The Glass House People (14 page)

"Amazing, aren't they," said Beth, peering down over the balcony by their table. She had an aerial view of Bernard's and Hannah's heads, bent close. "Maybe they'll fall in love and get married, and Mom will give up her plan for college."

"Or maybe they'll get married and she'll go to college anyway," said Tom.

"Or maybe—no,
probably
Dad will take her to see our apartment and she'll be so turned off by the mess that she'll run all the way back to California and never see him again," said Monica. "Even more than a wife, Dad needs a housekeeper. Someone trained to deal with chaos."

Beth was intrigued. Her room was usually a mess, so she could sympathize with Bernard. "I identify with chaos!"

Monica raised her eyebrows. "I doubt you know the meaning of the word, Beth. Wait till you see our apartment!"

Beth wanted to hear more, but Tom suggested they buy a few more slices of cheesecake and go find Hannah and Bernard. He wanted to move on to see the site of Benjamin Franklin's house.

While they were walking along, Bernard ran to the corner of Market Street and bought each of them a huge, thick hot pretzel slathered with mustard. "Eat up," he said, handing one to Beth. "It's a Philly specialty. You can't come here and not eat one. Against the law." His big laugh boomed out, and Beth found herself grinning back at him. He was a nice man, even though he did embarrass his daughter and live in chaos. Hannah was glowing today, and the tense set to her shoulders had disappeared. Had they been this crazy about each other twenty years ago? Beth watched Hannah lean close and lick some mustard from Bernard's pretzel. He kissed her nose.

Beth walked on ahead of them. She'd never seen her mother so relaxed with a man in all the years she'd been dating. Relaxed and carefree—although it seemed to Beth the air around them was charged the way she sometimes felt the atmosphere around her and Ray was charged. Ray scoffed at her when she started talking about atmosphere, but still ... It was there. Call it chemistry. And chemistry was working in a big way with Hannah and Bernard today. Had the air tingled around them this way twenty years ago? If so, how had Hannah ever been able to break up their relationship? Beth glanced back and saw Bernard's arm close around her mother as they walked. She was confiding something behind her hand, her eyes alight with the mischief Beth knew meant a major punchline was on the way.

That Clifton Becker must have been something
really
special, that was all she could say.

Clifton had the porch to himself that Saturday afternoon in mid-July. Iris and Mrs. Savage (who now urged him to call her "Mama") had taken the trolley into the city to order the flowers for the church. Then they were going to meet Iris's old high school friend, Louise, and take her to lunch before going to Bensen's Bridal Boutique for another fitting of the bridal gown. Clifton forgot why this was necessary—something to do with having the side seams taken in or let out. It didn't matter; it was just one more of the little details women liked to fuss over when they planned a wedding. He was happy to sit back and let them go to it; he wanted only to be married to lovely Iris, living comfortably—first in a little apartment near the Main Line, then eventually out in the country somewhere. All the planning that went into
becoming
married he would just as soon stay out of.

There had been some sort of stink this morning just before Mrs. Savage and Iris left. Mr. Savage had taken the car out of town on business a few days before, and so Mrs. Savage and Iris had to walk the mile to the trolley. Hanny Lynn was supposed to go with them because she was another of the bridesmaids. But Hanny had vanished. Iris and her mother were furious, and they waited until they could not possibly wait another minute and still catch the trolley. So they set off up the street, calling every few steps for Hanny Lynn, as if they expected she might materialize out of thin air or pop out from hiding in the bushes. They turned the corner, their calls fading, and Clifton settled himself contentedly on the glider swing with a collection of Isaac Asimov stories.

He read science fiction avidly whenever he had a break at work, or on weekends, as on this Saturday. He thought a writer ought to keep up with what was being written in the genre. Then he would try very hard, while typing late at night, to find new solutions to old dilemmas and new twists for tried-and-true plots. Clifton had no doubt that he was a good writer—in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if one day he were classified as a
great
writer, right up there alongside Isaac Asimov himself. But the going was often slow and, lately, with all the planning and upheaval of the coming wedding, he found himself simply too tired at night to do anything more than tumble into the high old bed in his bedroom.

