The Glass Forest

by Cynthia Swanson

  Ruby looked at Silja with dark eyes like her father’s. “So you don’t agree?” she asked Silja. “You don’t think they should die?”

  “No,” Silja said. “I think it’s barbaric. I think killing someone for a crime like that is something that only a barbaric society would do.”

  “Are we barbaric, then?” Ruby persisted. “Are you saying our government is barbaric?”

  “Ruby, I don’t know.” Silja sighed. “All I mean is, I don’t think this is right.”

  • • •

  Ruby apparently relayed their conversation to Henry, because the next afternoon he stormed into the house from the garden—slamming the sliding glass door until it shuddered—to accuse Silja of being a Rosenberg sympathizer.

  “That’s not what I said at all,” Silja told him. “I just said I thought it was barbaric, executing them that way.”

  “It was by no means barbaric,” Henry said. “It was patriotic. You should have been there. I should have taken Ruby. It was silent. Dignified. There was none of that squawking, protesting nonsense, like all the lefties in New York and Washington did.”

  Silja rolled her eyes and said nothing. But her stomach flipped, wondering if David had been at a protest in the city. It was possible, wasn’t it? She knew that many people—many of them Communists, she reminded herself; no sense beating around the bush—had protested the Rosenbergs’ executions at demonstrations in New York, Washington, and other cities. Even though all those years back David had told her he was at the People’s Artists concert just for the music, not for the speeches, she didn’t know that for certain.

  Well, who cared a fig if David did protest? Who cared what he thought and did? David had a woman in his life. He wasn’t someone Silja should concern herself with in the least.

  In any case, Henry didn’t notice her eye roll. “Everyone there knew we were doing the right thing,” he said. “Everyone wanted to support the United States government. As well you should, Silja.” He stomped his feet, getting mud on her kitchen floor. “You of all people.”

  “Me of all people? Why is that?”

  “Because this country has done so much for you. For immigrants. Welcomed you and gave you a home when you had nothing.”

  “Henry, I was born here,” she reminded him. “I’m not an immigrant.”

  “Maybe so,” he conceded. “But you came from nothing, and look what you have now.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “You should be grateful, Silja, for everything you have. You should be thankful, instead of always wanting more and more.”

  “What more and more do I want? What are you talking about?”

  He swept his arm toward the glass-walled living room. “You call this less and less?”

  “I don’t see you complaining about it, though,” Silja shot back. “It’s okay with you—isn’t it?—to hang around this ‘more and more’ every day. Living the life of Riley while my income pays the bills.”

  He stared at her with cold eyes.

  “Your income? What about my handyman jobs?”

  She laughed bitterly. “Really, Henry, let’s not kid ourselves.”

  The minute she said it, she realized how cruel it sounded. She opened her mouth to apologize, but he turned on his heel, slid the door open, and closed it with deliberate calm. She watched through the glass as he tramped into the garden and picked up a hoe, raking it across the weeds with brisk, savage strokes.

  41

  * * *

  Ruby

  Nobody is in the little room anymore to say Ruby can’t smoke, so she takes out her father’s Zippo and lights a Camel. She smokes it slowly, relishing every puff. Then she has another, and after that she has one more.

  Eventually she grows weary of sitting there smoking. So she gets up and starts pacing the room’s perimeter. She sticks as close to the wall as she can, the fingers of her right hand scraping along the wall, the nails digging into the flesh-colored paint.

  Ruby notices that if she digs hard enough, she can scratch faint lines into the wall with her index, middle, and ring fingers. So she keeps going, round and round the room. She digs in, deeper and deeper, creating three thin, parallel lines a few feet above the floor.

  • • •

  It feels like everyone has been gone for hours. There’s no clock in the windowless room and Ruby is not wearing a watch. She has no idea how much time has passed—an hour, three hours, the entire day.

  They can’t leave her here forever, right? It’s not a jail cell. It feels sort of like one but Ruby isn’t stupid, she has at least some sense of what a real jail cell would be like, and this isn’t it.

