The Glass House People (20 page)

How were they going to have a good time with everything so formal and everyone so nervous? The clink of ice in a glass told them all that Aunt Iris was drinking in the kitchen. Grandad sighed heavily.

"Shouldn't she be sober tonight, Clara? Can't you say something to her?"

"Oh, Henry, it's just been her way of coping since Hanny's come back. You know that." Grandmother folded her hands on her black brocade lap.

Grandad snorted. "I'd say she hasn't coped with anything for twenty years."

The doorbell rang then, and Beth jumped up to answer it, grateful that their conversation—and, she hoped, Aunt Iris's drinking—would have to stop.

"Come on in!" she said to Bernard and Monica as she held the door wide. Grandmother was right there, holding out her hand to shake theirs, a tremulous smile on her face. Hannah stood behind her mother with a bright, welcoming expression Beth recognized. The wide eyes and confident grin meant Hannah was nervous but determined not to show it. Grandad tried to struggle to his feet, but Bernard hurried over to him, hand outstretched.

"No, please don't get up." Bernard shook hands, and Grandad sank back onto the couch.

"We came as soon as we could, as soon as we closed up the shop for the day," Monica told Grandmother, handing her a bouquet of mixed summer flowers. "It's so nice of you to invite us."

"I'm afraid we don't get out nearly as much as I'd like to," said Bernard.

"These are lovely, dear," said Grandmother, accepting the flowers and sniffing them. Beth couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since anyone had brought Grandmother flowers. She was afraid she knew the answer. At least twenty years.

"Let's get them in water. Beth? Can you work your magic with these?"

"Sure." She took the flowers and headed toward the kitchen.

Grandmother wiped her hands on her black dress. "Well, now!" she said brightly. "Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. What can I get you to drink before we eat?"

Beth had to grin as she slipped through the kitchen door. Grandmother didn't sound rusty at all.

Aunt Iris turned hastily from the sink.

"They're here, Aunt Iris. Why don't you go on in and say hello?"

"Are you patronizing me, young lady?" Aunt Iris tipped a tumbler full of clear liquid—but not water, Beth would bet—to her mouth. "They aren't
my
guests."

Beth felt wings of worry flutter in her stomach. Her aunt hadn't dressed for the company, and she looked like a scarecrow in an old print housedress. "Please. Grandmother has worked so hard to make things nice. She really wants the party to go well. If you hide out in here all night, you'll ruin everything!"

"You fresh little brat! You should get a slap across the face for that!" Aunt Iris banged her glass onto the counter and advanced on Beth. "I'll ruin your evening if I don't come out and make nice-nice? I? Well, what about
my
evening? What about my whole
life?
"

"Ssshhh! They'll hear you!"

"Let them!" Her voice rose to a shriek. "My whole life has been ruined—and you want me to come out and play hostess to Hanny Lynn's little boyfriend?"

"He's not her boyfriend!" hissed Beth. "Please, Aunt Iris, keep your voice down. They'll hear—"

"Who could help but hear everything?" Hannah stood in the doorway behind Beth and rested her hands on her daughter's shoulders. "Beth? Give me the flowers. I'll get them some water." Her voice trembled.

"Mom—"

"Please, Beth. I need you to set the table. And tell Grandmother I'll bring the drinks in a minute." Hannah gave Beth a little push toward the dining room. Then she shut the kitchen door behind her.

Beth stood in the dining room staring at the table, which had been fully set hours before. Grandmother had taken her best silver and crystal out that morning and instructed Beth and Tom how to polish it. Tom tried to get out of the work by reminding her about men's work and women's work, but Grandmother said there wasn't enough time to argue. Company was coming and everything needed to be perfect. And she'd handed him the polishing cloth.

Now Beth could hear her mother's and Aunt Iris's voices rising in the kitchen. She longed to grab Tom and Monica and Bernard and run down the street to the candy shop, away from the storm that was brewing. So what if the Clementses' apartment was a mess? Their homely clutter was nothing next to the chaos in this neat-as-a-pin house!

But she steeled herself and marched back into the living room. Grandad was telling Bernard about the candy shop as he remembered it from his youth, and Monica was telling Grandmother and Tom about her pottery exhibit at the museum. Everyone was politely pretending not to hear the angry voices from the kitchen.

"Think you can get away with everything, do you?" shrieked Aunt Iris from the kitchen.

