Glass Voices

by Carol Bruneau

  She’d slid the pile back into the drawer, feeling none of the usual pain as she straightened up and resumed vacuuming. Pushing, thrusting, she’d bumped baseboards and chair legs before realizing the thing wasn’t plugged in. Leaving everything as it was, she’d gone and splashed her face; was sitting on the edge of the tub when the Plymouth roared in. He’d only been gone an hour; she heard him telling Harry about some girl dressed like a buttahcup, mimicking her la-de-da British accent. “Hold me back, right?” he’d laughed coming upstairs, saying he was going right back out again, to Dunphy’s.

  Staying put, she’d held her breath and counted. Holy Mary, mother of God.

  For three blessed weeks after that, she waffled over whether to mention the pictures or not. Just their presence made her queasy; she couldn’t walk by his room without the images flooding back. One sultry afternoon, she decided to confront him when he got home from work, then smooth things over with supper. Despite the heat, she’d put on eggs and potatoes for a salad; there were shallots in the garden, poked among the marigolds. Tinned beef, Jell-O, and lemonade: they could’ve done worse, a lot worse. She was in the kitchen when suddenly the air went still, had just finished peeling an egg when, seconds later, the whole house rocked—gunshots? A bomb? Good God. Trembling, she’d stood there, rooted, sweat tickling her temples. Another blast, louder. A pane shattered, shards tinkling into the potted gloxinia. The Nazis, had been her first thought, never mind the war was over. Coming unglued, she’d fled downstairs.

  The cellar was cool, the cement musty against her cheek; wild fear melted her to it. There was another explosion, and another, and there she’d been, middle-aged and aproned, yet twenty years old again inside, as if her face were pressed to tarry grass.

  Who knows how long she lay there before the gravel crunched outside, and footsteps pounded. Harry’s boots on the steps, his yelling—“Lucy! Lucy?”—wondering where the hell she was, then hollering Quick! and trying to gather her up. But she couldn’t move, her hand still grasping the ghost of a boiled egg. Though it was different this time: she hadn’t flown or cartwheeled anywhere, but dropped to the bottom of the house—dead? Except, there was Harry screaming and hauling her to her feet; but then her legs wouldn’t work—had they been blown off? No: just pins and needles. Looking down, she could see them. The potatoes. Her voice had been like a little girl’s. Forget the frigging potatoes. Lugging her outside, he was stuffing her into the front seat when Mrs. Chaddock came running and jumped in too, her dog in her arms. They were telling people to get out. On the radio. The magazine, any second she was gonna blow…

  He’d gunned it up the hill, till, looking back at the city and the tight glint of the Basin, they saw the mushroom of smoke. Cars choked the road. There was a BOOM! and a yellow wheel of light had spun upwards, shattering into spokes; then a green one, as the cloud climbed and grew. Harry’d laid on the horn, but there was no moving. “May’s well enjoy the show,” someone yelled as people abandoned cars, taking to their feet. More bursts of green and yellow lit the sky. Fireworks. Oooooooh! Ahhhhhhhh!

  Clutching her dog, Mrs. Chaddock spied a relative and took off too. “Better get moving,” a fellow had said, leaning in. That was just the barge going up. If the magazine blew, she’d be a mother, he hollered, 1917 all over again. They couldn’t just sit there, Harry said, as icy fingers seemed to pinch her. Jewel. They couldn’t go anywhere without him.

  The neighbourhood was so still that between blasts they could hear the Plymouth’s purr going up the street, as if they were the only ones alive. Yet everything looked normal: Mrs. Chaddock’s petunias and push mower by the fence, and on their veranda not a leaf off the clematis. “Maybe he’s inside,” she’d whispered, her words chased by a blow like thunder, but closer, sharper. Shellfire? But no Jewel. Empty, the house had smelled of eggs and black potatoes as they thumped downstairs.

  Must’ve had the sense to run for it with his crowd from work, Harry’d tried to soothe her, as an explosion shook the foundation. Green lightning lit the dusty little windows, illuminating shelves of pickles and tools. Creeping back up to get a blanket, Harry spread it out. Lying side by side, they’d held hands, the floor quivering beneath them. “Nuttin’ like a full basement,” he’d tried to joke. It’d taken years to realize, but he’d done a good job on the house. Pity if it fell in now, she’d thought. But a mercy, if anything had happened to Jewel. Squeezing Harry’s fingers, she’d tried to picture him fleeing in Mr. Black’s shiny Packard.

