“Sounds exciting—why did you come back?”
“My mom got sick. Cancer. She was so young, too. She died four years ago, and she was sick for a few years before that. I used to take the bus back to see her every couple of months. One of her nurses was Beth Rowland. Do you remember her?”
“Didn’t she have a brother? Dave?”
“That’s right, Dave. Well, one thing led to another. I transferred back here, to Alfred University, and Beth and I got married. Too fast, and we were too young. Way, way too young.” He folded his arms, and gazed out the window at the water. “By the time Max was born our marriage was on the rocks, pretty much. It was a bleak time for me. One day I was out walking along the canal and I saw FOR RENT signs on this building. The units weren’t finished yet, and no one else had bought one, so I had free choice; they wanted an anchor tenant, so the price was right. A place to live, and studio space—it was like a gift. So here I am.”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
“She always liked you, you know.”
I smiled, thinking about Beth Rowland, whom I remembered only vaguely—a graceful athletic girl with wavy brown hair. Max resembled her, it was clear, and for some reason that made me feel suddenly bereft. I’d never let myself think about what might have happened if I hadn’t cut Keegan off so abruptly. I’d needed to leave and I had, and yet our lives had been so deeply woven that last spring before my father died. It could have been me marrying Keegan, sharing this steady and interesting life he had made.
“Can I have some animal cookies?” Max called.
“Depends on how many giraffes you already ate,” Keegan called back. “More than eleventy zillion and you have to quit.” Max laughed. “I drive his mother crazy,” Keegan added to me in a softer voice. “But when he’s here, I want him to be happy.”
I asked where the bathroom was and Keegan gestured beyond the kitchen to another open space where beds were set up, a large one and a trundle bed, for Max. The bathroom was beyond, partition walls hardly taller than I was, and all rough plumbing. I dried my hands on a stiff white towel and came out, glancing around for a mirror.
That’s when I saw the windows, beautiful stained-glass windows propped against the larger windows of the loft. Two were contemporary, with bright colors and geometric shapes. I guessed that these were Keegan’s work. The third was very different, a lush, brilliantly toned scene in the Art Nouveau style. It depicted a story that seemed vaguely familiar, two men ripping open a sack of grain to reveal a silver chalice hidden in the center. A crowd was gathered, including several women, one, in a green gown, standing apart from the others. The artistry of the window was evident even to my untrained eye. Though it was very dirty—a corner had been cleaned, but that was all—the colors were rich and strong. However, that was all secondary, as far as I was concerned. What stopped me was the border, intricate, a pattern I’d seen for the first time just that morning: a row of overlapping spheres in white, interlocking moons nestled amid lacy vines, bright flowers.
“Keegan,” I called without moving. “Where did you get this window?”
“Which one?”
“The window with the grain and the chalice. The window with the border.”
“The Joseph window?” Keegan came into the bedroom. Max followed, climbed up on the trundle bed, and lay down on his stomach, watching us with his head resting on his folded arms.
“Tired, buddy?” Keegan asked. He pulled a blanket up over Max’s shoulders. “How about a rest? I’ll put your tape on.”
“I don’t want to,” Max said, but he didn’t move.
“I know. Just for a minute, close your eyes.”
Keegan pressed a tape into an old machine and a cheery song about an animal parade came on. With a nod to me, he picked up the window with the border and carried it to the living area, where he leaned it up against the wall of windows. The colors were even stronger here.
“It really needs a cleaning, as you can see. They took it from the chapel on the depot land. For some reason it wasn’t ever installed—they found it in a closet in the back. You know the depot is closed, right?”
“I saw a protest there the day I flew in.”
