Sweeping Up Glass

by Carolyn Wall

  From the door, I say, “One more thing. Tell me, again, about when Pap died.”

  Her sigh is enormous. “That night, they carried him home.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t remember, Olivia. Whoever came along and found the two of you. He was all busted up. They laid him out on the bed, and I washed him proper and put his best suit of clothes on him.”

  “Was there a service? Did anyone come to say a prayer over him?”

  “They did not. Nobody cared. The next morning I sent for a coffin, and I dug a hole and buried him.”

  “And that was that.”

  She draws her blanket up around her face.

  I take myself off up the hill behind Ida’s cabin, and find a shady spot with little snow. It’s not as easy to fling myself facedown on the earth these days, but I do it with a cracking of knee joints, and grunting like an old hog. It’s good to have my arms and legs spread out on the ground. But it’s winter, and a slow freeze comes to the left side of my face while I take stock of things.

  Wherever this bitterness in Ida is coming from, it’s driving her clean out of her head. Wing’s wife is dead. The boy has cottoned to creatures we can’t save, and wolves are dying almost every day. Further, if I freeze to death here, the world will go on without me. Ida will, one day, wander from her cabin, drop into the creek, and be swept off to a better place. Wing might even marry again. But what would the boy do? And what would become of the wolves?

  “Gran?” says Will’m, whose boots I now see, and who was, at one time, accustomed to finding me like this. “You all right, down there?”

  I raise up on my knees, brush off the snow. “I am fine, boy.”

  He’s still in his nightshirt and coat and hat. Perhaps he is more like me than I think. “Well, I’ve caught us a squirrel and two rats.”

  I reach for his hand. “Good. Give the rats to the goats, we’re not ready to eat them yet. Go on and skin the squirrel, put it in the pot, and bury it by the back step. I’ll cook it this evening.”

  He grins and nods and treks off to the house. I am not far behind. I’m not looking forward to the funeral, and just thinking about it sours my mood.

  38

  Will’m has taken care of the squirrel, lopping off its head and feet, gutting and skinning it. In my kitchen, I wash dishes. He comes in and dries them without a word, pours a little honey and milk in a pan, and feeds the cubs with the dropper. The pups’ ribs heave when they swallow. I’ve thought every day that another one would surely give up. But their tummies are growing rounder. Their eyes close, and Will’m tucks them back in their box while I put the dishes away.

  In the alcove, he pulls his nightshirt off over his head, and when he’s standing shivering and leggy in his underdrawers, I realize he’s not a little boy anymore. He buttons on the freshly pressed shirt I’ve laid out.

  I have a plain black dress with white collar and cuffs. I made it ten years ago. It’s got a row of white glass buttons down the front, and it still fits around my middle. In the piece of mirror, I don’t look too bad, brushing my hair, twisting it this way and that to see what’s best. Finally I pile it on top of my head and pin it with two silver clips. In my bureau drawer is a box of powder, and I apply some to my face, pinching in color. I’m glad my dress is long enough to hide my boots, and I vow that when there’s money enough, I will buy a pair of real shoes.

  With Will’m beside me, I drive the pickup six miles to the graveyard. There’ll be a crowd, and Miz Grace Harris will go into the earth knowing she’s loved. She knew who she was. I, on the other hand, know who I am when I’m selling vanilla and cardamom, or baking a brown sugar cake with Will’m. When I’m with Love Alice, I’m sure and strong. But something happens when I’m alone. When there are no other eyes to reflect my own, a great doubt blindsides me, and in those moments I wonder if I’m here at all.

  Maybe it’s Wing. As hard as I tried to rid myself of them, and as weary as I became, my feelings have never quite gone away. Or maybe it’s not Wing at all, but something else that’s left me wounded. Like missing Pap, or the lukewarm way I felt about Saul. On the other hand, could be I’m only getting an ingrown toenail, or waddling into the change of life. Perhaps I need a man to lay me down in the leaves on Cooper’s Ridge. Or maybe it’s all in my head.

  I’m always amazed when grave diggers crack through ice to bury a body. Sometimes, though, a funeral has to wait for a thaw, with the winter dead piling up like cordwood.

