The Sound of Glass by Karen White
She could barely walk, and by the time they’d reached the end of the dock, Gibbes was carrying her, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a pillow. Her long, manicured fingers rested on his shoulder, and I quickly looked back at the picnic spread, although it took a while for the image to go away.
We were busy loading our plates with food when Gibbes returned.
“How is she?” I asked, glad to hear my voice sounded neutral.
“She’ll be fine. Her meds cause her to be dehydrated, which makes her overheat easily. She drank a tall glass of water and she’s already feeling much better. I set the clock on the stove to wake her up in an hour.”
“Good,” I said, watching him closely, wondering why he was avoiding eye contact.
He sat down next to me on the blanket and rubbed his hands together. “So, who wants some watermelon?”
“I do, I do!” the kids shouted in unison, their hands and faces smeared with mayonnaise from their sandwiches, half-moons of yellow on their upper lips from the lemonade.
I reached into the basket, surprised to find it empty.
“What are you looking for?” Gibbes asked.
“Knives and forks. How else are we supposed to eat the watermelon?”
The children began laughing and I saw that Gibbes was trying very hard not to. “Have you never eaten watermelon before, or had a contest for who could spit a seed the farthest?”
I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “I know we had watermelons in the grocery store, but I can’t say I’ve ever actually eaten it. And the watermelon I remember wasn’t anywhere near as red as that. But I can say with certainty that I’ve never spit any seed out of my mouth, intentionally or not.”
I was being silly, almost flirtatious, yet I didn’t stop to think about why. I felt the sun on my skin; I was in the middle of a salt marsh where nobody seemed to care that I was wearing an old lady’s floppy hat and three coats of sunscreen, or that I was wearing a pair of shorts for the first time in a very long while.
Gibbes seemed to pick up on my mood. As if he were a surgeon exhibiting a precise technique to medical students, he carefully unwrapped a wedge of watermelon. Holding it up like a prize, he then leaned forward and bit right into the middle of it. Watermelon juice seeped from the fruit, past the rind, and onto his hand and wrist.
“Pardon me, Merritt, but this is a necessity when eating watermelon.” He bunched his lips together and without further warning ejected a seed from his mouth. I watched with guarded fascination as it carried out over the water, landing at a good distance.
“Nice one, Dr. Heyward,” Owen said, high-fiving the doctor. Holding his hand up, Gibbes then lightly patted Maris’s palm with splayed fingers.
“What a talent,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t also be asked to perform.
“Why, thank you, ma’am. I was the watermelon-seed-spitting champion at the Water Festival three years in a row when I was a boy.”
“That being on your résumé is probably what got you into med school. What happened the fourth year? Got too old and lost some teeth?”
The laughter in his eyes died. He looked down at the watermelon in his hands, but didn’t seem to notice the juice still dripping down onto his crossed legs. “No. Cal left, and I didn’t feel like going to the Water Festival anymore.”
“I love the Water Festival!” Maris said, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air. “It’s every July and it’s so much fun. There’s games and music and lots of really great food.” She turned to Owen. “You can come with me and my family—we go every year, because my dad has to enter the sailing regatta even though he’s never won. He says somebody has to come in last, so it might as well be him.”
Owen just nodded numbly, as if unsure whether any response was really required, or whether his attending the festival with Maris and her family was already a foregone conclusion.
Gibbes handed a slab of watermelon to Maris and then one to Owen and then, finally, one to me. He held it up like a challenge and I took it. Even though I was dying to wad up a pile of the napkins Loralee had packed but that had so far gone untouched, I took a bite out of the watermelon, closing my eyes at the unexpected sweetness that accompanied the crunch.
I chewed in silence, savoring every bite until all that was left were a few of the flat seeds in my mouth. Since it seemed expected, I moved them all to my lips and ejected them one by one. None were as impressive as Gibbes’s effort, but not bad for a first-timer. I eagerly picked up a second piece.
