The Sound of Glass by Karen White
He looked around to make sure he wasn’t talking too much—a habit Robert and Loralee had taught him to be aware of—and when he noticed that everybody was still listening, he continued. “On my dad’s model, which has a lot more detail, you can tell what it is because it’s got piston engines. That technology was pretty much as good as it was going to get by the mid-fifties, when the piston engines got replaced by the turbo props, which were a lot faster and smoother.”
“Do you think it’s the same kind?” Merritt asked quietly, looking at Gibbes.
Gibbes shrugged. “I’m not sure.” Handing the wing parts to Owen, he said, “I’m going to bring something down from the attic for you to take a look at, if that’s okay.” He glanced at Loralee and she nodded, not sure she wanted to see what had been in the attic, judging by Merritt’s and Gibbes’s reactions the previous day, but if Gibbes thought it was okay, then it was.
He continued. “Maybe you can tell me what kind of a plane it is.”
Owen nodded eagerly. “I can try. I’ve got a book that has pictures of all the different kinds of planes, so we can check to be sure. But I’m not usually wrong.”
Loralee put her arm around Owen, proud of how smart he was, but wishing that in addition to his smarts he’d also been given a filter that would tell him when it was okay to say things like that and when it wasn’t. Like right then, surrounded by adults who needed his help, it was okay. At the lunch table with boys his age he wanted to be friends with, maybe not so much. Her heart squeezed in her chest for a moment as she thought of all the things she still needed to teach Owen, and she hoped her journal had enough pages.
Gibbes returned with a large and handmade model of a wingless plane and placed it on Owen’s neatly made bed, next to two battered wings that might have once been attached to the plane if there had been a place without holes to put them. If she hadn’t been told beforehand what it was, Loralee would have thought it was some kind of a time capsule, like the one city councilmen liked to bury in the foundations of new government buildings. When she still lived in Gulf Shores, she’d submitted her favorite tube of lipstick as well as a pair of newly invented SPANX for the capsule that was being cemented in the foundation of the new city hall, but had been disappointed when they’d been rejected in favor of an iPod and an American flag. She’d thought her submissions had been a lot more about who they were as individuals, but it was clear the councilmen lacked imagination.
She stepped forward, noticing the hairline cracks that looked like black threads covering the fuselage, like Humpty Dumpty after all his pieces had been put together. Small oval windows dotted the two sides of the plane, some with clear cellophane-looking windows still intact, a few with jagged tears, but most missing completely. Loralee walked to the other side of the bed and saw the uneven hole in the plane’s side. The edges were curled outward, as if something from the inside had blown out the hole. It looked like a toy that had been played with really roughly. Or that had been in an actual crash.
“Cool,” Owen said slowly as he walked around his bed, peering into the little windows and the hole, then picking up one of the wings and turning it over before replacing it on the bed.
Loralee took a peek into one of the windows, then jerked back when she realized there were miniature people seated inside. “This was in the attic?”
Merritt nodded. “Not exactly what I thought I’d find. There are also baskets of sea glass and other materials to make wind chimes, along with a few other items.” Her lips pressed together the way people do on planes when they were about to be sick.
Loralee covered her mouth, hoping to direct her words out of Owen’s hearing. “It’s a little creepy, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea.”
Their eyes met and Merritt even smiled a little before looking away, as if she’d become aware that they’d just shared a confidence.
“Is this the same kind of plane as the LEGO one?” Gibbes asked.
Owen nodded. “It’s kind of hard to tell, because it’s so messed up, but I think so. See, the engines on this wing are fatter and rounder, and short from front to back. Hang on a sec.”
He ran to a stack of books on the bedside table and pulled out a thick volume. He flopped it onto the bed and began flipping pages before coming to a stop and turning the book around so they could all see the picture. “This is a DC-six—it looks just like it. See how the engines are kind of stubby-looking?”
Gibbes scratched the back of his head. “And these were used until about when?”
