“I see,” Slater says. “And then?”
“Then I went to the kitchen.” Ruby looks at the wall above Slater’s head. “And found my mother’s note on the counter.”
Slater shuffles his papers. “According to this report,” he says, “the note read as follows. ‘Dearest Henry and Ruby, I’m sorry for how this must happen, but I’m leaving you both. Life is too short to wait any longer. Henry, take care of our daughter. Ruby, be a good girl for your father. I love you both.’ ”
Uncle Paul exhales. This is the first time he’s heard these exact words. Ruby wants to look at him but she forces herself to turn her eyes back to the detective.
Slater says, “Is that the note you found, Ruby?”
She nods, and Slater asks, “What happened next?”
“Well, my father liked the forest. So it made sense to look for him there.”
Slater says, “It must have been quite dark out there.”
Ruby agrees.
“So how did you find your father in the dark?”
“He wasn’t very far into the woods,” Ruby points out. “It wasn’t difficult.”
“And when you found him?” Slater asks. “What happened then?”
“Then I came inside and called the police,” Ruby says. “And I waited inside for them to show up, which they did pretty quickly.”
Slater nods slowly. “I see,” he says. And then he asks, “So at no time after you got home from school did you leave the property? At no time did you walk or drive anywhere?”
Ruby opens her mouth and then closes it. She does this a few times. She puts her hands on her knees and gives them a little squeeze.
Uncle Paul holds up his hand. “Excuse me,” he says. “Where is this going? What are you trying to get from this young girl?”
Slater gives Uncle Paul a long, steely look. “We want to make sure we have everything right, Mr. Glass,” he says. Ruby can tell he’s trying very hard to keep his voice even and emotionless. “We just want to make sure we have the facts.”
Uncle Paul half rises in his seat. “She’s not saying anything more without a lawyer present.”
Slater and Hill glance at each other. Slater stubs out the third cigarette he’s had since they sat down.
“That’s within her rights,” he says. “Is there someone you’d like to call?”
Uncle Paul seems to flounder for a moment, and then he says, “Yes, I can figure it out. Just give me a telephone book and a quiet place to make a call.”
Slater shrugs. “As you wish.”
All three men rise, and Ruby rises with them.
Slater says, “You need to stay where you are, Ruby.”
She sits back down. Uncle Paul touches her shoulder. “You sit tight,” he says. “I’ll be back soon. If anyone comes in, just keep silent.”
Ruby nods and doesn’t reply.
But she’s thinking: surely, Uncle Paul, you know that staying silent is my specialty.
40
* * *
Silja
1952–1953
They looked at every available parcel anywhere nearby. Silja soon grew tired of tramping through muddy lots—all of them either too small, too remote—or not remote enough, as was one lot that sat right on Route 6, with traffic whizzing by at lightning speed. She arrived at each appointment hopeful and left each discouraged.
The home-design process itself was agonizing, too, but only because of Henry. He fought every aspect, every step of the way. Eventually Silja took to meeting with Fred, the architect, in secret—because at the first few meetings, when Henry was there, everything Silja said she wanted in the house, Henry contradicted. One story or two? Basement or crawl space? How many bedrooms? How many bathrooms? They couldn’t agree on any of it.
Finally, she lied to Fred outright. “Henry doesn’t really care,” she said when she met with Fred after work; she caught an early train home, unknown to Henry, and from the station went in a taxi to meet Fred at his office in downtown Tarrytown. “Henry said you and I should just go over everything, and if you have any questions I can’t answer, I’ll relay them to him.” She gave Fred as warm a smile as she could muster. “And I believe we owe you an installment,” she said, handing him a check. “Let’s get that out of the way.”
But none of it mattered without a plot of land. He could design, Fred told her, but until there was a site to work with, anything could change.
• • •
In June, they walked a plot of land that had just come back on the market; it had been spoken for when they first started their search, but the deal fell through. It was three acres on Stone Ridge Road, in the woods on the outskirts of Stonekill. Silja had hoped to move to another community; the plot, while secluded, was still within the town limits. That meant Ruby would still be attending Stonekill schools, and Silja would still take the train from the Stonekill station.
It was a compromise, but perhaps it would be worth it.
Silja was struck by how deep and still it felt; she heard nothing but birds, the soft rustle in the underbrush of squirrels and chipmunks and—she shuddered to think of it, but it was probably true—snakes. Well, she told herself, that comes with country living.
There were homes on either side, but not too close. A tract at the front of the property had been cleared to make way for a house. Thick woods stretched behind the muddy, cleared tract; rays of sunlight glittered through the branches of towering oaks and elms. The real estate agent, Jim, told Henry and Silja that an old Dutch cemetery, rarely used anymore, bordered the back of the property.
Henry adored it. “This is perfect,” he said. “You can build any type of house you want here, Silja, as long as there are still plenty of woods for me to wander.”
Silja turned to Ruby. “What do you think?”
“It’s so pretty,” the girl said. “So quiet and far away from everything.” She stared into the woods. “You could disappear, if you wanted to.”
Silja laughed. “Well, honey, please don’t disappear.”
