Sweeping Up Glass

by Carolyn Wall

  I carried my lunch to school in a tin—bread with no butter and a salted boiled potato. In summer a peach or an apricot. Nobody else was any better off.

  Before long, Pap and I ate corn cakes and brown beans five nights a week. Ida stayed mostly in her bed, picking at yellow waxed beans and hard-boiled eggs that Pap ordered me to send in on a tray. She curled her nose at everything and drank mostly weak tea with a bit of sugar. Fruit, she said, blistered her tongue and overworked her kidneys. Meat made her blood dark, milk tied up her bowels. She complained that her legs cramped, and her head pounded. She was in danger of collapsing. When Pap questioned her, she called him an ass, and screamed for me ten times a day, just to tell me I’d gotten on her nerves. We were, she told us, the reason for her demise.

  Doc Pritchett, examining her, said there was nothing wrong, and no death was imminent. She should, in fact, get out of bed and find something to occupy her time. Ida called him a quack of the first order.

  13

  Finally Ida asked Pap to find her a Bible, for which he paid ninety-five cents at a store in Buelton, and she began to read aloud. But the scripture was heavy, running over me like a logging wagon. The beatitudes affirmed I was going to hell. One day I said so. Ida put on her coat and, taking a bread knife, ventured out on the narrow length of our land—as far as the first incline, where she cut a switch from a green willow tree. Thereafter, she used it to whip me regularly in the name of the Lord.

  I fervently wished she’d climb on Sanderson and ride off preaching to somebody else. Meanwhile—if she lashed me for my cooking one more time, I was going to put her eyes out with a fork.

  Christmas morning, Pap killed one of our last three chickens, and I stuffed it with bread and baked it, gizzards and all. I made custard with eggs and a little sugar, and threw the shells to the chickens, which made me think about how all things come around. That, after all, must be why Ida’d come home.

  Pap stayed in that day. Mid-morning, while Ida was in the outhouse, he slipped me a sweet red apple and two spools of thread—one silver, one gold. I had never seen anything so beautiful. In the afternoon, while we sat at the table and burned wood in the stove, the precious thread rode in the pocket of my apron. Pap and I recalled funny Christmases and other holidays from years gone by while Ida held her Bible and looked off out the window. I fetched the pair of lace hankies I’d been stitching, sat working them by the light of the bulb, and for a while things felt almost good. It was the closest the three of us had ever been.

  And then, in January, it was Ida’s birthday, and Pap was treating us to supper at Ruse’s. I suspected he didn’t trust me to cook that night, and he was right not to. A pinch of nightshade, sprinkled on her potato, would’ve put Ida away forever.

  She and I were to meet Pap at the cafe at six o’clock, him coming from the settlement of Lansing.

  Several large families lived there, growing their own food, raising and butchering hogs so that they seldom needed to come to town. When they did, however, and we’d pass one of them on the street, Ida’d call loudly, “Would you look at the weight of that woman. Good Lord!”

  Tonight Pap was out amongst them, delivering a stubborn litter of kittens. He told me later how Mrs. Nailhow had wrung her hands and wept, three or four of the children bawling with her.

  But at five-thirty in our kitchen, Ida was ready. She wore her best cream-colored linen, with a bow at the collar and pearl buttons at the wrist. Her hair was rolled back on both sides and hung in a wheat-colored froth down her back. She had not gained a single pound in the time she’d been home, and was as fine-boned as a bird.

  She shoved me into the closet Pap was converting to a toilet stall, and put me in front of the mirror. I was as tall as she was, my hair was thick and coarse, a red-brown color. Ida said it looked like I’d been dipped in red ink and left to dry in a nor’easter. She rolled it in her hands now, and stuck a comb in the back. Then two more to hold it, and turning me around, she pinched my cheeks. Then she looked down.

  “Olivia Harker, you get out of those trousers, now!” she said. “Young ladies do not wear men’s britches under their skirts.”

