Heart of Glass

by Diane Noble

  I recognized the box as one that Poppy had made with inlaid scraps of maple and black birch and sassafras, their grains fitting together with perfect artistry. I trailed my fingers gently over the polished top, imagining Poppy’s big hands fashioning the piece.

  “Open it, lass,” Selah said impatiently.

  I lifted the hinged lid. Inside were papers, folded and yellowed with age. Fingers trembling, I unfolded the first, a long document with a fancy border. I read through it, and a fresh wave of sorrow filled my heart. It was the deed to Poppy’s house and acreage. He had signed at the bottom, giving it all to me. I unfolded the second paper, glanced at his signature, then read it through, trying to understand its meaning. Someone else had written the document, a bank officer, it appeared. Poppy had made the difficult journey to Dover Town, it seemed, within the last few months. Only one deposit was listed, in the amount of $91.36.

  I blinked in surprise, knowing it likely had come from his dulcimer sales all these years.

  “He done saved it fer ye, lass,” Selah said. She walked across the rough boards between us and sat down with a small groan. “All his life savin’s, it was. And he wanted ye to have ever penny.”

  “ ’Tis a fortune.”

  “Nobody knowed he had it, till he gave me this days afore he up and died.” She tapped her temple. “Seemed he knowed it was acomin’.”

  I folded the paper again, tucked it beneath the first, and opened the third.

  Selah’s voice was reverent and low when she spoke. “This’n’s the fairest, Fairwyn March.” She leaned close to look over my shoulder. “The fairest of all.”

  Too moved to speak, I nodded. With delicate, sometimes shaky lines, Poppy had drawn every step to making a dulcimer, along with notes on the secrets of his craft that he’d never told a living soul. Except me. I clutched the wrinkled paper to my heart, feeling a light warmth creep into the dark corners of my soul. “ ’Tis indeed the fairest.”

  I stayed on at Poppy’s place. But it was not to be helped. Every day, I felt a new freedom, running bare toed through the meadow, dancing in circles with my arms straight out among the swallowtails and painted ladies, listening to the music of the redbirds and brown phoebes. Sometimes I sang while I danced, letting my voice carry into the deep wood behind our house. Only the does and fawns tilted their heads, their liquid brown eyes looking puzzled. At that, I laughed and twirled to sing some more.

  Sometimes I stretched on my back in the midst of the buttercups and mountain daisies, paying no mind to the bees that busied themselves among the clover and fairy puffs. I just stared straight up at the sky, at the clouds that built themselves into castles and bears and coyotes and owls, then grew weary with their play and marched off to the other side of heaven.

  I seldom thought of Zebulon Deforest and our home in Oak Hill. It was as if that life had been a mere imagining, and I was finally free of the demands and restrictions that bound me there.

  Selah Jones came at sunup every second day to bring me a bucket of milk, some eggs, fresh-made biscuits, and honey from her own gum. “If ’n ye’re stayin’,” she said one day, “I’ll bring ye back yer Poppy’s chickens.”

  “The smokehouse is full,” I assured her. “I have plenty. You must keep them.” I laughed and marveled at how good it felt. “Besides, the old scrawnies might up and quit laying if we confuse their roosting habits.”

  She chuckled with me then, a rusty sound, and as if understanding my need for solitude, she left me as quickly as she had come.

  Sunsets faded into sunrises; nesting birds flew off, and their younguns, still apuff with baby feathers, followed. Leaf buds unfurled and gloried in their new life.

  Then one day, I knew it was time to play my music again, to play not to escape as I did in Oak Hill, but as an expression of my joy. To play the way I had as a child. I picked up my dulcimer and headed to my quiet place atop the hollowed-out log. I began a lively song, tapping my foot almost like dancing.

  Oh, where are you going, my pretty little dear,

  With the red rosy cheeks and the coal black hair?

  I’m going a milking, kind sir …

  I halted, dead still. Dread filled my heart, and I clutched my dulcimer to my chest as though it was a baby. The image I dreaded came again—myself huddled in the corner, cloaked in impenetrable blackness. I saw myself weeping, my heart in despair.