Impulsively, Ruby took Henry’s hand. “Come on, Daddy—let’s go explore.”
Silja watched them crash through the underbrush. Jim had been inspecting the sewer line that was recently put into the property in anticipation of a house on the land. He stepped beside Silja, watching Henry’s and Ruby’s figures growing smaller until they were swallowed in the thickets.
“They certainly are two peas in a pod,” Jim murmured.
Silja didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to him and asked, “What would it take for us to get this property?”
• • •
One day in early fall, with construction well under way, Silja had an odd encounter with one of the builders. He was reading the plans, going over them with the foreman, when she walked up. They finished their conversation and the foreman walked away.
“Glass, huh?” the worker asked her.
“Excuse me?”
“Last name is Glass, I saw on the plans. ‘Glass Residence,’ it said.” He wiped sweat from his brow and regarded her closely. “Any relation to Paul Glass?”
Silja was so startled, she didn’t reply for a moment. Finally, she said, “You know Paul?”
The worker picked up a few lengths of board and dragged them across the yard. “Oh, I know him all right.”
She had no idea what he meant. “Well, I’m sure you’re aware he doesn’t live in Stonekill anymore.”
The man gripped the wood so hard his hands turned red. “Yeah, I’m aware. And good riddance.” He slammed the boards into a pile he was creating.
Well, Silja thought, at least we’re in agreement about that.
Driving back to Lawrence Avenue, she resolutely put it out of her mind, letting her thoughts wander instead to what her finished house would be like. She dreamed of the big windows, of morning sunlight filtering into the house past the treetops to the east. She imagined a blazing fire in the massive stone fireplace, on winter nights when snow flew outside the floor-to
-ceiling panes on either side of the living room.
She had hoped they would move in before winter came, but delay after delay occurred—first it was something with the soil, and then the septic, and then they were waiting on the mill. And on and on.
Silja had no choice but to grin and bear it, keeping her eyes on the prize.
• • •
But what that worker said continued to haunt her. She ran into him a few more times, and nothing else was said. Finally, she asked Henry about it.
He was—so typical of him!—evasive.
“Paul lived in Stonekill for almost a year.” Henry fetched the mail from the front hall table and walked back toward the kitchen. Silja followed him. “And he didn’t live in our house, Silja. There’s no way to know who he associated with or where he went every day.”
“I know, but . . .” She shrugged helplessly. “I wish you’d been there,” she said. “I wish you could have seen that construction man’s face. How . . . angry he looked.”
Henry threw several advertisements in the trash can, leaving two bills and a letter on the kitchen counter. The letter, addressed to Henry, was from Paul. Nothing surprising in that; Paul frequently sent a quick post to let Henry know where he was.
“Do you think Paul will ever come back here?” she asked.
Henry was studying the postmark on the envelope, and she glanced at it, too. Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She had no idea where that was. She would not be able to place Cedar Rapids on a map of Iowa, if such a map were presented to her with no city names on it.
Henry hadn’t responded. “Did you hear me?” she asked.
He was still studying the envelope, turning it over in his hand. Silja knew he was waiting until she left the room to open it. “I’m sorry—what?” he asked.
“Paul. Do you think he’ll return to Stonekill someday?”
Henry gave her a long look. “Would you come back here, if you were him?”
• • •
One blustery winter Saturday, Silja drove to White Plains to shop for furniture and accessories for the new house. With the car, she could pick up a few small items—lamps and throw rugs, maybe—and put everything else on order for delivery when the house was completed.
She wanted everything new—sofa and tables, a dining room set, bedroom ensembles for the master bedroom and Ruby’s room. Abstract prints for the walls—Henry would like that. Brass plant stands with hairpin legs. Thick ceramic vases in an array of colors, which she would fill with flowers she bought in the city. A fine, sleek desk for the third bedroom, which Silja planned to use as both guest room and office. With such a desk, she’d welcome the opportunity to catch up on work in the evenings. The only furnishing from Lawrence Avenue she planned to keep was her beloved aqua, frieze-upholstered chair. Combined with a contemporary sofa, side tables, and a second, complementing chair, it would look perfect in the living room of the new house.
As she strolled through an aisle of dining room tables at B. Altman, Silja heard a woman laughing. She looked up, stopping in her tracks. Not twenty feet away, among the kitchen sets, she spied David.
And a woman.
She was smiling, holding his arm. She wore gloves, a navy coat, and a matching hat. She had an elegant, well-groomed appearance, though her face was lightly lined; she looked to be in her forties. She was tall and narrow, and Silja thought her build seemed out of place beside David’s short, solid physique.
The woman’s hand brushed the surface of a kitchen table. She asked David a question Silja couldn’t catch. He nodded and responded, his voice too low for Silja to hear.
Then he glanced across the space and saw Silja—motionless among the tables and chairs, her handbag clutched in both hands in front of her.
David raised his eyebrows, and she knew he remembered her. He tipped his hat at Silja, then leaned toward the woman, whispered something, and gently steered her away.
