Glass Houses

by Terri Nolan

  “Thank you for letting me tag along,” said Thom. “I hate coming empty-handed, but Elizabeth assured me that your wife—Iris, I believe—would be offended if we brought anything.”

  “And that is correct,” said Todd. “Iris likes to be the complete hostess. Elizabeth, I am impressed you found the right way in. We failed to get each other’s phone numbers and I forgot to give you directions.”

  “Perseverance,” said Birdie.

  The threesome walked through a reception office: Formica countertop, sliding window, empty clipboards on the wall, then through another door into a modified garage. Two cars were parked side-by-side in the warehouse: matching Mercedes CLS coupes; one white, one black.

  Beyond the dome of light a massive sense of space. No shadows. Just dark space.

  Todd jumped into a pristine white E-Z-GO golf cart. “Get in. We live on the top floor.”

  Birdie and Thom exchanged quick glances. “We don’t mind walking,” said Birdie.

  “I do,” said Todd, starting the battery-powered cart.

  Thom took the backward facing seat and Birdie sat in front. Todd maneuvered the cart around some barrels and took a sharp left turn and up a wide ramp with a metal railing. The ramp circled the building, spiraling ever upward like an amusement roller coaster about to pitch off the edge. A reflective yellow number marked each floor. Multi-colored carnival lights were strung up on metal brackets attached to the brick. They weren’t bright enough to pierce the dark interior, and the decades-old smell of yeast and mold gave Birdie no context.

  As the ramp wound around and the big “4” came into view she saw several crookneck lamps that illuminated workbenches, key-cutting machines, metal filing cabinets, and several desks. Todd braked abruptly. The cart stopped with a jolt. He mumbled an expletive and jumped out, opened a metal panel on the wall and started flipping circuits. The lamps went dark one by one. Just as he flipped the last one Birdie’s eye caught something moving in the middle of the room. She swore it was a shark.

  forty

  Todd parked the white cart next to its black mate.

  Thom disembarked and squeezed Birdie’s arm in reassurance. “Did you catch all that?” he whispered.

  She nodded and took his hand to still hers.

  Straight ahead, a massive set of doors. Ten feet high at least. Hand carved and accented with gold leaf, it depicted the twelve animal zodiacs of the Chinese New Year cycle in a writhing, orgy-like relief.

  “That’s a spectacular door. What’s its origin?” said Birdie, her voice shaky.

  “Iris had it commissioned. Made it look ancient.”

  “She’s Chinese?”

  “My mail-order bride. She was only seventeen—” he held a finger to his lips—“but had a lifetime of experience, if you get my meaning. Who else would have me in my previous state except someone anxious to live in the United States? Don’t let her size fool you. She’s the boss around here.”

  He pulled a retractable key attached to his belt and unlocked the door. A smaller door within the larger one opened inward.

  A woman wearing yellow silk capris, black flats, and a tunic-length red cheongsam with a dragon design stood in an entry created by rolling screens and potted ficus. She had jet black hair tied back in a loose chignon and secured with a jade comb.

  “Iris,” said Todd, “may I present Elizabeth Keane of the Republic of California and her cousin, Thom.”

  The woman bowed. Neither Thom nor Birdie knew the protocol, but in a familial synchronicity they tilted their heads. The woman didn’t reach out to shake hands so the cousins kept their arms at their sides.

  “You are Irish, yes?” said Iris.

  “Yes,” said the cousins.

  “Good. I make Irish stew.”

  Thom and Birdie exchanged peptic glances. They were extremely spoiled when it came to stew. No one made it like their paternal Grandma, Birdie. Nora’s came close because she understood that good stew took hours to prepare. Stews are patient, simmered over time. A Chinese woman telling the cousins they were about to eat a favored traditional dish didn’t thrill them.

  Birdie smiled and said, “How lovely.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” said Thom.

  Iris waved her hand forward. “Husband, show them, show them. I finish.”

