The Glass Forest

by Cynthia Swanson

  Across the big room, he gave her a long, hardened look. “There are all kinds of marriages,” he said, raising the tenderizer and bringing it down with a solid thwack, flattening the meat under it. “Let’s hope Paul fares better at it than we have, shall we?”

  He hit the chops viciously—over and over, as if he intended flattening them to the thinness of paper. Watching him silently, Silja shook her drink and poured it into a glass.

  “Can’t see how any two people could do worse,” she mumbled, adding an olive to the glass and sucking juice from her fingers.

  As he opened his mouth to respond, Ruby walked in from the hallway. Silja took her drink and stepped outside onto the patio. She stared through the glass as Ruby sat down at the kitchen counter, leaning forward to chat with Henry. He relaxed his brutish stance, set down the tenderizer, and gave their daughter a beatific smile.

  • • •

  Silja consulted a lawyer in the city, asking if there was any way to force Henry into granting her a divorce. She did not mention David.

  The lawyer, a fellow named Barnes, said divorce was possible only if Henry agreed to it—and even if that happened, the lawyer said, Henry would surely take her to the cleaners. “You and Mr. Glass could argue over the specifics tooth and nail, but at the end of the day I’d put money on him getting your house and your child,” Barnes told her. “Yours is an unusual case, Mrs. Glass. There aren’t many women who come here in your position. Generally, we can’t get a wife out of a marriage if her husband is unwilling, unless there’s absolute proof of adultery.”

  “What about abuse?” Silja asked. “He says terrible things to me. He’s threatened me.”

  Barnes raised his eyebrows. “Ever laid a hand on you?”

  Silja thought about that long-ago night at the Alku. Just a little prod, she’d told herself then. It meant nothing. And it happened ages ago. In another lifetime, it felt like.

  “No,” she admitted. “Not really. Once, early in our marriage, he pushed my shoulder a bit.”

  “Documented bruises? Any kind of scar?”

  “No,” Silja said. “Nothing like that.”

  The lawyer shrugged. “A little pushing between spouses is not uncommon, ma’am. Has he ever done anything more combative?”

  “No,” she said, for a third time. “On a few occasions, he’s acted like he might get . . . physically aggressive. But he controls himself.”

  “Well, Mrs. Glass. That doesn’t sound like abuse to me. And even if it was, in New York State abuse is invalid as grounds for divorce. I’m sorry to inform you that you don’t have a case.” Barnes pursed his lips. “My advice would be to make the best of your situation.” The lawyer pushed a stack of papers neatly together on his desk. “Try to find the good in your husband, ma’am. Every man has it, you know.”

  • • •

  With winter on the way, Henry was busy outfitting the bomb shelter in case they should be ensconced there during the cold months. He piled more blankets on the cots and added a portable heater, one he rigged up to be battery-powered.

  “With Paul a married man, will we need to make room for his bride and the baby, too?” Silja watched Henry stack cans of Campbell’s soup on the kitchen counter, preparing to transfer them to the shelter.

  He presented her with a long, withering look. “Paul is thinking about building his own.” He added a can of tomato soup to the stack. “But yes, if it came to that and they were here, we would make room.”

  Silja laughed. “And who would we push out to make room, Henry?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He wouldn’t readily grant her a divorce; she knew that much. But she also knew exactly who he would push out of their family, their home—and his preposterous bomb shelter—if he could figure out a way to do it.

  She still saw David nearly every Sunday. In the winter they went to the movies, but in warmer weather, she met him in natural places—his favorites. State parks, riverfronts, hiking trails. They saw each other whenever they could manage it during the week, too—after work in the city, where they would have dinner and then get a hotel room.

  It reminded Silja of those early days with Henry, except now it was better. So much better.

