The Glass Forest

by Cynthia Swanson

  Its not how they look, its what they do! COMMUNISTS can be any body. Your mechanic. Your grocer. The woman next to you on the train.

  So how do you know?

  Look at his reading material. Do NOT let him see you do this. COMMUNISTS are SNEAKY.

  Listen to what he says. Does he make SNIDE remarks about YOUR United States Government? COMMUNIST

  Is he ATTRACTED to men? COMMUNIST

  Is she suspected of REJECTING her wedding vows? COMMUNIST

  Silja stomped down the hall to the kitchen. “Where did these come from?” she asked, holding out the pamphlets toward Henry.

  He looked at her steadily and didn’t take them from her.

  “There are groups,” he said. “There’s a group right here in Stonekill.”

  “Groups? What groups?”

  He tilted his head. “It’s beneficial,” he went on, “for me to associate with like-minded people.”

  “Beneficial? Like-minded people?” She shook her head. “What are you talking about, Henry?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand this.” He looked at Silja calmly. “You, especially, I don’t expect to understand.”

  “What does that mean?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you saying you think I’m a Communist?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t feel like I know you very well, Silja. I’m not sure I ever have.” He turned away and busied himself at the kitchen counter, chopping asparagus with a heavy butcher’s knife.

  “We’ve been married for seventeen years, Henry,” Silja said. “How can you say you don’t know me, you never knew me?”

  “I don’t know what you do all day.” He took a sip of tea from the cup beside him. “I don’t know who you associate with.”

  “For God’s sake!” she burst out. “I work all day! That’s what I do. I work all day so we can have this nice house and you can sit around here brooding and building bomb shelters and planning how you will live through Doomsday. That’s what I do.”

  She looked down toward her feet. Yes, she did work hard. But she also spent her free time—almost all the free time she could—with David. It was what she was looking forward to on Sunday; she and David had plans to meet at Pound Ridge Reservation for a hike.

  But Henry didn’t need to know that.

  “Your work is exactly the problem,” Henry complained. “You’re gone all day. No other wives do that.”

  He raised the knife and brought it down soundly across a row of asparagus. Chop, chop, chop.

  “And whose fault is that, Henry?” Her voice was wobbly, which infuriated her; they were in their situation because of Henry, not because of her. “Whose fault is it that your wife supports this family? Whose fault is it that we’re so abnormal?”

  “I never asked you to carry that load,” Henry said. “You wanted to do it. If you hadn’t, I would have gone to college. I would be supporting us, like a man is supposed to do.”

  What was he talking about? He’d never shown the slightest hint of motivation to go to college after he returned from the war. The closest he came was that silly crime detection correspondence course he never even finished.

  “So go ahead and do it!” she said, her hands pressed onto the edge of the counter, leaning toward him. “Ruby is sixteen. She doesn’t need you around all day long. Get an education, Henry. Figure out what you want to do with your life. You’re not even middle-aged yet. You have plenty of years left.”

  “No.” One-handed, he scooped up asparagus ends and tossed them in the trash.

  Then he turned to face her, knife raised, handle gripped in his right hand. “No, Silja, it’s too late for college. And besides . . . ” He glanced at the pamphlets in her hand. “I’ve found my work. I know now why things turned out the way they did. I was meant to do this.”

  “What does that mean? What are you meant to do?”

  He held the knife aloft, its blade gleaming in the sunlight. He pointed it toward her, inches from her chest.

  “Egads, Henry,” she said. “Get that thing away from me.” She stepped back and asked again, “What do you mean?”

  He persisted, reaching across the countertop toward her—knife in hand, knuckles red.

  “Stop,” she said. “Stop that and answer the question. Please.”

  Was it because she said please? She wasn’t sure. Either way, he seemed to reconsider his behavior. He set down the knife and looked her in the eye.

  “I’m not just reading those pamphlets, Silja,” he said. “I’m the one who wrote them.”

