The Glass Forest

by Cynthia Swanson

  Ruby, it turned out, didn’t need Silja’s help and easily circumvented Henry’s strategy. Ruby seemed to intuitively grasp the game’s objective—stay out of jail and get rich. She quietly bought up the smaller properties, acquiring monopolies and installing houses and hotels. She purchased all the railroads, often trading what seemed to be more valuable property. By the end of the game—which might last several days—Ruby often controlled the board.

  When that happened, Henry stood up wordlessly and headed to the kitchen to finish the dinner dishes. Silja and Ruby would put the game away, then snuggle together in the parlor, where Silja read to her daughter—Stuart Little, The Secret Garden, Treasure Island. At Ruby’s bedtime, Silja gently helped the child off her lap, then stepped into the kitchen to ask Henry if he’d like her to put Ruby to bed. Or, she’d offer, could she fix him a drink? His response was always a polite no. Instead, he’d take the child upstairs himself. Silja, who no longer had coffee after dinner and had given up the beer of her youth—both rituals reminded her too much of Mikaela—returned to the parlor, where she read the newspaper and drank a martini.

  Alone by the hearth, Silja remembered her dreams of a large family. Those sons she’d wanted—big boys, strong and lean like Henry. These fantasies, the life she’d envisioned, now felt like something that could only happen in a movie. One in which the blond beauty costars with the dark-haired dreamboat; yet another happy-ending romantic comedy.

  Her actual life bore no resemblance to those dreams. It was unconventional, completely backward to the lives of other recent transplants to Stonekill. Nor did she have anything in common with the townies who lived in her neighborhood.

  And yet, their neighbors felt sorry for the Glasses! The townies didn’t mind the transplants—they brought money into the local economy, with their endless need for sacks of groceries, someone to hem their husbands’ slacks, bountiful flower arrangements for their dinner parties. But the Glasses—neither lifelong residents like the townies themselves nor typical transplants like the customers in their businesses—were a mystery to most of Silja’s neighbors.

  The children got along all right, as young children will. Henry and Silja had a party on Ruby’s sixth birthday, inviting the neighborhood children. Silja didn’t know the families well, but Henry was familiar with them. He could name every child at the party, whereas Silja mixed up Billy with Bobby, Sarah with Sandy. One of the mothers—Sandy’s mother or Sarah’s, she wasn’t sure which—attempted to strike up a conversation with Silja, but it quickly fizzled once they’d exhausted the topic of how quickly the children were growing up.

  It was clear, Silja thought as she sipped her martini in the evening, that the mothers felt sorry for the Glasses. Mostly, they felt sorry for her. She could only imagine what they said behind her back.

  29

  * * *

  Angie

  It had been a stupid idea anyway, I fretted as I set the table for dinner. For one thing, there was nothing to cook. I’d purchased breakfast and lunch essentials at the market the day before, as well as a can of chicken noodle soup that I heated and served with grilled-cheese sandwiches that night for supper. But I hadn’t thought through additional evening meals. And I certainly hadn’t thought through having company.

  If I’d been in Baileys Harbor, it wouldn’t be a problem. At home when there’s a death, that family’s kitchen overflows with casseroles from neighbors and parish ladies. If Henry had died in Baileys Harbor, I could’ve simply removed a covered dish from the refrigerator, heated it in the oven, and called it good.

  Silja’s kitchen held few staples. I cobbled together marinara sauce from some cans of stewed tomatoes combined with a rather ancient-looking half of an onion I found in the refrigerator and a garlic clove that was so overripe the long, green interior stem was wider than the outside meat. There was a package of spaghetti noodles, too, and these I set to boil. I found a cookie sheet, spread butter on slices of Wonder Bread, then sprinkled on garlic powder. I turned the oven to three-fifty and set the sheet aside; I’d put the bread in to brown just before we ate. Perhaps I should have used garlic powder in the sauce, too, I thought; it would have been more flavorful than the elderly clove. I set a bright green canister of Parmesan cheese on the table.

