The Glass House People (25 page)

"What for?"

"For murder! I mean, for manslaughter. I mean, if you'd believed his story."

"Oh, Beth." Bernard touched her shoulder and she turned from the sink. "The police couldn't arrest an old man on the strength of that story alone. There'd have to be witnesses. There's got to be evidence of a crime,"

"I was getting so worried—" Her eyes filled with tears.

Bernard patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. "His version of the truth has made it possible for this family to start healing. You all owe him a lot." He picked up a serving spoon and polished it vigorously.

"But doesn't the
real
truth count for anything?" wailed Beth.

"Certainly it counts. Of course we should all seek the truth. But sometimes the truth simply can't be known—as in the case here, with this Clifton fellow. And in this case, I'd say it's what you
perceive
to be the truth that counts. In cases like this you have to make your own reality. For twenty years there's been one reality. Now your grandad's story—his 'lie,' as you insist on calling it—has simply made another reality possible. A better one, I think you'll agree."

"Bernard—are you going to tell my mom?"

"No way! I bet this is what Hanny has needed for years. She can finally stop blaming her sister—and she can stop worrying secretly that maybe she pushed the guy herself!"

"That's just what Grandad said," murmured Beth.

"Smart man, your grandad."

Beth shrugged. Was this what Grandad had been trying to explain to her upstairs? She remembered the brainteaser he'd shown her. What was true and what was false, and did it matter? She felt confused. She finished washing the dishes in silence. Bernard dried the last fork, then balled up the dish towel and tossed it onto the counter. He hugged her shoulders briefly.

"Think about it, Beth." And then he went back to the family in the living room.

She shook out the wet towel and hung it neatly back on its hook.

Beth thought about what Bernard and Grandad had said while she drank a cup of tea with everybody in the living room. She thought about it when she took Monica down into the basement to see her window. Monica wanted her to bring it upstairs, where they could look at it in the light. Beth refused.

Weird and unbelievable things continued to happen in the house on Spring Street all day. Grandad and Grandmother decided to go for a walk. And when Tom offered to come along to push his wheelchair, they said they'd rather be alone. Stranger still, Hannah and Grandmother hung out in the kitchen together later, watching soaps and weaving lattice crusts for more pies—blueberry this time. Grandmother said it was about time Hanny Lynn learned how to bake, and Hannah just grinned. While they were cozily mixing dough in the kitchen, Grandad and Aunt Iris sat chatting in the living room. They each had a beer, but when Beth checked later, both had switched to lemonade. Beth reflected that it was probably the first time since she and her mother and Tom had been there that Aunt Iris had drunk something nonalcoholic.

Weirdest of all, after the pies were safely in the oven and the aroma of blueberries filled the house, Hannah and Aunt Iris went out shopping together. Beth wondered whether Aunt Iris had been in a department store in the last twenty years and rather doubted it. They didn't ask Beth whether she wanted to come. When they returned home, they modeled new sundresses. Aunt Iris looked like a scarecrow in hers—all bones and wisps of hair like straw. But everyone went on as if she'd brought home something remarkable. And maybe she had.

The day continued to pass peacefully. Tom borrowed the laptop computer from his friend Mark and sat out on the porch reading the user's guide. Beth felt unsettled. She wandered down to the basement and cleaned her window. The polished lead gleamed like silver, and the colors in the glass sparkled even in the dim light. It was really the best piece she had ever done. What a shame it had to hide in the basement until she could get it safely home to California!

In the evening the family sat out on the porch together, drinking lemonade. At first Grandad wanted to stay inside with his air conditioner and grumbled about the heat. But Aunt Iris and Hannah each took one of his hands and begged him to join them outside.

"There's a nice breeze," coaxed Hannah.

"The fresh air is good for you, Daddy," added Aunt Iris.

"Maybe so, maybe so," he muttered, allowing them to lead him out and settle him in one of the wicker rocking chairs.

"You're much better these days," Hannah said. "You really don't need to stay up in your room so much anymore."

"You listen to Hanny," said Aunt Iris.

