The Glass House People (9 page)

He could only shake his head over such nonsense.

An early April evening on the front porch had been special in more ways than one: Yes, he had asked her to marry him—but first, before he drew the little ring box out of his pocket, he had moved his hands down her soft body, caressing it through the light spring dress she wore. They had had little physical contact except kisses, and he hadn't minded. He knew she was inexperienced, and he knew why. The caressing on the porch that evening was, in fact, not so much for his satisfaction as for hers—as a way to show her he loved her, and that the withered leg didn't matter to him at all. He leaned down and lifted the hem of the fashionable maxiskirt she wore—he remembered the day she shyly confessed to him how happy she'd been when long skirts became as stylish as the miniskirts she refused to wear. He lifted the hem, drew the skirt up slowly, folds and folds of soft, bright cloth, up over her knees. He pretended not to hear her quick intake of breath, nor the little sigh with which she let it out when he bent over her and kissed her thighs, her knees, and ran his kisses all the way down both legs, down to her toes. He lingered no longer over the shapely leg than he did over her withered calf and twisted left foot.

They didn't speak of what he had done, but just held each other tightly for a long time. He could feel her heart beating. And then he produced the ring. He loved the way her voice squeaked when she said, "Oh, yes!"—and loved her delighted laughter, the laugh that made him tingle. They had then told her parents and phoned his, and everyone said theirs was a perfect match.

He could hear Hanny Lynn's favorite Rolling Stones song blaring from her record player upstairs as he reached the house and jumped up the four stone steps onto the big porch. He whistled along with the guy who couldn't get no satisfaction, then laughed at how inappropriate that lament was to his own situation. He felt immensely satisfied—especially with the good news he had for Iris. The scent of boxwood from the bushes mingled with the warm smell of chicken potpie wafting from the kitchen inside, and he hurried through the screen door, eager to join the family—soon to be his own—at the dinner table.

"Here's Clifton, Mama!" Iris moved across the living room, her limp more pronounced at the end of a day than in the morning, and embraced him. He buried his face in her soft, fragrant hair, then turned her face up to his, hungrily seeking her mouth. She had a dab of blue paint on one cheek.

"You've been working," he said, tangling his fingers in her red curls.

Iris broke away after a moment, grinning. "I'll show you later. But now it's time for dinner."

"You mean that kiss wasn't sustenance enough?" asked a sarcastic voice, and Clifton and Iris turned together to see Hanny Lynn, the younger sister, smirking at them from the landing halfway up the stairs. "It looked like you two were practically down each other's throats."

"Go turn off your music, Hanny Lynn," said Iris coolly. "You're to set the table now." And she walked back into the kitchen, where she had been helping her mother.

Clifton followed her. "Can I do anything?"

"You can throttle Hanny Lynn, if you want."

"Men out of the kitchen," said Mrs. Savage, playfully snapping her dish towel at him. "We have everything under control."

Clifton was relieved; he had never learned to cook. The memory of the ruined roast—his sorry attempt at a special dinner for Iris one evening last winter when her parents and Hanny Lynn had been away at a high school open house—still embarrassed him. Iris had laughed it off and told him he'd just have to find a wife who could cook. Well, he had found her!

Their wedding was set for the beginning of September and dinnertime talk these days centered around bridesmaids' gowns, flowers, and whether or not the wedding cake could be chocolate. Iris loved chocolate, but her mother insisted wedding cakes must be white.

"How about white cream frosting, Mama," said Iris. "And chocolate cake inside—nobody would know until it was cut!"

"Oh, Iris, honey. You don't want to be untraditional, do you? You want the wedding to be just perfect—let's not fuss about details."

Iris smiled across the table at Clifton. "Okay, Mama. Whatever you like."

"Hey, whose wedding is this, anyway?" asked Hanny Lynn, pushing her peas around on her plate with distaste. "Yours or Mama's?"

"Mine, of course," said Iris. "But Mama and Daddy are paying for it, remember. And the cake doesn't really matter. What matters is that Clifton and I love each other and are going to spend the rest of our lives together. Maybe Mama is right. Keeping old traditions alive is a fine way to start a marriage."