He nodded. “Yeah, there’ll be a fight over that land, I’m sure. But when the base was built—when that land was originally taken—there was a thriving village there, and a small mission chapel that had been built by the church in town. After Pearl Harbor, the land was cleared fast to create the base. It was a war effort, and though it’s kind of hard to believe it these days, people simply packed their personal things and left, and everything—houses, barns, shops—was razed. But the church officials protested, arguing that the building and the land were a sacred trust. Plus, there was a small cemetery, as well as an Iroquois burial ground right next to it. So when the village was razed, the church was simply boarded up and left standing, and the cemeteries, too; that was the compromise. A few months ago someone went inside, for the first time in decades, I suppose. They found this window leaning against the wall behind the altar and started to take the protective boards off the others. They’ve been pretty much forgotten all these decades. Everyone has been amazed by the quality of the glass art. There are nine other windows in addition to this one. Those I’ve seen so far are quite exceptional. Stunning, really. I was hired to do an early assessment of their quality and to recommend a studio for restoration, which they desperately need. Since this one wasn’t in the wall, I brought it here to have a closer look.”
“Do you know who made it?”
“A few ideas, but nothing solid. Why?”
I sat down on the floor in front of the window, studying the colorful scene dimmed with grime.
“It’s this border,” I said, tracing a section with my finger, the pale, interlocking spheres of glass, thickened in places, the vines and flowers made of leading. “There was a piece of cloth in a trunk in our house. My mother found it, years ago. It’s got this same pattern woven into the fabric. I’ve never seen anything like it, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. Not in glass, anyway.”
“I suppose it could be a common pattern for the era. I’d have to do some research. But the coincidence is so striking. It seems there must be a connection.”
Keegan squatted down beside me, so close I could feel the heat of his arm.
“The church might know something about the donor. There’s at least one other window with this border motif. Much larger and grander, actually; it also came from the chapel, and they’ve already had that one restored. It’s on display in the church downtown for the time being, so people can see it while the other windows are assessed and cleaned. I think they’re hoping to raise some more money. The restoration is pretty expensive. You really should see it, just because it’s so beautiful. I’m working there tomorrow, if you want to stop in.”
“Thanks. I’d like to. Keegan, why did you call this the Joseph window?”
He laughed. “That’s what the rector calls it. Otherwise, I have no idea. I think it’s the story about the coat of colors, when Joseph gets tossed into the well and taken off to Egypt. As I understand it, this particular scene comes at the end, when his brothers finally find him during the famine.”
“Really? I don’t remember a chalice in that story.” The glass near the base of the window was thick and slightly buckled, as if it had begun to slip and pool. “It looks as if it’s melting,” I added.
“It is, kind of. Glass isn’t really a solid. It always longs to return to its fluid state. Over time the lead weakens and gravity pulls at it—that’s why restoration is so necessary. Otherwise the glass will eventually flow out of its shape and the window will be lost.”
A buzzer sounded. Keegan stood up and opened the door to the studio. He had a quiet but hurried conversation with the new babysitter, during which I gathered my purse and the papers I’d been carrying around all day, feeling the tempo change, feeling both excited about the window an
d suddenly in the way.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” I asked, starting down the stairs, and Keegan paused to smile and wave and tell me to meet him at St. Luke’s at ten.
The next tour had already started, the furnaces roaring, the guide explaining the process to a new group of mesmerized tourists. The only exit was through the gift shop, and I stopped to look at some of the work—vases and plates, stained-glass sun catchers and delicately blown spheres. As I turned, my purse caught the edge of a display, and when I reached to catch the perfect glass egg I’d jolted loose, I hit another display and started a cascade of plates tipping over one by one until the last one fell against a dark red bowl and sent it crashing to the floor.
“Hold still,” the sales clerk said, raising her hands, palms open as if to push back a wave. “Just stand still, and take a deep breath.”
I did, watching while she gathered up the pieces.
“Just one bowl,” she said, finally, and refused to let me pay. “It happens.”
I was very careful as I left, chagrined, suddenly exhausted, too. It was still a beautiful day, windy and changeable. The clouds that had threatened to gather were more scattered now, and the early afternoon was sunny. The Impala floated over the low hills, the lake flashing through the trees. I hadn’t expected to be so moved by seeing Keegan again. Maybe it was simply that things had ended so abruptly between us, with no sense of closure or any kindness on my part, but all the old stirrings from those last wild days of spring were present again, forceful and unsettling.
When I got home, the house was empty. My footsteps echoed, fading in the layers of space, above and below, and I had a moment of understanding why my mother had locked up so many rooms. I went upstairs and slept a deep, post-jet-lag kind of healing sleep, no dreams.