Beth touched Grandmother's shoulder. "Mom will bring the drinks in a minute." And no sooner had she spoken than Hannah entered the room with the beverages on a tray. Her head was held high, but two bright spots of color flared on her cheeks. The smile on her lips did not reach her eyes. She handed Monica a glass of lemonade and Bernard a daiquiri. His fingers brushed hers as he took the drink.

"Iris okay now?" Bernard asked softly, never dreaming, Beth realized, that he was breaking a house rule: Never inquire; always pretend you think everything is okay even when it's clear nothing is okay.

Hannah stared at his fingers against hers, then moved back, tears welling in her eyes. Beth closed her own eyes, half in sympathy, half in mortification. What kind of dinner party was this, anyway?

"Nothing is okay!" Hannah's whisper broke on a sob, and the glasses still on her tray slipped as her hands trembled. Now Beth's mother had broken a rule, too: Never admit anything is wrong.

Tom lunged off the couch to the rescue as the glasses slid to one side, but was too late. The drinks spilled onto the rug.

"Oh, goodness gracious!" cried Grandmother, jumping from the couch and running for a towel. "Hanny Lynn, be careful!"

Hannah was leaning against Bernard now, and his arms were around her. His big hands awkwardly stroked her hair and patted her back as she sobbed openly.

Grandad looked on with concern from the rocking chair. His brow furrowed. "I say, Hanny Lynn, girl."

Beth sank onto the couch with Tom and Monica, silent. She didn't dare look at anyone. She didn't know what to do next.

"Oh, Bernie!" Hannah was crying in earnest now. "To answer your question—no! Iris
isn't
okay.
Nothing
is okay. Nothing is ever okay here!" She turned wildly to her father. "I can't stand it! Poor, poor little Iris! Her boyfriend dies and so the whole world owes her something? Well, not me, let me tell you. Not me!"

Hannah's shrill voice brought Grandmother running back into the room, the towel pressed to her lips. "You hush, Hanny Lynn! You just hush up right now and start wiping up those spilled drinks. Poor Iris is in the kitchen in tears—I'll not have any more of it! What kind of dinner party is this, the way you're carrying on?"

Hannah dropped to her knees and pressed the towel against the dark stain on the rug. "I can't help carrying on," she sobbed. Bernard knelt next to her, one big hand on her shoulder.

"I wonder if—" he began. "Ah, I think that maybe it would be best if Monica and I went—"

But his words were cut off as Aunt Iris appeared in the doorway, brandishing a sharp kitchen knife high above her head. "I've had it!" she screamed. "I know what you all think of me! Maybe you'll like me better when I'm dead!"

And then everyone was up and rushing toward her. Beth jumped up high, trying to reach her aunt's arm, hoping to pin it down. Bernard, Monica, Tom, Hannah, Grandmother, and Grandad—for even Grandad had made it out of his chair when she screamed—all had the same idea. Outstretched hands tried to reach Aunt Iris, but it was Bernard who grabbed the knife and toppled her to the floor, where she lay moaning: "You've stabbed me, you've stabbed me!"

Bernard dropped the knife, aghast. He bent down close to Aunt Iris, who lay in a heap. "Iris? Oh, my God! Iris?"

Everyone else leaned over them in panic. For a long moment it seemed Aunt Iris was beyond answering, and Beth felt cold fingers of dread clenching and unclenching her stomach. But then, still moaning softly, Aunt Iris sat up and held out her left hand. Blood seeped from a small cut on her palm. "I'm bleeding," she said in a small voice. "Will you get me a cloth, please, Mama?"

Beth sank onto the couch and closed her eyes. Talk about melodrama.

Grandmother hurried to help stop the bleeding, little cries of "my darling girl, oh, my poor Iris" trailing after her as she wrapped her arms around her daughter and led her from the living room. Grandad accompanied them both to the kitchen.

Hannah clung to Bernard, but this time it was he who looked about to burst into tears. "Did I do that to her, Hanny? Did I stab her?"

"Of course not! You were just trying to get the knife away from her." Hannah hugged him tightly. "You were doing what we were all doing. But you were the one who got it away. Thank God!"

Bernard shook his head, "I had no idea she was so unhappy. I can't believe it."

Beth frowned. "If she really wanted to kill herself, why not just do it back in the kitchen where no one would stop her?"

"Beth!"

"Mom, I just mean I don't think she really wanted to die. She wanted someone to stop her."

