, waiting for them.

"About time," said Bernard, checking his watch. "We're starving!"

"But what are you two doing here?" cried Beth.

"A fine way to greet our guests," scolded Aunt Iris, entering from the kitchen bearing a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs. But she smiled at Beth. "The usual greeting is 'Good morning. How nice to see you.'"

Her voice was light, but her eyes held a flicker of uncertainty as they probed Beth's face. It was, Beth thought, as if Aunt Iris were trying to act in a friendly manner, but wasn't quite sure she knew how anymore.

Beth sat down next to Monica. "Of course it's nice to see you," she said. "I just didn't expect—"

"Nor did I," said Grandad, as Tom helped him to his chair. "This is a surprise indeed."

Grandmother carried in a stack of hot buttered toast and set it on the table. Hannah came in with two jars of jam. "I think we're ready now," she said to Aunt Iris, and the sisters started passing the platters of food. Beth noticed how they both stood near Grandad as he filled his plate, urging large helpings on him and filling his juice glass.

"Yes," said Grandmother, as if she were continuing a conversation already going on, "the girls and I got to thinking what a shame it was that no one really seemed in very high spirits for our little party last night. So we thought we'd try again with breakfast." She took her seat opposite Grandad. "Hanny Lynn got on the phone to Bernie, and Iris and I started cooking, and here we all are."

"And, of course, Monica and I were delighted to come," said Bernard. He wiped egg off his mouth with a linen napkin. "I could never turn down a home-cooked Pennsylvania Dutch breakfast!"

"The muffins are delicious," Monica added.

"Iris made them," Hannah said quickly. "She's always been a wonderful cook."

Aunt Iris smiled shyly and glanced around the table to see how people were responding to this praise. Beth noticed her aunt was actually eating one of the muffins herself. "But just taste the scrapple," Aunt Iris urged Monica. "Hanny Lynn's the only person I've ever known who can fry it to perfection. It sticks to the pan for everyone else. Imagine that—after all these years away from Pennsylvania Dutch country, Hanny's back home frying up our scrapple again!" And Aunt Iris heaped a few slices on her own plate and passed the platter to Monica.

Beth met Tom's eyes across the table. He was beaming. Grandad and Grandmother were grinning at each other like maniacs, too. Beth tasted her scrapple, then put down her fork. Wasn't this the best time for her announcement about Grandad's big lie?

Yet the table talk was so happy and friendly, she didn't want to spoil it. Hannah and Aunt Iris kept complimenting each other about the food until it seemed to Beth their sweet words powdered the table like sugar. The scene was almost surreal. She expected her family to burst into song and dance over their meal at any moment—just like actors in an old musical. Anything seemed possible. She actually wondered for a second if Grandad's bogus confession had really been a magic spell.

When she glanced at him again, he was looking right at her. And he winked. Was the joke on her?

Monica nudged her knee under the table and nodded toward Beth's plate. Beth picked up her fork obediently and dug into the mound of scrambled eggs. Were they all going to pretend nothing had happened? Could so many years of anger and accusation disappear so quickly? What would happen now if, ever so casually, Beth were to mention Clifton Becker's name?

Grandad would kill her, that's what would happen. And so would Hannah and Aunt Iris and Grandmother. Tom, too. Everyone seemed content to accept Grandad's gift—without even knowing it
was
a gift.

After the huge breakfast, Beth helped clear the table. Grandmother and Hannah and Aunt Iris were in the kitchen, fussing cheerfully about who would wash and who would dry. "You girls go chat with our guests," urged Grandmother. "This is my kitchen!"

"Now, Mama," said Hannah, "they're your guests, too. Go on in and rest your feet. You, too, Iris."

But Aunt Iris chimed in: "Oh, but Hanny Lynn, you and Bernie must have so much catching up to do after all these years. I'm happy to wash up."

It was truly nauseating. "Look, you guys, I'd
love
to do the dishes," Beth announced, pulling the dish towel out of her mother's hands.

"Why, Elisabeth, how nice of you!" cried Aunt Iris.

"Sweet of you to offer," added Grandmother.

Only Hannah heard the ironic tone and glanced at her rather reprovingly, but then she smiled, too. "Thanks, Beth honey." And the three of them left the room together.

Beth stretched her face into a huge, mocking smile and grinned after them, then at the dirty dishes piled on the counters. She forced the smile even wider and beamed into the sink, turning the hot water on hard. She filled the pans and left them on the stove to soak, then attacked the silverware, her face relaxing once more.
What a bunch of lunatics.
She listened in astonishment to the hum of bright chatter from the living room, wondering how a single lie could transform so many people.

"Pretty amazing, isn't it?" asked a deep voice behind her, and she whirled around to find Bernard lounging against the refrigerator with a cup of coffee in his hand. Had he read her mind?

"You mean the merry maniacs?"

He nodded toward the living room. "Quite a party this morning. Much nicer than the theatrics of last night, don't you think?" He pulled a tea towel off a hook on the side of the refrigerator and began drying the cutlery as she laid it on the drainboard.

"Well, thank God at least
you
admit it was an act," Beth said slowly. "I wondered if I was the only one who noticed."

"Oh, I think on some level everyone knows what happened. But your grandfather's story has made everything all right again—at least he's got everyone talking without snarling. First time in twenty years! I'd say that's quite an accomplishment."

"So—you know the confession was a lie?" Relief flooded Beth's face.

"Let's just say I understand what he was trying to do."

"Oh, I'm so glad you know! I was afraid you might turn Grandad in to the police."