“The mid-fifties. That was the beginning of the jet age, when everybody started making the new turbo props. Like these.” He flipped through the book and stopped on a page. “This is a Vickers Viscount British turbo prop—it was a passenger plane they used here in the U.S. in the late fifties. The engines are skinnier than the DC-sixes. They’re round but more streamlined—see?” He showed them the page and then flipped through the book again until he found what he was looking for. “And this was the first really successful commercial jetliner—the Boeing seven-oh-seven. It’s way different-looking from the DC-six, isn’t it? I think those started in 1959.”
Gibbes stared at Owen for a long moment that made Loralee’s heart swell with pride. “You’re a really smart kid, Rocky. Thanks for all your help.”
Owen beamed, and Loralee had to look away so nobody would see the tears in her eyes.
Gibbes rubbed his finger along the top of the plane. “What is this made of?”
“Papier-mâché,” Loralee announced. “I know for sure because Mama and I went through a craft-making period when I was in middle school and made lots of stuff from papier-mâché. We made a Nativity set, but the baby Jesus ended up looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy, so we moved on to making pot holders using spandex headbands.”
Merritt began coughing, her face turning red as she faced away from them until the fit stopped. Gibbes just looked at Loralee with bright eyes and a big smile.
After clearing his throat, he said, “Well, somebody must have used an X-ACTO knife or something like that, because this plane has been cut apart and pieced back together.”
“But why put it together with clear parts?” Merritt asked, her brows knitted. Loralee wanted to press her thumb in the spot above her nose like her mama used to do, to smooth out any wrinkles.
Gibbes studied the plane. “Good question. But if I were to guess, I’d say if somebody were putting together a crash re-creation, they’d want to be as accurate as possible, showing which pieces had been found, and which ones were still missing.” He met Merritt’s gaze. “But why a crash re-creation would be up in the attic, I don’t even have a guess.”
“What’s with the hole in the side?” Owen asked, his eyes huge behind his glasses.
“I’m not sure,” Gibbes said slowly, his fingers gently probing the furled edges. “Does anybody have tweezers?”
“I do!” Loralee said without hesitation. To Owen, she said, “Sweetie, can you go get my pocketbook? I left it on the hall table downstairs.” As Owen ran out of the room she said, “My mama always told me to never go anywhere without tweezers, lipstick, and a roll of duct tape.”
Merritt was looking at her oddly again, but she didn’t look angry like she usually did when Loralee mentioned something her mama had told her. Instead, it looked like she was just confused.
Owen raced back into the room and handed her the pocketbook. It took her a couple of minutes to find the tweezers at the bottom, but she proudly held them up before giving them to Gibbes.
Leaning over, he reached inside the hole on the side of the plane and stuck the tweezers inside. Slowly, Gibbes plucked out a passenger seat with a man in a striped tie still strapped into it, the little white dot pattern of the cloth seat clearly visible. He held it up to eye level and examined it closely.
“This is remarkable. Each seat has those little white head covers on them, and the ashtrays in the armrests actually open,” he said, using the tweezers to demonstrate.
“And he’s got a little dopp kit on his lap,” Loralee pointed out.
“A what?” asked Merritt.
“It’s like a cosmetics bag for men,” Loralee explained. “Although I guess the guys would prefer to call them ‘toiletries.’ When I was a flight attendant I saw them all the time. I’m sure men still use them, but I’m not sure if they’re called dopp kits anymore.”
Gibbes carefully placed the man and his seat on the bedspread next to the plane. Owen got down on his knees to be at eye level, his elbows on the bed and his chin resting on his hands. His dark brows were angled over his forehead as he studied the man very carefully. “Why would the dopp kit be on his lap?” he asked.