  Harry squeezed back, then his grip had eased and of all things he’d started to snore. Though sometime in the night it sounded as if the world was being attacked—each heartbeat a grenade bursting inside her, her bones pummelled by falling rock—and Harry’d slipped his arm around her as they waited to die. Wherever Jewel is, she’d prayed silently, make it quick. But suddenly the roar flattened, followed by a burst like the noon gun on Citadel Hill, or a truck blowing a tire. Then silence: if this was dying, she’d thought, it didn’t feel much different from living, the cool cement as unforgiving as ever of her knees. Slowly, creeping sunlight had spread the dinginess with a soft glow, as a bird chirped and the dog yipped next door. “Jesus,” Harry’d breathed, saying he guessed he’d seen everything now.

  He was snoozing on the sofa when Jewel waltzed in later, looking like he’d crawled out from under a rock. Catching up on the ironing, she’d almost burned a shirt as he slouched in the doorway smiling down at himself. She’d moved towards him, not quickly enough, wiping sweat from her hands. He was all right! Of course, she’d told herself: he’d been playing croquet, eating potato salad—if people like the Blacks ate potato salad, maybe in an emergency. She’d been out of her mind with worry, she told him. Blushing as their eyes met, he’d smelled…of onions? When she reached to pat his cheek, grinning, he’d motioned towards the screen. There was somebody he wanted her to meet, he said; actually, they’d met already. “My wife,” he’d beamed. Rebecca.

  If only she’d been a Black—or a Mona, that was her first thought. Then she’d figured he was kidding. Skulking there in the hallway, Lil’s girl had looked in rougher shape than Jewel, her hair a rat’s nest, her dress a disaster, especially wrong with the rhinestone pin she had on, a frog. Spying her ring, Lucy’d beelined for the garden, leaving Harry’s shirt practically smoking. Fanning herself, it had been all she could do to keep breathing. Dear Christ in heaven, she’d have so gladly taken a Mona any day, even if Mona’d turned out to be lousy at housekeeping. When the shaking stopped, she’d called out for a glass of water. “She’s having a baby,” she heard Jewel say as he handed it to her.

  “A baby,” she’d heard herself repeat, water dribbling down her blouse. The sun making his face a blot. Her tongue had gone numb. Don’t expect me to babysit, the words had buzzed out, like a pesky fly. As he reached for her, she’d reeled onto the lawn, pressing the cool glass to her cheek. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “Missus?” Rebecca had called through the screen, as he disappeared inside. Then Harry’s voice had travelled out, stunned, saying this called for a party!

  “Where will you live?” was all she could think to say, startling everyone. Anyone, she thought, but not that woman’s daughter! Rebecca looped her arm through their boy’s, smiling, showing her pointy little teeth. Gem, she called him, as he mumbled something about a room above Phinney’s, and his father spat discretely into his hankie, saying there was no reason they couldn’t live here. Lord love a duck, it’d been like a scene in the stories, except, if they’d tried they couldn’t have planned it worse. Then Rebecca’d piped up, her voice surprisingly gentle, promising—“Cross my heart an’ hope to die, Missus”—to make them all glad, not just Jewel, but her and Harry.

  16

  BLAME HARRY; HE’D ALWAYS HAD a knack for making messes she had to clean up. The hardest part, though, was having the newlyweds underfoot. Not so much underfoot as lying around in Jewel’s bed. Once they left the door open and she’d glimpsed
them spooned together pretending to sleep. They’d been married by a Justice of the Peace; in spite of herself she’d thought: a white dress, a priest, a cake—wouldn’t these have made it legitimate? But most of the time they made themselves scarce, disappearing to Dunphy’s after supper. Sometimes they didn’t stay around long enough to eat, but one evening Rebecca pitched in with the dishes, doing such a poor job Lucy had to do them again. On the stickiest night of that summer, Rebecca’d tried to make fudge. “That buzzard next door’ll be phoning the firemen!” Harry’d batted at the smoke. A terrible waste of sugar.