  The loft took up much of the entire fifth floor. The furnishings and accessories were label heavy as if the designer showrooms were emptied of gaudy swag and thrown into a massive space without regard to a theme. Money sure couldn’t buy class.

  “A designer crib is not what one would expect of you,” said Birdie. “As I recall, you were quite the slob.”

  “When Iris came into my life five years ago I lived in my workshop. I had a desk, telephone, a TV, a recliner, and a mattress. She whipped everything into shape. Including me. Those timbers up there are original. She hired an engineer to do the lights. All the screens are movable so we can rearrange rooms, open or close as needed. The wood floor is original, refinished of course. Iris is very good at spending my money. We have a few solid walls. The bedrooms and bathrooms for instance. Guest bath.” He pointed in a vague, right-hand direction.

  “When we were out on the street we couldn’t see a mote of light,” said Birdie. “Did you have these lights off ?”

  “The windows are covered in black acrylic.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Thom. “There are huge cantilevered windows with yellow panes of glass on every floor, including this one.”

  “You like those windows? I sure do. They’re original of course. Damaged by vandals and time. The acrylic on the inside blocks the light. See, no one knows we live here. We’d like to keep it that way.” He nodded at Birdie’s press badge. “We don’t live here legally. This area is still zoned for industrial. Also, the building isn’t earthquake safe. Hasn’t been retrofitted. I’d appreciate it if you kept that from your interview.”

  “As long as it’s not relevant to my queries,” said Birdie.

  “When the big one hits, you’re screwed,” said Thom, quickly.

  “What if there’s a fire?” added Birdie. “Have an escape route?”

  “Two reasons Iris is anxious to move. Plus, she’s a little freaked out by the floors below. She likes light and clean spaces. Not dark and dusty.”

  And yet the light was artificial. Nothing natural, thought Birdie. Not even skylights as is common in industrial spaces.

  Todd gave Birdie and Thom a meandering tour. The art elements were diverse: prehistoric fossil reproductions, ceramic vases, woven baskets, koi fish carvings in wood, stone, and glass. Birdie studied a triptych of square abstracts with highly unusual patinas. It appeared as though reflective flecks were mixed with a wash that highlighted sections of the paintings. It had an odd, fishy scent, as well.

  “I did those,” said Todd.

  “Very interesting,” said Birdie. “What is that unusual wash?”

  “Ground-up fish. I keep exotics. When they die, I puree them and add a gel medium. It’s my tribute to such beautiful jewels.”

  A riot of exclamation points bounced in her brain. She backed up a step in slow motion and would’ve keeled were it not for Thom suddenly at her side to prop her up. He led her to a nearby table.

  “Look at this.” His voice sounded liquid and distant. “It reminds me of Matt.”

  A miniature Dharma Wheel made of plastic was displayed under a bell jar. There appeared to be writing on the spokes. Just as Birdie leaned closer to read it, she perceived a subtle movement of air and heard, “Like it?”

  Birdie jumped.

  A sudden shift of tone and mood occurred when Iris suddenly appeared behind her, quiet and surefooted like a bobcat.

  “So sorry,” said Iris.

  “You’re a Buddhist?” said Birdie.

  Iris pointed at the Wheel. “You kn
ow this?”

  “Each spoke represents the right view, right thought, right behavior, right speech, right effort, right livelihood, right mindfulness, right meditation. I’ve never seen one so small.”

  “That is one of the few possessions Iris came to America with,” said Todd, sidling next to his wife. “They were tokens. Toys. Given to children to keep in their pockets.”

  Iris gave her husband a harsh stare.

  Birdie wondered why such a sweet thing should evoke Iris’ response.

  “Dinner, if you please,” said Iris, tight lipped.

  _____

  Birdie peered into her bowl of steaming stew, felt bile move into her throat. She didn’t trust the meat. Was it beef or lamb? It looked like bloody stool floating in brown broth surrounded by carrots and potatoes. Sweat formed on her forehead. She felt her irregular heartbeat in her neck. She pushed back from the table. “Excuse me.” She pointed toward the area Todd had indicated the bathroom was located.

