The Glass House People (19 page)

"But they're her own pots!" protested Beth. "She's Monica Clements! In the flesh!" She pointed to Monica's name on the sign.

The guard's frown deepened. "The rules are the rules," she said. "Don't touch the cases." She walked back to her post, still watching them.

"She didn't believe me!" said Beth.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Monica.

"They should have hung your photo up next to your name."

"She'd still go on about not leaning on the glass, I bet." Monica shrugged. "Maybe I'll make a mug of her face. And exhibit it—that'll teach her!"

Beth laughed and turned back to the cases, careful this time not to lean on the glass. "So, go on and tell me about the hiding-place pots."

Monica pointed out the cracks along the base of the first pot. "See that? The base unscrews. Inside there's another pot and then another and another. Four pots in one. And on this one"—she indicated the second, blue pot—"there's a little trapdoor on a spring. When you push on the base of the pot, the door opens. The third pot's handle twists off—see the little crack? Inside there's a hollow where you could conceal a rolled-up message."

"They're amazing! How did you get the idea?"

"I was reading about how in olden times spies would carry snuff boxes or tobacco pouches or even makeup containers that had false bottoms or secret compartments. They'd hide poison in there, so if they were ever captured, they could commit suicide rather than give away their information."

"Pretty cool," said Beth. She walked on to examine the other cases of pots but found none she liked as well as Monica's. "I love your stuff. It's better than the rest."

"Thanks!" said Monica. "Tom was telling me how good
your
stuff is."

"He was? That's nice of him. I didn't think he ever noticed what I do."

"Oh, God, yes. He admires you like anything. You know—you're the Big Sister!"

"Well—" Beth shrugged. She admired Tom, too, but hadn't ever admitted it to anybody. "I'll show you a window I'm working on when you and your dad come to dinner on Sunday."

"I can't wait to come. Tom's been telling me a lot about your family."

"I'm surprised you still want to come, in that case." Beth felt a quick flutter of panic at the thought of the upcoming party. Would it be a total disaster? She wondered what Tom had told Monica. Did she know about Clifton Becker? Did she know how horrible Aunt Iris could be? For a second Beth felt like telling Monica all about the scene last night. She really needed someone to talk to about it. Letters to Violet and Ray weren't good enough. She couldn't really talk to Tom. He was too defensive about their mother's role in everything that had happened at the house on Spring Street twenty years ago. But why ruin her day away from the house by bringing the story up now?

"So you're working on a window now—during your vacation?"

"It's the only way to stay sane around there," Beth said and forced a smile. "I left most of my supplies and tools at home, but I did bring the basics, and I sort of set up a studio down in the basement."

She and Monica wandered around the other rooms of the big museum until their stomachs were rumbling with hunger. "I need a cheesesteak," Beth whispered at last.

"Let's go!" agreed Monica. The two girls left the museum and walked several blocks until they found a café.

***

Over lunch the conversation moved from pottery to stained glass and back again, then became even more personal. Beth told Monica more about their life in Berkeley and all that had led to their living on Spring Street for the summer but didn't, in the end, touch on the unhappiness she'd found there. Monica would see for herself, if the party turned sour. She talked about Violet, Jasmine, and Rose—the triplets named for flowers—and more about Ray and their plans that her mother now opposed.

Monica was sympathetic. "I wish you wanted to apply to art schools with me, but you really have to go ahead with what you want," she said. "My mom was upset when I told her I wanted to live with Dad for my last year and a half of high school. But she knew I needed to get away, and she knew Dad could give me a job in the shop to earn money for art school."

"I never really thought about art school," admitted Beth. "When I met Ray it was love at first sight, you know? I took a class at the glass shop and he was the teacher. Then he helped me get a job there, helping him and Jane Simmons, the owner. Ray's got this plan all worked out—about the shop. He's been out of school for years, working and teaching—he's exhibited his windows a few times in San Francisco, too!"

"But the plan for the shop was really his," said Monica. "Right?"

"Well, at the beginning, I guess," said Beth. "But it's what I want to do, too! I mean, why spend years in school? I want to be an artist—and I don't think books can teach me that."

