The Glass House

by David Rotenberg

  WJ let the cello fall from his hands and it rocked forward onto the sand. Then he turned and entered the darkness of the gully behind the Joshua tree.

  Seth slumped to the ground, his strength almost gone. He touched the wood of the cello and sensed the magic deep within. All the artists who had produced music, great music, on this instrument. He allowed his fingers to trace the engraved woman on the back who was missing an arm and had no waist but whose beauty made him for the first time in years think of his mother. He heard his tears hit the cello before he realized that he was crying. “Forgive me, please. If there was any other way—forgive me,” he whispered as he got back up to his feet. He reached down and picked up Andrea Amati’s work of genius and moved it several yards west of the Joshua tree and stood it up against a large boulder.

  WJ emerged with armfuls of brush and twigs. All suitably dead and desiccated by the dry desert air.

  “Good,” Seth said. “Now”—indicating the tinder—“put it around the base of your pet cello.”

  As if in a trance, WJ did as he was told.

  “Good. Now open the can of gas.”

  That seemed to awaken WJ to what was going on here.

  “Fine,” Seth said. “I’ll open it.”

  Seth quickly opened the can and emptied its contents on the cello and the brush at its base. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the other thing they had bought at the desert store—a Zippo lighter.

  He tossed it to WJ. The thin moon’s rays glinted off its buffed metallic finish, and WJ caught it in his left hand.

  “You aren’t here to dream, William Jennings Connelly, are you.”

  WJ slowly shook his head.

  “It’s to feel that you want—and to get to the glass house!”

  Even more slowly, WJ nodded—and flicked the Zippo into flame.

  “Toss it on the cello. Kill the thing you think you love to find your way to something you really love.”

  • • •

  From where Decker, Yslan and Emerson stood at the bottom of the huge dune, it looked like an ancient petroglyph—two figures and a tiny flame, a slip of a moon overhead, all blessed by the Joshua tree. And the gas lamp post that somehow was alight in the midst of the desert night.

  • • •

  They all saw it—but Hendrick H. Mallory, who had set so much of this in motion, stood even closer than the three at the base of the dune—but saw nothing. And he knew beyond knowing that he would never really see what these others saw, that what had been just beyond the bend in the road all his life would always be just beyond the bend in the road, that he’d only see shadows, as if he were looking through a glass, darkly.

  59

  MARINA—CRYING

  MARINA WAS CRYING.

  Eddie leapt out of his chair and ran to her bedroom. She wasn’t there.

  Where are you, Marina? he screamed in his head.

  She cried louder.

  He raced through the rest of the house and she wasn’t there. Where are you, Marina? he screamed in his head again.

  He’d been communicating fluently with her for more than two weeks without a word spoken between them. But now he couldn’t get her to respond.

  Finally Marina shouted through her tears, By the church!

  Eddie made himself slow his breath and be calm. Which church, sweetie, which church?

  The awful one!

  They’re all awful. But which one, Marina? Tell me which one.

  The one right beside the other one.

  Eddie forced himself to think. On Annette Street?

  I don’t know streets! It was a scream. The girl was getting more and more desperate.

  Near the library where we take out picture books?

  Yes.

  Stay there.

  Can’t!

  Why?

  Because the boy is screaming.

  What boy?

  He’s screaming, Daddy. He’s hanging from the lamppost and screaming.

  60

  IN THE GLASS HOUSE

  IN THE LIGHT FROM THE Burning cello, Seth loosened the noose and stepped down from the Joshua tree. “You’re here.”

  “I told you I’d always be here, waiting for you, always.”

  Yslan clamped handcuffs on WJ.

  Seth laughed.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “That’s so unnecessary now,” Seth said. He looked down at his hands—his nails were black. He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers—all five. A crack of lightning and it began to rain, thick heavy drops. Rain in the desert, he thought. Of course there’d be rain in the desert—and the Junction.

  • • •

  Trish stumbled out of the church. The cold rain greeted her. She put up the collar of her coat but the rain quickly soaked her to the bone. She strode forcefully into the storm.

  She almost knocked over Marina, who was standing beneath the lamp post across from the library—sobbing.

  “Marina?”

  The girl turned and cowered back, slipping on the wet sidewalk and falling to the ground.

  “Don’t be frightened. Remember me? I’m Trish, one of your dad’s friends.”

  No flicker of recognition from the girl.

  “Does your dad know you’re out here by yourself at night?”

  The girl shook her head, oblivious to the rain. She began to cry again.

  “What’s frightening you, Marina?”

  The girl pointed at the lamp post and shouted, “Don’t you hear him? Don’t you hear him screaming?”

  “I hear him—and I see him,” a southern-accented woman’s voice said.

  Marina and Trish turned to see Yslan standing beside a very handsome man. Both were looking up at the lamp post, which was almost invisible—seemingly lost in the rain.

  The thick rain opened something deep in Yslan, and she found herself falling. When she reached out to stop her fall, her hand landed on polished granite and in the slash of lightning she saw her father’s name and his dates on the memorial wall. Then she heard gunfire and saw him, crouched in the deep undergrowth of the Mekong Delta, ten years younger than she was now and frightened—so terribly frightened.

