by Kim Edwards
“Home for a while?” he asked.
“Couple of weeks. How about you?” The last I’d heard, Joey had been unemployed, bumming around L.A. studying filmmaking, which had made me feel quite satisfied, sitting in my sleek Jakarta office as I read the family news in my mother’s letter.
“I’ve roped him into working here for the summer,” Art interjected. “I’m trying to start a dynasty. Why not? Between Joey and your brother, the business could have a pretty bright future. You’re not interested, are you, Lucy? Because there’s always a place for you, if you ever want.”
I smiled politely, wondering what Joey thought of Art’s sudden magnanimity, deciding not to point out how he’d been quite happy to slam the door on the idea of a dynasty when my father was alive. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind. Big project?” I asked, nodding at the rolls of drafting paper on the table.
“Oh, that.” Art waved his hand. “Just some ideas we’re working out. Always dreaming something up, you know. Staying on the cutting edge.”
Joey had been scanning the deck, which was full now, and he didn’t look at us as he spoke, taking in the crowded tables. “That’s right. Trying to stay one step ahead of the curve. Speaking of which, Avery’s sure got a gold mine here,” he added. Then he looked up and winked at me. “I may just have to give Blake a run for his money with her, what do you think?”
A joke, I told myself, just a joke. But I remembered in that moment why I’d been so happy to steal Joey’s clothes and hide his keys. I remembered my distaste and anger.
“I think you two look busy,” I said, forcing a smile, moving away. “Guess I’ll see you around.”
Chapter 4
“I HEAR HE’S FABULOUS,” THE WOMAN SAID, SO ENGROSSED IN her conversation that she nearly ran into me as I left the restaurant. She was carrying an outsized patchwork bag over her shoulder and I stepped back into the doorway to let her pass.
“Oh, he’s very good,” another woman said. “I was here last spring, when he first opened. They’ll let you try it, you know. It’s really an experience. They walk you right through it. You hardly have to use any air at all. It’s not like blowing up a balloon or anything. I made a glass egg.”
“Did you? I want to do that.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“He really must be good.”
“Oh, he is, he’s won awards.”
They were past me then, walking through the midmorning sunlight to the other end of the renovated factory. I knew they were talking about Keegan, and I followed them as they sang his praises.
It wasn’t hard to find the entrance to Keegan’s studio; a group had collected five deep outside the tall glass windows at the corner of the building, waiting for the next tour to begin. A sign hung from the doorway with a single word engraved in colorful script: GLASSWORKS. When I looked more closely I saw it was a mosaic made of tiny glass chips fused together. I couldn’t see much over the gathered heads, just trees and water reflected in the window, the distant glow of fire beyond. Those in the front rows appeared spellbound, emitting sighs of appreciation. There were many well-heeled women like the two who had passed me, but there were also several young people dressed in plenty of black, and two groups of teens that looked like they’d come on a field trip.
It was frustrating not to be able to see, and I was just about to leave when a tour leader finally pushed open the double glass doors, inviting us to enter. The group shifted and began to flow inside; I went with the current. A rush of heat poured over us as we filed into the vast room and took our places behind the observation railing. In the open space, several figures moved in a slow dance with fire. The guide raised her voice, but I could hardly make out what she was saying over the roar of the venting hood, the flames.
Against the far wall, three ovens glowed with a deep red-orange fire. A man wearing goggles, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, crossed the room and eased open a door on the glass furnace, revealing an interior of deep golden orange. Heat shimmered in a veil between his figure and the fire. He selected a pipe from a nearby vat of water and plunged it into the furnace, turning it slowly several times before he pulled it out, the glass on the end molten, glowing.
Subtly, as thick as caramel, the glass shifted shape as he carried it to a long metal table and began to roll it, smoothing and elongating the soft glass against the steel. The color slowly faded, the glass growing clearer with every movement, until it was completely transparent. He sat, still turning the pipe very slowly, then lifted it, pressed the tip to his lips, and began to blow.