As the pair walked toward the escalator, David turned back to look at Silja. She felt her hands shaking as his eyes locked upon hers. His lips twitched into a small smile that seemed to Silja almost regretful.
What did it mean? There was no opportunity to find out. Seconds later, the tops of both David’s head and the woman’s had disappeared as they descended the escalator to the floor below.
• • •
She thought about it for weeks afterward. That was that, she told herself. He had someone else. Even if Silja were unattached, it wouldn’t matter; David clearly was spoken for. And why should she care? She was being silly. They’d only met one time; he was nobody to her, after all.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Couldn’t stop her mind’s eye from seeing that gloved hand on David’s arm. Couldn’t get the picture of his seemingly apologetic smile out of her head.
To console herself, she bought herself a present: a Brownie camera, the latest model, in a beautiful leather case. She’d never been one for taking many pictures—there was a woeful photographic void of Ruby’s infancy and young childhood—but now she began taking photo after photo of the house construction, documenting the project inside and out as the walls went up, the finishing touches went in, and the furniture was arranged.
The elegant, glass-walled house was completed in March. Silja couldn’t stop admiring it. The house looked exactly like something you’d see in Southern California. Instead of moving there, she’d brought Los Angeles right here to Stonekill, New York.
She knew what her mother would have thought of such a sumptuous home for one small family. But Silja was enthralled. She’d earned it, she told herself. She’d worked hard all her life and finally got what she wanted.
Not bad for a working girl from Brooklyn.
Ruby loved the big windows and the woods; she was constantly outside. Silja hoped Ruby would make new friends, not like the kids in downtown Stonekill. But she didn’t hold out much hope for the neighbors on Stone Ridge Road, either. They weren’t what she’d expected, all those years she’d lived on Lawrence Avenue and envied those who lived out here. Their houses were repulsive raised ranches or cheap Colonials, covered in pink, yellow, or white siding. The women, if they contributed any income to their families, did so by hosting Tupperware parties or being Avon ladies. Everyone drove station wagons—a necessity, because most families had at least four children. Silja kept telling herself that with so many children about, perhaps some precocious child—some anomaly—would become Ruby’s new best friend.
As for Henry, she knew the house was not to his liking. Admittedly, there wasn’t much work to be done; the house was perfect. But he loved the land, and there was plenty of room for a garden. Once they’d settled in, he went back to his crime detection correspondence course, which over the years he’d fiddled with but never seemed to be able to complete. He also started picking up the occasional handyman job—found mostly via word of mouth through folks he knew from hanging around the hardware store in town.
It pained Silja to watch Henry whistle cheerfully as he packed his toolbox and backed his decrepit truck from the garage of their magnificent house in the early mornings, heading out to do some grubby little task. It wasn’t the image she’d ever had in her head of a working husband.
Still, it was better than nothing. Henry seemed content, and that was what mattered.
He’s fine, she thought. They all were. Henry had something to do. Silja had her gorgeous glass house. Ruby had books to read and a forest to run in—and over time, she would surely make some friends on Stone Ridge Road.
Silja remembered her fantasies about leaving Henry. She didn’t think that way anymore. There was no need to upset the apple cart. They’d finally arrived at their destination, and they were all happy.
• • •
On a warm June night just before sundown, the Rosenbergs were executed. It happened not far from Stonekill—in Ossining, at Sing Sing prison.
Silja knew what they were accused of. She knew that Ethel and Julius Rosenberg had been tried and convicted as s
pies who provided top secret military information to the Soviets. She knew that Julius was accused of being a courier, and Ethel of typing notes and performing other auxiliary tasks.
Whether they actually did what they were convicted of, Silja couldn’t say. But either way, she didn’t believe the Rosenbergs—particularly Ethel, a mother of two young boys—deserved to die. Not that way. Silja couldn’t imagine what that much electricity flowing through the body would feel like.
But she had to imagine it. Because she had to explain to ten-year-old Ruby why her father would get in his truck, drive down the highway, and stand as close to the prison as he could get, bearing witness.
“Why would he want to be there?” Ruby asked Silja.
Silja wasn’t sure herself. When Henry mentioned it, he said he was going “with friends.” She’d asked him what friends, and he’d only shrugged and said a couple of fellows from town. No one she knew, he told her.
It was odd—since when did Henry have friends? Were they people he had met through his handyman jobs? Silja had no idea.
“I don’t know why he wants to be there, actually,” she admitted to Ruby. “It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing most people would want to be anywhere near, does it?”
“Maybe he’s hoping to somehow get the Rosenbergs out alive,” Ruby suggested.
Silja laughed bitterly. “No, that’s not it. He doesn’t want them out.” She paused, and then added, “He thinks they should die. He’s there to support the executioners.”
Ruby shuddered, and Silja instantly regretted her truthfulness. Why hadn’t she simply lied to the child?
“Why would Daddy think that?” Ruby asked. “Did they do it? Did they spy?”
“Well, lots of people think they did. At their trial, it was determined that they did.” Silja didn’t know what else to say except, “The courts decide these things, Ruby. The government. We have to trust our government to make the right decisions, even if we don’t agree.”
The Glass Forest Page 19