  That pretty little dear, with so much love for life and promise … where had she gone? I buried my face in my hands. All my heartaches and disappointments, my fear of making mistakes that could not be undone, the certainty that I was somehow the cause of Zeb’s unhappiness, his desire to run to everything but me, poured from my heart in sorrowful torrents too deep for words.

  I stood and ran deeper into the wood along an old favorite deer trace. I do not know how long I moved along the trail, only that my heart pounded and my lungs stretched to the point of collapse, my breath coming in quick, painful sobs. My toe caught on a root, and I stumbled and fell atop my dulcimer. I heard the twanging break of the strings, the splintering of wood. I rolled to one side and touched the gaping hole in its back, knowing my soul was pierced as deep.

  Then I heard a voice. A man’s voice. It was off in the distance at first, then drew closer. The man’s tone said he was not surprised to encounter another traveler, even one as disheveled and tattered as I, along the trace. I looked up from where I lay stomach down by my shattered instrument, but I saw no one.

  Fairwyn March, said the voice from just inside the woods.

  “Come out,” I demanded, bringing myself to sitting while swiping at the tears now drying on my cheeks. “Bring yourself out from hiding. Tell me how ye know my name.”

  It’s not yet time, Fairwyn March, he said.

  I stood and dusted the soil from my palms. “Why not?” I took a few steps closer to the voice, my curiosity overtaking my fears.

  The voice laughed, a gentle, loving sound that drew me yet closer. How could this one know me?

  I told you, my child, it’s not yet time.

  “You’re my father? My da?” I said, hope burning deep inside. “If so, then why can’t you say it?”

  The voice had come from near a chestnut tree, the tallest of all in the wood, with its canopy crown stretching thick and wide. When the man didn’t answer, I feared he had gone on down the trace from whence he came.

  Frogsong rose, and from the canopy of trees a mountain bluebird called and a titmouse sang, joined by another.

  Finally the man spoke again, and his voice was low and restful. Do not be afraid, Fairwyn March. No matter what comes, no matter the darkness, do not be afraid.

  My heart skittered at that, and I thought I was surely speaking to a haunt. Especially since the words reminded me of something Poppy said long ago. Then it struck me—maybe it was Poppy’s ghost. His haunt too unsettled to leave for heaven.

  “Who are you?” I whispered, my mouth dry with newborn fear.

  Just remember, child, what I have told you.

  “I want to see you in the flesh. Then I’ll decide.” I wasn’t about to promise anything to a haunt.

  Do not be afraid, beloved. Remember my words. His voice seemed filled with light, though I couldn’t see it. It had the sound of rushing waters. And wind. Aye, even the wind.

  When I heard it, my fears evaporated like the mists in the sun. I threw back my head and laughed, so lighthearted I felt. Surely, goodness and mercy me, it was a wonder! Who was this man to have struck my heart with such gladness? It was as if he had smote the darkness inside me with a weapon of light.

  I ran to the chestnut tree, but the place was deserted. I dropped to the ground, searching for footprints, but the soil was too filled with loam and leaves to tell if one had passed by.

  “Where are you?” I called, worried at once that the dark fear might invade my heart again once the light of his voice was gone from me. “Show yourself! Please, oh, please …” I covered my face. “Please, come back.”

/>   Behind me, the sounds of voices, familiar this time, carried on the wind to where I now lay curled atop the soil. I rolled to one side, realizing I’d been asleep.

  Zeb came through the wood along the trace with Jeannie Barton slightly behind him. They spotted me, and with a small cry Jeannie ran toward me.

  “Oh, Zeb, she’s hurt. Look at her!”

  Zeb stooped gently beside me and gathered me into his arms.

  “Did you see him?” I whispered as he held me. “Did you?”

  “See who, Fairwyn?” He pulled back a bit and frowned into my face. “Who did this to you?” He looked down at my tattered dress, my soiled feet, then moved his gaze to take in my dulcimer, my wild hair. “Who did this? Oh, my dear one,” he said, holding me close again, “tell me what happened.”

  I pushed him away slightly, puzzling his meaning. “Nothing happened, Zeb.” I brushed off my hands and tried to stand, but the emotion of the dream made me weak. I reached to Zeb for support.