Hanny Lynn rolled her eyes. "Excuse me," she said and pretended to retch over the side of her chair onto the floor.

"That's enough, young lady!" Mrs. Savage threw down her napkin angrily. "Your displays of temper are going too far. I expect more adult behavior from a seventeen-year-old."

Hanny Lynn opened her mouth to retort, but Clifton caught her eye and winked at her. She subsided, coloring. Clifton wasn't surprised this time at her blush; he had noticed it several times lately when he spoke to her—or even looked at her. He wasn't sure what it meant but supposed she was just going through a stage or something. Hanny Lynn might be okay when she grew up, but now she was a gangly, long-legged kid, and an ill-mannered one at that. Certainly nothing like her older sister!

Henry Savage, Iris's father, began talking about camping again. He had this idea that he and Clifton should go backpacking alone—get to know each other, he said. Up in New England somewhere, some national park. Clifton didn't want to be rude, but he didn't want to go camping anywhere. And yet Iris's father was set on going. "A fine way to get to know each other better," he said. "I've always wanted a son, someone to rough it with." But Clifton didn't like roughing it. He liked soft beds, home-cooked meals, all the modern amenities of what he called the Good Life. Camping in the backwoods didn't appeal at all, though he hesitated to give this as his reason for declining. Maybe his weak eyesight would count him out—it had been the reason he'd escaped the draft, after all. Instead, he told Mr. Savage how much he would miss Iris in the backwoods—which was true, of course—and how he couldn't take the time off from work.

He'd hoped the subject of camping was closed, but tonight Mr. Savage was going strong again.

"I'll hunt out the photos after dinner," he said. "Show you the ones from my trip with my college roommate. Years ago, but the area up there is unchanged even today. Bear and moose right where you can see them! The snapshots will give you a sense of the beauty of the wilderness. Maybe even Iris will decide she wants to go."

"I really am sorry, Mr. Savage." Clifton smiled. "I'd love to see the photos, but I really think a trip will be impossible this summer. I have to keep working right up until the wedding. And then"—he dropped his secret—"as soon as we get back from the honeymoon, I'll be starting at the paper."

Mr. Savage put down his fork. "The paper? What paper?"

"Oh, Clifton!" squealed Iris, jumping up from the table to hurry to his side and envelop him in a warm hug. "You got the job? That's super! Why didn't you tell me when you came in?"

"What job?" asked Mrs. Savage. "Oh, tell us right now, you sly boy!"

That had been the single problem. Iris's parents didn't feel his job at the zoo was enough to support him and Iris both once they were married—and he had to admit they were probably right. He wouldn't want to keep living here with her family once they were married, even though he enjoyed being the lodger. The zoo was a good enough job most of the time for a writer—simple work that kept his mind free to plan further chapters of his novel. But the money was barely enough for a single man, so he had gone out hunting for something else.

He grinned at their eager faces—that is, all eager except for Hanny Lynn's face, which was carefully indifferent.

"Tell us, dear," urged Mrs. Savage, and he did.

"I'll be working at the
Philadelphia Inquirer.
I'll be a copy editor at first, to start. But I like to write my own stuff, you know, and I hope I'll eventually be able to do a science column or something. The starting pay isn't great, but it's more than I'm making now and enough to pay for our first apartment."

"Oh, darling, that's wonderful!" Iris's eyes shone, and she hugged him again before limping back to her place at the table.

"We always knew you'd take good care of our Iris," said Mrs. Savage.

"But it is good to hear
how
you'll manage to take care of her," added Mr. Savage.

"Anyway, I'm sorry about the camping," said Clifton, adjusting his glasses on his nose. "But it really doesn't look possible now. Maybe next summer, if I get a few days off." He'd have time before then to read up on fending off moose and bears. For all his love of wild animals, he liked them best in cages.

Mr. Savage nodded, reaching for the potatoes. Mrs. Savage passed Clifton the salad. Then, as soon as everyone had finished, she left the table to bring her homemade cherry pie in from the kitchen.

"That's beautiful," Clifton said, sniffing. "A masterpiece."

"Mama always makes masterpieces," said Iris proudly.

