The Glass Flame

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Before I reached the stairs, however, I knew it was no use. Chris dashed past me and out of the house into the evening dusk. I continued down to my room because I couldn’t bear to see Trevor’s face. Nor did I want to be there when he read David’s letter. What my husband had said about the Belle Isle fires was combined with his abuse of me, and I was too upset just then to stand up to those written lies.

  Back in my room I undressed and went to bed—to lie awake thinking and unable to sleep. How was I to face Trevor tomorrow after he had read that letter? The fact that none of it was true didn’t matter, since Trevor really knew so little about me. It was no wonder that I lay awake thinking back over the years. Thinking of Trevor as I felt about him now—with added pain because of his son—was almost more than I could bear.

  In the distant house along the hillside upstairs, Nona was playing her dulcimer again, and again I knew the tune she was singing. How strange that now, of all times, she should choose “Amazing Grace.” Or was the music, in a way, a prayer she offered to the night—a prayer for Trevor, for the rest of us? And for herself?

  The gentle music, so softly golden as she plucked the strings, brought a wetness to my eyes. I could weep now, and the tears eased me, since they were quiet tears, not the stormy ones I’d shed in the past.

  I fell asleep to the sweet sound of the dulcimer.

  It was after midnight when the terrible thing happened. One moment I was asleep, and the next moment there was a loud crash, a shower of glass, and then a second crash as something hurtled through the skylight and fell painfully on my legs. Only thick quilts saved me from serious hurt. Showers of glass continued to fall as I lay there, stunned with shock. Fortunately, the quilt had protected most of my body.

  I suppose I must have screamed, for I heard movement in the other section of the house, upstairs, and Nona’s voice called out to me.

  “What is it? What has happened, Karen?”

  I shouted to her that I didn’t know, but I was all right. No one else came, and Nona couldn’t descend the stairs. Gingerly, I reached out from under the quilt and turned on the bed lamp. A continuous tinkling and rattling of glass slivers from overhead accompanied my every movement as I drew my knees to my chin and regarded the large black lump that rested on the quilt. The smell of charred wood was strong—and all too familiar. I knew with a horror that crept along every nerve that the block of wood that lay on my bed had been taken from one of the Belle Isle fires.

  Carefully, I pushed the quilt away, trying to avoid the slivers, and put my feet to the floor, seeking a clear spot before I stood up. More glass brushed from my gown and my hair as I reached for my robe and slipped into it. Then, barefoot, because my slippers were filled with splinters, I went into the hall, where I could see Nona leaning on her crutches near the upper curve of the stairs.

  “I’m all right,” I assured her again, and went to knock on Trevor’s door. There was no answer, and I knew that if he had been there he would have come out at the sound of the crash and my scream.

  I called to Nona. “Where is Chris’s room? And Lori’s?”

  “You’re bleeding,” she said. “Your face. Come up here at once and tell me what has happened.”

  I touched a place on my cheek that stung, and saw blood stain my fingers. But that was a small matter and I repeated my question about the rooms.

  “Lori has a room up here,” Nona said crossly. “She doesn’t share Trevor’s anymore. Chris is down there, around the corner from you. But I want to know—”

  I ran to the door she indicated and opened it softly, turned on the switch near the door. Chris appeared to be breathing deeply, unaware, and again I felt that stabbing response to a sleeping child. I switched off the light and closed the door, then ran upstairs to join Nona.

  “Someone dropped a block of burned wood through my skylight,” I told her. “No one could have done that without being on the roof. So a ladder must have been used.”

  “Not necessarily,” Nona said. “There’s a tree near the roof at the front of the house, and I’ve seen Chris go up it any number of times. But I don’t think he—”

  “Neither do I,” I broke in. “He’s sound asleep. But the chunk of wood that came through was brought here from Belle Isle. I’m sure of it.”

  Nona still wore her rose-sprinkled gown, so she hadn’t been to bed as yet. She watched with concern as I moved down the hallway.