My victorious grin faded as I spotted a man on foot downstream from us standing on solid ground right on the edge of the marsh. He wore an Atlanta Braves baseball cap, jeans shorts, and a white T-shirt, and he was slowly coming down toward the water, waving with sweeping strokes in front of him what appeared to be a metal detector.
Gibbes leaned back on his arms, watching. “You’d be amazed at the treasures you find in the marsh. With the influx of new water and material every high tide, it’s not that surprising. Especially after a bad storm, when all sorts of things get dredged from the bottom. My brother got a metal detector for Christmas one year, and he and I used to treasure-hunt all the time.”
“Neat!” Owen scrunched his eyes at the sun, and I noticed that the tip of his nose was getting pink. “Did you ever find anything?”
Gibbes kept his gaze on the stranger. “We found lots of things—mostly junk. Beer cans, bottle openers, hubcaps—stuff like that. But sometimes we’d find cool things, too.” He stopped, his brows furrowed as if he were trying to remember something. “We found a Civil War bullet once. We were so excited when we brought it into an antique store on Bay Street and the man verified it was definitely from the Civil War era.”
“Do you still have it?” Owen asked, his eyes wide.
Gibbes shook his head. “No. Cal kept it, but I don’t know what happened to it.”
I turned my focus from the man with the metal detector to Gibbes, something he’d just said jarring my memory.
“What other cool things did you find?” Owen asked, leaning forward with his arms around his knees. Both were also turning pink, and I was about to tell him he needed to put on more sunscreen when Gibbes spoke again.
“Part of an airplane. It was a bolt with a little strip of charred metal on it. We had no idea what it was when we found it, but we brought it in to the same antiques dealer and he said he thought it might have come from a plane. He said back in the nineteen fifties a plane crashed into the marsh and we must have found a part of it.”
“Can we see it?” Owen asked, presumably including Maris, who was as wide-eyed as he was.
“I’m afraid I don’t have it either. Cal kept it with the bullet in a shoe box under his bed. He must have gotten rid of it when he moved away.”
“He didn’t,” I said, my throat suddenly dry. “He kept it.”
I remembered finding the shoe box in our closet after Cal had died. He’d never spoken about the box or its contents to me, and I’d almost included it in the bags I took to Goodwill before I moved. At the last moment I’d pulled out the shoe box and kept it, one of the few remnants I had of my late husband.
“I brought it with me. I’ll show it to you when we get back to the house.”
They were all looking at me, making me self-conscious. I discarded my half-eaten piece of watermelon and reached for a napkin and a clean plate. “I’m going to bring some food to Loralee. I’m sure she’ll want to eat when she wakes up.”
Gibbes cut another slice of watermelon from one of the quarters and placed it on the plate. Our gazes met and held, as if we were both remembering the same Cal, the boy who searched the marsh for hidden treasures with his younger brother.
But as I walked down the dock carrying Loralee’s food, all I could think of was the magic of this place into which Cal had been born and raised, and why all he’d cared enough to take with him when he left was an old bullet and burned wreckage from a crash.
chapter 14
L
Loralee’s skin felt tight, a surefire way to tell she’d been in the sun too long. Her mama had never believed in sunscreen, telling Loralee over and over that the only way to keep your skin wrinkle-free was to stay out of the sun altogether. She’d ignored her mama and had happily coated herself in baby oil throughout her teens and twenties, trying to get as dark as she could. It was only since she’d become a mother that she’d started using sunscreen and had become a convert—at least on her face. She let her limbs get as brown as they wanted, but she’d never allow a ray of sun to touch the skin on her face. That was what makeup was for.
But today she’d needed to feel the sun on her face and body. It had almost been as strong as the cravings she’d had for fried pickles and Krispy Kreme doughnuts when she was pregnant with Owen. It was as if the sun’s rays held healing properties that her body needed and that she couldn’t supply. She made a mental note to add to her journal later, Wear sunscreen every day. Except when you really need to feel the sun on your skin.