By the time I woke up it was late afternoon. My mother still wasn’t home. The windows were open in her narrow downstairs bedroom, fresh air flowing in through the pines. A yellow dress was tossed on the bed, half-slipping off the corner. Her closet door was open and clothes were askew on the hangers, hanging off the doorknobs, a kind of exuberant chaos that seemed completely out of character. Restless, I changed into the same bathing suit I’d used the day before, cobalt blue and still faintly damp from my last swim, then went down to the lake.
The boathouse doors swung back with a great groan, and I stepped into the cool darkness, water lapping just below the motorboat, which was in its hoist. I lifted my dark green kayak from its hooks and hauled it through the wide doors to the beach. Half in the water and half on the stony shore, it moved lightly with the waves. I waded into the lake and climbed into the boat, pushing my paddle against the rocky bottom until the water grew deep enough to stroke. There was a small breeze, and my muscles moved in a rhythm as familiar as breathing. Leaves fluttered against the vivid sky.
I skimmed across the dark blue water, traveling along the shore as it curved outward into the lake, to the place where sediment from a stream left a trail of silt and the marshes began—a stand of cattails, broken by purple flowers, songbirds flitting in and out, sharp reds and yellows and blues against the muted reeds. This was where we’d always stopped before, the invisible boundary between our land and the forbidden depot. My arms ached. I rested the paddle and let myself drift. The shadows of fish flashed below. Bass, maybe perch; my father would have smiled to see them. Wind rustled the reeds and waves lapped at the boat. On the shore trees had grown up, ending abruptly in fields that were themselves overgrown and rippling.
It happened unexpectedly, as moments of beauty so often do. As I sat quietly, adrift, piecing together the stirring discoveries of this strange day, the deer began to emerge from the trees. The legendary white deer, wild and elusive; I’d never seen them before, and I held very still. One by one, until there were five them, quivering for a moment at the edge of the trees before something startled them and they leaped high, running like swift clouds through the fields.
Chapter 5
THAT EVENING MY MOTHER CAME HOME IN A PALE GREEN Prius, laughing as she slipped her good hand through the flimsy plastic handles of the bags, standing and smiling at the car as it backed out, because one arm was in a sling and the other was full, and she couldn’t wave. The driver did, however, and stuck his head out the window to call good-bye. His face was angular and kind and he had salt-and-pepper hair, and my mother stood in the driveway until his car disappeared out of sight.
We ate our simple dinner—French bread, pitted kalamata olives, smoked Brie, and a green salad—at the counter, exchanging stories of our day. Hers were about people who’d been in and out of the bank, people I might remember; mine were about the changes all over town. She’d taken a tour of Keegan’s Glassworks last spring and showed me a plate she’d bought—bright yellow glass with a scalloped edge. Afterward, we cleaned up our few dishes, then poured some more wine and went out to the patio, where my mother supervised while I hung decorations for her solstice party: tiny lights nestled amid the bushes and the plants, even cascading from the overgrown peonies in her old night garden. I thought about my father as I worked. The last time I’d been here for this party, the summer before he died, he’d hung lanterns all along the shore and built a bonfire that lasted all night. I placed a few flowering plants in white baskets from the branches of the trees. I tied ribbons on the branches, too, and rearranged the furniture.
In the morning we got up early and I filled balloons from the party-sized helium tank my mother had bought, tethering them to the lawn and porch railings and the branches of trees, where they floated like small planets gone adrift. We drove into town a little early so I could meet Keegan at the church by ten. After I dropped my mother off, I parked and sat for a few minutes in the Impala, checking messages on my phone. Yoshi had e-mailed the dates for his Indonesian trip and a couple of suggestions about when to fly here. I started to text back, but suddenly I wanted to hear his voice, maybe to anchor me in the midst of all these unexpected dynamics from my past, so I called him instead. He picked up on the second ring, his voice so steady and familiar that I felt a rush of comfort, a surprising longing to see him.
“Hey, where are you?” I asked.
“In the kitchen. Having a drink. Going over some paperwork.”
