And then he stopped talking.
I followed his eyes to the back of the room. A young Negro woman softly closed the double doors behind herself as she stepped inside. She came down the center aisle, her footsteps light across the carpet. All heads turned as she made her way toward the front of the room. A murmur went up from the crowd. I caught snippets of conversation:
The English teacher.
There’s the Negro that Mrs. Hawke hired.
I hear she’s close with the Glass girl.
Ruby stood and approached the woman, who held out her arms. “Dear girl,” the woman said as she and Ruby embraced—a close embrace, not just a slight-touch sort of hug. They stood in the aisle, arms wrapped around one another.
Finally, the embrace broke and the woman walked with Ruby toward Paul and me. She held out her hand. “I’m Nancy Wells,” she said. “I’m Ruby’s English teacher. It’s nice to meet you, although I’m sorry for the circumstances.”
Paul stood. “Miss Wells,” he said stiffly. “I’m Paul Glass, and this is my wife, Angie, and my son, PJ.”
I noticed that Paul did not shake the teacher’s hand. Miss Wells noticed, too—I was sure of it. The teacher’s face tightened and she dropped her hand to her side.
Miss Wells turned toward me. “Ma’am.”
I had a moment of panic, unsure what to do. And then—with my eyes deliberately on Miss Wells, willing myself not to glance at Paul—I stuck out my hand toward the other woman’s.
Miss Wells reached forward and took my hand in her own. Miss Wells’s skin was warm and soft, as if she were a frequent user of hand cream. Her grip was firm.
I had never, in my whole life, touched a Negro. At home, I’d seen black people working in the cherry orchards during the yearly harvest; most of the migrant pickers in Door County were black, Indian, or Mexican. They arrived each July with their families, living in the bunkhouses on the orchard lands—men, women, and children as young as eight doing the picking, the smaller children spending their days near the bunkhouses, with elderly or infirm relatives minding them.
Even with migrant workers, there never seemed to be enough hands for the harvest. My brothers, like many Door County boys, earned extra dough by picking cherries every summer. But our parents forbade Dorrie, Carol Ann, and me from doing that type of work. “There are more dignified ways for a girl to make money,” they said—which is how I ended up being a cottage girl at Gordon’s, cleaning toilets and emptying wastebaskets for vacationers in the summer.
But sometimes, on our days off, my friends and I went cherry picking for our mothers, bringing home bushels for jam and pies. The orchard owners set us in a separate section from the migrant workers, across the orchard. Occasionally, I’d catch the eye of a passing worker; I’d smile and wave, and the worker would wave back amenably. Until today, that was as close as I’d ever come to a Negro.
After Miss Wells and I dropped hands, she cooed at the baby, which made me smile proudly. The teacher then moved to take a seat behind the family.
“Please, Miss Wells,” Ruby said. “Sit here beside me.”
I could feel my mouth hanging open in shock. It was the first full sentence I’d heard Ruby speak since Paul and I arrived in Stonekill.
Miss Wells nodded and seated herself beside Ruby.
Mr. Wagner resumed. “Again, thank you for being here,” he said. “We’re here to mourn the passing of Henry John Glass . . .”
He trailed off. I followed his gaze, which was once more fixated on the aisle. Another latecomer had stepped into the room; he stood in the center of the aisle, near the back row, straight-backed and silent. He was not very tall and was dressed in a fawn-colored suit with a blue-and-brown-striped tie. His felt hat was positioned low over his forehead.
Mr. Wagner seemed to be waiting for the man to sit down. When he didn’t, the funeral director called out loudly, “Do you need help finding a seat, sir?”
The man walked up the aisle to the front of the room. “No, thank you,” he said. “I’m here because Miss Ruby Glass asked me to perform this funeral service.”
A murmur went through the crowd. One mourner stood up and said, “His kind does not belong here! Not at Henry Glass’s funeral, for God’s sake. Throw him out!” Others took up similar words and half-stood in their seats.
Mr. Wagner turned toward Ruby. “Is this true, young lady? Did you invite this man to perform your father’s service?”