  Should I serve wine? Though their food supply was limited, Henry and Silja had an extensive liquor cabinet and an ample wine rack. Across the big room, I eyed the bar area appreciatively. I didn’t drink often, but a glass of wine would taste like a little tumbler of heaven after such a day.

  But no, I decided. No wine with dinner. Not with a schoolteacher at the table. Better to stick to water and serve coffee afterward. Perhaps Paul and I could have a nightcap when he returned from bringing Miss Wells home.

  I peered through the front windows, watching as Paul’s rental car pulled into the driveway. Just before dusk the reporters had driven away from the house; it seemed they were calling it a day. They’d be back in the morning, I suspected.

  With a burst of brisk air, Paul opened the front door. The house had no formal entryway; he and Miss Wells stepped directly into the large main room. Both were silent, and Paul seemed grim.

  “Miss Wells.” I stepped toward them. “How good to see you again.”

  Miss Wells nodded. “And you as well, Mrs. Glass.”

  I offered a glass of water to our guest. Miss Wells said, “That would be lovely,” at the same time as Paul suggested, “Let’s open a bottle of wine.”

  His words were friendly, but I noted his subtly harsh tone. I recognized it from the times I’d heard him speak similarly to a customer at the Top Deck, if it was someone Paul had to serve but whom none of the staff liked. Guests like that—irritating as houseflies—were a standard at Gordon’s. Blowhards who cast dirty boxer shorts and reeking socks all over their rooms for the cottage girls to vacuum around. Arrogant, queen-bee types who spoke to the front desk clerks in disdainful tones. People of both genders who littered the beach with cigarette butts and left grimy, sandy towels in a heap beside the pool. When such guests came into the Top Deck, Paul was always cordial to them, but if I were close by, I could hear how aggravated he was.

  Though Miss Wells had been nothing short of pleasant, Paul was speaking the same way as he did to bothersome guests at Gordon’s. I wondered if the teacher noticed.

  “Wine. How lovely, Mr. Glass. Thank you.” Miss Wells smiled in his direction.

  Well, then. If the teacher had noticed his tone, she wasn’t letting on.

  I said nothing. I slunk away to the kitchen while Paul fetched a bottle from the wine rack.

  Miss Wells looked around. “Where is your sweet little boy?” she asked, following me and seating herself at the counter.

  I smiled; it was considerate of the teacher to ask after PJ. “He’s in bed. He’s had a big day for such a little one.”

  Miss Wells nodded. I glanced at her left hand; even though she was a Miss, anything was possible. “Do you have children, Miss Wells?”

  The teacher shook her head. “Perhaps someday.” She and I watched Paul as he crossed the dining area, wine bottle and stemware in hand. “I have two sisters who each have big families. So I’m a proud aunt to a passel of nieces and nephews. But none of my own.”

  I nodded. “Well, that’s how it was for me until earlier this year.”

  “How is Ruby?” Miss Wells asked. “Will she be joining us for dinner?”

  Paul inserted a corkscrew into the wine bottle. “She knows you were to be here. I’m sure she’ll be out momentarily. If not, I’ll check on her.”

  Miss Wells had a melancholy look about her eyes, the look of someone searching for light in a darkened space. “This whole thing has been a terrible shock for Ruby.” She accepted the glass of red wine Paul held out to her. “Thank you, Mr. Glass.”

  Paul didn’t answer. His eyes were on the bottle and wineglasses, pouring for himself and me.

  I said, “Tell us, Miss Wells. What do you know of what happened?
Ruby’s said nothing to us.”

  Paul passed a glass to me and sat down at the end of the bar. I kept my gaze on the teacher, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Paul frowning at me.

  “She hasn’t told me much, either.” Miss Wells took a sip of wine. “She said she came home late that day—I think she was doing homework in the library after school—and expected both of her parents to be here for dinner. But neither were at home, which Ruby found strange. After she discovered her mother’s note, Ruby went out searching. She found Mr. Glass just a few steps into the woods.” Miss Wells nodded toward the forest behind the house.