He looked from one daughter to the other and shook his bald head. Beth shared his astonishment. It was as if a truce had been declared after a long war. Everyone seemed so relieved not to be fighting anymore. And everyone wanted Grandad around as—what? Their peace symbol? Her toe tapped the floor to keep the glider moving. She looked around at all of them—at Grandad talking with Grandmother. At Tom telling Aunt Iris about the computer camp he had missed going to this summer. At Hannah leaning toward them, listening.

"You'll be able to go next summer, Tom," Hannah said.

"I'm glad you came here instead," Aunt Iris told him. "Though I must admit, I don't have the faintest idea at all what people do at a computer camp in the first place!"

"Oh, it's a lot of fun," said Beth from the swing. "You get to take your computer to the lake for fishing and sing with it around a campfire!"

Aunt Iris stared at her for a moment, then actually giggled. "Well, for all I know, you could be right. I don't know a thing about computers. Never touched one in my life."

Tom gaped at her. "We'll have to fix that, Aunt Iris! No one can live in the real world without a computer!"

"That's debatable," said Beth from the swing. "
You
can't live long without computers, but it's not that difficult for normal people!"

"It's funny, isn't it," mused Hannah, "the things we think we can't live without? And how, if it really comes down to it, we can after all? Sometimes it's hard, but in the end, we manage anyway."

Somehow Beth didn't think her mother was talking about computers anymore.

Aunt Iris put her hand to her eyes, and Beth hurried to change the subject. "Well, I know I couldn't live long without a glass cutter in my hand!"

"See, you're as bad as I am," said Tom.

Aunt Iris uncovered her eyes. "I used to think," she said slowly, "that I couldn't live without a paintbrush in my hand. I think I was right about that."

"What do you mean, Iris?" asked Hannah. "You haven't painted in years and years—and see? You're still here."

"Am I really?"

Beth swung gently, seeing in her mind's eye the pile of canvases and crates of brushes and paints in the corner of the basement. In a way, Aunt Iris was right. The girl who had painted those vibrant pictures was long dead. The woman left behind without a paintbrush in her hand was in many respects no more than a shell. But did it have to be that way? Clifton Becker was dead and no one could bring him back, but the brushes down in the crates were as good as ever. Add a few new tubes of paint, and—

"Aunt Iris?" Beth began in a firm voice, before she could lose her nerve. "Listen, I was down in the basement and I found your canvases. I had to look at them, I couldn't help myself. You did
beautiful
work! The colors are totally fantastic—so lovely and bright." She shot a glance at her aunt, whose face was still and shuttered. "I was so impressed, Aunt Iris! Some of those paintings are exhibition quality. Don't you think you might, you know, be able to start again?" She held her breath, waiting for the explosion.

But it never came. Aunt Iris just sat staring at her hands for a long moment. When she finally spoke her voice was hoarse, the way it sounded after she'd been drinking. Yet there was nothing in her glass now but the fresh lemonade Beth had made herself.

"My paintings... after all this time. I thought mice would have gotten them. They'd have to be ruins by now."

"Not at all! Oil paints probably last forever. Some of them need dusting off—that's all."

Aunt Iris sat silently.

"Oh, Iris! You
were
such a good artist once!" Hannah reached over and put her hand on her sister's thin arm. "Would you show us your work? Please?"

"That's a wonderful idea," said Grandmother. "Iris, baby,
would
you do it?"

And Grandad rumbled his approval. "Always said the girl had talent."

"Oh, no," breathed Aunt Iris. "You don't understand."

"Come on, Aunt Iris," urged Tom. "Why not? If you'll show us some of your stuff, I'll teach you all about computers! I've borrowed Mark's laptop—that's a portable computer—and when I get it set up, I'll give you a private workshop!"

"That's a threat, not an incentive!" objected Beth. "Why don't you say that if she
doesn't
show us, you'll teach her everything you know about computers!"

Aunt Iris drained her lemonade and set the glass down at her side. Her face was pale, with dark smudges under the eyes. But the lines around her mouth seemed less sharply etched, and the wispy curls lay soft against her forehead. "Not now," she said. "I just don't think I can face sorting through those canvases now."

"I know," said Hannah brightly. "How about this? If you'll show us some of your work, Beth will show us the stained-glass window she has been working on down in the basement all summer!"

"Mom!" Beth knew she'd be as good as dead if Aunt Iris saw what she'd done.