“I was just asking myself the same thing, Rocky,” Gibbes said. He gently pinched the dopp kit between his thumb and index finger and tugged. “It’s glued down. Must have been a pretty heavy-duty glue for it to still be stuck.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the man in the business suit, the vivid stripes on his navy blue tie, and the white handkerchief in the breast pocket. “When I travel, my toiletry bag goes inside my suitcase. I certainly wouldn’t carry it on my lap.”
They all stared at the plane model for a long moment, the silence finally interrupted by Owen.
“Mama?”
Loralee looked down at her son and resisted the impulse to lick her fingers and smooth back his hair. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“This doesn’t have to stay in my room, does it?”
“No, sir. And I don’t blame you, Rocky,” Gibbes said as he replaced the man and seat and then lifted the plane and wings from the bedspread. “I’m going to go stick it back where we found it.”
Owen let out a breath of relief as Loralee gave in and put her fingers to her mouth before plastering down that stubborn cowlick that would never lie flat no matter how hard she tried to coax it.
“I’ll call in the pizza order just as soon as I put this back, okay?”
“Pizza!” shouted Owen, and Loralee and Merritt laughed.
Merritt carried the two firefly jars to the door. “I’ll go put these in the kitchen by the back door so they’re handy when you’re ready to use them. Although it looks like they’re old enough for a museum.”
“Speaking of which,” Gibbes said, “when is your appointment to go see Deborah Fuller at the Heritage Society?”
“Tomorrow morning.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”
“She was a good friend of my grandmother’s and I haven’t seen her for a while. I wouldn’t mind tagging along, if that’s all right with you.”
Merritt took a moment to respond, but Loralee noticed that her face didn’t get that closed-off look that she’d grown used to seeing, the face that made it clear that Merritt was making sure you were kept a stranger. “Sure. I’m meeting her at ten o’clock.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up at nine forty-five.” He smiled, and it didn’t even look like he was getting ready to shoot his favorite dog.
Loralee put her arms around Owen’s shoulders, noticing again that his head was now as high as her shoulders and not remembering when that had happened. She sighed, feeling more tired than she’d ever been, but happy, too. She considered the day and all that had happened, her thoughts resting on Cal’s shoe box that held the old bullet and an airplane bolt, and remembered something else she needed to write in her journal. To really know a person, find out what they choose to take with them, and what they leave behind.
She listened to Merritt’s footsteps fading down the stairs and thought of Cal and wondered what kind of person he must have been to have saved only those two things. And whether Merritt had ever known him well enough to understand.
chapter 15
MERRITT
I reluctantly turned around to see myself in the mirror over the dresser in Loralee’s bedroom. Before I could protest, she yanked the rubber band out of my ponytail hard enough that it broke. She picked up a brush and pulled it through my hair, arranging it around my shoulders.
“See? Doesn’t that look better?”
“It looks heavier and hotter, and like it’s going to get in my face and annoy me. Where did you put my headband?” I searched the top of her dresser where I thought she’d tossed it.
“It must have slipped behind the dresser. Sorry.”
She didn’t look sorry at all, and I was about to suggest we pull the dresser out from the wall when the doorbell rang.
“That must be Gibbes,” she said, eyeing me critically. “Let me just put a little dab of lipstick . . .”
“What for? I’m just going to the Heritage Society, and Gibbes is coming with me.”
“You’re widowed, Merritt. Not dead. Why not put your best foot forward? My mama used to say . . .”
She caught my gaze in the mirror and closed her mouth. Although I don’t think I would have stopped her if she had continued. I’d begun to almost anticipate the little pearls of wisdom she felt obliged to drop at random intervals throughout the day. I’d somehow moved beyond being annoyed to being amused, to now actually listening to the grains of truth she and her mother had managed to learn from their lives in a trailer park in Alabama. It made the world seem smaller, made me feel connected by these universal truths. Maybe even made me feel a little less lonely.
I pushed the hair behind my ears. “You don’t need to be my friend, okay?”
“Why? Because I’m your stepmother?”