  Thom got up as well. “Need help?”

  In her mind she said, “Actually, my pants zipper gets stuck,” as she pointed at her back. What came out was gibberish and she didn’t understand why everyone stared at her with alarm.

  “I will help,” said Iris.

  “That’s okay,” said Thom, protectively. “We’re family.”

  He placed a firm hand across Birdie’s back and led her toward the bathroom. They walked behind a cinder block wall and found themselves in a long, narrow passageway painted bible black. A flickering overhead light cast strange patterns on the surface. Shiny bits on the walls caught the light like rhinestones.

  “Guess this place is larger than it appears,” Thom whispered.

  Birdie felt unsteady. Disoriented. The passageway shrunk, closed around her.

  Thom held her tighter. “You’re shaking,” he said into her ear. He was about to open the first door they came across when a tap on the shoulder stopped him.

  Iris.

  Birdie nearly screamed.

  Iris gestured. “Bathroom this way,” she said.

  They followed her to the passageway’s terminus. Near the entrance of the hall was a green lighted frosted glass door.

  “Thank you,” said Thom. “We walked right past it.”

  He pulled Birdie into the bathroom and shut the door. The glass tint changed to red.

  “That’s cool,” said Thom. “Must be LEDs.”

  “Lock … lock door,” said Birdie.

  “There isn’t one. It’s the light. Green for unoccupied, red for in use.”

  “Shit,” moaned Birdie, sitting on the toilet lid. She gasped for air—her breathing fast and strained.

  Thom knelt. “Take it easy, Bird. Calm down. Deep breaths … inhale … one-two-three … exhale … one-two-three … nice and slow … that’s it.” He hugged her, rubbed her back. “It’s okay.” He rocked her until she her breathing returned to normal.

  “I think you were on the verge of a panic attack,” he said.

  Birdie tried to laugh. “Verge?”

  “What’s got you so jumpy?”

  “Todd paints with ground-up fish and the meat in my bowl looked like shit.”

  “It was sausage with red peppers.”

  “Huh?”

  “Iris didn’t remove the casing. I thought it looked weird at first, too.”

  “This place is totally messed up. Something lurks in the shadows. That hall? It reminded me of the pump house, but instead of crude I smelled fish.”

  “Oh, Bird.” He smoothed the hair from her face. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was my mission to talk to this guy. Hell, I went to an extreme. When he invited me to dinner I snatched the opportunity. I thought … shit, I don’t know … I thought …”

  “The murder weapon would be lying on a coffee table?”

  Birdie managed a weak smile.

  “I heard what he said about the paintings. I’m getting good intell. I agree, something is wacky, but I don’t think we’re in harm’s way. If you really believe it and can’t handle staying, I’ll take you home.”

  “Nothing will happen to us?”

  “Do you think I’d let anything happen to you?” He kissed her forehead. “Except we might not like the stew.”

  “I’m not eating it. I’m claiming a sudden stomachache and will ask for crackers.”

  “Deal. Let’s get back.”

  “I need to pee.”

  “Make it quick,” said Thom, turning his back.

  Birdie got off the toilet and lifted the lid.

  She covered her mouth and muffled a scream.

  A dead goldfish floated in the bowl.

  “That’s it!” hissed Birdie.

  “Hold on,” urged Thom. “It’s the common way to dispose of goldfish.”

  “You heard what Todd said. He grinds them up. Get it out.”

  Thom took a photo of it with his phone then gingerly put his fingers into the toilet water and picked up the fish by its tail. He laid it on the edge of the sink and poked it. “It’s solid. Do fish go into rigor?”

  Birdie picked it up and held it close to her cheek. Then she held it to Thom’s.

  “It’s frozen,” said Thom.

  “Which means it was just put in there.”

  “By Iris. Right before she retrieved us from the hall.”

  “She’s messing with us.”

  “Then we mess back.” Thom wrapped the tiny fish in toilet paper and put it into the breast pocket of his bomber jacket.