  Then the news came on: hadn’t the Yanks bombed Japan. Hiroshima: the very name seemed to sear the airwaves like screaming metal, souls rushing upwards, filling the sky. She’d crossed herself as Rebecca chipped away at the burnt pot. When Jewel stalked outside, Rebecca followed, and she and Harry could hear her out there whining that she was sick of Dunphy’s, and why couldn’t they go downtown? “Plenty of beer here,” Harry’d called out, and after a while they sauntered in, Jewel jumpy and impatient. His father got out the fiddle—“Becky? You must know this one”—reeling off a few tunes. Wiping her eyes, Rebecca’d leaned over and kissed his cheek, Lordie, shocking everybody, but she could see how he liked it. When she slumped down again, her belly looked awfully flat—but what did Lucy care? Somehow she’d been with those people in Japan, each a tiny candle snuffed out.

  She’d make herself ask how Rebecca was feeling. The poor kid, after all: the first months were the worst. She’d been sick as a dog with Jewel, not so bad with…

  Helena’s name and her small face would fill Lucy’s head, even as she tried to imagine what this baby, Jewel’s, would look like. Though Helena might as well have been specks falling from the sky, or a picture in the paper faded beyond recognition, one she’d gazed at till time wore out the details. “Maybe you ought to rest,” she’d suggest, saying it couldn’t be good, standing in the store. But Rebecca would say she was fine, fleeing upstairs, Jewel at her heels, and as if to prove it, not ten minutes later their noises filtering down, and Harry putting on a fake, disgusted look, his good eye gleaming. Harry! She’d plug her ears. After a while Jewel would appear in his undershirt, saying Rebecca was worn out, poor thing. But eventually she’d straggle downstairs, and Harry would pour beer, measuring out a shot glassful for her, Rebecca flicking the foam from it as it spilled over. You wouldn’t even think about diapering a baby with nails like that.

  “More where that come from,” Harry would egg them both on, her and Jewel. He had a stash, of course. He’d never change: once he got wound up, there was no shutting him off: “You like a shindig, don’t you, Becky? Your ma sure did.” And he’d strike up that poisonous fiddle, while Rebecca twisted her ring round and round, asking if he knew something a bit more popular. As good a time as any to bring it up, Lucy seized the moment to corner Jewel—corner, not ambush—asking him to at least talk to Father Marcus about a wedding. She never did confront him about the photographs.

  The ladies’ league quilt had got sidelined by the Victory hoopla, but when the raffle was finally called, she’d bought ten tickets, printing Mrs. Jewel Caines on every blessed stub. The prize just the thing for the double bed she and Harry bought as a belated present; but it went to someone who’d lost two boys at Normandy. “Not my taste anyhow, Ma,” Rebecca’d sloughed it off, thumbing through a magazine full of cooking and gardening tips, never mind that she was useless at both. Still she raved about the house they’d have someday, right on the cove, with a dock.

  “When I have my own kitchen,” she’d started in one night, Jewel downing his beer in a gulp. “Coming?” he’d blurted out; not that he called her anything but her name, no sweetie or doll, at least not in front of them. Harry’d told a Bob Hope one-liner, laughing too loudly as Rebecca lit a cigarette, staying put, and Jewel snatched the magazine. In a huff, she’d clicked upstairs, those heels of hers denting the floor, reappearing in a dress Lucy hadn’t seen, its cut less than flattering. Patience, she’d told herself, imagining powder in the upstairs sink. Rebecca’s purse looked new, too, seeing how she fussed swinging it over her shoulder. If they hurried, she said breezily, they’d still make the tram; she sounded so sure, even as Jewel changed his mind, preferring to stay home. As Lucy put away dishes, the girl stomped out, her footsteps gunshots. “Touchy,” Harry’d cracked, unleashing a flood of gripes from Jewel. What had he been thinking, marrying her? he moaned, saying he’d thought they’d have fun. Fun!? His father slapped the table, Jewel blushing as red as the toadstool salt and pepper shakers Rebecca’d given her, a bread-and-butter present. Saying he’d figured he’d be like Harry’s old pal Babineau, with his endless supply of…“Whoopee?” Harry hooted, telling him that if all else failed, at least he knew Rebecca could dance.

  They were listening to Don Messer a little later on, she and Harry, Harry bowing along to Quiet Time when the fight erupted upstairs, rattling Helena’s cup on the shelf over his head. Turning up the radio, he played harder, and she’d wondered aloud whether Edgar Boutilier still had that accordion for sale. Shouts travelled downstairs, followed by a thud that shook Christ’s picture over the mantel as Jewel thundered out. His heart, she’d thought, hearing him pound the step. From upstairs came sobbing, and when she went to investigate, it got louder, a naked sound through the bathroom door. A sound she’d never have expected from someone so wrapped up in clothes and makeup. It had gone right to her stomach: what about the baby? The door wasn’t locked when she tried it, and she’d slipped in, forgetting that the girl might be indisposed. There she’d sat in her slip, a tiny spatter of blood on the floor—like Sister’s, after the dog attack.