  “Nothing happened?” he said, frowning. “Look at you. Of course something happened.” Zeb exchanged a glance with Jeannie. “You’ve obviously had a scare, Fairwyn. Something frightened you.”

  I looked down at my clothes, suddenly struck by my condition. Wild. Dirty and disheveled.

  Zeb peered into my eyes as if looking for something hidden there. For the first time I noticed accusation in that place behind his eyes. But of what, I couldn’t fathom.

  I laughed lightly then, a sound like tinkling bells that I hoped conveyed, Of course I’m all right. I’m just a silly little woman who’s had a slight case of the vapors. That’s all. Silly little me. I touched Zeb’s jaw, then stepped back. “I came here to find that Poppy died. It’s been a trial.” I smiled to ease their discomfort. “As you might think, I’ve had a difficult time dealing with his death. He was all the family I had.”

  “Poppy died?” Zeb came to me then and wrapped his arms around me. “Poor Fairwyn,” he murmured, his chin resting on my head.

  That night, we stayed at Poppy’s old homeplace. After I fixed a supper of eggs, bread, and honey from Selah, and ham from the smokehouse, we sat in the great room. Zeb and Jeannie talked about Oak Hill and Providence College as if I were not there.

  I said not a word about the wooden box of precious treasures Poppy had left me. The small chest sat, shining like the lodestar on the shelf next to Great Expectations. Zeb’s gaze rested on it from time to time, which troubled my heart. I didn’t want to share its contents with him—it was my secret, my treasure. Had I known Zeb might come for me, I would have hidden it away.

  I excused myself early, telling Zeb and Jeannie that I was deathly tired. I turned down the covers on my old iron bedstead for Jeannie, then retired to Poppy’s corner, thinking Zeb would surely join me in a little while. I fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, then woke when the moon was high. Zeb was not beside me, and I rested on my elbow, looking around the ash-gray darkness.

  Whispering murmurs carried to me from the porch, just beyond the window where I lay.

  “What do you think?” Zeb’s voice was low.

  “Fairwyn must have had a nervous breakdown. Not unusual for women. It’s often accompanied by hysterics.”

  “I’ve been worried for some time.”

  “I know, I know.” I could almost see Jeannie patting my husband’s arm.

  There was a long pause before Zeb spoke again. “I can’t send her to Switzerland in this state.”

  I heard the crunch of footsteps moving farther down the porch. I sat up, straining to hear. Another long silence followed.

  Jeannie murmured something so softly I could barely hear it. But my heart froze at the words I thought I’d heard: I can’t leave you.

  Holding my breath, I climbed down from the bed and tiptoed to the window, pulling aside the homespun curtain. I could see them clearly in the pale light. They stepped from the porch and walked along the edge of the silvery meadow, bathed in moonlight. I choked back the taste of betrayal, praying that what I feared I was about to witness would not happen.

  Zeb stopped and turned toward Jeannie. For the longest moment they stared at each other. Zeb leaned in close as if for a kiss. Then Jeannie shook her head almost imperceptibly and held up one hand. She spun and ran back to the cabin. By the time she reached the door, I had returned to bed and lay as still as death. I was still awake when I heard Zeb slip back into the cabin an hour later. He didn’t sleep next to me but spent the night in Poppy’s chair, which he pulled close to where Jeannie rested in quiet slumber on my old cornhusk-tick.

  It would be a long while before Zeb shared my bed again. And instead of Switzerland, he took me to an asylum.

  Twelve

  Nearly three weeks after our return to Oak Hill, Zeb and I headed to the train station. We were traveling to the State Hospital at Morganton, one of the better known insane asylums in the region, according to Zeb. Without the word being spoken aloud, I knew that he thought me mad. Worse, I suspected it of myself. This was a journey I dreaded.

  My stomach clenched tight as the carriage rounded the corner and I beheld the imposing edifice. It rose from the earth like a dark castle, sides and turrets of stone, roof of slate. I counted four stories, imposing pillars accenting each below a center dome, and so many windows on each wing that I deduced the place surely housed hundreds of patients. The carriage wheels clattered into a rut, and the vehicle swayed. I grabbed hold of Zeb’s arm and swallowed hard, unable to tear my gaze away from the monstrous building.