  David was a patient and accommodating lover. His kisses were indulgent, never aggressive. He caressed her skin, head to toe, his fingers slowly tracing the small hairs on her arm as if he had all the time in the world, instead of an hour or two. He entered her only when she was ready, wet and warm, her skin alive with the heat of his touch. He pulled her on top of him so he could look her in the eye as their bodies joined. Sometimes they lay side by side—her lower hip pressed against the sheets, her upper leg wrapped around him. “Silja, Silja, Silja” he murmured as he thrust into her, chanting her name over and over like he was praying.

  Afterward they lay together for as long as they could, until the hour grew late and she knew she had to rise, dress, and make her way home. During those times, Silja thought about how she longed to stay with him all night. Just once.

  No, not just once, she corrected herself. Forever. Every night, for the rest of her life. She’d never—not with Henry, not with David—slept all night in a lover’s arms. She had no idea what it would feel like to wake up warm in David’s embrace, the rising sun filtering through the curtains, birds outside singing a morning tune.

  Unlike with Henry before the war, she was careful now. She saw a doctor in the city, acquired a diaphragm, and used it faithfully. There would be no unintended pregnancy. Not that she wouldn’t adore having David’s baby. She fantasized about the child they might have created together, if circumstances had been different. She thought about the kindhearted, gentle soul who would have come from her union with the man she’d been destined for all along.

  • • •

  He’d never been to Stone Ridge Road. There was no opportunity to show him her beautiful glass house; Henry was always there.

  David lived in White Plains, in a spacious apartment he shared with his elderly father. David had married young, but his wife died of pneumonia a year or two into their marriage. There had been no children. He never remarried; after his wife’s death he lived alone for many years. “It broke my heart to lose her,” he told Silja. “I thought she was my one true love. I thought I’d never again care for anyone so much.” He looked deeply into Silja’s eyes. “I was wrong about that, Silja.”

  After his mother passed, David moved his father into his apartment, where he could better care for the old man as his health began to decline. Once, early in their relationship, David took her to his apartment. It was late at night; they’d been out to dinner in White Plains. He suggested bringing her home, “just to show you my place.” He smiled shyly when he said it, and her cheeks glowed. “You know my father lives with me,” David stammered. “He’ll be sleeping when we get there. We’ll have to be quiet and we can’t stay long. But if you want to see it . . . ”

  She’d nodded. “Of course. I’d love that.”

  She admired the tidy, cozy kitchen, the comfortable living room and dining room, the large oil paintings of flowers and landscapes. David said his mother had been the artist.

  Standing in the doorway of David’s office, Silja smiled fondly. The room, overflowing with textbooks, microscopes, and dozens of potted plants, was so completely perfect for him. It was the exact home office she would have imagined him to have.

  “What’s this?” she asked him, touching the leaves of a shimmering green-and-white plant in a brass pot.

  “Pteris argyraea,” he replied. “Otherwise known as a silver brake fern. Pretty to look at and easy to grow. I’ll get you one.”

  “I’d like that. It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes,” David whispered, turning her toward him. “Beautiful, just like you.”

  She stepped away from the plant and into his embrace. Beautiful, he’d said. Not just sexy, as Henry called her back in the day. Not his baby doll. David made Silja feel like the person she’d
always wanted to be. Someone beautiful.

  They heard a hacking cough from the back of the apartment. David sighed and released her. “Let me check on him,” he said. “And then I’ll drive you to the train station.”

  He’d replaced the Plymouth coupe he took Silja and Ruby home in when he rescued them from the riot in 1949. He now drove a ’56 Mercury Montclair, dark blue with a hard top. Most days, he left the car at home and took the train from White Plains to his lab at NYU, or else to the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx, where he conducted research. Other days, he did fieldwork, driving the Mercury to bucolic locations throughout Westchester.

  An only child like Silja, David had grown up in Brooklyn Heights, not far from Silja’s own girlhood home. It took some months into their relationship for Silja to see it, but eventually she realized how much David reminded her of the Finntown boys. Not in looks; David was as dark-complected as Henry. And not in age, either; David, now in his early fifties, had been too young to serve in World War I but too old for World War II. Nonetheless—in his easy confidence, his work ethic, his earnestness—he resembled those fair-haired Finnish lads of her youth.