  “Come to my bathroom and let me treat those cuts,” she said.

  “Lori first.” I went to her door and tapped upon it. There was no answer and I opened it wide, with Nona balanced on her crutches beside me.

  The bed had been slept in, but it was empty now, and as we stood watching, Lori herself came running through the hall from the front door and stopped to stare at us in astonishment. She wore slacks, a pink pullover and sneakers on her feet.

  “What is it? What’s happened? What’s the matter with your face, Karen?”

  I was calculating how long it might take to climb down that tree, run through the little grotto, mount the long flight of steps to the driveway area and come into the house. The time worked out about right in my mind.

  “Show me your hands,” Nona commanded, and Lori held out her hands, obedient, but apparently puzzled. They were free of soot, but that meant nothing. Nor could I tell if there was any odor of char about her. As always she wore a flowery scent.

  Nona made no attempt to question, but motioned me with one crutch toward her rooms. Lori came with me, chattering, as I went back to Nona’s bathroom.

  “What has happened, Karen? How did you hurt your face? What on earth is wrong?”

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  Something in my tone made her look at me sharply. “What are you blaming me for now?”

  Nona explained as she took a first-aid kit from a cabinet, and Lori listened with an air of disbelief.

  “And you’re blaming me? You think I went out in the middle of the night and climbed up on the roof and—”

  “You are out in the middle of the night,” I reminded her.

  “We can talk later.” Nona thrust her kit into Lori’s hands and led the way back to her own sitting room.

  “Sit here on the couch, Karen,” she directed. “And hold still.”

  She dabbed at my face with wet cotton. The cut proved deeper than she’d thought, and the disinfectant stung. Lori watched with interest, but when I stared at her she went glibly into her story.

  “I’ve been down at Belle Isle. I wanted to see what had happened, and I drove there. That’s all.”

  And perhaps, I thought, you brought back with you a chunk of freshly burned wood.

  “Has Trevor gone down again?” Nona asked.

  “Yes. He couldn’t stay away. He was walking along the shore road in front of the houses. Just walking up and down with the watchman.”

  “What good is a watchman?” I said. “They need a police force to stop this.”

  “The place is too big for policing regularly,” Nona said. “Anyone could go in behind a patrol. Trevor hates fences, and anyway they wouldn’t keep out anyone as crazily determined as this fellow. Do hold still, Karen. I just want to put a spot bandage on your cheek.”

  Lori sat watching as though entranced. “It must have been Chris,” she speculated. “I don’t know why, Karen, but he seems to have taken a disliking to you. I think I’ll go down and talk to him now.”

  Anger surged up in me, but Nona answered before I could.

  “No!” She spoke sharply. “If he’s really asleep, then let him sleep. We can talk to him tomorrow. You can help me now, Lori. Get out some fresh sheets and make up the bed in the room next to Chris’s. Karen can’t finish the night under that open skylight in a nest of glass. Lu-Ellen can clean the room up tomorrow, but Karen will probably want to be somewhere else after this.”

  “I can help—” I began, but Nona waved my offer aside.

  “You’ve had a shock, and you’re still pale. Just
sit there and collect yourself.”

  Moving with skill on her crutches, she took Lori off to the linen room, while I remained on the same sofa where I’d sat earlier. Now that I was quiet and alone, I found that I’d begun to shake. The scratch on my face was nothing, but the crash of the block of wood falling through the skylight still rang in my ears, and I still felt shocked and not a little frightened. Malice and an intention to injure or alarm—such motives frightened me.

  The dulcimer rested on the table beside me and I picked it up idly and set it across my knees. Once ages ago I’d played a guitar, and I plucked at the strings, trying to find a tune, trying to quiet the fear that had shaken me.

  Trevor found me there when he came back from Belle Isle. It was past one o’clock and I looked up into his face that was gray with weariness, hopelessness.