  Another flash of lightning brought to terrifying light other men in dark pajamas, moving through the tall grass, coming closer and closer.

  She tried to move, but her foot was stuck in something. She looked down and saw she was wearing army boots, and her left one was stuck in the sucking mud. She turned and felt the weight of the M16 in her hand—and knew—beyond knowing—that she was going to witness the death of her father.

  She felt herself yank her foot free and then she heard herself whisper a prayer—to her, his unborn daughter—for a long life, for joy, for meaning. Then she felt the bullet enter her chest just to the right of her arm—then another and another and another.

  Then she felt strong hands pulling on her shoulder. She opened her eyes, and Emerson was there in the rain, and his lips were moving but she couldn’t hear his words. Then she did—but his lips had stopped moving. She heard his words in her head.

  Eddie rushed to his daughter, but she pushed him aside and moved towards the handsome man.

  “You see him, don’t you?”

  Emerson nodded.

  “And you?” she asked Yslan.

  “I do, Marina. Yes, I see him.”

  The rain began to pelt down in sheets.

  “His screaming is stopping,” Marina said.

  “The portal is closing,” Emerson said, “We don’t have much time now. I can’t follow you, Yslan. I’m in the forest but not in the clearing.”

  Yslan looked around, and she was standing in a beautiful clearing in the midst of a seemingly impenetrable forest. And silence—unearthly silence.

  Then out of the undergrowth stepped Martin Armistaad and Viola Tripping. The man had a sneering smile on his lips. The girl/woman’s face was stained with tears.

  “Good,” Martin said, grabbing Viola by the soft par
t of her upper arm. She winced.

  “Let her go,” Yslan demanded.

  He shook his head and said, “You have no idea where you are.”

  “Let her go,” Yslan repeated.

  Viola said simply, “He needs to be here—we all need to be here.”

  “But he’s—”

  “A nightmare,” Viola said. Her voice was steady. “Without nightmares there are no dreams.”

  “Sure,” Martin said and smiled. “Let’s go.”

  “We’re not all here,” Viola said.

  “They’ll be waiting for us, won’t they, Ms. Tripping. They’ll be waiting for us in the glass house.”

  Viola nodded and turned to her left. A path through the forest that had not been there before was now . . . there.

  She smiled and led the way. As they moved along the path, the forest closed in behind them. They followed the turn in the path and saw the great glass house in the distance. Someone was in the doorway and waving them on.

  “Come on,” Martin said and started to run.

  “What’s he going to find, Viola?”

  “Nothing unless you’re there.”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you that which allows this all to happen?”

  The catalyst, Yslan thought. She looked at the figure in the doorway, waving them on, and she knew it was her—had always been her.

  Then without taking a step they were at the door, and Yslan was indicating that they should enter.

  They did and were immediately blinded by an intense surgical light.

  They shielded their eyes—then they heard it. The high, whistly voice: “Where do you want this killing done?”

  And slowly the image of a boy—Seth, naked on a metal table, his hands tied together in front of him as if in prayer, his fingernails black—came into being.

  Then appearing from the light they saw Decker approach his son.

  Then Seth was screaming: “I never agreed to this. Let me up. I’m here against my will.”

  There was a sigh from the darkness, then a high thin voice, almost a whistle, said, “Not against Mine, though.”

  Somehow that voice seemed to be coming from every direction.

  Seth twisted to see who had spoken. He was surprised to see that he wasn’t in a room at all but at the crossroads of two highways. What he thought was a surgical light was an intense desert sun.

  “Where do you want this killing done?”

  His father! Fuck, his father.

  Seth pulled at his restraints again, which had somehow changed from metal to something soft—like lambskin. Then he sensed the blood. He felt its stickiness—and he knew where he was: The portal at the dream temple at Epidaurus. He was wrapped in a sheepskin—the pelt of a recently sacrificed animal still thick with fresh blood.

  For a moment the word “sacrificed” reverberated in his head, growing louder and louder until he heard, “Down on Highway Sixty-one.” That thin, whistly voice again: “Yes, down on Highway Sixty-one.”

  “Father! Father!” Seth shouted.

  Someone stepped forward and momentarily blotted out the sun.

  “Seth.”

  Seth took a breath and tried to stop the rising terror. “Father, what are you doing?”

  “Doing?”

  “Yes, doing! What are you doing?”

  “That which must be done.”

  The sun glinted off the blue edge of the surgical scalpel in his father’s hand.

  “Don’t do this, Father. Don’t!”

  The scalpel scythed through the air. Seth yanked his hands, still bound as if in prayer, high enough to deflect the blade but not before it cut both his hands—cleanly removing the baby finger from each.

  He felt pressure on his chest. His father’s right hand was there, pressing down hard. The scalpel in his left hand was in motion again.

  A gush of blood fountained up from Seth’s belly and bathed his face.

  He swallowed blood—his blood.

  He gagged. His body convulsed.

  His two fingers fell to the floor.

  Blood fountained up on Decker—and he smiled.

