The Glass House People (22 page)

"But she didn't," repeated Grandad. "I did. It's my guilt. Not yours." He rubbed his bald head. "What a coward I've been. What an old fool." He sagged suddenly and groped for a chair.

"Oh, Daddy," said Iris weakly. She ran a hand across her eyes, then knelt by his chair. "Oh, Daddy, I'm sure you didn't mean to! It was just—"

"It
was,
" added Hannah, moving to his side. "It had to have been an accident."

The room was dead silent for the space of a heartbeat, then both Hannah and Aunt Iris were in his arms—and they were both crying. Grandmother walked slowly to them and placed one hand on Grandad's shoulder, one on Hannah's. They parted to make room for her, and the four of them huddled together in the corner of the living room, joined in one huge, long-overdue hug.

Bernard sat back, his face puzzled. Monica started crying. Tom saw his chance and wrapped his arms around her.

But Beth couldn't tear her eyes from the figures of Hannah and Aunt Iris and Grandmother and Grandad in the corner. She was staring especially hard at Grandad—that lanky, bald old man with the red-fuzzed arms who she would swear was as honest as the day is long. She couldn't grasp what he had said.
He did it?
she thought.
That old man pushed Clifton Becker crashing down the stairs and kept quiet about it all these years?

And while she was trying to make sense of it, she saw him looking over at her even as she looked at him. And—could it really be?—he dropped her a slow, broad wink.

The planet Notfilc was preparing for war. The evil overlords of the dark world Redrum had abducted the Notfilckian princess, beautiful Siri, and were preparing to sacrifice her to their violent slime-god, Timov.

Clifton gnawed on the end of his plastic blue pen. Although he used the typewriter to write his novel, he needed the pen for thinking. He was chewing thoughtfully now, trying to bite off the tip of the blue cap. Should he describe the details of the torture that awaited the princess before her rescuers found her in the island prison—for of course they would come!—or just leave the torture to the readers' imaginations and get on with the big rescue that was, after all, to be the climax of the entire novel. He bit off the small ball of plastic and spat it onto the floor.

Then he laid the pen down on the desk and leaned back in his chair with a mighty sigh. It wasn't working tonight. He had too many other things on his mind just now, and the plight of the lovely Siri could not blot out the fact of the lovely Iris just next door. Nor the fact of her little sister—that Hanny Lynn! He could strangle that girl.

But he knew he'd kiss her again first. First the kiss, because she kept insisting on demonstrating her kisses, and then the strangle, because he was utterly sick now of her whole fantasy world. How dare she? This was the question that plagued him now. So she wasn't content with her skinny schoolboy, Bernie. Okay. So she wanted some Big Romance in her life—preferably, because all teenage girls seemed to want this, with an older man. Fine! Go for it, Hanny! But he wasn't her man. It just wasn't fair that she should keep throwing herself at him, writing him into her script for the Big Romance.

Clifton smiled to himself, liking his imagery. Was he great with words, or what?
Forget it, old Hanny Lynn!
He was starring, co-starring, actually, in another drama. He shook his head and stood up, pushing back the desk chair with a scrape. No more typing tonight. Poor Princess Siri would have to lie on that island in agony until he could find time for her tomorrow night after work.

He left the sunporch and returned to the bedroom, then undressed and lay down on his bed in his underwear. It was beastly hot. Every few minutes a breeze puffed the lace curtain at the window across the room, but even the air was hot. And he was sticky! The August humidity was even worse than the August heat. He wanted a cold shower but knew the rattle and spray of the water would wake Iris's parents. He closed his eyes and imagined someplace cool—maybe Vermont in autumn. He hoped Iris would like to move somewhere like that with him. Small-town life—that's what he wanted. A quiet place to write, a backdrop of mountains outside his garret window. A couple of cute kids and a dog ... He shifted on the bed, cursing the lumpy mattress.

He let his mind drift in the heat. Lazily he reached up one arm and switched off the bedside lamp, then turned on his side. Sleep was washing over him, but as it did he heard the soft pad of feet outside in the hall. His eyes flew open.
Iris!
Then, instantly, another thought hit him:
Or Hanny...