It happened very gradually, almost imperceptibly, that the molten glass began to swell, growing round like a soap bubble, the surface thinning and becoming faintly iridescent, as large as a kumquat, then as large as an apple. Twice the glassblower checked his progress and went back to plunge the growing shape into the furnace, softening the glass, our guide explained, before returning to the table to shape it further with his breath. The assistant came up with a wooden paddle dripping wet and pressed it to the base, steam rising in a cloud as the wood began to smolder. She pulled the paddle away, leaving the glass flattened slightly at the base. This process was repeated several times, and slowly the rough shape of a vase evolved. The glassblower transferred the glass to another pipe, using metal tools to widen the opening, while the assistant turned. The vase was released with one swift tap, and the assistant, ready with gloves, whisked it into the annealer to cool.
This process was mesmerizing to watch, and was going on in various stages all through the room. The tour guide announced that there would be time for questions in a few minutes, and that afterward we’d be given a chance to blow glass, if we wished.
It was only then, when he plunged the blowpipe back into a vat of water, his motions fluid and precise amid the sudden burst of steam, that I realized the person breathing shape into the glass was Keegan. Yes, there was the triangular scar above his elbow, and those were his hands, emerging now from the heat-resistant gloves, steady and strong; hands that had curved around the handles of the motorcycle, hands that had slipped beneath my jacket on cold spring nights and traveled across my skin.
Keegan had been a tense and disaffected teenager, attractive in a brooding way, but now he moved with an easy sureness, comfortable with the ongoing dance of the workers and raging fires, calling out directions to the apprentices. The rebel with his leather jacket and his silence and his sweet, crooked smile was gone, it seemed, but the feelings I’d had for him all those years ago surged up as if I’d never left, never gone to college and graduate school and traveled the world.
Keegan took off his goggles and approached our group. His arms were muscled from all the work with glass. He was leaner than I remembered, and he seemed taller, too. I watched, fascinated, as he gestured to the furnaces and equipment, answering questions, but I wasn’t really paying attention to anything he said. Instead, I was remembering how it always was with us, Keegan waiting in the shadows of the parking lot while I locked the sandwich shop and stripped off the plastic gloves, the orange and brown polyester uniform. While I scrubbed away the smell of ham, the grease and salt of chips, while I shook my hair free from the hairnet and slipped into my jeans, a tank top, my black leather jacket. I crossed the parking lot and straddled the motorcycle, pressing the length of me against the length of him as we took off into the night.
People started lining up to take their turn at glassblowing, but I held back, watching. One by one, Keegan helped them each create an iridescent sphere. These were set aside to cool, and then the tourists were guided out through the gift shop. Finally, I was sitting alone. The assistant, a young woman dressed in a rust-colored coverall, her dark red hair cut short and her cheeks flushed from the heat, came over.
“Sorry, but we’re about to take a lunch break,” she said. “The gift shop stays open, though. You might want to check it out. There’s some great stuff.”
“Actually, I was hoping to say hello to Keegan. He’s an old frie
nd. I haven’t seen him in years. If he has a minute?”
She studied me for a second before she nodded and turned, her gestures nimble and precise, stepping between the equipment to where Keegan stood by the furnace. When she pointed in my direction he looked up, nodded, wiped his hands on a cloth he’d pulled from his back pocket. I could tell he hadn’t recognized me, and I wondered if I’d changed that much. A few feet from the railing he paused and really took me in, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Lucy?” he said, his smile deepening. “Lucy Jarrett. Wow. What a surprise. What’s it been—a million years?”
“Hey there,” I said. So much time had passed that it was a shock as well as a pleasure to hear his voice. I felt it straight through my body, head to toe. “How are you, Keegan? How have you been?”
He stepped over the railing and sat down next to me, smelling faintly of heat and sweat, and looked at me intently, pleased and amused.
“I’m good, doing well. I’ve got this new place.”
“So I see. Not bad. People are standing five deep outside.”