  Ida jerked up my dress and unfastened my britches as quick as that. I held on to them and pulled free of her hold, but in another instant we were on the floor, she tugging on my trouser legs, grunting and swearing. I ripped the bow from her dress, and we tumbled around the bedroom—me whacking my head on the footboard of the bed, and Ida yelling, “Dammit, Olivia, you are a heathen child—act like a lady for—my goddamn birthday!” To be so little, she had a mighty wrath, and she rolled on top of me, pinning my legs. At which moment I slapped her good.

  But she had me by the hair, and banged my head on the floor. I heaved her off, and we lay glaring and red-faced, breathing heat into each other’s mouths. My trousers may have been tangled around my knees, but her hair had come loose, and two buttons were ripped from her dress. Somehow, all that struck me as funny. I’d given as much as I’d got.

  “I will wear my hair down,” I said.

  “The trousers come off.”

  “I’ll freeze to death.”

  “You will not freeze. I’ll give you stockings to wear.”

  “I hate stockings,” I said.

  But I got them anyway, skinny-legged brown things with ribs that bristled and pinched at the crotch. She changed into a brown plaid dress that hung a size too big on her, but it didn’t matter. Ida looked like a picture in any damn thing. She fluffed out her hair and tied it with a brown grosgrain ribbon. Now she was the child, and I the old woman.

  In silence, we pulled on our boots, coats, scarves, and mittens, and we trekked down the road toward Ruse’s in the early dark. We were late; Pap would be waiting for us.

  “You will not mention this to your father,” she huffed, her breath forming clouds.

  “Why?” I said. “Are you afraid he’ll think you’ve gone crazy again? That he’ll send you back to Buelton?”

  We turned to cross the stone bridge, and she snorted. “If I were you, young lady, I’d watch my step. There are places for disobedient children, homes for unruly girls. They sleep on bare mattresses and get bread and water to eat. They work their fingers to the bone and are beaten every day of their lives.”

  It was an icy night, and the road slickly polished. I kept to the side, where the snow had been thrown by traffic and my boots found purchase. “I never heard of such a thing.”

  She looked at me. There was still a slight imprint where my hand had laid into her cheek. “Your father and I have talked about this. Believe me when I tell you—you are on the edge.”

  14

  We crossed over to Main Street where the lights were on in Ruse’s window. There was no one out—not a single horse, nor a wagon. When we pushed open the door and went in, we were the only customers. Ida pulled off her cap and put on a sunny expression. “Mr. Ruse, are we too late for supper?”

  Ruse, the elder, looked up from behind the counter where he was reading a newspaper. “You’re sure not, Miz Harker. Olivia. You two go on and take a seat, and I’ll bring you a menu.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ida said as though she were a fine lady and he had offered to carry her across a river. I wanted to gag.

  The cafe was L-shaped, the remaining space being taken up by the barbershop next door. Mrs. Ruse stayed pretty much in the kitchen while her husband presided over a counter with seven stools, and five wooden tables with chairs. Each table held salt and pepper, a sugar bowl, and a small covered dish of Mrs. Ruse’s homemade chili sauce. There was a high glass counter by the door, and a cash register where Ruse rang up bills owed and sold Chiclets and peppermint patties wrapped in waxed paper.

  Ida chose a table by the window, as if she wanted to be seen by any passers-by. She sat smoothing the front of her dress, in case Big Ruse hadn’t noticed the shape of her.

  He brought two glasses of water and menus. She laid a hand on his arm. “Can you tell me, please, what time it is.”
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  “Six-thirty,” he said, blushing slightly. I guess he wasn’t used to being touched by any woman other than his missus.

  I shook my head and studied the menu.

  “How are you, Olivia?” he said.

  “I’m guess I’m fine, Mr. Ruse. I’d like—”

  But Ida shushed me with a flutter of her hand. She looked up at Big Ruse and smiled. Her teeth were so white I could have read by them.

  Ruse smiled back, curving the bottom half of his face. He looked plain silly.

  “I’ll have a cup of coffee while I’m makin’ up my mind,” she said. “And milk for the girl.”

  She had taken to calling me “the girl” lately, like she had forgotten my real name. I knew what I wanted to eat, but as often happened when Ida was around, no sound came out of my mouth.