  • • •

  The next day, thinking about it as she drove east on Route 35 to meet David, Silja felt more apprehensive than furious. The way Henry messed around with the knife had certainly been disturbing. Good thing Ruby hadn’t been present to witness something like that.

  And those pamphlets worried her—no doubt about it. She could only imagine what Henry would think of David, were he ever to find out the kind of man Silja was involved with.

  Not that David had anything to hide—not really. While he had sympathy for the plight of the working man—and what kindhearted person didn’t?—David wasn’t involved with any Communist crowd. Yes, he was outspoken in his beliefs—but he wasn’t involved in any subversive actions, for heaven’s sake.

  Henry wouldn’t see it that way, though. Henry would be furious with her—not just for having an affair, but also for who the affair was with.

  Well, Henry would never find out. She and David were careful. She needn’t worry about it.

  Beyond that, Henry’s pamphlets had made her wistful. They were awful, not just because of their ridiculous content, but also because of how poorly they were written. It was like the writing of a child who hadn’t been tutored in proper grammar and syntax. She remembered Henry’s letters from the war. They’d always been short and to the point, containing errors here and there. Not the greatest prose, but at the time she’d chalked it up to stress over his situation, lack of time to write a proper letter.

  She remembered her mother’s socialist pamphlets and signs, remembered what a skilled writer and dedicated steward Mikaela had been. Silja thought about how she had learned at Mikaela’s knee—about not only socialism, but also how to turn a phrase. It was a skill she used at her job, in both written and spoken communication.

  How much better, Silja thought, she herself could have worded Henry’s pamphlets—if she shared his beliefs, of course. He could have supplied the ideas and she could have made the words shine.

  What a great team she and Henry would make, Silja thought. If only they were on the same side.

  Well, if there had ever been a chance for that—and she doubted there had been—it was too late now.

  If she hadn’t started her silly cleaning project in the first place, she’d never have found those awful things he wrote. It would have been better not to know. She’d learned her lesson. She’d stay out of his room—and out of his life, as much as possible—from now on.

  • • •

  By June, the bomb shelter was finished. Silja couldn’t imagine a more asinine waste of time and money. But Henry was thrilled. “Come down and let me show you,” he entreated.

  She truly didn’t want to. The ladder—a series of iron rungs bolted to the concrete wall—unsettled her as she made her way down step by cautious step. At the bottom, she had to leap off the ladder, landing with a thud in the darkness. Slowly, with her hands pressed to the hard, cold walls on either side of a narrow corridor, she stepped toward a dim light ahead of her. Around the corner from the entrance she found herself in the main part of the bomb shelter.

  Henry, going down ahead of her, had lit a battery-powered lamp on the bookshelf. In the low light, she took a look around. She had to admit the bomb shelter was spacious, all things considered; she could stand up fully, could turn around. She needed to take four long steps to cross from one side of the room to the other.

  Still, the space fe
lt constrictive, like it might swallow her whole. She went back around the corner and looked nervously at the blue sky above her, through the hole fifteen feet above her head.

  “We could last down here for a month,” Henry said confidently, coming up behind her and tapping the concrete walls. “Nothing could get in. We’d be safe and snug as bugs.”

  And then what? Silja wanted to ask. And then we emerge, and the world is gone, and it’s just us—what happens then?

  Honestly, if a bomb did fall from the sky—and of course such a thing would never happen—she wouldn’t want to be one of the only people left on the planet. Let that bomb blow me to bits, she thought. I’d rather die.

  That’s probably what Henry would prefer, too. He likely hoped that if a bomb dropped, Silja would be far away from Stonekill and his beloved bomb shelter.

  But thinking about Ruby, Silja became remorseful. What if such a thing truly did happen, and Silja wasn’t at home, but was in the city, or off somewhere with David? Her daughter would be left to fend for herself, with only her father to care for her.

  It was a sobering thought.

  • • •

  In August, they received news from Paul: he was to be married. In a million years, Silja could not have predicted such a thing.