After two hours of nonstop reading he closed the book. He leaned back on the cushion and closed his eyes, kicking the glider into motion, tempted to head up to his room for a nap before Iris returned. The family used to refer to his room as "the Lodge," since they had rented it out often to lodgers in the past. Now that he had been with them nearly a year, the room had come to be known as "Clifton's Lodge." And he approved the name, liked having a room called for him. He imagined how, when he was famous, tour groups would make regular stops at the Savage home on Spring Street. Mrs. Savage—or perhaps there would be a guide from the Clifton Becker Fan Club and Guild specially hired for the purpose—would show the people up the narrow, uncarpeted stairs, warning everyone to be careful not to slip on the polished wood. Up onto the tiny landing, then up to the hallway and straight ahead into "Clifton's Lodge." There would be a brass nameplate on the door. "Yes," she would tell them. "It's hard to believe that this humble bedroom in our own little home is where young Clifton Becker wrote his first masterpiece." The crowd would murmur, awed beyond all human control.

This pleasant daydream was interrupted by voices on the sidewalk in front of the house. The porch was screened by the tall, heavily scented boxwood hedge, and so Clifton could not see the speakers, but he easily recognized the voices of Hanny Lynn and the boy she dated. What was that kid's name? His uncle ran Clements's Candy, the store where Iris bought her favorite red licorice sticks. Hanny and the boy went to school together. Had gone, he corrected himself idly. Hadn't the boy just graduated, with Hanny still having another year to go? Something like that.

From the sound of things, they were arguing. Clifton sat up straight in order to hear better and stopped the sway of the swing with his toe. Not that he condoned eavesdropping—but good dialogue might inspire him in his work. Here he was, after all, minding his own business, and there they were, deep into their fight. What should he do? Call to them so they knew he was here—and interrupt? Go quietly into the house so they would never know he had been there at all? Clifton remained in the glider, leaning forward slightly with his feet firmly on the floor to prevent the creak of the glider from giving his presence away. He held his book of short stories open on his lap.

The boy's voice rose. The angrier he got, the more his voice threatened to squeak. Clifton smiled, remembering his own struggles years before with a voice that hadn't deepened right on schedule. It had been a source of embarrassment to him, as it no doubt was to Hanny Lynn's boyfriend. He recognized the boy's cough—it had been his own way of trying to tame the unmanageable squeak in the middle of conversation. "Hanny Lynn! I don't see how you can do this to me!" (Cough, cough.) "To us! We love each other. You know we do!"

Her voice was lower, perfectly clear and firm. "Look, I'm sorry. I know we like each other a lot. I
do
care about you, Bernie! But—not enough, I guess."

"Not enough for
what,
damn it? It's not like I'm asking you to marry me or anything!" (Cough.)

Hanny Lynn sounded exasperated. "Oh, it's no use. I knew you wouldn't understand. We're just not right for each other, Bernie. I need someone—older."

"I
am
older than you!"

"More mature, I mean. You're too—well, young."

"Give me a break!" The squeak was out and there was no calling it back. Bernie didn't even bother to cough but rushed on in desperation. "Come on, you sound like something out of one of those stupid romance books you've always got your nose in. How old do you want me to be, for God's sake? You're only just seventeen yourself!"

There was that exasperated sigh again. "Oh, Bernie. Let's just forget it. I mean what I'm saying. You're a very nice—boy. You're like a little boy! But I need a man." She paused. Clifton could imagine Bernie struggling to control his rage at being called a little boy. Hanny's voice continued softly, but not so softly Clifton couldn't hear: "I need a man—and, in fact, I have one. I think you should know."

They were both silent now. Clifton strained his ears. Then Bernie coughed and cleared his throat, and his voice was deep again. "So you've been seeing someone else?"

"That's right."

Clifton raised an eyebrow. But, then, Hanny Lynn was not known for sticking to the truth.

"For how long?"

"Just about a year."

"A
year!
" The squeak was back. "I can't believe you, Hanny Lynn! Who is it? Who the hell is he?"

"Never mind! I'm sorry, Bernie, because we've been friends since kindergarten, and I hope we can still be friends. But that's all we can ever be." She took a deep breath. "I'll never forget you."