  He was a smart man, an unselfish man. A man living an honorable, uncomplicated life.

  She longed—would have given anything—to kick Henry out. She fantasized about inviting David to move into her wonderful house. They could build out the back—there was certainly room for an addition—creating space for his father, too. They would remove Henry’s silly homemade desk from the guest room. David would fill it up, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves. She could imagine him there, working diligently in the evenings, then coming late to join her for a nightcap, cozy in front of the hearth in the living room, the glowing darkness of the glass walls surrounding them. Retreating together to the master bedroom—the room where she’d slumbered alone for years, but where she would now sleep wrapped in David’s warmth night after night. Just before they fell into dreams, he would whisper that he loved her and she’d respond in kind. When they woke in the morning, his expression would tell her he couldn’t believe his good fortune to have her as his mate for all time.

  David would—David did—love her.

  Loving her was something Henry had never done enough of. Even in those first weeks of their courtship and marriage, before he left for the war—looking back, she realized that it wasn’t her specifically, but rather the idea of a woman who was completely under his thumb, that appealed to Henry.

  Sexually and in every other way, Henry had gotten his kicks from controlling her, not from loving her.

  Well. Those days were gone. She’d never live like that again. She’d never let herself be reined in by anything but love.

  50

  * * *

  Angie

  I returned to the guest room and looked around. Where to search here? And for what? I wasn’t sure, but I was compelled to look around. I set the baby on the bed and opened the closet to explore. I found nothing there except Henry’s clothes. Those dated, unworn suits beside his shabby work clothes. Muddy boots and plaid shirts and dungarees.

  I turned back to the room. There was a desk here, but it was nothing like Silja’s—just a board held up by stacked milk crates on either end. Upon the board’s surface sat an ancient Smith-Corona typewriter, neatly centered. A file box was in the back right corner of the desk; I opened it to find household bills—filed by date and marked PAID at the top of each one in blocky handwriting. In one of the upper milk crates was a metal office tray containing drawing tools: mechanical pencils, rulers, a protractor. There were several nubs of pink erasers and a box of lead sticks for the pencils. The crate below it held blank typewriter paper. The crates on the other side were empty.

  My eyes fell on the nightstand next to Henry’s bed. I opened the drawer and found a wooden box and a few pamphlets. I turned the pamphlets over in my hand, reading the titles and glancing at the text. Anti-Communist rhetoric. Well, that didn’t surprise me. Paul, too, scoffed at anything resembling Communist ideals. “Look how well that’s worked out in East Germany and Russia,” he’d say, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Good thing we’ve got J. Edgar Hoover making sure it doesn’t happen here.”

  When he said such things, I would nod and murmur assent. This type of talk had nothing to do with me; I had no opinion on it. Paul knew and accepted that I was a Kennedy Democrat; it came with the territory of marrying a Catholic girl, he said, smiling indulgently at me. “Any president is all right in my book, as long as he leaves Hoover right where he is, in charge of the FBI,” Paul opined. “If he does that, I don’t care what else the president does.”

  I put the pamphlets back in the nightstand drawer and set the wooden box on the bed. Seating myself and leaning the baby against my hip, I opened the box.

  It contained letters. Each one was addressed to Henry. Each one was from Paul. They didn’t go back far—just the past year or so. It seemed likely that Paul had written to Henry before then, but if Henry had kept other letters, they were somewhere else. This batch started about when Paul had arrived in Door County.

  I scanned the first few pages, and smiled as I read about myself.

  Dated June 10, 1959:

  You were right, Henry. I’ve met a girl, quite a pleasant girl. Cute as a button and worships the ground I walk on. A willing sexual partner; seducing her was effortless. All in all, it’s very satisfying.