  “That’s right—Ruby found him,” I said thoughtfully, remembering what I’d read in Jean Kellerman’s article. “Whatever made her look out there?”

  Miss Wells shrugged. “My understanding is that Mr. Glass enjoyed the woods. Mrs. Glass does, too—Ruby’s told me that her mother goes out there most evenings in the twilight hours, to . . . I guess one would say reconnect with nature, after a long day away from it.” She glanced around. “Look at this house. Mrs. Glass worked with an architect to design it, and it’s as if they built it to bring the outside in.” She set down her wine. “And Mr. Glass spent a lot of time working around the yard and in the garden, from what I understand.”

  I turned to Paul. “Goodness, I had no idea your brother had such a green thumb.”

  Paul glowered at me. “Well, you could hardly say you knew him, Angie. You only met him once.” He took a long swallow of wine.

  Stung, I retreated to the kitchen side of the counter. I turned my back on Paul and Miss Wells, stirred the noodles on the stove, and put the bread in the oven. Then, with resolve, I spun around, smiled warmly at the teacher, and asked, “I’m wondering, Miss Wells—do you know anything about this Dr. Shepherd who performed the service?”

  Miss Wells tilted her head thoughtfully. “Ruby has mentioned some fellow she’s been spending time with. I’ve been curious. And worried—she implied he was older, not a boy, though she never said that in so many words.” Miss Wells met my eyes. “I asked around after I got back to school today. Turns out Dr. Shepherd is a professor at the New York Botanical Garden. Apparently they have a graduate study program at the garden; it’s run in conjunction with the biology departments of several universities in the city. Dr. Shepherd is a leading researcher in the botany field.”

  “Impressive,” I murmured. “He didn’t seem like the professor type.”

  Miss Wells smiled. “Well, some academics can be like that, in my experience.”

  “How in the world did Ruby make his acquaintance?” I was aware that Paul was still glaring at me, but I ignored him, keeping my eyes on the teacher.

  Miss Wells shrugged again. “Honestly, I have no idea.” She stared into her wineglass. “Ruby only talks about what she wants to talk about—as you’ve probably noticed.”

  “She seems to keep to herself,” I ventured. “No friends that she’s mentioned, nor any that came to the funeral.”

  Miss Wells sighed. “She’s tried—truly, she has,” the teacher told me, looking up. “Not so much with boys—Ruby has never shown a keen interest in the boys at school. But I’ve seen her make overtures toward other girls, trying to join their conversations. They always shut her out.” Her expression was wistful. “High school can be difficult for some kids—especially girls,” she went on. “Often I find the students who have the easiest time with schoolwork have the most difficult time navigating the social waters.”

  I nodded. The timer on the stove went off, letting me know the spaghetti was done cooking. “Dinner in just a few minutes,” I said.

  Paul stood, setting down his glass. “I’ll go get Ruby.”

  • • •

  I felt it was my responsibility to keep the dinner conversation flowing, since I was the one who had invited Miss Wells in the first place. I asked where Miss Wells had grown up, where she went to college. She was from the Bronx and had gone to Hunter College. “It’s Mrs. Glass’s alma mater, too,” Miss Wells told us. “We talked about it the first time we met, and she often mentions it when I see her.”

  “How nice for you,” I said. “To have that in common.” I selected a piece of garlic bread from the basket and asked Miss Wells, “And how did you end up in Stonekill?”

  There was an underlying question, I knew, and I felt sorry for it, but I didn’t know how to get around it. The underlying, add-on part of the question was—this town seems like a strange place for a Negro woman to land a teaching job. Even if half the town is poor, they’re still nearly all white.

  Miss Wells seemed to understand. She pressed her lips together and took a breath. “I applied,” she said quietly. “I was the most qualified candidate. So they hired me.”

  Goodness. She sounded so defensive. I didn’t understand it. I hadn’t even asked the question. So why was Miss Wells feeling like she had to defend herself?