  Paul, it turned out, had spent the summer in Wisconsin, in some resort area called Door County. (What an odd name for a county, Silja thought.) There was something about Paul’s watercolors, about how Door County was an up-and-coming artists’ community, and tourists paid handsome sums for watercolors of Lake Michigan and the local scenery. According to Paul, the painting was going well, but not well enough to afford a room in Baileys Harbor, the little town in which he’d planted himself. So he began working as a bartender. He’d met a girl with whom he was now quite madly in love, he said—and she with him.

  They were to be married in a few weeks. Paul wanted his brother’s family to come to Wisconsin, so Henry could be the best man at his wedding.

  “How in the world would we get there?” Silja asked Henry, after scanning Paul’s letter.

  He gave her a scornful look. “There are airplanes, Silja,” he said. “Or hadn’t you heard?”

  Silja felt rather foolish. She’d never thought about airplanes flying somewhere as remote as Wisconsin.

  It turned out they could fly to Milwaukee, then rent a car and drive several hours to Door County, which was in the northeastern part of the state. The only way Silja knew this was by looking in the atlas.

  Silja bought Ruby a pair of low heels and a blue taffeta dress for the wedding, which Ruby glanced at but refused to try on, saying it was too much bother. All Silja could do was cross her fingers that the clothes would fit.

  “I don’t care what I wear to some silly wedding,” Ruby said. “But I can’t wait for the trip. I just want to get on that plane and go.”

  When Silja asked why she was so eager, Ruby said, “Because we never go anywhere.”

  It gave Silja pause. Ruby was right. They certainly could travel if they wanted to. They had the money and time. And Ruby was a big girl, not some baby who needed constant care.

  Of course, if Silja were to travel, she’d prefer to travel with David, not Henry.

  She let herself imagine it. Seeing the world with David. Bringing Ruby along.

  It would be a dream come true.

  • • •

  It took an entire day to get to Baileys Harbor. They went in a taxi to LaGuardia, flew to Milwaukee, then stopped at the Avis Rent-a-Car desk to acquire an automobile. They journeyed north on Highway 41, through towns with odd names—Menomonee Falls, Fond du Lac, Neenah. In Green Bay, they headed northeast. Finally, nearing nightfall, they drove through the little town of Baileys Harbor, then went a few miles farther north on the highway and turned off at a place called Gordon Lodge.

  After they’d checked into the lodge—there were some cottages on the property, closed up for the winter, and the lodge, which was still open—they walked across the lawn to the bar where Paul worked. The bar was in a separate building right on the lakeshore. The Top Deck, it was called, and it was indeed the upper level of a boathouse-like structure facing the water.

  With the tourist season over, few other people were around—neither guests nor workers. Paul ran the bar as if he owned it, setting up glasses and pouring drinks with a flourish. He told them that if it were the season, they never would have been able to use the space for the wedding; it would have been booked by tourists. But since hardly anyone else was there, and since he and the bride were both Gordon’s employees, the owner gave them a break.

  Paul told them about the bride. “Comes from a big Catholic family,” he said. “They’re among the few Catholics in Baileys Harbor; the service will be at the only Catholic church in town. Most folks around here are Lutheran—Norwegians or Swedes; the joint is chock-full of Lutheran churches.” He sipped his drink. “But the Doyles are well-off and respected. Dr. Doyle has a family practice. There are six kids; Angie’s the youngest. All the rest married and living nearby.” He set down his half-empty glass and added ice to refresh it. “So many nieces and nephews, I can’t keep track.” His eyes twinkled at Ruby. “But don’t worry, sweetheart—you’ll always be my number one.”

  She smiled back at him and slurped her Coca-Cola.

  Paul and Angie planned to live in a cottage that had once been her grandparents’ vacation home, Paul explained. It was in a settlement just up the road, a place called North Bay. “It’s not even a town,” Paul said. “Mostly just summer cottages. Really pretty, though, especially where the Doyles’ place is, right along the bay.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Angie’s dad’s people were from Chicago, but they spent their summers up here. Her mother was a local girl. They met at a dance one summer about a million years ago.”