Ruby nodded. She looked up at the other man, meeting him straight in the eye. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Shepherd.”
Dr. Shepherd reached forward to touch Ruby’s shoulder. I noticed that his voice cracked a bit as he replied, “Of course, Ruby.”
“Throw him out,” someone said again—but weakly this time. Everyone was sitting now. No one answered the protester.
His eyebrows raised, Mr. Wagner looked toward Paul, who simply shrugged at the funeral director. I stared at Paul, but he wouldn’t meet my eye.
Mr. Wagner stood helplessly next to Henry’s casket, his thin arms flapping at his sides, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
Dr. Shepherd took off his hat and stepped to the front of the room, glancing briefly at Henry’s body. He gave Mr. Wagner a pointed look. The funeral director, abashed, left the front of the room, taking a seat on the opposite side of the aisle from us.
I put my hand on Paul’s arm. “What’s going on?” I whispered to him.
Instead of answering, he looked over my head at Ruby. I watched as their eyes met. He frowned, but Ruby tilted her head imploringly at him. He nodded ever so slightly, then bowed his head.
“Henry Glass,” Dr. Shepherd said in a low voice, “was admired by many in this room.”
I shifted in my seat. I uncrossed my legs, wrapped my arms more tightly around the baby, and stole a glance at Ruby. The girl’s eyes were locked on Dr. Shepherd’s face, her eyes dreamy, a small smile playing across her lips. Miss Wells, on the other side of Ruby, was sitting upright with her eyebrows knit together.
“But what happened to this man?” Dr. Shepherd said. “Certainly, his family suffered a tremendous loss. With the . . . the discovery of Mrs. Glass missing . . . Mr. Glass clearly experienced a shocking blow. It’s one that many among us would have difficulty coming to terms with. And Mr. Glass reacted by taking his own life.” The doctor shook his head. “It’s tragic.”
Here, Dr. Shepherd paused. No one said anything, and I thought the pause lasted a bit too long. Finally, PJ let out a long shriek, breaking the silence.
Dr. Shepherd smiled sadly. “Indeed, young man,” he said, looking at the baby. “You have it exactly right. The only response to that is woe.”
He looked around the room. “I’m not a minister.” He glanced at Mr. Wagner. “Nor one who normally conducts funerals. I come from a Quaker tradition. In my heritage, no single person has more authority with God than another. All are welcome to speak.” He raised his hands. “I encourage each of you—respectfully and in your turn—to stand and say whatever words you’re moved to say.” He nodded toward the left side of the room, then the right. “There is no requirement to speak, of course. You may recognize Henry Glass’s life and passing silently, if that’s your choice.”
Dr. Shepherd put his head down, hands clasped in front of him. I peered behind myself. The mourners seemed uncomfortable, glancing apprehensively at one another. Finally, one man stood.
“Henry Glass was a true American,” he said. “A patriot and a nationalist. He served his country and his God.”
“Hear, hear,” several voices murmured in agreement. The man nodded at those around him, clearly relieved at the approval of his speech. Then he sat down.
Another man got to his feet. “Henry was loyal,” the man said, his voice hesitant. “He was the sort of man who kept his word.” He looked around, then took his seat.
Dr. Shepherd slowly nodded, appearing to be deep in thought. He waited to see if others would stand, but no one did.
&nbs
p; “Thank you, all.” Dr. Shepherd glanced once more at the casket. Then he stepped over to Ruby and grasped her shoulder. Their eyes met, and I thought I detected a slight tear at the corner of Dr. Shepherd’s eye.
Dr. Shepherd did not acknowledge anyone else. He unclenched Ruby’s shoulder and, striding past us all, left the room.
24
* * *
Ruby
He leaves. He walks away and Ruby can’t stop staring.
Is she in love with him? No. Nothing like that. Even if he were young—which he is not—Ruby wouldn’t love him that way.
She loves him like a daughter loves a father. As a daughter should love a father, anyway.
Did she love her own father? She considers this. There was a time when she loved him—or thought she did. But she was very small then, and she didn’t understand her father in those days.