Loralee leaned against the edge of her bed and pointed past Gibbes to the closet. “Merritt said all of those boxes are yours, so take them if you want them. Anything to be recycled goes with the boxes over there.” She pointed toward the corner of her room.
After they’d dropped off Maris and returned home, Loralee had invited Gibbes to come inside and have a cool glass of sweet tea before heading back to his house. She’d felt Merritt’s hard stare on the back of her head but had just smiled at Gibbes when he’d said yes. Loralee knew everybody was hot and tired and in dire need of a shower, but she’d been reluctant to let the day end. It had been too long since Owen had had such a carefree day, one where he laughed out loud often and didn’t seem to be missing his daddy so much. Loralee wanted to make it last as long as she could, just so he’d always remember it.
Gibbes removed a box from one of the shelves, and she enjoyed the play of muscles under his shirt. If Merritt didn’t start noticing Gibbes’s fine assets soon, Loralee was going to drive her stepdaughter to the eye doctor herself.
He opened up the top of the box and leaned down, then lifted a boxed game. “Wow—I haven’t seen this in a while.”
Too tired to stand, Loralee craned her neck to see while Gibbes tilted the box toward her. “Battleship,” she read out loud. “I’ve heard of it but never played. Is it fun?”
“It can be—if your opponent doesn’t hate losing and get mad and throw pieces.” He studied the cover of the box, his index finger playing with a frayed piece of masking tape holding one of the corners together. “Cal and I played it a lot when I was a kid.”
He took out the box and put it aside before pulling out two more and showing them to her. “Stratego and Clue—both classics.” Looking up at Loralee, he said, “I was going to give these away, but I’m thinking maybe Owen might like them. Nice to have on rainy days.”
“Thank you, Gibbes—Owen will be thrilled. Maybe even Merritt might want to play with him.” She chewed on her lower lip, deciding whether to ask Gibbes, and then the words just forced their way out. “Do you think Merritt is getting along okay with Owen? Do you think she’s feeling a connection with him?”
A side of his mouth quirked up. “It would be hard not to—he’s a great kid. But, yeah, I think they’re getting along fine.”
He didn’t say anything else as he placed the games in a pile. “I’ll bring these and anything else I find that Owen might like to his room when I’m done.” He paused. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come back later? You should probably rest.”
She shook her head. “Only if you want to. I was going to ask you to stay for dinner.” She tried to smile but managed only a slight lift of her lips.
“I’ll stay if you let me order pizza. You shouldn’t be making dinner.”
“Pizza!” Owen shouted from the hallway, his footsteps coming toward them at a run. “Did somebody say pizza?”
Gibbes gave her an apologetic shrug. “I guess it’s decided. Pizza for dinner.”
“Pizza?”
They all turned to find Merritt standing behind Owen. Her hair was still damp from her shower, and she’d changed back into her uniform of blouse and skirt. Despite the hat and sunscreen, she’d still managed to get a kiss of sun on her nose and cheekbones. She looked less severe, less like the pale and lost Merritt that Loralee and Owen had first met. Younger, too, much more like the girl in the pictures Robert had kept in frames around the house, the girl in bright colors with a mischievous smile who hadn’t yet lost her mother. Loralee itched to swipe pink lipstick on Merritt’s mouth but kept her hands to herself. She didn’t want to scare Merritt right when they were beginning to make progress.
“My treat,” Gibbes said. “I know a great place, and I’ll order just as soon as you all tell me what you like on your pizza.”
Owen began listing all of his favorite toppings, but Loralee could tell Gibbes wasn’t listening. He stepped toward Merritt. “Where did you find those?”
She held up two pickle jars with faded yellow lids, rusty holes poked in the top. “I was looking for Cal’s shoe box. I’m pretty sure I brought it in from the car, but with all the sorting I’ve been doing I can’t remember exactly where I put it. But I found these in the back of Edith’s closet and thought Owen might want them to catch fireflies with a friend.”