  Today, a path has been cleared through the snow, and Will’m and I make our way through mourners that huddle in overcoats and scarves, their hands in their pockets. The coloreds are off to one side. Will’m and I stand with Junk and Love Alice and take our share of looks from the Anatoles and the Standishes, Misters French and Andrews. Little Ruse waves. Miz Phelps sees us, and she lifts a hand, too, till her husband takes her by the arm.

  I can’t hear the service, but I can see the Reverend—the pastor of the Presbyterian church in Paramus. Wing’s head is bowed. It was the biggest surprise of my life, him calling on me when Miz Grace was dying. But he looks up and sees me, and although I could be wrong, it seems his shoulders ease some.

  The pastor declares an amen. Two men in suits and tight overcoats lower the casket. Folks file by in silent tribute, there being no flowers to drop in the hole. Then they drift off to their cars and snake back along the road to town, where they drive up every which way in front of Wing’s hotel. I park in the alley, and while the rest cluster on the sidewalk, I’m the first one in.

  In the lobby, it’s dark and quiet. I pull off my cape and shake out my hat. In a few minutes, Wing comes, too. I hear a Hey, Wing from the doorway, and there’s Big Ruse and his family, and behind him is Darvis Butler, who owns the butcher shop in Buelton. Before long, the lobby, the halls, and the kitchen fill up. People overflow into the private front room where it looks like Wing spent last night. I fold his blankets and carry them to the bedroom, tuck them away in the wardrobe. The bedding in the rosebud room has been changed, the sick-room things removed, but my pink quiltie is folded across the foot of the bed.

  In the kitchen, Wing stands by the window, looking out at the verandah he built over his garden so that his guests might sit there in summer. Snow covers it, now. Behind him, a half dozen ladies are already setting out cobblers and pies, casseroles and sliced beef. The table, the sideboard, every kitchen inch is filling with food. They nod at me. Although I’m usually the first to arrive with scalloped potatoes or beans and bread, today it never occurred to me. I touch Wing’s shoulder, and when he turns, I put my arms around him. We rock back and forth, back and forth, and deep in his throat he makes a soft, frail sound that weakens my knees.

  When we were children, I knew Wing’s body, his heart, and his soul. But in all the years since then, the only time we’ve spoken was politely when someone wed, or grew ill, or died. Dismal decades of Best Regards. Now his body feels strange to me, this man grown old instead of the boy. I let him go.

  He says, “I knew you’d come back. I knew it.”

  I figure all things come full circle. We are born, then we live and die, and so it goes. A tree buds, its leaves are green, and then yellow. They drop and turn to earth through winter. Then spring comes, and the whole thing begins again. Of course I came back, but with all new feelings. Somehow, I’m irritated, but this is not the time to tell him that.

  There are so many people in the kitchen, I don’t think anyone sees us. Wing fishes for his handkerchief. “It’s such a relief,” he says. “I should feel bad saying that, but—”

  “No, you shouldn’t.”

  He wipes his face and blows his nose. His eyes are dark gray and his face pulled tight. “I did what I could, Olivia. All that I had was hers.”

  His words cramp my belly and wrench my heart, but I know them to be the truth. They add to whatever’s turned sour inside me.

  “You did your best,” I say. “Every minute, day and night.”

  H
e blows his nose again, reminding me of Will’m, who has two kerchiefs in his own pocket. I wonder where he is, and if he knows there’s cake.

  “Shall I make us some coffee?”

  He draws in a shuddery breath that makes me want to forget what I feel and wrap him up in my very best quilt. “Tea, please. I guess I should go and speak to some folks.”

  He goes into the hall. I see now that there is an enormous pot of coffee perking—Ruse’s urn from across the street—but I fill the kettle and put the strainer over the pot and add tea leaves. Folks are picking up plates. I cut angel food cakes and ladle up steaming greens with pink ham hock, and hand out slices of brown bread with a dollop of butter. For a few minutes, I’m glad I have something to do.

