The Glass Forest

by Cynthia Swanson

  I nodded, relieved. I knew it was selfish, but I didn’t care if Silja came back to an empty house. She rather deserves it, I thought. A woman runs off and leaves her child—does she expect people to roll out the red carpet when she returns?

  Unless Silja . . .

  No. I still didn’t believe that. I didn’t know where Silja was, but I was sure she had nothing to do with Henry’s death.

  “We should be able to leave the day after tomorrow,” Paul told me as he opened the telephone book on the kitchen counter. Whistling, he rifled through the business listings in the white pages, looking for a number for Northwest Orient Airlines. Stopping on a page, he ran his long fingers over the listings, then glanced up at me.

  “I think it’s best to start preparing,” he said, picking up the receiver from the wall telephone. “See what you can do to close up the house. Go through the food in the refrigerator and the cabinets. Throw out anything you don’t think we’ll use.” He looked around, phone wedged against his ear. “I don’t know when we—or anyone—will be back here. We don’t want the place overrun with mice; best to close it up for now, and we’ll think about it later, once we’re settled back in Wisconsin.”

  I eavesdropped on his phone conversation while I cleared the breakfast dishes. “Yes, but you see, we need to get back—” There was a pause, and then Paul, sounding agitated, said, “Yes, I understand, but it doesn’t seem you understand . . . no . . . yes, I see what you’re saying. All right. Thank you.”

  He set the receiver in its cradle and looked at me. “They recommended I go to a travel agent.” His brow furrowed, he opened the phone book again and resumed paging through it. “There’s a travel agent in Yorktown—that’s not far from here—with Saturday morning hours.” He wrote something on a notepad on the counter. “Guess I’ll pay them a visit.”

  He picked up the slip of paper and stuck it in his pants pocket. “Please, Angie,” he pleaded with me. “While I’m gone, don’t open the door for anyone.” He thumped across the room to the front window; I followed him. There were no cars parked by the street—not yet, anyway.

  Paul turned to face me. “Do not open that door for anyone,” he repeated. “Especially reporters.”

  • • •

  After Paul left, the house felt strangely silent—even more so than usual. The day was dark and overcast, threatening rain. I knew I should start on the project Paul had tasked me with—clearing out the kitchen—but I couldn’t set my mind to it. I carried the baby to the living room and sat on the spread-out shawl with him, in front of the cold hearth. Absently, I stroked his silken hair, crooning softly.

  “Daily, daily, sing to Mary, sing my soul, her praises due . . .”

  I closed my mouth, distracted by my own thoughts. Ruby had come out for breakfast—which she’d eaten wordlessly, of course, although she did take a moment to pat PJ on the head, which pleased me. But after the meal was over she retreated to her room.

  Was Ruby ever going to talk? Or leave the house? Did she ever go to the movies, go shopping—do things that normal teenage girls did? I wondered how Ruby usually spent her weekends. Weekends when her mother hadn’t abandoned her and her father hadn’t just killed himself, that is.

  I grimaced and inwardly chided myself. I was failing at the job I’d given myself—mothering Ruby. By now, I should have figured out a way to break through to Ruby, to become the girl’s confidante. With Silja gone, I’d assumed Ruby would welcome a little coddling and nurturing from me. But it hadn’t been as easy as I’d expected. I hadn’t counted on Ruby rejecting every advance I made.

  Well, perhaps that would change once we got back to Wisconsin. When we were on my turf, not Silja’s.

  I heard a door open, and I looked up to see Ruby walking into the living room. The girl seated herself on the couch. On the floor beside the baby, I felt very small.

  “I heard Uncle Paul go out,” Ruby said, and I noticed that her voice was barely above a whisper. Why was she whispering? No one was in the house except the two of us and PJ.

  “Yes, he’s gone to make travel arrangements for us to go back to Wisconsin. All of us. We think it would be best to go home and await word from your mother there.”

  Ruby nodded. “Aunt Angie, I need to ask you a favor.”

  Finally, I thought. “What is it?” I asked hungrily. “What can I do for you, Ruby?”