"Oh, no," he moaned, burrowing his head deep into the feather pillow. He had really and truly had enough. Ever since that time on the front porch last month, Hanny Lynn had been a trial. She sidled up to him whenever they happened to be alone even for a second, wrapping her thin brown arms around him tightly, lifting her face to his, murmuring, "Kiss me, my love...." He always pushed her away sharply, saying, Cut it out; don't be ridiculous. And once when she'd taunted, "You know very well you're just trying to deny to yourself that you're longing for me," he had sent her on her way with a sharp, little-girl spank to her blue-jeaned bottom, making her yelp. With embarrassment, he hoped.

And there had been the notes on his pillow. God, he was paying good money for the room even now that he was nearly a family member himself—you'd think there'd be a lock for the door. But no. While he was away at the zoo she would come in and read through his manuscript, pencil love notes in the margins. And she'd leave lines from Beatles songs on tiny scraps of paper in his shirt pockets and on his pillow—notes begging him not to hide his love away, notes crying out for help—she needed somebody, but not just anybody. The most recent note claimed that she loved him eight days a week. The little pest didn't even compose original lyrics.

Clifton groaned. But maybe it was Iris! She would sometimes slip in after the rest of the family had gone to bed, and they'd cuddle until she was nearly asleep, then he'd urge her back to bed in her own room. They were sticking to the rules, especially here in her parents' house. He couldn't wait till they had their own place.

His doorknob turned with a tiny click. He slipped under the sheet, drawing it up to his neck as the door opened.

"Darling? I need to talk to you."

Hanny Lynn. Clifton kept his eyes closed and tried to relax, tried to look as though he were deeply asleep. He could feel her standing at his side now.

"Clifton? How can you be asleep? You were working only fifteen minutes ago. I heard you typing!"

He made his breath deep and regular.

"Did you finish that torture scene? I was going to keep trying to convince you that the princess should be me, not Iris, but when I read what you had in store for her, I realized it had to be Iris after all. Clifton? Come on!" She grabbed his shoulder and shook.

He snored gently and turned slowly onto his other side. Maybe she'd go away. He simply wasn't up to a repeat of the other night when she'd come to him, just like this, and sat at his side for nearly an hour weeping out her longing for him. He had really felt sorry for the kid—you could see she'd thrown herself totally into her dream; the fantasy was real life to her, no script to a romance novel. And she was a nice girl, really, he had to admit. She had looked sweet—she was adorable—sitting there in her lacy cotton nightgown, imploring him to love her the way she loved him—grasping his hands, staring into his eyes as if hoping to hypnotize him. He was flattered!

And when he had taken her hands and told her for the millionth time that she was a darling girl, an exquisite child, but really too young and not the woman for him anyway, since he really and truly did love Iris, she had collapsed against him, sobbing her heart out.

And somehow he had been holding her and kissing her, first just on her forehead, then her cheeks, then her soft mouth—and she was kissing him back hungrily. It had been ages before he could get her
out
of his bed and out of his room. It had been a terrible mistake. He had been weak. Nothing like that must happen again tonight.

She shook him now. "Listen, you faker. I
know
you're not sleeping. And I can prove it!" And in that instant he felt her fingers on one eyelid and remembered too late that he should have rolled his eyes back into his head. Instead he stared at her. He pushed her hand away and sat up. She was wearing the same soft cotton nightgown. The scooped neckline was trimmed with lace.

"What are you trying to do? Blind me? What kind of thing is this for a guy to wake up to?"

"Ssshhh!" She giggled, settling herself on the bed next to him. "You know very well you weren't asleep. You look different when you're really asleep."

"Oh, no. Don't tell me—"

"Of course I do. I come in and watch you nearly every night."

"You crazy kid! You mean you stay awake just to come in and watch me sleep?" He marveled at this kind of devotion. He found it pleased him, even though, God knows, he didn't want it.

"Oh, no. I usually fall asleep right away. But I set my alarm for around three or four and come in then."

"You amaze me."

"Oh, Clifton, do I really? Oh, darling!"

"Look, give me a break. I like you a whole lot, Hanny. But you're getting on my nerves. Now go to bed. Go directly to bed."

"Do not pass GO? Do not collect two hundred dollars?"