  Decker looked at his hands—he was missing the baby finger from each. Seth stood over him with the scalpel in his hand.

  “Seth. Seth!”

  The boy seemed to come back from a great distance.

  “Seth?”

  “Father?”

  “Use the scalpel, Seth. The last duty of a father is to show a son how to die. Use the scalpel. Put your hand on my chest.”

  The boy did.

  Decker put his hand on top of his son’s and the boy wrapped his fingers around his father’s.

  “Now, Seth, now, and we can put this nasty old world behind us.”

  The boy stepped back and shouted, “No!”

  “Please, Seth, please.”

  Then there was a blur—Martin Armistaad held out the would-be architect’s compass, its sharp point aimed directly at Seth. He was running towards the table and shouting, “Don’t. Don’t! We all have to be here!”

  And then Yslan raced forward and threw herself at Martin. The man’s body flipped forward under the force of her tackle. The two of them smashed into Seth as the point of the compass cut deep into his side.

  The boy cried out as he stumbled and grasped for balance against the slab.

  But he was off by a foot, and he’d forgotten the scalpel was still in his hand, now in his father’s heart. They all stood back as Decker’s life flew from him like a wild beast finally unleashed.

  61

  AFTER

  HE FELT SOMETHING SOFT IN his hand and looked down. fingers slid across his palm, then held on tight.

  He looked up—Seth.

  Six-year-old Seth dressed in a new black suit. They had just come home from the funeral, and he was holding Decker’s hand.

  The doorbell rang.

  “It’s open,” Decker called. Eddie came in with his daughter Marina, her face alive, her eyes bright. “Hi,” she said. “I thought Seth might like some company, but if you think it’s not appropriate—”

  “No,” Decker said. “No, it’s completely appropriate. Please come in.”

  She moved past Decker and ran into the kitchen and embraced Seth.

  Eddie held out his hand. Decker took it. It was then that Decker realized that he was missing the little finger from each hand.

  Without a word, Eddie turned and walked back to his car. Decker noticed that he wasn’t limping—no clack when he moved. Decker called out, “She loved you, you know that, don’t you?”

  Eddie turned back and nodded. Then slowly he said, “Yeah, I know that.”

  • • •

  Yslan awoke with a start. There was someone cooking in her kitchen. Bacon. She threw on a robe and moved slowly towards the kitchen. It was a man. An older man, maybe in his sixties. In good shape with a Marine tattoo on his left arm. He turned and smiled. “Hey kiddo, I cooked you some bacon, good at any hour.”

  • • •

  Trish opened the door to her condo and called out, “Can I help you guys? Maybe some coffee?”

  “Yeah, coffee would be great,” came back from up the stairs—followed shortly by two men carrying an overlarge chair. At the door one of the men asked, “Should we take off our shoes?”

  “Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  They did, then entered the completely empty condo and asked, “So where do you want this chair, ma’am?”

  • • •

  From Seth’s room, Decker heard the sounds of early Bob Dylan. He knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  Decker entered the room.

  “Do you miss her, Dad?”

  “You bet.”

  Seth gave a small smile.

  “You gonna be okay, Seth?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  Decker smiled and held out his arms to Seth. The boy hugged his father, then they walked out onto the second-floor balc
ony. Over the boy’s shoulder Decker saw the night’s star display. The Southern Cross was low on the horizon.

  “What do you see, Seth?”

  The boy turned to the window and said, “Scorpio rising, as always.”

  Decker nodded, then looked more closely at Scorpio rising—the third star in its torso blood red but pulsing erratically.

  Decker shivered.

  “What, Dad?”

  Decker pointed, and as he did, the red star blinked out. For a moment there was a hole in the body of the scorpion. Then a crystalline white star blinked into existence. “Scorpio,” he said.

  Seth smiled and said, “Yeah, Scorpio.”

  They stood there for a long time, sensing the coming of autumn to the Junction, the trees clinging to their leaves but knowing they would lose the battle, that winter was on its way.

  But Decker wasn’t worried by that.

  He held out his hand—and Seth took it.

  Then father and son stood side by side as the world changed, and Decker thought that the crescent moon was all there would ever be. No more waxing and waning—just a slip of a moon, too thin for stories.

  • • •

  But Decker was wrong.

  In far-off Afghanistan, it was beginning again as an Afghani dancing boy stepped forward with a ludicrous smile on his painted face, feeling the huge dose of opium coursing through his system. His mascara-covered lashes made him even prettier than he usually was when he danced for the tribal leaders. He’d painted his fingernails black—he thought they were so pretty.

  He drank more of the milky drink and seemed to float.

  The two holy men, each the leader of a warring sect, came into the tent. The boy smiled at them lasciviously.

  The men nodded to their respective bodyguards, who grabbed the boy and held him down.

  Each holy man took out a pair of garden shears, and after eyeing each other quickly snipped off the dancing boy’s little fingers. The boy was so drugged that when the bodyguards released him he held up his bloody hands and laughed at the stumps.

  His laughter stopped when they tightened the noose around his neck. And, as they yanked him skyward, the two leaders of the warring sects signed the truce, and the moon—for the first time in human memory—began to grow again.