  When Ruse came back with our drinks, Ida laughed and patted his leg with her menu. “It’s my birthday, and my husband was bringing me here as a treat—but it seems he’s been detained. I think, dear Mr. Ruse, that we’ll go ahead and order.”

  “No problem, Miz Harker,” Big Ruse said. “If Tate don’t make it, he can settle up later. And I’ll include a slice of pie for each of you as my birthday gift.”

  “Why, aren’t you the sweetest thing,” she said, smiling.

  If Ida kept this up, her face would crack, or I was going to throw up on the table, one.

  “Well, what do you recommend?”

  “Turkey pie’s done to a turn, Miz Harker. Fix you up with two a them.”

  “I want beefsteak,” I said, because that’s what Pap would have ordered. “Cooked lightly, please. Red inside.”

  Ida waved her menu. “The girl doesn’t know what’s good for her. We’ll have two helpings of turkey pie.”

  I watched through the window, praying Pap would come. But he did not, so I looked around, although I knew the place like the back of my hand. On hot summer days, Big Ruse often had set a glass of cold water in front of me on the counter. He was also famous for his biscuits and honey, which Pap had sometimes treated me to on Saturday mornings. I knew his son, a few years older than me and homely as dish soap. His first name was actually Cornelius—no wonder he never used it. We called him Little Ruse.

  Just now, Little Ruse was scuttling around, wiping off tables, filling salt shakers, and unable to take his eyes off Ida.

  Wedges of turkey pie came, with thick gravy and a biscuit on the side and pats of butter. And so did Mr. French, and Mr. Andrews who had just closed his barbershop. They sat together, ate slabs of chocolate cake and drank coffee, looking in our direction and talking in low voices. I hunched over my plate. Ida sent them smiles that were both brilliant and quivery. I spread butter on my biscuit and stuffed half in my mouth.

  Little Ruse wiped the table next to ours. “Hey, Olivia,” he said.

  I could hear his mama in the kitchen, banging pans and spoons. “Hey,” I said around the bread.

  He grinned at me, and Ida saw it. She put down her fork. “Olivia Harker,” she said, “I won’t have this boy makin’ eyes at you. If you are doin’ anything a-moral with him …”

  I was mortally embarrassed. Little Ruse, with his flapping-big ears and his quarter-of-an-inch haircut, darted away to the kitchen. I did not see him again that night.

  “Oh, Mr. Ru-use,” Ida called, and he came with the coffee pot and refilled her cup.

  I wished with all my heart that Pap would show up. Then I could have a bite or two of his steak, and he would tell me about the Nailhows’ cat, and the news from the settlement. I hoped there was somebody out there to give him a ride. Otherwise, Pap might not be home for a long time.

  Ida had her hand on Big Ruse’s leg. “Goodness, I admire a man who runs his own business. It takes such courage.” To my astonishment—and probably Ruse’s—she hooked his leg with her hand and pulled him close so that she was talking directly into his belt buckle.

  Ruse kept looking off to the kitchen. I wondered what he thought about Pap’s wife playing up to him. But Ruse obviously was not thinking at all. His own flopping ears had turned red as Christmas bulbs, and his eyes were coming out of his head. I couldn’t wait to tell Love Alice that I’d seen Big Ruse nearly breathing smoke with his need to stick his business into Ida. If Love Alice was right, he’d blow up into a toad any minute. I wanted to crawl under the table.

  Ida looked up at him. “Here I am talking on and on. If you’re ready to bring our pie, Mr. Ruse, I’d love it if you’d join us.”

  I never heard his reply. I jerked my coat from the rack and ran out of the cafe as if wildcats were after me. I had witnessed Ida whoring with Big Ruse, and I would never come back.

  I was no more than two steps into the road when a shiny new truck came roaring along under the streetlamps. Through the windscreen I could see Alton Phelps’ face, and I guessed that was his brother, James Arnold, with him. They fishtailed on the ice, and by the time they opened their doors and fell out, I was miserable over not having run for my life.

  Too late, I dodged.

  But Alton was already reaching for my arm, and he slammed me up against the truck. “All right, girlie,” he said, sounding like his tongue was too big for his mouth. “You go on and leave us alone with Ida Mae now. We’ll fetch up with you when it’s time.”