  Reaching across the bar, Paul clapped Henry on the shoulder. “I wish you could stick around, old pal,” he said. “I’m going to spend the next few months winterizing the cottage. Insulation, new windows, and I have to figure out a way to keep the well water from freezing. I could sure use your expertise, Henry.”

  Silja’s heart leaped at the notion—Paul was more than welcome to Henry’s help, if he wanted it. Heck, Henry could stay here indefinitely. If he never came back to New York, she’d be thrilled.

  But Henry shook his head, saying he had work and commitments of his own back in Stonekill.

  Silja laughed. “What work?” she asked. “What commitments? Building bomb shelters? The occasional hour spent replacing the hinges on someone’s squeaky front door?”

  Henry glared at her. “My business is my own,” he said. “I stay out of your business, Silja, and I’ll thank you to stay out of mine.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, Henry. Fine.” She finished her martini and stood. “Come on, Ruby. Let’s turn in.”

  Ruby followed her back to the lodge. Henry stayed at the bar; he and Paul were up half the night, Henry seated on a barstool and Paul behind the bar. Silja knew about it because when Henry hadn’t returned to their room by two in the morning, she got up, put on her dressing gown, and glided across the chilly lawn toward the Top Deck. Peering in the window, she saw the two of them, identical heads bent toward one another, laughing and talking quietly.

  No one else was about. She turned and ran back to the lodge before they could see her.

  • • •

  The next day was the wedding. Silja’d had no idea Paul could pass himself off as even remotely religious, but she had to admit he did a fine job. He looked every bit the reverent bridegroom—and Henry, standing beside him, also knew all the right moments to kneel, to cross himself, to murmur words of worship and praise. The pages in the small book in their pew—which, apparently, one was meant to consult during the service—were confusing and appeared to be out of order. The book was of no help to Silja and Ruby.

  Silja thought of her own wedding at the courthouse in Manhattan, and how little was required of Henry and
herself. Names, birth dates, current places of residence. Say these words after me. Sign here, please. And that was it; they were pronounced husband and wife.

  Silja could tell—by the warm wishes bestowed on her parents, the way guest after guest heartily clasped Angie’s father’s hand and affectionately kissed her mother’s cheek—that what Paul had said last night was true: he was marrying into an admired, stable family. Who would have guessed such a thing could happen? Not Silja. She was surprised Angie’s parents—particularly the father—didn’t see through Paul’s facade. What man would want a ne’er-do-well like Paul as a son-in-law? Perhaps they were simply grateful that their daughter was married—and had married a Catholic.

  At the reception there was much dancing, much drinking of beer and eating of sausages, and many toasts to the health of the bride and groom. The poor girl looked exhausted by the end of it all, and Silja hoped Paul would have the sense to take her off to bed earlier rather than later. When Silja whispered as much to Henry, he said, “Paul knows how to handle these people. Look how well he’s doing.”

  Silja felt her lips pursing together. “He’s not doing well enough to know what his wife needs, that’s for sure.”

  Henry glared at her. “Leave it be, Silja. For once in your life, just leave it be.”

  The bride was a cute, just-blossomed thing—not a lick like Kristina—with wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes. Freckles across the girl’s nose only added to her youthful appearance. Her sisters looked so much alike, and dressed as they were in identical bridesmaid dresses, Silja would not have known one from the other, had one not had short hair and the other a longer, fuller style. Both women sported little gold cross necklaces, as did Angie. When Paul loosened his tie at the reception, Silja saw the glint of the chain holding his St. Christopher medal.

  The irony was not lost on her: in an area filled with Lutherans, Paul had somehow found the one available Catholic girl to marry. Looking around at the tall, blond, Nordic-faced guests, Silja almost felt as if she were back at the Alku. These people looked as if they could be related to everyone she’d grown up with. Heck, her own father could be one of those balding old men sitting at the bar, laughing and sharing stories over pints of beer. But she wouldn’t know him.