He nodded. “Yeah, so far so good, anyway. I’ve been here about six months. I’m giving myself three years, but they say the first one is the real make-or-break time. But you never know—a cold summer and all the tourists will stay home; there’s a lot I can’t control.” He grinned. “But then again, I’ve never been terribly afraid of risk.”
“Yes, I seem to remember that about you.”
“And you? I hear you’re a world traveler.”
I told him a little about the places I’d lived and studied, the jobs I’d taken, about my life with Yoshi, in Jakarta and Japan, which suddenly seemed very far away.
“You know,” I said, interrupting myself, overcome with regret suddenly for the way I’d ended things between us. “I’d like to tell you more, and I’d like to hear how you came full circle to end up back here—I know you were traveling, too—but before I say another word I want to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For being such a jerk to you after my father died.”
“Oh, Lucy.” Keegan shook his head, studying his hands, lean and calloused, which were clasped between his knees. “Look, it’s understandable—even if I didn’t understand it at the time. And it’s true, I didn’t. But you were in shock. I know. It’s major, losing a parent, and I shouldn’t have pressed you.”
“No, really, I was awful to shut things down like that. I’ve thought about it off and on for years. I’m sorry.”
He nodded but didn’t speak. I put my hand on his arm and he looked over at me, a question in his smile, and I remembered how we’d pull over in some deserted place, still trembling from the wind and the ride, and pulled my hand away.
“You were leaving at the end of the summer anyway,” Keegan said. “We didn’t ever talk about it, but I knew. So. What do you say we just let the past be the past?”
Could it? I wondered. Could the past ever be just the past? Still, I felt relieved of a burden I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying.
Keegan’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. Back to the furnaces, I thought at first. Or maybe his assistant, her short red hair swinging as she worked, was more to him than an employee. But then I saw that his gaze had gone even beyond the furnaces to the far wall, where a door had opened in the brick. A small boy with curly dark hair stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, barefoot. A young woman waited behind him, her hands on his shoulders. She pointed in our direction and the boy waved, and Keegan waved back, standing up.
“Damn. I asked Tina not to bring him down here. It’s too dangerous.” Keegan was already swinging one leg over the rail. He called back over his shoulder, “Lucy, if you’ve got another minute, come on and meet Max. Meet my son.”
Most people had gone by then, but a couple had stayed to tend the furnaces, keeping them stoked until the next round of tours. They kept an eye on me as I navigated the edges of the room, careful to stay far from anything that glowed, still trying to get over the shock of hearing Keegan say “my son.”
I caught up with him at the doorway. He was squatting, talking to Max, who looked to be about six or seven years old. He had eyes as dark as Keegan’s and he was holding something in his fist. Slowly, Max opened his fingers and Keegan picked a beetle up from his small palm.
“Very nice,” he said. “Did you bring it for lunch?”
Max laughed, clearly delighted. “That’s silly, Dad.”
“Silly? Why so? Lots of protein in bugs.”
Max dissolved into giggles. “Dad.”
“I told him it was gross,” Tina said, “but he wanted to keep it.”
“This is my old friend Lucy,” Keegan said, handing me the beetle with its shiny brown sides. “Maybe she’ll stay for lunch. Should we invite her? She might like bugs.”
“You know what?” I said. “One time I did eat bugs for lunch. Deep-fried crickets, to be exact.”
Max was wide-eyed. “Did you like them?”
“They were crunchy,” I said, putting the beetle back in Max’s small, damp palm.
Keegan chuckled. “Seriously, come on up, Lucy, if you have time.” He stepped aside so Tina could leave. She was slender, waiflike, and very quiet, her hands plunged into the pocket of her hoodie as Keegan pulled bills from his wallet and thanked her for coming on such short notice. He pointed Max back toward the stairs. “Bugs or not, I need to get you some lunch. The next babysitter’s supposed to be here at one o’clock. Mom’s sick, isn’t she, buddy?” Keegan said, ruffling Max’s hair.