  Usually she doesn’t mind being alone, but she’s starting to feel lonely and she’s starting to miss Uncle Paul and she’s even a little bit beginning to doubt he’s coming back at all.

  Maybe he’s left her here.

  • • •

  Back in elementary school, kids used to say things about Uncle Paul. Everyone knew he’d lived with Mrs. Hawke. Ruby was young and Mrs. Hawke wasn’t her principal yet when that was going on, but Ruby knew what was said.

  Harry Lister, who is ugly as sin and thin as a mangy weed, once told Ruby that her uncle hit on young girls, and that’s why he had to leave Stonekill.

  “That’s bunk,” Ruby said, and turned away.

  “You’re walking away because you know it’s true,” Harry called after her.

  “Shut up, dipstick!” she said. He laughed at her back.

  “Asshole!” Ruby screamed, turning to face him. She took two giant steps toward him and swung her fist hard against his jawbone. Harry stumbled in surprise.

  Before he could catch his breath, Ruby ran. She could outrun anyone at school—and besides, Harry wasn’t about to tell anybody that he’d been hit by a girl. It would be too humiliating.

  Harry Lister’s father was one of the guys building the birdcage. Back then, Ruby hated that man, even though it was Harry who’d said those things about Uncle Paul—not his father. But Harry must have heard that somewhere, right?

  Now, though, it makes more sense. Ruby is older now, and she understands Uncle Paul much better than she did when she was a kid.

  42

  * * *

  Silja

  1954–1957

  Less than a year after they took up residence in the new house, Henry suggested he move from the master bedroom into the guest room. “This house is so big,” he said. “We could spread out. Have our own space.”

  So is this how it finally ends? Silja wondered. Is this how a marriage that never really was a marriage comes to its conclusion? Surely, this was the first step toward the two of them parting ways.

  “Do you want a divorce, Henry?” she asked hopefully. She looked him in the eye. “We could go to Reno. It would only take a month or two. It’s not—” She continued speaking, her voice low. “It’s not impossible. Not if we agree about it.”

  He gave her a quizzical look, as if he thought she might not be right in the head.

  “Are you crazy?” he growled. “No—of course I don’t want a divorce.” He took a step toward her, towering over her but not touching her. “Marriage is forever, Silja,” he went on. “You don’t walk away from marriage vows. No matter how fate changes your expectations, when you make a promise like a marriage vow, it’s for keeps.”

  It was what he’d said all along—in his letters from the front, when he first came home from the war. Always, he’d proclaimed they would be together for the rest of their lives.

  For years, that was also what she’d wanted. But long ago she’d stopped holding out hope for their marriage to succeed. Instead, she’d begun to hope that Henry, too, would realize they were better off apart. That he’d agree they should call it quits—amicably and without strife.

  Why in heaven’s name would he dig in his heels about this? Because of some silly ideal about “for better or for worse”?

  Apparently so. She was speechless, as the implications of what he’d said began to s
ink in.

  • • •

  In all honesty, though, he had a good point about the bedrooms. She disliked sleeping next to him, had disliked it for a long time. At night she tossed and turned—her body tense, her mind prowling its farthest corners of brooding and speculation like a cat kept inside after dark. She stayed on her own side of the bed, knowing he didn’t want her anywhere nearby. Her longing to touch him never truly subsided—but she knew he’d recoil if she laid a hand on him. Even in the new house, sharing a king-size bed, she still felt his presence and never fully relaxed.

  They made the move over a weekend. They transferred the desk—Silja had selected it to go with her beautiful house, and she wasn’t about to surrender it to Henry—from the guest room into the master bedroom. She spent several hours setting it up, trying it in different corners. She organized file folders and sharpened pencils.