  Ruby hesitated a moment—probably put off by my eager-beaver tone. I scooted up onto the side chair so I could look her in the eye.

  The girl seemed to consider a moment. Then she reached behind her back and pulled out a small book. “I was hoping you could keep this for me.”

  I looked at the item Ruby held up. It was about three inches tall and five wide. Its front and back covers were fashioned from thin, brownish-green leather, the hue reminding me of the wet, moss-covered stones back home in North Bay. The book’s covers and pages were stitched together with a band of matching leather on the left side; there was a snap closure on the right. Engraved into the front cover was the word SNAPSHOTS. An etching in the center showed mountain peaks, behind them a setting sun.

  “What is it?” I asked, my voice as anxious as if Ruby wanted to give me a suspiciously ticking clock.

  “A photograph album.” Ruby’s tone was brisk. I half expected her to drop the album in my lap and brush her hands against one another, the way someone might when completing a job well done. “It’s my mother’s photographs. Mom enjoyed photographing the house . . . ” She glanced around, then back at me. “But she didn’t take many pictures of people, and she didn’t like pictures of herself. But in here . . . ” She trailed off, looking out into the woods through the back windows. “Well, in here are some photographs of people that she’d cherish.”

  I sat back, the baby nestled on my lap. I had no idea how to respond to this degree of disclosure from the normally monosyllabic girl.

  Ruby held out the album toward me. When the baby reached for it, I gently pushed his hands away.

  “I need you to keep this safe for me,” Ruby said. “Please don’t open it. Don’t look at the photos. Just hide it, and don’t show it to anyone, not even Uncle Paul.” She glanced outside again, and then back at me. “Especially Uncle Paul.” She leaned forward, pressing the album into my hands.

  I studied the cover. I turned the small volume over, then looked back at Ruby. “You sure you don’t want to keep it?” I asked. “It seems like it should . . . stay with you.”

  Ruby lowered her eyelids, then opened them again. “I think it would be . . . safer . . . if you kept it.”

  “Is there some kind of trouble, Ruby?” I asked. “Something that would be revealed in these photographs?”

  Ruby paused, and then she said quietly, “I’m asking for a favor.” She stood up. “I’m trusting you with it. I trust you to do the right thing with it.”

  She didn’t come right out and state her meaning. But I heard it loud and clear: I trust you not to open it.

  • • •

  After Ruby withdrew to her room, I set the baby back on the floor and studied the little album in my lap. The leather cover was smooth and unblemished. The binding strap wove through two holes and tied in the front. The snap, which closed a flap over the right side of the front cover, was tarnished gold. I ruffled the cellophane pages, which seemed to number about a dozen.

  My fingers itched to undo the snap and glance inside—not through the entire thing, just at a photograph or two.

  But no. I wouldn’t do that. Ruby trusted me. She had entrusted me with this keepsake, instead of Paul or Miss Wells or anyone else. I had to honor that.

  I rose, kissed PJ on the top of his head, and told him I’d be right back. Then I went down the hallway toward the master bedroom. Ruby’s door was closed, and I could hear faint music from within. It sounded like it might be Elvis singing “It’s Now or Never.”

  I peered into the master bedroom, looking at the suitcase Paul and I were sharing, the large valise I’d b
orrowed from my parents for the trip. Paul and I had been living out of the suitcase, reluctant to unpack and disturb Silja’s things to make room for our own. Over the past few days, Paul had dug in that suitcase as often as I had. Our underthings and tops and my stockings and Paul’s socks had become a jumbled mess. Just that morning, I had marveled at it, feeling syrupy and sentimental at the sight of my items intermingled with Paul’s. It showed how closely coupled we were.

  But clearly, I couldn’t hide Silja’s snapshot album in that bag. Paul would be sure to discover it the next time he was rummaging in there.

