Ruby looked at her long and silently, the wind lapping waves behind her. Silja knew what she was thinking: If there were photos of David, what would happen if Henry ever saw them?
“It’s all right,” Silja said gently. “It’s worth the risk.”
And it was. She’d come to treasure those photos—and others Ruby took that day of Silja and David—for as long as she possessed them.
Ruby agreed. “These are wonderful,” she said, a week after their day on the river, as she paged through the little album in which Silja had placed the photos. “A perfect memento of a perfect day.”
She looked up at Silja, then back at the photographs. “We look just like a family,” Ruby said. “Just like a regular mom and dad and their kid.” She gently traced her index finger over a photo of herself and David. “I wish Shepherd was my father,” she confessed. “I know it’s terrible to say, Mom, but I do.”
It would be wrong, Silja knew, to agree with Ruby. Instead, she replied, “I understand that you feel that way, Ruby.”
“Well.” Ruby handed the album back to Silja. “I guess we have to be grateful for what we have. We have to be grateful, at least, that nothing can tear us apart.”
57
* * *
Angie
In the morning, while I put coffee on, Paul knocked on Ruby’s door.
“Ruby,” he said. “Come out. You need to eat, and then we need to go see Mr. Kurtz.”
He tried the door, but it was locked. He frowned. “Strange,” he said. “Angie, do you have a hairpin? This lock shouldn’t be too hard to pick.”
It took only moments for Paul to use my hairpin to jimmy the lock. He turned the handle and opened the door. I wasn’t surprised that the room was empty.
Paul didn’t seem surprised, either—but really, I thought, how could I tell? I had no idea what he truly thought about anything.
“We should have kept a better eye on her.” He sighed. “Stay here, Angel—I’m going to check the woods.”
I kept my mouth shut and watched him disappear down the narrow path.
When he returned, he looked distressed. “Not out there,” he said, glancing back toward the woods. “I’m sure she could hide herself pretty well out there—all those thick trees, and she knows those woods like the back of her hand. But I looked around, and . . .” He shrugged. “I just get a sense that’s not where she is.”
“What are you going to do?”
He looked a bit lost, and for a minute my heart melted for him. And then I remembered that, for all I knew, he wasn’t the least bit confused.
There was no way to know, really, when he was being authentic and when he wasn’t.
The telephone rang, and Paul dove for it. He listened, then replied, “Yes, I understand. Of course . . . yes, we’re happy to cooperate. Thank you. We’ll be on our way shortly.”
He hung up and turned to me. “That was the police,” he said. “They want us to move out. Everything around here is evidence, all of the sudden. They want us to go to a hotel for a few days while they sweep the place.” He took a sip of coffee, then set down his cup. “We’ll have to call your parents,” he said. “Let them know we can’t come home tomorrow, that we probably need to stay a few more days at least. We need to be here for Ruby, Angel. The police won’t let her go, and we can’t just leave her alone to handle this by herself. Who knows what they’re looking for?”
“But that’s—why?” I asked. “Can the police do that? Just come in and go through everything?”
He shrugged. “Apparently, they can. I’ll check with the lawyer—I don’t know any more about this kind of thing than you do, Angel. But in the meantime, we may as well go.” He nodded toward the hallway to the bedrooms. “You go pack,” he said. “I can help, if you like. I could take care of the baby’s things—”
“No!” I heard the sharpness in my voice and immediately toned it down. “No, I mean—you don’t need to do that. I have it . . . ” My voice trailed off, and then I said, “It’s all organized just as I want it. I need to pack it so that I can find things.”
Paul smiled. “Well, I should know to leave the woman’s work for the woman,” he said. “Just be efficient, would you, Angel? I’ll call Mr. Kurtz and your parents. Then I’ll go throw a few things in a bag for Ruby.”
• • •
“They said we were to go to a nearby motor inn—it’s just down the highway,” Paul told me as he loaded the suitcases into the trunk of the rental car. “They’re expecting us. The county is putting us up. The cops said to relax and rest, and they’ll let us know as soon as we can go back to the house.”