"You mean it was a bid for attention?" asked Bernard. "You could be right."

"It's the horrible thing about Clifton," Hannah said tearfully. "It's torn this whole family apart."

Grandmother and Grandad came back into the living room with Aunt Iris between them. Her hand was now bandaged, and she looked pale. They settled her on the couch solicitously. Monica handed her a small pillow to rest the injured hand upon.

"Well, we can be thankful it was only a small wound," said Grandmother. "And that my knives are spotless. I think Iris will be just fine."

"Unless she does a more thorough job on herself the next time she has a few drinks," said Grandad sourly. He looked over at Aunt Iris. "Come on, then, Iris. Let's hear about it. It's been weeks since we've heard you talk without a drink in your hand. Somebody make her some coffee. Strong as you can get it. I want to hear what that was all about."

"Henry! Give her a chance to settle down. The poor girl's had a shock!" Grandmother patted Aunt Iris's arm. "Maybe you should just go up and lie down."

"Not so much a shock as the one she gave us—threatening to stab herself to death right in front of everyone." Grandad pointed a long finger at his elder daughter. "No, Iris Anne. You need to talk to us, and yes—in front of these neighbors, too. You owe Bernard sincere thanks—and you owe everyone an apology. I can't believe a child of mine would ever stoop to such theatrics!"

Beth watched this exchange between her grandparents as if a tennis match were being played in front of her. First one, then the other, with Aunt Iris as the ball—batted to and fro. Beth moved off the couch to sit on the floor with Tom and Monica. The three of them leaned against the radiator under the windows, out of the way, silent, watching. The thought flitted through Beth's mind that "theatrics" was the right word. It really was a drama this time. Not melodrama. And not a tennis match. A play—complete with audience and actors, and Clifton Becker offstage in the wings. Or was he the scriptwriter?

"Henry!" Grandmother's voice trembled.

Everyone was surprised when Aunt Iris spoke. "No, Mama. He's right. And I am sorry." Tears slid down her sunken cheeks as she turned to Bernard, now in the armchair with Hannah standing by the side. "Bernie, I'm sorry. Thank you for pulling the knife away. Of course I don't want to die. I didn't really want to kill myself—I just—" She stopped and wiped the tears from her face with her uninjured hand.

"It's all right," Bernard said. His voice was deep and kind. "We understand."

But Hannah moved forward. "No, we don't! We don't understand anything. Iris, what's with you? Why do you hate us so much?"

"You're a fine one to ask that!" Aunt Iris's icy tone was back.

"Me? Listen, Iris, as far as I can see, you're the one to blame for all our unhappiness."

"I like that!" Iris stood and faced Hannah. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, Hanny Lynn! Haven't you ever heard that before? How dare you blame me for anything, when it was you who—"

"Please! That's enough!" interrupted Grandad. "It's very tedious. You two sound like broken records—records stuck twenty years ago, still playing the same old song. I know I don't want to hear it again—and I bet that goes for everyone in this room."

Bernard raised his hand, almost, thought Beth, as if asking permission from the teacher to speak. Grandad nodded at him. Hannah and Aunt Iris were glaring at each other, and Bernard spoke into their taut silence.

"Actually, I think some of us
would
like to hear it—that 'same old song,' as you said. Certainly we all seem to be involved."

Then he looked over at the three young people sitting against the radiator. "Well, maybe not you kids. But everyone else remembers that summer twenty years ago when Hanny Lynn broke up with me and left home. The summer when Iris's fiancé fell down the stairs and died."

"Was pushed," said Aunt Iris succinctly. "He was pushed."

"You bet he was!" Hannah's voice spat venom. Beth cringed against Tom.

"And we know who did it, don't we?" shouted Aunt Iris.

"You bet we do!"

"Stop it! Stop it!" Grandmother jumped to her feet, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. "Oh, just stop it, both of you. This is all over and done with! Can't you just forget about it?"

"Forget that Hanny Lynn pushed my sweet Clifton?" Aunt Iris burst into tears. "Oh no, Mama. Never."

But Hannah was crying, too. "It wasn't me! It
wasn't
, Iris! You did it yourself, you know you did! You did it to get revenge!"

Bernard's voice was dry as he pulled Hannah back to the chair where he sat. "You see? It isn't a stuck record, exactly. It's two records playing together, each drowning the other one out."