"Why not, Beth? It's a fair trade."

Oh, great.
Now what was she supposed to say? It had been her own idea, after all, to urge Aunt Iris to bring up her paintings.

Surprisingly, Aunt Iris shook her head. "I'd love to see your window sometime," she said to Beth. "But I can wait till you're ready." She turned to her sister, and her voice was gentle and sad. "I can wait, Hanny. It isn't right to manipulate situations. You just can't force peopie to do what they don't want to do. There's a time and place for everything."

Why did Beth have the feeling that Aunt Iris wasn't talking about art anymore?

Hannah lowered her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap.

Beth took a deep breath. "Listen, it's all right. I'll show you," she said. "I'd like to show you." She jumped off the glider. "Will you help me bring it up, Tom?"

He nodded, and together they went swiftly into the house and down into the coolness of the basement.

Her panel of stained glass was heavy. She shifted it carefully into her arms and Tom took the other end. "Careful, now," she cautioned as they started back up the stairs. No time to think now whether this was the right thing to do. Back out on the porch she lugged the window over to the low wicker table and began removing the layers of sheet and newspaper. Grandad hitched his chair closer.

The panel was two feet high and four feet long. She propped it up on the table, leaned it back against the stone wall of the house, and pulled off the last fold of cloth.

Even in the evening light, the color burst forth. Deep blue glass formed the sea bottom, with emerald and turquoise waves and crests of crystal. Beth had used many small pieces of glass to form the two mermaids who swam with the fish, long hair streaming around them. The islands rose out of the water—with gray and brown and green patterning the mountains and valleys. Beth had remained as faithful to Aunt Iris's original Notfilc painting as she could manage, except in a few details. In Aunt Iris's painting two beasts had stood guard at the entrance to a forest on one island, but Beth had etched them as a man and a woman. The man had a bald head like Grandad. On the next island she had etched a small house with a porch, though in Aunt Iris's painting the building was an elaborate palace. The roof of the little house had exploded—Beth used crystal fragments to form the shattering shingles—and she'd etched small figures of a family running out. She'd etched the prince rowing up in his barge to rescue them, but the waves around his boat were high. It didn't seem certain he would make it. On the third island the long-haired princess was held captive, surrounded by beasts. On the fourth island there was a wild garden, tangles of bright flowers, among them Beth's version of the blue iris with which Aunt Iris had signed her painting. The skies above the islands were worked in the deep purples and blues of Aunt Iris's original and dotted with her shimmering spacecraft. But the sky also showed the heavens as Beth imagined they'd formed: bursts of gold and crimson and clear crystal glass shooting sparks of fire into black space. The circles of planets hung under the spikes of yellow suns. And near the blue planet a tiny astronaut wearing a purple helmet floated, its lifeline tethered to a star above.

"Incredible," whispered Aunt Iris. Then she covered her face and burst into tears.

"Oh, Beth, it's beautiful!" exclaimed Grandmother. "Come on, Iris! What's wrong, dear?" She moved in front of Aunt Iris as if to hide her. Aunt Iris stifled her sobs, but Beth could still see her shoulders shaking.

Grandad and Hannah and Tom all leaned forward at once, as much to distract Beth's attention from her aunt as to see the detail in the window. "This is amazing, Beth, girl," said Grandad. "Funny—it reminds me of something...." He shot a look at Aunt Iris. "Get a hold of yourself, Iris!"

Hannah's smile was as bright as the suns. "This is your finest piece ever, Beth! I'm so proud of you!" She put her arm around Beth's shoulders and hugged her.

"Pretty cool," Tom said, which was high praise, coming from him.

Beth left them looking at the window and walked over to Aunt Iris's huddled form. "Aunt Iris?" she whispered. "I'm sorry! I know I shouldn't have used your painting without asking. I knew you'd be angry. It's just—well, the painting was so wonderful, I couldn't help myself. I wanted so badly to turn it into glass." She touched her Aunt's bowed shoulder. "I guess it's sort of like stealing—"

Aunt Iris uncovered her face and reached for Beth's hands. "Oh, Elisabeth, no! I'm not angry. You've transformed my painting into something new. I'm honored." She wiped her face. "That painting was very special. I made it as a gift."