  I went down the hall to the guest room. Here, too, PJ was living out of a suitcase—for PJ, I’d packed the battered old satchel Paul had brought into our marriage. It was small, barely more than eighteen inches across and perhaps fifteen inches deep. “How in the world did you carry your entire life’s possessions in that little bag?” I’d asked when we moved into the cottage after our wedding. Paul had shrugged. “I don’t need much,” he said. “When I started painting, I bought a separate bag for my art supplies. Clothes . . . ” He’d pulled two well-worn flannel work shirts from the bag and hung them in the closet. “I don’t care much about clothes.”

  Paul’s modest-size bag had worked well to pack PJ’s tiny shirts, socks, and pants, as well as a supply of clean diapers and several diaper covers. I crossed the room and knelt in front of the bag. I thrust the photograph album into the neatly folded stack of soft cotton diapers. I was the only one who changed PJ. No one else would think to look for the album among the baby’s things.

  33

  * * *

  Ruby

  It’s important to intercept him before he returns to the house, so Ruby slips out the window and through the woods and circles back onto Stone Ridge Road. She walks all the way down to Route 202 and waits for him on the corner. When she sees the turquoise Fairlane, she waves and he slows to let her in.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “I needed to talk to you away from the house,” she replies.

  He pulls to the side of the road and switches off the engine. He keeps his hands on the wheel but turns his head to face her, waiting.

  Ruby crosses her legs, with her knees pointing toward Uncle Paul. “It’s bad,” she tells him. “You’re not going to like it.”

  He nods slowly. “Okay. Tell me anyway.”

  Ruby presses her lips together and watches his face carefully. “I have to know first,” she says. “I have to know with one-hundred-percent certainty that you’ll stand by me no matter what.”

  Uncle Paul doesn’t say anything. He takes his hands off the steering wheel and slides his palms up and down along his thighs.

  Ruby reaches into the neckline of her blouse and rubs her fingers on her mother’s necklace. “You’re the only one I can depend on.” She leans toward him and whispers, “I have a lot of money.”

  “Money?” She can tell he’s intrigued. “What do you mean, Ruby?”

  “Well, I don’t have money,” she explains. “It’s not like it’s hiding under my mattress. But I know where to get it.” She reaches forward and touches his shoulder. “But I need someone to help me. And there’s no one but you, Uncle Paul.”

  He opens his mouth, and she knows he’s on the verge of pointing out that this is not necessarily true. She knows he wants to ask her about Shepherd.

  But more than that, he wants to know what she’s willing to reveal to him.

  “Ruby, you can trust me,” he says. “Tell me anything, sweetheart, and know that you can trust me.”

  34

  * * *

  Angie

  I was in the main room, reaching down to retrieve PJ so I could get him ready for his nap, when the telephone rang. I hesitated, unsure if Ruby would answer it. I waited until it had rung four times before deciding that, in contrast to my own teenage self only a few years ago, Ruby was unlikely to dash out of her room at the sound of a ringing telephone. Ruby was not the sort to dive headlong for the phone in hopes that it was one of her girlfriends, or her boyfriend du jour.

  I scurried to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “Glass residence.”

  “Angie?” the female caller asked.

  “Yes?” It wasn’t my mother, or one of my sisters or friends. Nor did it sound like the principal who’d called yesterday . . . Mrs. Hawke, wasn’t that the name?

  “Angie, this is Jean Kellerman.” Before I could respond, Jean rushed on. “I just wanted to . . . I guess apologize would be the right word . . . for my article in yesterday’s paper. I didn’t think through how Paul would react to it.” She paused, and then went on, “Did he see it?”

  “He did.” I tried to keep my voice neutral.

  “Well, I hope he didn’t get angry with you. I know Paul is a very private person.”

  I exhaled, then asked, “And how do you know that, Jean? You mentioned something the first night we were here—about how he must remember you. And he said he didn’t.” I crossed the kitchen, the telephone cord dangling behind me, and poured myself a cup of water from the kitchen sink. “But clearly, you know him and he knows you.” I sipped my water. “I’d really like an explanation.”

  “Well, some of that was mentioned in the article,” Jean said. There was a pause, and then Jean went on. “Did you read it, Angie?”

  “Part of it.” I was loath to admit Paul had snatched the paper out of my hands. “I didn’t get a chance to read past the first page.”