"Well, she certainly did when she made you!" he rejoined, and everyone smiled—everyone but Hanny Lynn, that is, who sat staring sullenly at her dinner plate.

After dinner Clifton and Iris sat on the glider, his foot tapping gently to keep the swing moving. She leaned against him, her legs tucked beneath her on the cushions, and he twined his fingers in her long curls, wrapping the soft strands around and around his fingers.

"I'm so happy, darling," Iris said softly. "Being with you is so perfect it almost scares me. I keep thinking something might happen—"

"Sshh, don't be silly," he said, and parted her lips for a kiss.

"Just listen to those tree frogs," she murmured. "And smell that boxwood. I think for the rest of my life, whenever it's June, I'll remember this moment, being here with you like this—with our whole life together before us."

He kissed the top of her head where it was nestled under his chin. "I bless the day I answered that ad in the paper: 'Lodger Wanted. Large bedroom with sunporch. Free board in exchange for yard work.' It didn't say that my soul mate would be waiting for me here! Oh, Iris, babe—we're going to be so happy!"

They rocked gently in the dusk of the summer evening, relaxed and content with each other's company. Soon Mr. and Mrs. Savage joined them on the big front porch, he with his newspaper and she with her knitting. Iris joked it was a baby blanket for the first grandchild. Their talk was lighthearted: more congratulations on Clifton's new job with the
Inquirer
, more wedding plans, comments on the garden—how lovely it looked this summer since Clifton had pruned back the bushes and planted wildflowers.

No one missed Hanny Lynn, who lay across her narrow bed upstairs in her hot little bedroom, sobbing as if her heart were broken.

At first Beth began visiting Grandad mainly to get away from the other members of the household, but after the first week her devotion was real. The days took on a pattern: She spent nearly every morning with Grandad, sitting by his bed and matching wits over word games and card tricks. She passed solitary afternoons down in the basement working on her stained-glass window. Only the evenings were difficult, when the family met around the dinner table or out on the porch, the tension among them thick and silent and angry.

It seemed a morning like any other when Beth came in and sat in the blue chair next to Grandad's bed. They did the crossword puzzle from the
Philadelphia Inquirer,
Beth marveling as always at Grandad's speed. He must have memorized the dictionary at some time in his past, she'd decided.

When they finished the puzzle, Grandad reached for his pad of paper and a pen. "Now here's a brainteaser," he said. He wrote a sentence on the page and drew a box around it. "What do you make of this?"

She took the pad.

"What do you think, Beth? Is it true or false?" Grandad lay back on the pillows, watching her with anticipation while she studied it.

Being with Grandad could be as easy and companionable as spending time with Violet at home. He
was
older, certainly, and had weak legs since his stroke—although Beth suspected that he kept to his bed more for the refuge of the cool, peaceful room than out of necessity—but his personality was what counted, and that was something old age hadn't altered. Here he was, living in a house full of tension, with a wife he rarely spoke to and a daughter more puzzling than any math trick, and yet he just made the best of it by being funny and smart and reasonable about things. He kept well informed about current events by reading two newspapers a day and three news magazines each week. He read all the best-sellers. He ordered travel books and maps from catalogs and studied them as if planning a major trip—he could have almost as much fun, he told Beth, traveling in his head as he used to have on his big camping trips. They talked about almost everything. The only subject that seemed taboo was what had happened to Clifton Becker. Grandad always changed the subject when she brought up that name.

Beth read the sentence in the box again, trying to work it out. If all sentences in the square were false, then this one must be false because it was in the square. That seemed clear enough. "The sentence is false," she said. "Just like it says."

"Ah." Grandad smiled. He quirked one eyebrow.

There had to be a trick to it or Grandad wouldn't be grinning like that. She pondered the sentence again.

"Okay," she said after another minute. "It says that all sentences in the square are false, right? And that is a sentence itself, so it has to be false." Then she paused and looked at him. "Oh, no! But if the sentence is false, then what it
says
has to be false, too, and if it's saying it's a false sentence, that must mean it's really a
true
statement." She frowned back at the pad. "But it
can't
be true, because all sentences in the square are false!" Her voice rose to a wail.