“I shouldn’t come up, then,” I said. “I don’t want to disturb her.”
“Oh, she’s not here,” Keegan said.
“Mom lives in Auburn,” Max confirmed.
“We’re separated,” Keegan explained. “We have been for about the last year. The regular babysitter couldn’t make it on such short notice, so we had Tina, and this afternoon we’ll have Tracy. Max and I also worked out a deal, didn’t we? A little bit of coloring, a little bit of Play-Doh, a visit from Dad every hour, and a video.”
“Plus the cell phone.”
“There you go,” Keegan said, tapping his pocket. “It’s right here.”
We entered a loft space with soaring ceilings and beautiful golden pine floors, sanded and polished, scars and all. The vast paned windows I remembered from the factory were still in place across one wall, and Keegan had set up little living areas, using furniture to mark off spaces. A couch faced the windows overlooking the canal, flanked by a coffee table and two chairs. Adjacent to this was an area dedicated to television and games, with beanbag chairs and low tables all around. This was clearly the space Max had been frequenting, for there were crayons everywhere, stuffed animals and plastic blocks, an open box of animal crackers, and a wealth of crumbs on the rug.
On the opposite side of the loft, the windows were much higher, light drifting down from another story. Here, Keegan had installed a kitchen with a counter that opened onto a dining area. His furniture was garage-sale eclectic, the cabinets stainless steel, the dining room Danish modern from the 1950s. Against a white wall there were shelves displaying rows of molded blue glass insulators, all lined up like little glass hats; these had been made in this factory in the town’s glory days, Keegan explained, before oil prices went sky-high and fiber optics were invented and businesses fled south. He made a habit of collecting them. I touched the sea-blue glass, clear and full of air bubbles, trying to imagine myself back in a time when these rooms had been filled with the roar of machines, the heat of glass, the voices of the workers calling. Silence now; the waters of the canal flowed below.
Keegan had gone right to work, placing slices of wheat bread on the counter, slathering on peanut butter and jelly.
“Want a sandwich, Lucy?”
“No, thanks.” I slid onto a stool, watching Keegan slap the sandwiches together, feeling right at home. I thought that it must be good to be Max, to have a father as silly a
nd interesting and attentive as Keegan was. “I just ate.”
“Apple? Glass of milk?”
“I’m fine.”
I wanted to ask Keegan whom he’d married, but not with Max in the room.
“This will sound crazy,” I said instead, “but this feels like exactly the same space where you used to hang out. The same view from the windows anyway.”
Keegan cut Max’s sandwich into quarters and looked up.
“You have a good eye. This is just the same space.”
“Really? Your old crash pad?”
“My home away from home,” he agreed, opening the refrigerator for some milk.
Max asked for apples, and I wandered back to the space with the overstuffed furniture, gazing out at the canal with its steady waters. In high school Keegan had discovered this place and carved out a spare retreat, furnished with a battered leather sofa and an orange crate table, amid the abandoned machinery and debris. He came here to clear his head, he said, but the one time I’d come here with him I’d felt claustrophobic, the heat of the day trapped in the motionless rooms and the water, unconcerned with anything, drifting by outside. I preferred the thrill of the motorcycle rides, or the nights when we took the canoe out onto the dark lake, paddling deep and then letting the boat drift, trying not to capsize when we kissed.
“Lucy?” Keegan had crossed the room and stood beside me. “You okay?”
“Memory lane, that’s all,” I said. “It’s all so different than it was.”
“Isn’t it? It was a shock to me, too. But the way it happened was very serendipitous. I went to art school, you know. In Chicago. I never got to tell you. I was wait-listed all that spring, but I kept quiet about it, because in those days I didn’t really believe that the things I wanted for my life would happen. But I got in, and scraped together enough money and scholarships to go. The first couple of summers, I took a job on freighters, mostly traveling to Mexico and South America. I lived in Mexico for a while, too.”