  Dr. August Crawford met us at the door of his office. A stocky, bearded man with wiry gray hair, he smiled and gestured for us to enter. As I crossed the threshold and passed him, the scent of sweet pipe tobacco wafted from his clothes.

  His office was dimly lit, with heavy drapes pulled across the four floor-to-ceiling windows except for a two-inch space between the panels. Bars of light streamed through each opening and puddled on the dark red carpeting. Light from an ornate brass candlestick-shaped lamp on the doctor’s desk cast a flickering glow on the walnut-paneled walls.

  Shivering, I seated myself in the chair farthest from the doctor, close to a window with its bar of light. He hadn’t stopped smiling since we entered, and he fixed his gaze on my eyes. The scent of tobacco seemed stronger, almost sickening in its sweetness.

  Dr. Crawford pulled a chair toward me and sat down. “You have nothing to fear, Mrs. Deforest,” he said. His tone was quiet, soothing, which only frightened me more.

  I didn’t trust myself to speak and looked away from him, fearful I was acting mad. Swallowing hard once more, I stared at the intricate pattern in the rug.

  “Dear woman,” he said, “please don’t be frightened.”

  “I don’t want to be here,” I said, lifting my gaze at last. But it wasn’t the doctor’s eyes I met. It was Zeb’s, who stood a distance away, observing me dispassionately. I wondered if he planned to admit me without my consent. “Please, Zeb,” I whispered, “please don’t leave me here.”

  He started to step forward, but Dr. Crawford held up one hand and shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Leave us alone for a few minutes, Mr. Deforest,” he said.

  Without a word, Zeb turned and walked silently across the thick rug to the door. A moment later, it closed solidly behind him.

  “Now,” Dr. Crawford said, “what is it you are afraid of?”

  I raised my chin, willing myself to stop trembling. “Of being left here against my will. That’s what I fear.” I had to convince him I wasn’t mad. Even if I was.

  For a moment he didn’t speak. He made a soft humming sound and nodded slowly. “What if you came of your own volition? Would you be afraid then?” As I pondered the question, he went on. “This is a place of rest. A place to restore your spirit, your soul, if you will. A place to replenish depleted emotions.”

  His tone was soothing, like a lullaby. I closed my eyes and briefly considered the notion. The darkness in my soul, my sense of despair, was too familiar fr
om long acquaintance. But I had heard about asylums, their practices, their treatments. My eyes flew open, and I stared hard at Dr. Crawford and finally spoke. “Perhaps it’s a place to succumb to whatever fears may lurk in one’s heart.”

  One wiry gray eyebrow lifted, but he didn’t seem surprised at my comment. “There is fear in your heart.” It wasn’t a question.

  “If there is, I know as surely as I’m sitting here that being admitted to such a place would only serve to convince me of my own madness.”

  He leaned forward. “You fear that you are mad.”

  I didn’t blink. “Yes. Sometimes … in fact, often, I worry about my sanity.”

  Again he hummed softly, nodding his head. “Go on.”

  “Sometimes I think I’ll die if I can’t find solitude, time to ponder things, to sing and play my music … or read my books until dawn.”

  He smiled. “If that be madness, then I join you in it.”

  I tilted my head and smiled. For the first time in days, my burden seemed lighter. “I long to skip barefoot through the woods, hold out my arms, and twirl. Lie down on my back and stare up at the leaves, examine each one as part of God’s creation. Each furled bud of spring, each vibrant color of harvest.”

  He watched me earnestly. “You surely know such notions aren’t a sign of madness.”

  I did know. But there was more.

  And he had guessed. “What else causes you to fear for your sanity?”

  I considered how to answer. His eyes seemed kind, but it was a practiced look to get me to divulge more about myself. Then again, maybe such unjustified mistrust was part of my madness. I stared hard at him, wondering how much to say.

  “It’s a darkness that haunts my soul,” I said finally. “A dread darkness that I can’t shake. It strikes me when I least expect it and drives me to my knees in despair.” I didn’t tell him how I wanted to curl into a tight ball and stay there, my head covered with my arms. How I sometimes wanted to die with the agony and fear of it.