She loved him because he cared for her. He took care of her after her grandmother died. He didn’t abandon Ruby and her mother, the way her mother’s father abandoned Grandma so long ago.
Perhaps, Ruby thinks, she should have loved her father only because of that. Imperfect as he was, at least he stuck around.
But in the end, she knows that was not a good thing for anybody.
• • •
But Shepherd loves her differently.
He didn’t have to love her. Shepherd’s love is chosen love. And his choice is Ruby.
For that, she will always love him more than she ever loved her own father.
She loves that she had the foresight to ask Shepherd if he’d perform her father’s funeral service. She loves the words he spoke, the actions he took. Partly because she knows her father would have hated it. But also because Ruby herself adores it.
Some weeks ago, when Shepherd explained Quakerism to her, she thought it sounded brilliant. Ruby doesn’t know much about religion, but if she was going to choose one, she’d choose to be a Friend like Shepherd. She’d love to be in a holy place where mostly it was quiet. Where no program or person told her when to sit and stand, what words to say, what songs to sing. She would only speak if there was something important to say. And her ears would hear others only if they truly had something significant to share.
“I want to go to Meeting with you someday,” she told Shepherd recently. “I want to see what it’s like at a Quaker Meeting.”
“Well.” He’d smiled. “That would be nice.” He sighed and then went on, “A lot of things would be nice, wouldn’t they? If only they could happen.”
25
* * *
Angie
“We’ve got to get to the bottom of this,” I said on the way to the cemetery. I shifted the baby on my lap and reached toward the floorboard for my purse. I pulled out a package of soda crackers and broke off small bits for PJ to gum. “We simply have to confront Ruby and ask her what’s happening, Paul.”
Only Paul, the baby, and I were traveling in the Ford. After Dr. Shepherd walked out of Henry’s service, no one else seemed to know what to say. Finally Mr. Wagner stood, thanked everyone for coming, and, with the clipped precision of a teacher assigning last-minute homework, announced cemetery details.
We were the last to leave, and by the time we did, everyone else was already in their cars. Most of the mourners seemed in a hurry to leave; they tore out of the lot and onto the main road before Paul, Ruby, and I had even stepped out from under the porte cochere.
The few who remained avoided us. They got in their vehicles and waited, engines idling and lights on, heads bent over cigarette lighters or radio knobs. Several reporters were still hovering on the fringes of the parking lot, drifting about like butterflies on a warm spring day.
As we walked toward the rental car, Ruby asked Paul if she could ride with Miss Wells, and he grudgingly acquiesced. I watched as the teacher opened the passenger door of a battered Chevy—two-tone, butter yellow with a black top—then closed it after Ruby got in.
Now, driving slowly, Paul followed the hearse; Miss Wells trailed behind. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw several other cars following with their headlights on, too. The few mourners who’d waited, I supposed—and likely some of those bothersome reporters, too.
“We need to get Ruby to explain it all,” I persisted.
Paul stared at the hearse in front of him. “If Ruby doesn’t want to talk,” he said, without turning his head, “then she’s not going to talk.”
“Well.” I looked out the side window, then back toward Paul. “The whole thing is just crazy, if you ask me. Who was that Dr. Shepherd fellow? Who were the mourners? Half of them didn’t even say hello to you—much less accompany us to the cemetery or even stick around to say good-bye before they left. I’ve never seen people act so rude at a funeral.”
I was aware that I was prattling, that I sounded like a fishwife. But I didn’t care. “Were they friends of Henry’s?” I pressed. “Or Silja’s? Do you think any of them knows where Silja went?”
Paul glanced at me wordlessly and shrugged.
“You knew some of those people, didn’t you?” I asked. “I could tell you did, Paul.”
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “You ask a lot of questions, Angel.”
“And you don’t ask enough,” I replied. “This is your family, Paul. How can you be so disinterested?”
“Angel, does it really matter?” Paul slowed as we approached an intersection. A police officer standing next to his squad car waved us through.