  I looked around, wondering what had happened to the newspaper. I hadn’t seen it since yesterday morning. Paul must have thrown it out. I opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink and glanced into the waste can stored there, but didn’t see any newspapers.

  Jean hadn’t responded. I stood up, closing the cabinet, and asked Jean if she was still there.

  “Yes,” Jean said. I was sure I heard misgiving in her voice. I suspected Jean wished she hadn’t called—or at the very least could figure out a way to hang up without being rude to me.

  “So would you explain it, please?” I pressed.

  Jean said quietly, “Have you asked Paul about this?”

  I admitted I hadn’t.

  “Well.” Jean sounded relieved. “I just don’t feel right, straight-out revealing something . . . personal . . . that a man hasn’t shared with his wife.” She paused, then went on, “But, Angie, if you’re not comfortable talking to Paul, there are copies of yesterday’s paper—not to mention archives of past issues—here at the newspaper office. You’re welcome to come in and look at them anytime.”

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I asked, “Why aren’t you here, Jean, camped outside the house? Why are there no reporters here?” I tapped my foot. “Yesterday we were mobbed by the press, and now they’ve disappeared.”

  Jean laughed. “News develops quickly,” she said. “A story broke late yesterday, down county in Yonkers, about a massive narcotics ring that the police broke up. Everyone is on that story. I’m on my way there later this afternoon.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. “Well, that’s good news for us, I guess.”

  PJ chose that moment to begin wailing. I glanced at him and saw that he’d fallen over and couldn’t right himself. “Jean,” I said. “I’m sorry; I need to go.”

  “Certainly, Angie. But remember what I said. Stop in anytime.”

  • • •

  When Paul returned around noon, I was standing on a step stool, clearing out the kitchen cabinets. I had taken down all the foodstuffs from the top shelves and was working on the middle row, setting items on the counter. I looked over my shoulder when Paul came in. “What should I do with all of this?” I asked. “The cans and jars—I guess we can leave those for the time being. But things like flour and sugar and crackers and cookies—we can’t leave those things here if the house will be empty indefinitely.” I shrugged. “But it seems like such a waste to throw them away.”

  Paul shook his head. “Just toss it, Angie,” he said. “T
oss it all.” He looked out the back windows, toward the forest. “It doesn’t matter.”

  I gave him a long look. I wanted—desperately—to confide in him. I wanted to tell him about Ruby’s request. Show him the snapshot album. Open it and together view its secrets. Discuss it and dissect the photos—whatever they were—without caring what Ruby or anyone else thought. I wanted to tell him about Jean’s call, have him confess . . . whatever it was he had to confess.

  I wanted everything out in the open, so we could move on. So we could get past all this darkness, all this mystery in Stonekill.

  But my instincts told me it wasn’t a good idea. At least for now, at least until we got back home, it seemed wise to keep Ruby’s secrets to myself. And confronting Paul about whatever Jean had insinuated would simply make him clam up. He’d become even more upset than he already was.

  It was not what I wanted—secrets between Paul and me.

  What I really wanted—as long as I was going for the impossible, I might as well go all the way—what I really wanted was for it to be last week. I wanted to be back on North Bay—just Paul, the baby, and me. I’d even be willing to return to that terrifying moment on the water just before I grabbed PJ and brought him safely back into the canoe.

  I wanted to go back to the life I used to have. The life in which, for all intents and purposes, the other Glasses did not exist.

  I sighed and climbed down from the stool, brushing my hands on a dishtowel.

  Paul showed me our airplane tickets. “The best I could do is Tuesday,” he said. “They had nothing for Monday.” There were tickets for each of us except the baby, who would sit on my lap.

  I studied the tickets. Paul Glass, Angela Glass, Ruby Glass. They were in a neat little stack inside a folder marked NORTHWEST ORIENT with the airline’s logo in bright red on the front. I fingered the packet lovingly, as if it were the entry form for one of the never-ending stream of jingle and slogan contests favored by my mother, who was perpetually hopeful of becoming the next lucky thousand-dollar winner.