  I wrenched free, cut between buildings, and set off across the field. Before long, the stumpy ice slowed me down, but at least I could no longer see, or be seen from, Main Street, the dark hotel, or the bakery with its kitchen light on. It was bitterly cold. After a while, my boots filled with snow, and the wind whipped so fierce that it froze my ears. They hurt clear to the middle of my head, and I clapped my hands over them, but my fingers already ached like rows of bad teeth. I was not going back to Ruse’s for my scarf and mittens. Instead I would find Pap, and when I did I’d tell him what happened.

  But I could not remember which was the turnoff to Lansing. After a while, I began to cry with the cold. The cold wind howled. I longed for the trousers I’d given up in the fight. Worse, I could no longer feel my feet, and before long fell into a deep snowbank. Whimpering for Pap, I spotted faint light far away, and I cut through a field, struggling over the frozen stalks of last summer’s corn, and sinking into blown drifts.

  Finally I just lay there and closed my eyes. If I was going to die here, I hoped Pap would find me and be sorry he’d ever brought Ida home. But there were three sets of lights, and one of them not too far off. I hobbled along, hearing dogs bark and fearful of being eaten alive. It was likely dogs would drag my bones off for burying, and then nobody would know how I’d suffered at all. Maybe they’d have an all-out search with great weeping when they found me. If that happened, I hoped it was not Big Ruse who found my frozen body. On the other hand, if he did, maybe he’d remember what a fool he acted on the night of Ida’s birthday, and be mortally sorry.

  On my knees, I slid down an embankment and across a creek where the ice was jagged but did not break under me. Then I made my way across a yard and knocked on the first door I came to. Mrs. Nailhow opened it.

  I fell into her arms. Then Pap was there, the cat’s blood on his shirt, and he carried me to her sofa and laid me down. Mrs. Nailhow took off my boots and stripped away my torn stockings. My legs were clotted with blood, and burned like fire. My hair stuck out in frozen spikes and Pap cautioned her not to touch it, for fear of it breaking off. She set to rubbing my feet, and several of the Nailhow children rubbed, too, until I cried out with the pain, and I stumbled to the kitchen to where Pap sat on the floor beside the poor mewling cat.

  Poor thing, she was worse off than I. Pap had muzzled her and bound her paws so that she could not claw him. With one hand he kneaded her swollen belly, and with two fingers of the other he probed inside her.

  “How one cat can have so many ass-backward kits—” he said, looking at me, but not seeing. He was thinking about Mrs. Higgins’ innards. He’d rescued three kittens already. If I’d been the fourth he’d have seen me better, a
nd bandaged my hurts. He laid the kittens beside their mother.

  Suddenly I was embarrassed by my bare and wounded legs, and I pulled my knees up under my skirt so Pap could not see the mess I was.

  “I count two more,” he said. “Gotta take ’em slow, or she’ll bleed to death.”

  I suspected Pap hadn’t remembered Ida’s birthday dinner at all, and I was not going to mention it. He’d hear about that soon enough. I wondered if, by now, Mrs. Ruse had come out of her kitchen and beaten Ida to death with a frying pan. Sitting there in the warmth of the Nailhows’ kitchen, it occurred to me, further, to ask Pap about this home for wayward girls. But I held my tongue. And I watched the cat. One thing was sure—if having babies amounted to this, I’d never let a man have his way with me. He could keep his trousers buttoned. And it was all the same to me if he swelled up and exploded all over Pope County.

  15

  One night toward the end of winter, Pap came home, banging his boots on the porch and shouting for Ida.

  “Lord love a duck, Tate Harker, what’s the matter with you?” She came out of the bedroom with a wool shawl around her and her hair mussed from sleeping.

  “Put your coats on,” he said, looking from one of us to the other. “Come on out and see this.”

  “I can’t see nothin’ in the dark,” she said.

  But Pap shooed us down the steps and around the house, and there, pulled up against a snowbank, was a pickup truck. Its front end was beat in so bad, it looked like the Phelps boys had used it to pound out their meanness. Only one headlight worked, laying its beam crookedly across our yard. The passenger door was roped shut.