“And Mr. Kurtz said it was okay?”
Paul nodded. “He said if they have a warrant, there’s nothing else we can do.” As we pulled away from the house, Paul’s look turned to scorn. “I can’t fathom what they’re looking for. And even if they did find anything, would it hold up in court? I doubt it. The whole place has been compromised. How long has it been—almost a week since they found Henry’s body? Can’t imagine a jury would believe any evidence in that house is clean.”
Though I could tell he was trying to sound confident, I caught the hint of hesitation in his voice. But as he warmed up, he seemed more genuinely certain. “How many people have been in and out of there since September twenty-sixth?” he asked. “You, me, Ruby, the baby, those cops yesterday morning.” His expression turned bitter. “Even that Negro, for God’s sake.”
“Heavens, Paul,” I snapped. “You can’t tell me you’d in any way involve that lovely woman!”
“Lovely?” Paul scoffed. “She had knowledge written all over her face. She’s the type that knows things but stays quiet until it suits her. Sneaky. She was a sneaky type. I could tell from the moment I met her. I wish I hadn’t agreed to have her over. I wish I hadn’t let her be alone with Ruby.”
What nonsense. I looked out the window.
Paul reached across and touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Angel,” he said, and I turned back to see what appeared to be a sincerely contrite expression on his face. “This is all so stressful,” he went on. “This is . . . I’ve never had to do anything like this before. And all I want to do is go home and grieve Henry, and get back to my painting . . .” He drifted off.
He played his part so skillfully, I thought. Well, I could do that, too.
I reached up to my shoulder and tightened my hand around his. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “It’s okay, Paul. I’m here for you.” I glanced again out the window, then turned back to him, putting a smile on my face. “We’re in this together.”
• • •
As soon as we’d settled in our first-floor motel room, Paul put his jacket back on. “I’m going to look for Ruby,” he said. “I have a feeling I know where she is.”
“Where?”
He frowned. “I shouldn’t say,” he told me. “Just trust me, okay?”
I didn’t answer. Silently, I watched him back up the Fairlane and leave the motel’s parking lot.
I took Jean Kellerman’s business card from my purse and traced my fingers over the office address for the Stonekill Gazette. Then I picked up the telephone and called for a taxi.
The newspaper office was in tiny downtown Stonekill. A bell over the door jangled as I entered. The building was small, with a reception desk and a few other desks in a main room. From somewhere in back, I heard machinery running. Printing press, I decided.
The receptionist greeted me and asked how she could help, but before I could answer, Jean Kellerman stood up from her desk in the back of the room. “Angie,” she said, coming forward. “So good to see you again.” She patted PJ’s head.
I nodded and asked if I could see last Friday’s edition of the Stonekill Gazette.
After giving me the paper, Jean went back to her desk and resumed her work. I sat in the reception area, baby on my lap, paper spread out on the chair next to me. I skimmed Jean’s article on the front page, then turned to page 3, as instructed
.
So Violent . . .
[continued from page 1]
Glass, a transient who has spent time off and on in Stonekill over the years, was accused of putting a Stonekill High School female student in a compromising position. No charges were filed in the incident, but according to the student’s account, Mr. Glass made advances toward her when she went to the home of Mrs. Kristina Hawke, Stonekill High School’s principal, to walk Mrs. Hawke’s dog as requested by the principal. At the time, Mr. Glass was living with Mrs. Hawke in her home, though the pair was not married. After the incident, Mr. Glass left Stonekill. It is unknown whether he has returned here in the interim.
Upon learning that Mr. Paul Glass was again in Stonekill in the wake of his brother’s death and his sister-in-law’s disappearance—this time properly accompanied by a wife and infant son—this reporter attempted to contact the family of the student involved in the 1951 incident. The family refused to comment.