I looked down at my worn loafers, realizing how ridiculous they must look with Loralee’s dress. And seeing again how very different we were—how different she was from my own mother. “Because I never invited you into my life.” I paused, regretting my harshness and tasting shame on my tongue. In the last weeks my old anger had shifted like an arrow in a bow without a string, useless despite its potential to wound. If I were one for introspection, I might even say that my anger over life’s injustices had managed to become self-directed.
Her smile dimmed but didn’t fall completely.
“It’s not that you’re not a likable person, or that there aren’t people out there who I’m sure would love to have you in their lives. I’m just not one of them. We’re way too different.”
Loralee placed the hairbrush carefully on the dressing table. “And I married your daddy even though you thought the two of you already had a team and didn’t need new members. I get that. But I also believe that we have more in common than you think.”
I met her gaze in the mirror and almost laughed. With her blond hair, tanned skin, and bright lipstick, we looked like we had as much in common as a loaf of bread and a shoe. The doorbell rang again and I moved toward the bedroom door, eager to end our conversation before anybody’s feelings got hurt.
“You’ve got a big and generous heart, Merritt, and you need people in your life, no matter how much you tell yourself different.”
I shook my head, trying to find the words to let her know that my heart had been closed up for years. It made life easier that way. I reached the doorway, grateful to have escaped.
“You could have told us to leave.”
I paused in the doorway without turning around, Loralee’s soft voice doing nothing to deaden the impact of her words. Anger, shame, and loss flooded my lungs, making it impossible to breathe.
I clenched my eyes, remembering something Cal had once told me, and how I’d often thought of it when he became angry. Fire is an event, not a thing. Heating wood or other fuel releases vapors that quickly combust with oxygen in the air, resulting in a fiery bloom of gas that heats the fuel even more, releasing more vapors and continuing the cycle.
“I still can,” I finally managed.
“But you won’t.”
I didn’t respond as I made my way down the stairs to the door. Gibbes was leaning against the railing, his hands shoved into his front pockets, his long legs crossed casually at the ankles. I noticed the way he stood because Cal had never leaned like that. He’d always stood with his feet apart, balanced on his toes, almo
Gibbes straightened as his gaze flickered over me. “Nice dress.”
“It’s Loralee’s.” I tugged on the hem of the skirt that was a good four inches above my knees, and tried not to think about how much of my scar was showing. “For some reason, she chose to wash all of my clothes today and nothing is dry. She lent me this. Apparently she doesn’t have anything longer than streetwalker size. I’m just thankful my feet are a half size smaller than hers.”
He slowly scanned my body from the low V-neck of the white knit wrap dress to the short hem that made me think maybe it wasn’t actually a dress but a long shirt and I should go get a pair of pants to wear under it. Except I didn’t have any that weren’t wet.
“I don’t see anything wrong with it.”
He said it with a straight face, but I was sure I heard a hint of laughter in his voice. I marched past him and down the steps, still tugging at my hem and hoping he’d put on sunglasses so the sun reflecting off my legs didn’t blind him.
He held open the passenger door and helped me in, averting his gaze as I climbed in and the wrap of the dress widened alarmingly. He turned on the car and the air-conditioning blasted. Leaning toward me, he reached out to adjust the fan’s direction, and I flinched without even being aware of it until I’d done it. He looked at me oddly and I thought he was going to say something, but quickly changed his mind.
“The Heritage Society is just down on Carteret, so it should take us only about five minutes, depending on how many tourists are jaywalking across the street. We have time, so if you’d like, I could take you the long way around and give you a little tour of the backstreets.”
Besides a few necessary trips to the grocery store and drugstore, and once to Hilton Head to buy shorts for Owen at the mall, I hadn’t seen much of the immediate neighborhood. I’d looked at a street map, so I knew that Beaufort was relatively small, with neatly laid-out streets in straight lines, the water forcing a slight rounding at the edges of the grid to accommodate the river and marshes that surrounded the city.