  As they moved Henry’s clothes to the guest room closet, Ruby watched wordlessly. Passing her daughter in the hallway as she brought a load of Henry’s shoes to the guest room, Silja gave the girl a brave smile. “It doesn’t mean anything, honey,” she assured Ruby. “Daddy and I just need more space, that’s all.”

  Ruby didn’t respond. She brushed past Silja, heading for the back door and the woods.

  Once Henry’s clothes were removed, Silja filled his side of the master bedroom closet by spreading out her wardrobe. Sorting through her clothes made her wistful. She still wore a lot of green—Henry had been right all those years ago; green did bring out the color in her eyes. In the city, shopping on her lunch hour, she bought herself green dresses and suits in the latest styles.

  Henry sometimes bought her green things, too—mostly with money she earned, of course; his handyman jobs brought in a pittance. At the little shops in downtown Stonekill and other nearby towns, he’d pick up emerald earrings, a printed scarf in a pattern of kelly and jade, a felt hat or pair of gloves in forest green. Buying things for her was a kindness, she knew—but to Silja it felt like a forced kindness. When she wore something he’d purchased, Henry looked at her not with admiration but instead with smug satisfaction.

  It was similar, in its way, to the elaborate dinners he cooked. He cooked for her, of course, for their family—but as with everything he did, cooking was more for his own gratification than for anyone else.

  • • •

  An effect of Henry’s move, one that Silja hadn’t seen coming, was that he stopped cleaning the master bedroom and bath. He’d always been the family housekeeper, ever since they moved to Stonekill—heck, even at the Alku, Silja remembered, when she was at Hunter and her mother was working all the time, Henry took over the cleaning chores. He’d done a commendable job of it, too; she had to admit it. Once, when she’d complimented how spick-and-span the house was, he said it was residual from being in the army. “Everything in tip-top condition,” he told her.

  But now he told her that “her room” was private and he wasn’t going to enter it anymore, even to clean. “You can manage,” he said, handing her a can of Ajax and a sponge one Saturday morning.

  “Or we could get a cleaning woman,” she proposed.

  “Over my dead body,” he said, walking away. “No strangers in my house, thank you very much.”

  Silja detested cleaning. She put it off as long as possible, rarely giving her room the attention it deserved.

  • • •

  It was a ridiculously hot and humid Sunday in July—the warmest Silja could remember in a long time. How is it possible, Silja thought, that a girl who grew up in Brooklyn, where the temperature and humidity soar as early as May and as late as October, is now affected by such circumstances? Perhaps, she mused, she was getting less tolerant at her ripe old age of thirty-five.

  At midafternoon, she announced to Henry and Ruby that she was going to the picture show—both for the movie itself and to enjoy the air-conditioned theater. She invited Ruby along, but the girl declined; she was lounging in the living room, fanning herself with a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Henry was in the kitchen, making sauce from the season’s first ripe tomatoes; Silja didn’t bother to invite him because she knew he’d say no. The oxblood-colored cover of Ruby’s book and the half-chopped tomatoes on the kitchen counter—an assortment ranging from rose-colored to scarlet—stood out in stark contrast to the stylish neutral tones of Silja’s beautifully decorated home.

  “Well, I’ll be back in time for dinner,” Silja told them. Neither responded.

  • • •

  The picture was An Affair to Remember, starring Deborah Kerr and Silja’s proverbial heartthrob, Cary Grant. The actor was getting older, too, just like real people. Whenever she saw Grant’s image these days—on a movie poster, in a magazine, at the theater—she was reminded that even in Hollywood, eventually laugh lines and graying hair take over.

  The theater was crowded, given the hot weather and the popularity of the newly released movie. After the house lights dimmed, a solitary gentleman took the seat two down from Silja. There was no one between them. She found at movies, particularly romances, that many men—presumably dragged along by women—fussed and squirmed the entire time. She couldn’t make out the face of the man two seats away, but during the show she noticed he was content and well mannered. He was contemplative through the middle of the film and seemed relaxed as they watched the sentimental ending.