"No. You have to have the talent in the first place," agreed Monica. She took a big bite of her cheesesteak sandwich and wiped the juice from her chin. "But you'd probably learn a lot from studying other people's techniques—at least, that's a lot of my own reason for wanting to go to school. Really learn the craft. There are some fantastic people out there making pots, and I want to meet them. You can make a lot of contacts at art school—find out how to be in exhibits and stuff."

Beth sipped her Coke. "Hmmm."

"And you end up with a degree, you know, which is no small thing if the worst happens and your work doesn't sell. I figure I can try to teach art in schools, then. At least I'll be qualified. And I'd still have summers off for my own work."

"Hmmm," Beth said again. "I'll have to think about it. But Mom has her heart set on my being a lawyer."

Monica laughed. "You said accountant earlier!"

"Something respectable, anyway."

"
My
mom will be so relieved to have me away in Europe, she'll back any career choice I make!"

"I thought you said your mom didn't want you to move out."

"No, she just didn't want me to move in
with Dad.
That's really hard for her. They had a pretty messy divorce, actually. And I spent a lot of time shuffling back and forth between them before they agreed I'd be better off in one place. So I ended up with Mom—and Mom carried on as if she'd won a contest." Monica threw back her long hair and made a face. Then she reached for her purse on the back of her chair. "Here, look at this." She pulled out her wallet and withdrew a photograph. "This is my mom and her husband. And their kids. My half-sisters."

Beth peered at the snapshot of a thin, dark-haired woman who looked very much like Monica. The woman stood next to a heavyset man with a beard. Each adult held a little girl with messy hair.

"Jenny and Jean are four and five now. They're good kids. I miss them, even though I love being away. I had to do a whole lot of babysitting after school when I lived with them. I never had time to be by myself or to make my pots. That's a lot of the reason I came back here to live. I really needed a change."

"Families are weird," Beth said as Monica tucked the photograph back into her wallet. "And mine is especially weird. But you'll see for yourself on Sunday." She put the last bite of cheesesteak sandwich in her mouth and chewed hard, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that assailed her again at the thought of Sunday's party. She felt better hearing about Monica's family problems. It made her realize that her own life was not the only one full of troublesome people. Probably Monica's family had secrets, too.

"Maybe you can arrange a special show of weirdness at dinner Sunday," joked Monica. "Or does it just have to happen naturally on its own?"

Beth almost told her about how Aunt Iris went on the rampage the night before, but remembered her mother's warning about keeping family business private. She bit back her response and forced a smile.

They stood up and walked to the front counter to pay for their meal. Before they left, Beth went back and left a tip on their table. A blast of heat and humidity hit them as they left the air-conditioned café and started the walk back to the car.

As they drove along the highway toward the Penn's Pike exit, Beth closed her eyes and let the warm air from the window rush over her face again. She thought about the glass case of Monica's prizewinning pottery, objects of such beauty and delicacy that had come from the heart and hands of this girl sitting in the driver's seat next to her. It didn't matter that Monica's home life had been troubled. Her artwork was able to thrive despite outside turmoil. Beth thought of her own family and all the tensions of the house on Spring Street. She mustn't let them stop her from her work. She longed suddenly to be down in the cool basement, hidden from Aunt Iris and the rest of the family. She could almost feel the weight of a glass cutter in her hand, hear the whirr of the grinder. Her fingers tingled with the itch to be at work, fitting shapes and thicknesses of glass together like pieces of a puzzle, rendering bursts of color into pictures.

At home in Berkeley they had people over to visit all the time. Hannah's men friends came for dinner or to chat with Beth and Tom before taking their mother out dancing. Hannah's women friends would stop by whenever they felt like it, just to talk over mugs of herbal tea. Tom always had his computer cronies in his room after school, all of them going into raptures over their programs and disks and HyperCard menus. And, of course, Violet and Beth were almost always together whenever Beth was not working in the glass shop. Sometimes all the triplets came over. Entertaining at home was never a problem. It just wasn't a big deal.