  Will’m is nowhere in sight—not in the kitchen nor the lobby, nor Wing’s parlor. He isn’t outside, neither front nor back. I take the stairs to the first floor—hoping he has not begun to feel worse and gone to lie down. But there he is, in the first room I happen upon, lounging in a rocker while the hired girl, Molly, makes a bed and runs the carpet sweeper. She’s a pretty thing with peachy skin, her yellow hair tied back in a scarf, and she’s talking ninety to nothing.

  When I come in, Will’m flushes around the ears, but Molly goes right on.

  “Morning, Miz Cross,” she says, pushing the sweeper under the bed and around the bureau.

  “Molly. Will’m. There’s chocolate layer cake downstairs.”

  “Yes’m,” Will’m says. “I was kind of waiting on Molly, here. It’s all right if she has dinner, too?”

  This is a new wrinkle to which I must adjust.

  I tell him, “Both of you go on down when you’re finished, and get whatever you want.”

  “Oh, Miz Cross,” Molly says. “I’d be big as two barrels if I did that. ’Course, I work it off up here, these ol’ men not knowin’ how to leave a room. Sheets all in a knot, don’t never put the lid down on the commode—”

  Will’m blushes again and sniffles.

  “Wing has guests?” I say.

  “Oh, yes’m. They set up here nights, drinking and talking. Some of ’em’s probably downstairs right now, grabbin’ a free meal. I guess they know Mr. Wing—and Miz Grace, she was nice to everybody.”

  “How many hunters are there?”

  “Oh, goodness, quite a few.”

  I wonder what the price of membership is. “Molly, do you ever see Alton Phelps here? I mean, does he come to visit with them?”

  “No, ma’am. ’Course I only work three days after school, and Saturday mornings.”

  “How long do these hunters stay?”

  “Two, three weeks. Not always the same. Funny, though, if they bag anything, I don’t ever see it. I think they’re up to something.”

  Of course there’s no game, I think, but I must ask: “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s like they’re playing,” she says, “and telling secrets. They whisper and point and laugh and whisper some more.”

  “You ever hear what they’re saying?”

  “No, ma’am. They hush up when somebody comes around. They give me the willies. Mr. Wing’s nice to them, but I don’t think he trusts them, either.”

  Food for thought. “Well, come down soon and eat,” I say.

  Downstairs, folks are chatting and less somber now. It’s almost an hour before Wing comes again to the kitchen. I pour tea that’s kept warm on the stove and ask if he’s eaten today. He has not. I butter him a slice of bread. He folds it in half and takes a bite.

  “Was it like this when Saul died?” he asks.

  “A few came.”

  “No, I meant—his passing.”

  I shake my head. It’s been a long time, but I remember it well.

  “One day when he was covering the tar paper on Ida’s place, he just fell over dead.”

  People are still coming. Angus Sampson and his wife, and Elizabeth Phelps, a half dozen others.

  “Olivia.” Dooby nods. “You doing all right?”

  “I am.”

  “Afternoon, Olivia.” Elizabeth Phelps comes into the kitchen. “It’s nice that you’re here. I’m sure you’re a comfort to Wing. You have that gift.”

  I tuck up hair that has come loose. I look at her pink wool dress, and at my own black twill.

  “Miz Phelps—”

  “Elizabeth,” she says.

  “The other day, you told me about my pap caring for your Governor, and I was wondering—do you remember anything else about Pap?”

  Her smile is gone. “Why do you want to know?”

  Her question confuses me. I look at my ringless fingers. At her pretty hands, her silver bracelet with square pink stones.

  “Olivia.” She puts her hand on my cheek. “I’ve said too much. You let sleeping dogs lie. Is there coffee made?”

  “Yes, ma’am, right there on the drainboard.”

  “Thank you,” she says. But she goes out instead.

  I run soapy water, wash cups and saucers, slice a cake that’s just arrived. And I try to sort out what little I know. Will’m and Molly come down, and while they spoon from the platters and bowls, Molly talks enough for us all.