In a statement, Mrs. Hawke said only, “We at Stonekill High School are saddened to learn of the death of a student’s father. We mourn together as a community, and we pray for healing for the student and her family in the coming weeks.”
There are many unanswered questions in this mysterious case, and many riddles that the police—not to mention innocent young Mrs. Angie Glass—must solve.
I carefully folded the newspaper and placed it on a side table. Jean stopped typing. She met my eyes, then came over and sat next to me.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked. Her voice was surprisingly gentle. She didn’t sound like a reporter chasing after a story. She sounded like a friend. She spoke to me like Joyce or Alice might, and I had to blink back tears.
“Thank you, Jean. But no.” I stood, hoisting the baby onto my hip.
Jean also stood. She seemed to hesitate a moment, and then she leaned toward me. “I heard the police brought Ruby in for questioning.”
I nodded. “Yes, but she’s not been charged with anything.” I shifted my purse strap higher on my shoulder. “I suppose you already know that, too.”
“I do.” Jean looked through the newspaper office’s storefront windows. Few people moved about the quiet old downtown. She turned back toward me. “Angie, you know Ruby wasn’t brought in because of my article, don’t you? The police won’t investigate based on a reporter’s speculation.” She shook her head. “Something else must have happened to make them suspect Silja.”
I shrugged. “Well, I don’t know what that is. Paul says he doesn’t, either.”
I closed my mouth. There was no need to tell her I didn’t believe Paul.
Jean was silent, too, as if considering how to respond. PJ burbled happily and grabbed my earlobe. I tenderly extracted it from his fingers.
“You know,” Jean said. “You might want to go see Kristina Hawke. She and Silja . . . well, they were friends at one time. Don’t hold what happened with Kristina and your husband against Kristina. She can come off rather brash, but deep down she means well.”
I asked for directions to the high school; Jean told me it was only a few blocks away. Then she put her hand on my arm. “Here . . .” She reached for one of her cards from the business card holder on the receptionist’s desk and scribbled a number on the back. “That’s my home number. You call me anytime, Angie. Anytime at all.”
• • •
The high school was just past the main part of town, on a sloping hillside. After catching my breath from walking uphill with a baby in my arms, I went inside and found the front office.
“Mrs. Hawke expecting you?” the secretary asked, when I inquired whether or not the principal was in, and if so, if I could have a few minutes of the woman’s time.
“No, she . . . well, it’s a personal matter. I only need a moment with her.” I tried to sound grown-up, and I stood as tall as I could. I was aware of my button nose and the headband I wore. Except for the baby in my arms, I looked more like a student here than an adult.
“Well, have a seat, miss, and I’ll see if she’s available.”
“Ma’am,” I said. “It’s ma’am.” But the secretary was already facing away from me, speaking into an intercom, and she either didn’t hear or simply ignored what I said.
58
* * *
Ruby
Early in the morning, Ruby walks down to Route 202 to the drugstore on the corner. She slips a dime into the pay phone outside the store. The call she makes is brief.
Afterward, she slips back the long way, through the cemetery. She hides in her family’s woods—not too far in, close enough to see the birdcage, to see and hear anything that happens, but far enough that she can’t be seen from inside.
In a short while Uncle Paul and Aunt Angie drive off, just as she expects them to.
• • •
Still, she waits. There doesn’t seem to be much reason to go anywhere else. She sits on the rock and hugs her knees and smokes. Warm sunshine is beginning to dry out the soggy woods, making everything around her sparkle.
Eventually Ruby heads back to the birdcage and to her room. She takes a good look around. She feels bad about the books she’s leaving behind, but not about much else. She grabs To Kill a Mockingbird and stuffs it in her pocketbook.
In her mother’s room, Ruby takes a few other items, slipping them deep into her patchwork bag. She heads to the living room and stuffs her grandmother’s shawl in the bag, too.
After that, she goes back to the woods. Back into hiding.
Back to playing her part.