  “Oh, Trevor!” I said. “I’m so bitterly sorry. What can you do? What can any of us do?”

  He came to sit beside me, leaning back against the cushions. “What is there left for me to do?”

  I twanged the strings angrily, so that they gave off a sound that was anything but sweet. “You’ll find some way—you must!”

  “What happened to you?” he asked. “Your cheek. Why are you up?”

  I touched the bandage, hating to tell him. “Someone climbed up on the roof and dropped a block of charred wood through the skylight over my bed. I wasn’t hurt, but a lot of glass flew around and my cheek was cut. It’s nothing.”

  He bent forward and covered his face with his hands.

  “Don’t,” I pleaded. “You can’t give up, Trevor. There are answers somewhere. The skylight doesn’t matter. It probably hasn’t any connection.” I touched his shoulder. “You’ve got to keep trying—even if you have to put a watchman in every building down there!”

  He sat up, stilling my words. “Don’t worry, Karen. I’m not ready to quit yet. I’m not beaten. It’s just that—right now I’m tired.”

  “I know,” I said. “If only I could help.”

  He turned to look at me and there was an unexpected tenderness in his eyes. “You help by being here, Karen. I’m sorry so much of this—ugliness—is touching you as well. You could have been hurt tonight.”

  “But I wasn’t. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters—to me.” Almost tentatively, wonderingly, he touched my cheek, turned my head toward him. “I read David’s letter. There was nothing in it to help—you were right about that. But there was plenty in it to make me angry. Those accusations.”

  “They weren’t true. But I didn’t know what you’d think when you read them.”

  “I thought that David was holding true to form. Neither did I want to believe the things he said about you earlier. And after you came, I knew they were lies.”

  “I was wrong for marrying him.”

  “You were too young. You couldn’t know—you couldn’t dream—once I was fond of him too.”

  We were both silent for a moment and then Trevor went on, his voice roughening.

  “If he hadn’t died when he did, I think it’s likely I’d have killed him. Or he’d have killed me.”

  “No!” The sound burst from me in something like terror. “You mustn’t say that. You must never say that!”

  “Why shouldn’t he say it, when it may be true?” Lori asked from the doorway behind us.

  She stood with her armload of sheets and blankets and stared at us mockingly.

  “I hate to interrupt, but if Karen has recovered from her terrible ordeal, she might as well come downstairs and help me make up a fresh bed.”

  I rose at once, and Trevor let me go. Not daring to look back at him, I followed Lori. We had come very close in those few moments, and this, I knew, was what Lori sensed.

  Downstairs, however, when she switched on a light in another guest room, she chatted amiably, calmly, falsely.

  “You’ll be comfortable enough in here. There’s no skylight. Of course there are windows to the fishpond court, but they lock and you can pull the draperies across for privacy.”

  She whisked off the bedspread that had been used for a covering, and flicked open a sheet. Moving automatically, I picked up the opposite hem and we made the bed together as matter-of-factly as though no angry emotions stirred between us. My hands still had a tendency to shake, but I took hold of the bedclothes firmly to control their betrayal. I wanted this to be done quickly, so Lori would go away.

  But when we were finished, she stood looking at me for a moment longer, her eyes bright, and her cheeks as warmly pink as her sweater.

  “You can move your things in here tomorrow, Karen. Just get what you need for tonight. And, Karen—while I don’t really mind you being in love with Trevor, you might as well know that I won’t have him falling in love with you. I really think you’d better leave as soon as the funeral is over. I’ll call the airline this morning and make your reservation for New York.”

  She gave me no time to answer, but went quickly out of the room. I stood looking after her for a moment, feeling sick. I hated it that she had read me so well and so quickly. When I’d slipped out of my robe I got into bed, leaving the light burning on the bed table, and pulling the blanket up to my chin. I wanted no more of darkness tonight.

  Beneath the covers I lay waiting for the shivering to stop. I waited for a long time, replaying all my records of that terrible day, yet remembering last of all the look in Trevor’s eyes when he had turned my face toward his.