  When the house lights went up, he turned toward her, and Silja saw his face for the first time. He broke into a smile. “Well, if it isn’t Silja from Stonekill.”

  “David,” she said, unable to hide the shock in her voice. “My knight in shining armor.” She uncrossed and then recrossed her legs, leaning toward him. “I’ve never forgotten your kindness that night.”

  “And I’ve never forgotten you or your little girl. Ruby, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. You have a good memory.”

  He smiled again. “For some things, yes.” He glanced toward the darkened screen, then back at Silja. “What did you think of the picture?”

  “It was wonderful,” Silja replied. “A roller-coaster ride, but optimistic at the end. I’m glad it turned out the way it did.”

  “Refreshing to see a happy ending,” he said. “Not every story has one.”

  “Indeed not,” Silja agreed. They were both silent. Neither got up, though the other patrons were filing out. It seemed to Silja as if David was waiting for her to say more, so she ventured another comment. “The acting was wonderful. I’ve always been a fan of Cary Grant. And Miss Kerr is a delight.”

  David nodded. “Do you see many movies?” He turned so he could look her in the eye, leaning his torso over the seat between them. Silja fiddled with her eyeglasses and curved her body closer to the empty seat.

  “I do go to the movies quite a bit, actually,” she said. “Nearly every weekend—even if I have to see the same picture over and over.” She shrugged. “That’s country living for you. Slim pickings, unless one wants to venture to the city. And I already do that every weekday for work.”

  She realized she was babbling, and she shut her mouth. The woman she’d seen him with at B. Altman a few years ago hadn’t been a yapper. Clearly, he preferred women who didn’t run at the mouth.

  But David seemed unaffected by her chatter. “I enjoy the pictures as well,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll meet here again next Sunday.” He stood, put on his hat, and tipped it at her. “It’s good to see you again, Silja.”

  “And you.” She watched his sturdy, retreating back as he walked out of the theater.

  • • •

  Well, she told herself as the week wore on—who wouldn’t go back the next Sunday?

  Silja arrived early, intending to sit in the same seat. She found David had beat her to it—almost as if they had a planned engagement.

  He stood when she arrived. “Would you like your same seat, madam?”

  Silja smiled. “Yes, I’d love that.” She patted the seat next to her. “You can come over here, if
you like.”

  He did so. “We’re both early.”

  “Yes.” Silja stole a glimpse at his left hand. It was bare. No wedding ring. So he wasn’t married to the woman with whom she’d seen him shopping.

  But still, there was only one way to know for sure where things stood. Her voice hesitant, she asked, “Did you find . . . what you were looking for?” She took a breath, and then went on. “That day at the department store. Did you and your . . . friend . . . find the kitchen set you wanted?”

  He laughed heartily. “Ah, that day.” He smiled. “Mrs. Murray is my father’s caregiver. He’s elderly and lives with me, but he needs someone to check on him while I’m at work. Our kitchen table and chairs were badly in need of replacement, and Mrs. Murray was kind enough to give up her Saturday afternoon to help me select something new. We found nothing there, but at Macy’s we picked out a very nice set.”

  Silja could feel her entire face grinning. “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she said. Then she added, “Overjoyed, one might say.”

  “Overjoyed. That’s quite a strong word.” He raised his eyebrows. “Truly, Silja?”

  She nodded. “Absolutely.”

  David’s eyes were brown, but lighter than Henry’s. And David didn’t have that odd hooded appearance that always made Henry seem to be glowering even when he wasn’t angry. David’s expression was friendly, Silja thought, as if he wanted to know everything about everyone around him.

  She sounded smitten, she scolded herself. She sounded like a schoolgirl with a crush.

  The lights dimmed and she settled in, leaning her left shoulder just the slightest bit toward David’s side.

  • • •

  It wasn’t long before she was seeing him every weekend. Their movie dates in Westchester morphed into meeting in the city, evenings when she told Henry she had to work late.