Gibbes took one from her and peered inside. “These were mine and Cal’s. My grandmother must have saved them all these years.”
Owen looked inside the glass at the nearly translucent carcass of a long-dead insect lying at the bottom of the jar. “There’s a dead firefly inside that one. Isn’t that supposed to be bad luck?”
Gibbes rumpled Owen’s hair. “Nah. We all make our own luck.” He turned the jar upside down before reaching for the other one and doing the same. “This one was mine,” he said, handing the second one to Owen. “I’ll let you use it.”
Owen frowned, staring at the jar and turning it over. “How can you tell?”
“Because I had to get a replacement and this one’s newer. See how the shape’s different? The pickle company changed their jars in 1990 and this is the new shape.”
“What happened to your old one?” Owen asked. Loralee was proud of Owen and his questions. She and Robert had taught him that there was no shame in asking questions, only in remaining ignorant. She’d made sure that was in her journal, but thought that there might be room for another one, too: Never be afraid to ask a question, even if you’re not sure you want to hear the answer.
Merritt’s gaze caught Gibbes’s and it looked like she already knew what Gibbes was going to say.
“Because my brother broke mine.” He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether he should say more. “He didn’t like that I’d caught more fireflies than he did, so he smashed mine on a rock.”
“That’s mean.”
“Yeah, well, afterward he felt sorry enough to go buy a jar of pickles from his own money and eat them all in one sitting to punish himself before giving me the empty jar.”
Owen studied the jar for a long moment before turning to Merritt. “Sometime when you’re not busy we can go catch fireflies. We don’t have to have a contest if you don’t want, but let’s catch a bunch and use the jars as lights.”
Merritt dipped her head as if searching for a message in the holes in the lid, and for a brief moment Loralee thought she might say no. Instead, Merritt smiled and her cheeks seemed to pinken even more. “Sure. That sounds fun. It’s been a while since I’ve done it, so you might have to give me a refresher course.”
With a serious nod, Owen said, “I don’t mind. I can show you.”
Stifling a grin, Gibbes picked up the pile of games and handed them to Owen. “Go put these in your room for now—I’ll teach you how to play later. Maybe you and Maris can play a little Stratego on the next rainy day.”
Owen blushed as he took the games, balancing the jar on top of the stack, and headed back to his room. Gibbes pulled out hi
The large LEGO airplane lay on the ground without one of its wings and with small pieces scattered around it like lost luggage. Owen’s eyes were wide with panic as he faced Gibbes. “I’m sorry, Dr. Heyward. I think I must have bumped it with one of the boxes when I walked by.”
Gibbes put his hand on Owen’s shoulder, then bent down to look at the plane. “Don’t worry about it, Rocky. It was an accident.” He picked up the two pieces of the wing and tried to fit them together. “It’s an easy fix—especially for a pro like you.” His smile stopped halfway, his gaze wandering over the blue and white plane.
“What kind of a plane did you say this was, Rocky?”
“A DC-six. Actually, a six-B if you want to be technical. That just means it was only used for passenger service, because it doesn’t have cargo doors. They were made from the mid-forties to the mid-fifties. I know that for sure because my daddy used to have a model of one on his desk at home. It’s in storage now, but Mama said we could have it shipped to us here after we figured it was okay with Merritt.”
Loralee felt Merritt’s eyes on her.
“How can you tell?” Gibbes asked, standing slowly.
“Well, because of a couple of things. It was made after WWII, when passenger planes took over from military planes, and all the manufacturers decided to make longer fuselages so they could fit more passengers.”
Loralee smiled to herself as he used his first two fingers to indicate the fuselage, just as she’d done as a flight attendant when indicating the locations of the exits.
Owen continued. “The nose is a lot rounder than today’s planes, which kind of dates it, and though it’s possible it could be a couple of other models, maybe even the DC-seven, which came later, the DC-six outsold Lockheed’s Constellation and pretty much everything else out there at the time. It wasn’t the prettiest but it was the fastest.”