  It’s gone, Rebecca moaned, Lucy looking away when she heard how Jewel had accused her of making everything up, the pregnancy a lie from the get-go. But then Rebecca had grabbed her hand, training those pleading eyes on her, saying that she knew; she could tell, couldn’t she, that she’d never lie, swear on a stack of Bibles. That it took a woman to know what it was like, having a bun in the oven, then losing it, she’d sniffled through a welter of mascara as Lucy patted her arm, which was surprisingly muscular. Blowing her nose, Rebecca said she always knew Lucy would understand how it felt, losing something, someone. Because Jewel had told her, about his sister and all.

  Almighty God, it’d been like having a stranger rifle through her purse. Those greenish cat-eyes fixed on hers even as fingers picked her wallet, even the pennies, it felt like, such loss laid bare. “Ma,” Rebecca kept calling her. Somehow, around the thickness in her throat, she’d told her not to fret, and that Jewel might have some explaining to do.

  But downstairs, his and Harry’s voices drifted in through the screen, language that would curl paint. Jewel ranting about what an arsehole she’d taken him for, him swallowing the whole load of shit! Harry’s chair scraped the porch. Then Jewel’s voice went monotone, asking if his dad had any idea what he’d seen over there. “Arnhem—Holland?” he spat, as if Harry was stupid. Oh my God, she’d thought: the photographs best forgotten. Wrong to eavesdrop, but before she could step away, she heard him say, “Men, Dad, hanging from their ’chutes. Like washing, in the trees. Hundreds, picked off, one by one by…” Then silence, except for the que-ching que-ching of Mrs. Chaddock beheading dandelions with her mower, and he’d murmured how she and his dad could not imagine.

  Harry piped up that maybe he couldn’t, but his ma might. “Back then? I was one of the lucky buggers,” he told Jewel, “dead to the fuckin’ world till they hauled me out,” saying he could’ve burnt to death, but somebody—something—must’ve been watching out. Harry’d never talked like this, about the Explosion; all the years between them a silent pact not to. “But I smelled it,” he went on, “the smoke? Sweet, almost, till your gut turned and you knew what it was. Bodies. Your mother, now, Christ only knows what she seen.” Then Jewel cut in, saying his was war, which made it even harder for her to keep quiet. “So one and one makes two, bud,” H
arry sighed, “misery is misery,” and they’d both glanced up, caught, spying her.

  “‘TOMATO JUICE,’” REBECCA READS OUT, licking her finger to turn the page. Harry gazes up from the bed, puzzled or miffed; why the fuss, his look says, over a little spill? As soon as she heard about it—the pill, the glass, the mess on the bedspread—she was right over, the ‘bible’ in hand. How to Clean Everything, if life were that simple! “Got a pen?” she says, saying they’d better write down the recipe, the instructions. One hundred and one things not to do with tomato juice; forget about bathing in it to kill the smell of skunk, Lucy’s read somewhere. Now there’s one thing she hasn’t had to deal with.

  “She didn’t mean to lend it,” Rebecca says impatiently, scribbling away. “Jeez, she’ll think I stole it or something.” Lucy must look confused, because Rebecca grimaces as if she’s lost her marbles for good. “You know who I mean. Elinor? Miss Van Buskirk?” Then she asks Harry what he was trying to do, tie-dye the room, or what?

  The stain isn’t that bad; Harry couldn’t care less. Propping the book open, Rebecca strokes the lapel of his pajamas, his favourites, blue washed to a dingy grey. She reads out the instructions, as if dictating to herself. Maybe it’s her neat side communicating with the messy, the Jekyll and Hyde of her homey personality. “Sponge it first,” she says in a robotic voice, “with cold water. Then work in gly-cer-ine.” Glycereeen, she pronounces it. “If that doesn’t work, try hydrogen peroxide. Or so-di-um per-bo-rate, whatever the frig that is.” Touching the pen to her tongue, she finishes with a curlicue that makes Lucy think of a stringed instrument. Except she’s distracted by a niggling thing that has nothing to do with the stain or its removal; she knows she should’ve just washed the damn spread right away. Tomato’s a bugger, as Rebecca says.