  By the time the party, if it can be called such, thins, I am worn to the knees, and Wing looks the same. I figure he needs to be alone. I drag Will’m away from Molly, and he goes on over to Dooby’s while I drive back to the house, change into trousers and shirt, and dig up the squirrel. I cut it in pieces and set it to boil. The cubs are in their box, mewling in their sleep. I should wake them and force thinned mush into them, but I’ve something more important on my mind—how to defend our property from these hunters. Clearly it’s going to take some kind of action on my part. It would be useless to threaten them and then not follow through. My brain is tired, but it’s like a dog with a bone.

  I take up a knife and chop fiercely at an onion. I add salt to the pot and when I feed the cubs, they don’t care that my hands are shaking. It’s growing dark. Will’m should be coming soon, and he’ll be hungry. I slice bread and lay it on a sheet for the oven, mix cinnamon with a pinch of sugar.

  There’s knocking on the front door now, not Will’m, for he never uses the front entry. Likely somebody needing soda for a bellyache or something they’ve forgotten for tomorrow’s dinner. Again comes the rapping. I go through without lighting a lamp, and turn the knob. A woman stands there, her hair fuzzy against a halo of gray light. She says nothing.

  “Yes?” I squint my eyes, the better to see.

  “Mama,” says Pauline, standing on the doorstep. “It’s me. I’ve come for the boy.”

  39

  Stepping aside to let my daughter in is maybe the most confused thing I have ever done. Part of me wants to throw my arms around her, forgive her for everything and ask for the same. I could peel potatoes, kill us a hen—I’ve been planning to anyway—and make a feast with fried bread and cream gravy. But I heard what she said, and my heart bangs in my chest like a wild bird in a cage. “You can’t have him.”

  She looks at me. “Can I come in?”

  Yes.

  She walks slow, looking at the floor, like with each step her feet are remembering the boards. How pretty she is, coming through to the light—so pretty I can’t take my eyes off her. Short yellow curls, but not the same nose, and she puts her hand to it.

  “I had it fixed,” she says. Then I see the lines, hundreds of them, like she’s lived hard and run a long way. Her coat is thin and worn at the elbows. She stands in the middle of my kitchen, her hands clasped tight.

  “You doin’ all right, Mama?” she says.

  “I’m fine.” I don’t want to ask how she is, afraid to hear that she’s gotten so rich in the films—which was what she left here to do—that she can now buy Will’m the moon.

  She pulls out a chair and sits down. “You got coffee in that pot, there?” She speaks softer than I remember, but she’s an actress, and maybe that voice is put on.

  I shake the pot. Pour a cup. “Where you livi
ng, now?”

  “In Hollywood, California,” she says. “Is he here?”

  “He’s out. He’ll be home directly.”

  “I can’t wait to see him,” she says and takes off her coat. The lines of her body are long and lean, and she’s got a pretty shape under that sweater. She’s wearing a long, tight skirt and high-heeled shoes. But in the dead of winter she’s got no stockings on.

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Bus,” she says. “Five days, I had to change three times. Cost me near thirty dollars. I got another thirty for going back—and half the price, for William.”

  “Bus drop you in Buelton?”

  “Yes’m. I caught a ride and walked from the highway.”

  “You could use some boots.”

  She turns in her chair. “I rented me a room, Mama, upstairs from a liquor store. It’s got a sofa for William to sleep on.”

  It irritates me, the way she says his name. “He’s got a proper bed here.” I nod at the alcove and its curtain made from an old bedsheet.

  “He won’t mind the sofa. I got an icebox and an electric burner so I can cook for him. And he can come and watch me work on the set sometimes,” she says.

  “You been in some films, then?”

  She looks at her fingernails, bitten to the quick. “Some. Mostly I’m a stand-in, but that way I learn all the parts.”

  There’s a picture show in Buelton. “You been in any movies that come out this way?”

  “I guess not, but the directors think I have promise.”

  “Promise,” I say, unable to decide whether that’s a blessing or a curse. A couple of times my life held promise. I take things from the larder to start our supper. “They pay you all right?”

  “I knew you’d ask that. I make a few dollars on the set. I work in the liquor store coupla nights a week. And I dance at the Starlight Ballroom, start at three o’clock, keep a nickel out of every dime the gents pay after midnight. They’re good about let-tin’ me off for auditions.”