It almost seemed as if Beth had suggested they all take off their clothes and cavort naked around the Liberty Bell, the way Aunt Iris continued to carry on about the dinner party. Beth was surprised Grandmother and Grandad were handling the idea so well. Grandad kept smiling, as if he thought the whole plan rather amusing. Grandmother actually seemed pleased and went over and over the menu she planned with Hannah, who said she was glad Beth was feeling enough at home here now that she wanted to invite friends over. Beth didn't tell her mother it was precisely because she felt so
horrible
here that she'd invited Monica and Bernard.

"I still don't like it," fumed Aunt Iris at five-thirty on Sunday evening. "I don't like it at all." She gripped the wooden railing tightly as she wavered on the stairs. "I'm just not up to company. Mama? Are you listening?"

Grandmother called from the kitchen, her voice patient. "Yes, I hear you, dear. I've been in the kitchen all day preparing the meal for tonight, and I'm not through yet. Come down if you want to talk."

Aunt Iris moved slowly toward the kitchen and caught sight of Beth seated on the kitchen stool just inside the door and frowned. "Elisabeth! You're responsible for this!"

Beth was shelling fresh peas into a large glass bowl. She didn't answer.

"Please don't keep fussing, Iris, darling." Grandmother's voice was low. "It will be good for you to see some neighbors again. You must remember Bernard from when he was a boy."

"I've told you and told you, Mama! I don't want to see people! I don't want people coming here!"

"Listen, Iris. Please. I try to make things easier for you. I understand it's hard. You know I don't agree with much that Hanny says or does, but I'm with her on this. If she and the children want to invite friends here, they should be able to. I'm tired of being a recluse." She sighed. "It's taken Hanny's coming back to show me that."

"You'll regret this," muttered Aunt Iris.

"Oh, Iris!"

Beth slit open the last pod and flicked the peas out. Then she set the glass bowl on the wooden sideboard that held Grandmother's tablecloths and linen napkins and slipped out of the kitchen. She found Tom in the living room. "Aunt Iris is still furious!"

"Too bad," he said with satisfaction. "Life comes to Spring Street after all."

Twenty years after Death came,
thought Beth, but kept her mouth shut. She still had to get ready—at least take a quick shower to cool off. Tom looked better than she'd ever seen him, casually dressed in neon green shorts and an oversize black T-shirt dotted with constellations. His dark red hair was shiny and freshly washed, and his eyes sparkled with anticipation of seeing Monica again.

Beth left him in the living room and dashed up for her shower, reflecting that his crush on Monica made him look older. She put on a boldly colored sundress with green and blue stripes that brightened her eyes and highlighted her flaming hair. Ray had first kissed her when she was wearing this dress—the first time he drove her home after their evening workshop. Maybe it would bring her luck tonight. She wound her hair back into a thick ponytail, fastening it in place with a green band that matched the dress. Then she went downstairs to wait with Tom in the living room for the first guests the house on Spring Street had seen in two decades.

Grandmother sat on the couch with them, wearing a thickly brocaded black dress with a heavy brooch pinned at the breast. She had applied powder and rouge to her soft, lined skin. Beth thought she looked ghastly—or was it ghostly?—but at least Grandmother was happy Monica and Bernard were coming. Grandad was in the rocking chair by the window, rubbing his hands together, then smoothing them over the top of his bald head, as if neatening the hair that once had been there. He hadn't dressed up in anything fancy but wore his usual loose brown trousers and a short-sleeved shirt.

Hannah sat in the armchair, hidden behind the entertainment section of the Sunday paper. Romps lay at her feet. Beth felt relieved that her mother, at least, looked relaxed. But then Beth noticed how tightly Hannah's hands clenched the edges of the newspaper she was reading, wrinkling the pages. She looked young and pretty, though, in a backless blue sundress and sandals, her hair swept up in a neat French braid. Little tendrils escaped, brushing softly against her forehead and the nape of her neck.

Hannah and Grandmother had been cleaning all day in preparation for this dinner party. The coffee table and end tables shone with lemon polish, and little glass dishes had been resurrected from some deep storage and filled with small hard candies, then centered carefully on each table. Grandad had ventured outside at Grandmother's insistence, walking shakily with shears in hand, to cut some roses off the bushes in the side yard. These blooms, artfully arranged by Beth in a crystal vase, now graced the center of the dining-room table. As Beth sat waiting, she could feel the tense atmosphere of the house wafting in puffs all around them like a giant cloud.