"Precisely." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Look, I really am tired. The book didn't come along well tonight, and I need some sleep."

"Have you thought of where you can put me in it, Clifton?"

"I've already told you. Hannah isn't a good name for my book because you can't spell it backward. Right?"

"Well, how about
Hanny
backward?"

"You try to pronounce it." He lay back on his pillow. "Come on now. Out."

She fingered his sheet, watching him. "Promise me you'll dedicate the book to me. Promise!"

"I can't promise that, Hanny. But don't worry, I'll make sure you're there in spirit. I'll have you in as one of the nasty overlords."

She poked him in the ribs. "But they're all slimy! Come on, Clifton!"

"Go to bed, Slimy Overlord."

She poked him again, harder, then lifted the sheet and slid in next to him. "Okay. Here I am, in bed as you ordered."

This was going to be hard, damn it. He sat up again, knees sharp humps under the sheet, and stared down at her. She grinned up at him saucily, her long hair loose and dark against his white pillowcase. One bare shoulder peeked out from the top of the sheet covering her. His eyes lingered at the scoop of lace, then fastened intently on her throat, on the pulse beating wildly there. He met her eyes, and his were angry.

"Hanny Lynn. Get out of here. Now."

She stared up at him, stubborn, lips pressed together. The pulse pounded above her collarbone.

"Hanny—please!"

"I'm staying! You know you want me to stay. I can tell! And I could tell the other night when you—"

"Ssshhh! That's enough!"

Their voices were harsh whispers slashing through the dim room. "You kissed me! You held me and kissed me, and I could tell that you have fallen in love with me."

"No I haven't! It isn't true!"

"And you want to marry me! We'll get married as soon as I graduate!"

"No we won't!"

"You know you love me. Okay, you won't say the words, but I don't need to hear them. All I needed was that kiss—all those kisses—the other night. They're worth more than a zillion words!"

"I love Iris," he hissed at her. "Why can't you get that through your thick head?"

"Say that you love
met
"

Oh, damn, now she was crying. Why did this sort of thing have to happen to him? What was he supposed to do with her? He raised his hand, intending to push her over the side of the bed onto the floor and out of his room, but found instead that his hand was somehow capable of betraying him, just as his lips had betrayed him the other night. His fingers stroked her cheek, wiped the tears from under her eyes with the flat of his thumb. He ran his fingers through her long hair, traced her lips with one finger. She was silent, lying very still, her eyes on him steadily.

Yes, she was lovable. And desirable. He bent over to kiss her, and her arms moved up to hold him. And he did love her—yes, he
did.
But not as much as he loved Iris. Even through the passion she had aroused in him now, he knew that. But how could he make her understand without hurting her? He knew he had to try.

He whispered into her ear, one hand cradling her to him, the other still stroking her hair. "Yes, little Hanny Lynn. I do. I do love you, but not the way you think. I love you as a—" But he pulled back in alarm as the bedroom door flew open and Iris limped in, her bright hair flowing over her shoulders like a burst of flame, and her eyes ablaze.

He hardly knew the order of what happened next. There was Iris in the doorway, one hand frozen on the knob. There were he and Hanny Lynn, springing apart. He leaped out of bed, still only in his underwear, holding his arms out to Iris, saying he could explain it all. She screamed at him, called him names he didn't think she even knew. Screamed at Hanny Lynn: "You little whore!" And Hanny screamed back: "You don't know anything! We love each other! He loves me, Iris.
Me,
not you!"

There were footsteps running down the hallway and Clifton made a dash for his clothes, managing—almost—to zip a pair of shorts as Mr. and Mrs. Savage burst into the room behind Iris.

They were livid. Mrs. Savage ripped Hanny Lynn from the bed and slapped her; Mr. Savage, hands on hips, bellowed for an explanation. And there went Hanny again, fouling everything up with her garbled version of reality: "We love each other! Ask him, if you don't believe me!"

Aha
—at last he'd have a chance to explain. "No!" he shouted, intending to keep calm and failing. "Hanny doesn't understand. Iris!" He turned to her, but she shrugged away and went to stand by the window. "Iris, you know I love you. You know that! We're getting married, for God's sake! I can explain everything—"