"Spare me the teen romance theatrics." He spat the words.

"Oh, Bernie—"

But he was walking away, and Clifton could see him now as he passed the house and continued down the street. Bernie had a funny sort of walk, a shambling gait that, especially now that he was agitated, seemed almost clownlike—or like the awkward lope of a young giraffe. Clifton felt a fleeting spasm of sympathy for the tall, dark-haired boy. It hadn't been so long ago that he himself had been dumped by a girl. Thank God it hadn't taken him too long to recover from Abby. Thank God he had found his wonderful Iris! Bernie would find someone else, too. That's the way these things worked.

Hanny Lynn ran lightly up the steps onto the porch, then stopped short, staring at him. "Oh!"

"Oh, there you are," Clifton said, one hand raised to turn the page of his book. She looked flustered, fingering the strap of her summer camisole. She reminded him of a skittish colt, long-legged in her hot pants and sandals, her mane of light brown hair hanging down her back. He tried to look casual. "Your mother and Iris were really mad when you didn't show up in time to go with them."

"Oh—" She sank into a wicker rocking chair near his glider. "I forgot all about that. I had—something important to do."

"Good. I hope they think it was important, too, when you make your excuses." He smiled at her, distantly, he hoped, and buried his nose in his book. She sat there a while, silent, staring at the bushes. Then she reached over and tapped him on the knee.

Her voice rang with suspicion. "How long have you been out here?"

Should he tell her? Oh, why not? Maybe she needed a shoulder to cry on. And after all, soon he would be her brother-in-law. It wouldn't hurt to have a little talk with her, maybe make her feel better. It wasn't exactly that he had ignored her until now, but he really couldn't help lavishing all his attention on Iris. Understandable, of course, but maybe it was time now to become more brotherly. (Was now the time to become more sonlike as well? Maybe he really
would
have to go on that camping trip with Mr. Savage.) Being part of a family meant taking on some responsibility. This he firmly believed. And he was ready for it.

He smiled at Hanny Lynn. "I've been out here long enough to hear you giving some young man the brush-off. Poor kid! I know how he felt."

"You—you do?"

"But don't worry too much. He'll get over it. I did."

"I hope it doesn't take him too long," she said, biting her lip, for a second looking vulnerable. "I really do like him. We've known each other practically forever! But I had to break up—we're just not right for each other."

Clifton nodded. "That's a perfectly good reason in my book. There's no virtue in wasting your time with someone who isn't right for you."

She glanced at him from beneath long lashes. "Do you really think so? I mean, well—I need to know you think I did the right thing. It's important to me."

He was flattered his opinion mattered to her. "Sure you did the right thing, if you'd rather spend your time with someone else." He smiled. "You just have to follow your heart." Didn't he sound big-brotherly? That was pretty good advice for anyone.

"I like Bernie a lot," she said softly. "But following your heart is never easy. Still, in the end, I know it is what I must do." She swept her smooth brown hair off her shoulders and tilted her head, regarding him steadily. Something about the way she looked at him made him uncomfortably aware that something else was going to happen.

And he was right. The next moment she flung herself out of her chair and onto the glider next to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her head against his shoulder. "Oh, Clifton, darling Clifton! I'm so glad you think I did the right thing! Next to you, Bernie is a child. He's much too young for me. You're—oh, you're mature, you're strong, you know about love. You know what it's like to love someone hopelessly—and then find out that there's a chance after all!"

My God!
Clifton pressed himself back into the cushions. What was she talking about? A chance for what?

Hanny Lynn shook her hair back and gazed up at him from his lap. "My love, my darling. I've followed my heart, just as you told me to. I've taken the first step in breaking off that silly, childish relationship with Bernie Clements, and now it's up to you. If we're going to be together, well, you know what you have to do."

"What—?" He couldn't think. What in the world was going on?

"Call off the wedding!"

"Hanny!" Clifton shoved her off his lap and she slid to the floor. He stood up. "Hold on just a minute here!" His mind was whirling. She was saying that
he
was the older man she loved? That
he
was the reason she'd broken up with Bernie? But that was utterly absurd! She was just a girl—just Iris's kid sister.