  And on August 25:

  We’re so thankful you’ll be here for the wedding. Angie is anxious to meet you—and Ruby, too.

  Another from November:

  I’m nearly done insulating the cottage. Just in time, too, as the cold comes early in this part of the world. Married life treats me well. Angie is a sweet girl. She’s handling pregnancy like a champ. She’s built for it; you can tell. When I heard she had five siblings, I knew she came from hardy breeding stock!

  I grimaced; it certainly wasn’t the nicest thing I’d ever heard about myself. But men are apt to use crude words when speaking—or writing—to other men.

  I read about PJ’s birth in March:

  I’m the father of a son, Paul William Glass Junior. Rest assured the name was not my choice; Angie insisted on it. She came through the birth with no troubles, and she and the baby are both doing well.

  I knit my eyebrows, feeling defeated as I read Paul’s words. I remembered how Paul had not wanted the baby to be his namesake. “He should have his own name,” Paul said when I suggested Paul Junior. “He shouldn’t be burdened with someone else’s.” But I pleaded my case. My oldest brother was named after my father, and my father after my grandfather. It meant something, I told Paul, to pass a name from father to son. It represented continuity and connection between the generations.

  Paul carried on his protests, but eventually he gave in.

  I opened his next letter, dated from May:

  The watercoloring goes well, but living here is limiting—I must admit it. It’s as if my world has shrunk, Henry. I know you’d say that’s normal, that any man would feel that way once he’s saddled with a wife and child. But I no longer recognize myself. It’s as though someone else is living this life. Not me.

  His words made me wince. Did Paul truly feel that way when he wrote this letter? I wondered if he still felt that way. If so, he’d never let on. I wished he would have shared his feelings with me. I’d have to talk with him about it, I resolved, once we got back home.

  On another subject, in a letter from early June:

  Yes, I am loath to say it, but I do believe your wife is dangerous, Henry. I agree with your precautionary steps of the separate bank account, as well as passports for you and Ruby. I would be happy to hold some of your money here, too, if you’d like. Let me know.

  Be watchful, brother. Stand firm, and be always on your guard.

  Dangerous? I shuddered, considering Henry’s letters to Paul. Unlike Paul’s possible correspondence with Ruby, I was well aware that the brothers regularly exchanged letters. Paul kept He
nry’s letters in his studio, neatly stacked in a metal bin on a work bench in the corner of the room. I’d never had a shred of curiosity about them. When a letter arrived from Henry, I simply placed it on the desk for Paul to read when he came in from his work. The letters disappeared to the studio, and I never gave them another thought. I’d assumed their content was typical men-talk—sports, I would have speculated, had I speculated at all.

  How foolish I’d been.

  From a letter to Henry late in the summer:

  I’ve made a huge mistake. The truth is that I’m stifled here, Henry. The sexual part is gratifying; I admit that. I find the girl irresistible sexually. But I can get that anywhere, without all this liability.

  I don’t know how much more I can take. This tiny house and this tiny life—it’s not for me at all.

  With trembling fingers, I picked up the last letter. It was dated only a few weeks ago—September 18, 1960.

  My husband had written:

  Dear Henry,

  I am in receipt of your letter of Tuesday last.

  We have just returned from church. What a ruse that is, as you well know, or at least must remember. So clever of you to marry a girl who doesn’t care for religion the way Angie does. Of course, we know now where that’s led you, so maybe it’s not so clever after all.

  I appreciate your continued suggestions to build a bomb shelter of my own. Yes—perhaps it would give me some direction. Something to do beyond sitting here, painting and brooding.

  It would mean staying here, though. And I’ll be honest, Henry—staying is something I’m not at all convinced is the right thing for me to do.

  But I’m trapped here. Trapped in a marriage to a girl I don’t love and a life I don’t want.

  I wish I knew what to do, but I’m at a loss. I’m sorry to burden you with this, Henry, but it’s true.