“In the kitchen,” I repeated. “I wish we were dancing.”
“Ah. Me, too.”
“Yes—I’d like to be dancing in the darkness with you.”
Yoshi laughed, pleased, I could tell.
We talked for a moment about his travel plans, and when I hung up the air all around seemed clear and empty, somehow new.
Tourists had begun to stream into town for an art fair in the park, and I walked against the current to the church. Its doors were shaped like an arch, rounding upward, tapering to a point, painted dark red. They had old-fashioned hinges and hardware, with ornate patterns and deep keyholes, made to resemble workmanship from much longer ago. The intricate iron stood out sharply against the deep red color of the door. Inside, a rush of silence, a deep stillness that made me want to listen, and the scent of wood and wax. I paused at the threshold, adjusting to the quiet, the muted light. The floor was made of rust-colored ceramic tiles, the pews of dark polished oak, and the stained-glass windows were luminous, alive in the dimness of the church.
I closed my eyes for an instant, remembering. As a child, I had come here twice a week, for choir practice and for the slow Sunday service. Blake and I sat fidgeting in the pews, passing notes and drawings on the backs of the offering envelopes, our parents casting disapproving glances. I remembered the standing and the rising and the kneeling, the prayers spoken in unison, the same each week, and then the silent prayers, more mysterious, when I knelt self-consciously, aware of the breathing all around. In those days God seemed as silent as my father, as disapproving as my uncle, as distant as the portrait of my great-grandfather in the hall; when I closed my eyes, those were the gazes I felt, and I was always nervous. Still, at eight, ten, twelve, I did my best, p
raying for the usual things: grades, crushes, the baby chickadee fallen from its nest, its tiny life trembling in my palm. In seventh grade, alarmed about pollution, I prayed hard for the rivers and the lakes.
Yet even though the stories all seemed to exclude me—in my childhood, the only formal place for a woman in this church was helping with the altar cloths or singing in the choir—I was still drawn to something here I couldn’t name, the deep silence, perhaps, or the sense of mystery the silence evoked. Even as a teenager, riding wild with Keegan Fall, I still went to church. When the church rules finally changed—it had been a controversy, a bitter decades-long fight—I was among the first girls to become an acolyte. I remembered slipping into the white cotton robe falling in smooth folds to my ankles, tying the rope belt around my waist, lifting the heavy brass cross and leading the choir slowly down the central aisle. I felt both happy and defiant, my hair cut short that last spring I was home, wearing cutoff jeans beneath the flowing robes.
Then my father drowned. I sat in the usual pew during his funeral, his casket in front, piled with flowers.
Grant us grace to entrust thy servant, Martin.... We filed up for communion, one by one, the church echoing with the sound of our shuffling steps, the muffled coughs and cleared throats. We knelt together at the railing, my mother on one side and Blake on the other, and in the pause between the wafer and the wine I listened to their soft breathing, my sadness and longing so great I imagined it would split me open. The priest moved behind the wooden railing, offering the wafers and then the chalice, lip to lip. The Body of Christ, the Cup of Salvation. I didn’t believe that literally, it made no logical sense, and yet nonetheless I had often felt a sense of mystery, of longing and longing answered, in this ritual, this place.
So I waited, kneeling between my mother with her red-rimmed eyes, her silver hair pulled severely back, and Blake in his suit grown a few millimeters too short on the sleeves. I waited, but when I stood up, the wine both sweet and bitter in my mouth, and walked through the narrow corridor around the organ and back to the sanctuary, I did not feel healed of my grief. Nor did the world appear transformed. I paused at the front of the church and looked at the rows of pews, full of familiar faces, among them my cousin Joey and Uncle Art, his wife Austen holding Zoe on her lap, everyone dressed in black, some weeping or wiping their eyes. The same people were wealthy, the boat owners and the business owners who had depended on my father to open their locks, to reveal their secrets and their treasures. And the same people were poor. They had the same dreams and secrets and losses and frustrations. My father was gone, forever gone, but in a few minutes we would all step back into our lives, and the day-to-day would close over his absence as seamlessly as water over a rock.