  _____

  After the gawdawful dinner Birdie and Todd moved from the dining area to a well-lit vignette near one of the blacked-out windows to conduct the interview. Thom began clearing the table.

  “No, no thank you,” said Iris. “I do. You are guest.”

  “Let me help,” he said, carrying several glasses to the kitchen. “I don’t mind washing dishes. I’m an expert at loading dishwashers, too. I can overload one without breakage.”

  “Yes, yes, very nice. No help.”

  “Alright. I’ll keep you company then.”

  Iris scurried back to the table.

  Thom leaned against the refrigerator and looked around. Wood, stainless, stone. A typical kitchen. When Iris didn’t immediately return, he pushed off the fridge and accidently knocked a photo and magnet off the door. He picked it up. A fat Todd in a suit and his new bride in a traditional wedding outfit posed in front of the seal of Los Angeles. He was about to put it back when, inexplicably and, without forethought, he slipped it into his trouser pocket.

  He peeked into the dining room. Iris wasn’t there. She stood behind a table lamp spying on Birdie and Todd who were seemingly engrossed in conversation.

  Throughout dinner Thom noted that Iris couldn’t take her eyes off his cousin. Yet when Birdie caught her eye, Iris would look away.

  Dinner was beyond weird. Todd was upset that Birdie felt bad and kept asking if she were okay. Iris was put out that Birdie was sick and begged off the stew in favor of rice crackers and chewing gum. Todd was antagonistic toward Iris. Iris hateful toward Todd. A match made on a computer and not working in real life? And Thom sat back and observed.

  He examined the fridge photos. He found a better one of the pair, a close-up, and made an exchange. There was one of Iris as a young girl. She wore a uniform and posed with some classmates in front of a school. He plucked it from its magnet and peered at the faces, but couldn’t see them clearly. It seemed his up-close vision was hit and miss these days. He saw Jelena’s tiny face on a driver’s license quite clearly and days later couldn’t focus on a photo. He made a mental note to make an appointment with an optometrist. He might be ready for glasses. He was about to put the photo back on the fridge when he heard Iris in the dining room. He palmed it just as Iris returned to the kitchen with silv
erware and napkins.

  “May I please have some coffee?” said Thom.

  “No coffee. Tea only.”

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  Thom didn’t want coffee or tea. He wanted an opportunity to talk to Iris alone.

  Divide and conquer.

  When Iris turned to plug in an electric kettle he dropped the photo into his pocket for a total of three items, none of them legal seizures, all unusable.

  “Was Todd teasing when he said you were a mail-order bride?”

  Iris giggled. “We meet on computer. I want to come to America.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Five years.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “Most happy. Husband happy, also.”

  If this evening was any clue, that was a complete lie.

  “Living here must be a challenge. Groceries and home goods coming up via a cart ride, trash going down the same way.”

  “We have shoot.”

  Thom wondered what she meant. How does one shoot trash? Ah …

  “You mean C-H-U-T-E?”

  “Yes, the same.”

  Shoot. Chute. Two words with different definitions and spellings yet pronounced the same. He thought this odd. How could a non-native speaker know this so easily? His spine stiffened, each hair on the back of his neck bristled one by one with a vague familiarity.

  forty-one

  Todd sat on the front stoop and lit a cigarette as the cousins waved one last farewell.

  “Feeling better?” said Thom.

  “Now that we’re leaving,” said Birdie. She reached into her bra and removed the car key, handed it to Thom. “You’re driving. I have to make some note corrections before I forget. My shorthand is rusty.”

  “I want to talk to the kids,” Thom whined. “The girls have an eight o’clock bedtime. It’s nearly that now. And I need a smoke.”

  “Can’t it wait until we get home?” She pointed up at the freeway. “Rush hour is over, traffic will be light.”

  “I’ll sacrifice the smoke, but not the kids. Set me up on wireless?”

  “As soon as we clear the gate and get off that frontage road. I’ll feel safer on a city street. The place gives me the creeps.”