  Eight

  The next morning a tentative friendship began between Chris and me. Or if “friendship” was too strong a word, there was at least something of an alliance. My own feelings were more strongly involved than before, and perhaps he sensed that. Also there was the knowledge of the secret we shared concerning a pencil. That I would miss Trevor when I went away did not bear thinking about, but now I knew how much I would also miss Chris. Oddly enough, it was Lori who brought about the closer relationship between Chris and me.

  All of us except Chris met at the breakfast table in the big kitchen at about the same time that morning. The disasters of the previous night had taken their toll and I think we all looked weary and discouraged.

  Trevor had gone up on the roof early and had found a hammer from the tool box in the garage. It had been left near the skylight, and was obviously the instrument used to break the heavy glass before the block of wood was dropped through. Anyone could have picked up that hammer.

  Our talk was mostly desultory. Thoughts of the new fire, as well as the smashing of the skylight, hung over us, dampening the atmosphere thoroughly. At least for Nona, Trevor and me.

  Chris appeared when we were nearly through eating, and I noted with relief that he looked much better than he had last night. The touching courage that seemed characteristic had returned.

  Nona said, “I’ll fix you something, Chris. Would you like bacon and eggs?”

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. Just milk and some toast. I’ll get what I want.”

  Lori watched him until he had pulled up a chair next to Trevor, and when she spoke there was that sly note in her voice that I disliked. “Maybe before you eat anything, Chris, you’d better tell us about your escapade last night.”

  He blinked at her, not understanding.

  “Go easy, Lori,” Nona began. “We don’t know—”

  Trevor was watching with a question in his eyes, but he said nothing, and Lori ran on.

  “You needn’t pretend to be so innocent! We all know you dropped that block of wood through Karen’s skylight last night. Now suppose you tell us why.”

  I’d had enough of Lori in a good many ways, and I burst in with more indignation than I’d meant to show. “How can he possibly tell you why when he doesn’t know what you’re talking about? I looked in on Chris immediately after it happened and he was sound asleep. He certainly wasn’t up on the roof. What are you trying to do, Lori?”

  Chris gave me a look of surprise, as though for the first time he had
really noticed me as a person. Then he scowled at his mother.

  “I don’t know what anybody is talking about. What do you mean—somebody broke the skylight?”

  Lori started to speak, but this time Trevor cut in. “That’s enough. Karen’s right and Chris couldn’t possibly have been up on the roof last night. So don’t torment him.”

  “Sorry, Chris.” Lori shrugged. “I didn’t realize everyone was so sure you were innocent.”

  Chris continued to scowl at her. “I still don’t know what happened.”

  I began to explain, and after a few words he dropped his gaze to the toast he was buttering and didn’t look up again.

  “So that’s what happened,” I finished a bit lamely, “and none of us really thinks you were to blame.”

  The faint smile he gave me erased the scowl, but its uncertainty went to my heart.

  “Is that how you cut your face?” he asked.

  I had removed the bit of bandage and I touched the rough mark on my cheek. “Yes, but it’s nothing. I was lucky it wasn’t any worse.”

  “Very lucky.” Nona sounded ominous.

  I glanced at Lori and saw in surprise that she was crying. Chris saw too and reached across the table to touch her.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  She looked at him with swimming eyes. “I’m sorry. I was being mean. I know you didn’t do it, Chris. It’s just that—that everyone always blames me!” With a quick movement she shoved her chair back and ran out of the room.

  Trevor said wearily, “I’ll talk to her,” and followed her from the kitchen.

  Nona made a sound like a snort and began to stack plates before her on the table, while Chris sat at his place, finishing his breakfast in silence. There was, after all, nothing to be said. Lori’s rational balance seemed more precarious than ever. Yet she seemed to reject with scorn whatever might be offered to help her and to go her own way.

  “I wish Trevor were free of her,” Nona muttered.