  “Miss Wells is a wonderful teacher,” Ruby said—the first words she’d spoken since we sat down. “My favorite teacher ever.”

  Paul smiled at the girl. “We can tell,” he said. “We’re glad—aren’t we, Angie?—that Miss Wells has been so helpful during this time.”

  I nodded enthusiastically, relieved to hear Paul saying something pleasant about the teacher. “So glad,” I said, turning back to Miss Wells. “So appreciative. Truly, we are.”

  Miss Wells nodded and delicately bit into a piece of bread. “And you?” she asked. “Where are you from, Mrs. Glass?”

  I smiled. “A town called Baileys Harbor, in northeast Wisconsin right on Lake Michigan,” I said. “I lived there my whole life. I went to the only high school in the area—it serves about a half-dozen small communities, including Baileys Harbor. Everyone knows everyone, all over the county. Mr. Glass and I live on North Bay now—a small settlement just up New Highway Q from Baileys Harbor. And that highway wasn’t even there a few years ago. The gravel road where our cottage is used to be the ‘highway’—its real name is North Bay Drive but folks sometimes call it Old Highway Q. I use the term loosely. A few years ago the state put in an actual highway, New Highway Q. It’s not a big highway like here in New York, but we still call it a highway.”

  I realized I was babbling, and I knew it was because I missed home so much. Thinking about it, I felt my heart ache. I quickly changed the subject, asking Miss Wells the ages and names of each of her nieces and nephews.

  • • •

  After dinner, Ruby asked if she could speak to her teacher alone.

  “Of course,” Paul said, and I was thrilled to hear sincerity in his voice.

  “I’ll make coffee.” I stood and began gathering plates.

  “Thank you, but none for me,” Miss Wells said. “I do need to get home soon. I’m sorry to make it an early evening.”

  Paul nodded. “Let me get your coat while you and Ruby talk.” He turned to our niece. “Ruby, you may take Miss Wells in your room for a moment.”

  When they were gone, I faced Paul. “What do you suppose they’re talking about?”

  Paul shrugged. “It’s none of our business, Angel.” He put his hands on both my shoulders. “Stay out of it,” he advised. “Stop questioning so much.” He removed his hands and strode to the coat closet.

  I stared at his back. “Fine,” I said. “It’s just that . . . well, I don’t like it here, Paul.” In my voice, I heard the little-girl tone I hated but sometimes was unable to control.

  Paul turned to me. “I know, Angel.” His voice was soft, compassionate. I was grateful he didn’t bring up, or even imply, that it was my own fault I was there. “We’ll go home as soon as arrangements can be made.” He opened the coat closet door. “All four of us.”

  Yes, I agreed inside my head. Once we were back home, everything would be A-OK.

  I pictured my father picking us up at the airport in Milwaukee. I thought about how we’d be weary travelers, our small posse that had been through such a terrible ordeal together. We would pile int
o my father’s roomy Buick, with Paul sitting up front next to my father, and Ruby, the baby, and I settled into the back. I would doze off, baby in my arms, as we drove the highway north. It was a long drive, four hours—but before I knew it, I’d wake up and we’d be home.

  I imagined myself showing Ruby around Door County. Taking her out on North Bay in the canoe. Driving with her on the roads that wind around the peninsula over to the west side, with its soft sand beaches and marinas. Hiking in Peninsula State Park, standing on the bluffs overlooking Green Bay. Bringing Ruby to my parents’ home for Sunday dinner. Getting her registered at Gibraltar High School, my alma mater. Ruby would be classmates with some of my friends’ younger siblings.

  It would be my job to make Ruby feel at home. I welcomed the task; I’d make the girl feel like part of the family. Part of the community.

  “Yes,” I said to Paul. “All four of us. As soon as possible.”

  30

  * * *

  Ruby

  Miss Wells wants to know if Ruby is all right, if they’re treating her okay. “Your uncle,” she says. “He seems to care for you, but . . . ”