59
* * *
Angie
Mrs. Hawke looked like her name. She had a large, hooked nose, and although she wasn’t tall, she was buxom and solid in her figure. She shook my hand firmly and didn’t flinch when I gave my name.
“Mrs. Glass,” she said as we sat down. A wry smile played across the principal’s lips. “What a delight to meet you. And your little boy.” She glanced at PJ, perched on my lap.
I fished a rattle from my purse for the baby to play with. “Thank you for . . . taking the time to meet with me,” I said softly, and was immediately annoyed by the hesitancy in my own voice.
“And what can I do for you, Mrs. Glass?”
I didn’t know how to begin. I’d expected condolences on the family’s loss, or questions about how Ruby was doing. But Mrs. Hawke simply leaned back and waited.
“I . . . well, I came to see you about . . .” I looked down, my face flushed, and then looked back up. This was ridiculous. I needed to gather my resolve. I took a breath and said, “I just wondered what you might know about the Glass family.” I looked toward the window, then back again. “What you know of Henry and Silja. What you think may have happened to them.”
Mrs. Hawke grimaced. “My understanding is that Henry took poison. There’s an assumption that it was suicide.” She fiddled with some papers on her desk. “Tragic. Must be terrible for Paul. And for Ruby.”
There was sympathy in her voice, but it felt false to me. Clearly, this woman did not feel the least bit sorry for Paul—or even for Ruby.
Did that mean she thought Ruby was aware Silja had killed Henry? If that was even true, that is.
“And Silja?” I asked. “Where do you think she is?”
The principal shook her head. “Ah, Silja.” She smiled, looking down at her desk. “She could be anywhere, couldn’t she?” Mrs. Hawke looked up at me, as if waiting for confirmation.
“Ruby was questioned yesterday,” I blurted out. “The police wonder what she knows about her father’s death. They . . .” I paused, and then went on. “They suspect Silja of killing Henry.”
Mrs. Hawke seemed to be composing her thoughts. “And do you believe that, Mrs. Glass?” she finally asked. “Do you think Silja could have done such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I’m here. I thought you might . . .” My eyes met Mrs. Hawke’s. “You know Silja, don’t you?” I looked down, then back again. “You�
��re friends, or at least you were.”
Mrs. Hawke regarded me carefully, and then said, “Yes, it’s true Silja and I were friends at one time.”
“You didn’t come to her husband’s funeral.” I gave the principal what I hoped was a stern, grown-up look. “Even if you knew Silja wouldn’t be there, you could have come to be supportive. You could have supported Ruby.”
“Miss Wells did that,” the principal pointed out. “We agreed that was more appropriate.”
“Because you had an affair with my husband?” I said boldly. “I read the article in last Friday’s newspaper, you know.”
Mrs. Hawke chuckled. “I’m sure you did.” The older woman looked out the window, then back at me. “Look, Mrs. Glass, in not attending the funeral, I was trying to show compassion toward your husband. I didn’t think he’d want me there.” She leaned forward. “In recent years, Paul developed a distaste for me, as you probably know,” she said. “As a matter of fact, so did Henry. I was not a favorite of either Glass brother.”
“Why?” I asked. “I understand about Paul, but why Henry?”
Mrs. Hawke snorted. “Henry Glass believed I’m a Communist,” she said. “He wasn’t the first to make that accusation, either. It doesn’t take much, in a little town—even one that falsely thinks of itself as oh-so-modern as this one—to be accused of such a thing. Hire a Negro to teach literature—of all things!—to a group of mostly white teenagers.” Her arm swept across the desk. “Do that, and you’ve pretty much sealed your fate.”
“Miss Wells.”
“Yes. Miss Wells. I fought the school board long and hard to get her hired, because she was—she is—the best of the best. But they didn’t see it that way, and neither did Henry. He saw me as friend of the Negroes. Friend of the socialists and the Jews. Friend of everyone outside the establishment. So, clearly, a Communist. Is that not so, Mrs. Glass?”
The Glass Forest Page 28