“Yes,” I insisted. “It does matter. It’s wacky.” I shivered, though the interior of the car felt warm and clammy. “I don’t like all the secrecy. How could Silja just up and leave her child like that? I don’t understand it. I want to know what happened.”
Paul sighed. “I don’t see that you have much choice about this, Angel.” He put on his left blinker, following the signal on the hearse. “The police are well aware of Silja’s abandonment. But what more can they do? They’ve checked the train stations and the airports. If anyone matching Silja’s description was seen, or if she was traveling under her own name, they’d know it by now. But Silja is a grown woman. She clearly wanted to leave—and leave with no trace.
“As for Ruby,” Paul went on, “she’ll open up when she’s ready. Surely you can see that she’s not ready yet.” He executed his turn and approached the cemetery gate. “I think what makes the most sense,” he said, “is for all of us—Ruby included—to go back to Wisconsin as soon as we can. Once we’re away from here, perhaps Ruby will want to talk more.” He accelerated, staying on the hearse’s tail.
I breathed a sigh of relief. It was what I wanted—to go home. I couldn’t believe I was going to get it this easily.
And Ruby needed to get away from Stonekill, too. The stark reality was that Henry was dead, Silja was gone and might never return—and Ruby was in shock. She needed to be somewhere she could safely mourn her father and come to terms with her mother’s abandonment.
We would take her in; I would care for her. The girl obviously had no friends her own age and little support besides Miss Wells and that odd Dr. Shepherd at the funeral.
It would be better when all of us were away from Stonekill.
• • •
The burial was at a big, sprawling Catholic cemetery beside a highway. The grounds were filled with mausoleums, elaborate statues of saints and guardian angels, and a winding maze of roadways.
Wiping tears with his handkerchief and blowing his nose, Paul spoke a handful of words over the casket as it was lowered into the ground. His voice faint, Paul wished his brother well “on his journey to the other side.” I didn’t know what to make of that. Paul had been raised Catholic, just as I was—we would not have been able to get married at St. Mary of the Lake if it had been otherwise—but I knew that deep down he was a nonbeliever.
“I don’t mind the rituals of the Church,” he’d explained to me when we first began planning our wedding ceremony. “Communion, genuflecting, even confession. All of
those things, frankly, are cleansing and restorative. But I don’t believe in the specifics anymore. The finality of heaven and hell. The decision to canonize certain individuals. The all-knowing authority of the pope.” He’d grinned. “But keep that under your hat, Angel, or they’ll show us the door before we get a chance to say our vows.”
I couldn’t imagine anything worse than spending eternity surrounded by hellfire and demons. But then again, I’d never had so much as a passing thought about suicide. People like Henry, I thought, people who actually went through with it, must be so far gone—mentally—that hell didn’t seem like the worst possible outcome.
The thought made me weep; it was the first time I’d done so since learning of Henry’s death. Miss Wells stepped next to me and touched her gloved hand to the shoulder of my coat. I knew the teacher meant the gesture to be comforting, but it felt as unpleasant as if a stranger on the bus had touched me out of the blue. Was that because of her skin color? I wanted to think better of myself, wanted to believe I’d feel the same way if Miss Wells was white.
In any case, it would be rude to step away. So I stayed still, waiting. After a moment, Miss Wells removed her hand.
• • •
“I’ve got to get back to school,” Miss Wells said as we walked toward the cars. “Ruby, you call me, okay?”
Ruby nodded and hugged her teacher. “Thank you for coming.” Ruby’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but I was glued to her speech, so few and far between were words from Ruby’s mouth.
No one else had said a thing to Ruby or me. As gravediggers began shoveling dirt on top of Henry’s casket, the few mourners who’d come to the cemetery shook Paul’s hand or clasped his shoulder, then headed hastily toward their autos. Mr. Wagner had also left, along with the hearse driver. Strangers slowly drove the winding roadways; people placed flowers on far-off graves. But except for the gravediggers and a few reporters standing off in the distance, no one was near Henry’s grave besides us.
The Glass Forest Page 11
