I shivered, sobbed, and looked away. Princey’s hand touched the back of my head, and drew my face into his side.
“You see, Cory?” he whispered, and his voice was tight with strangled rage. “This world eats up boys. You’re not ready yet to shove a broomstick down its throat.”
“I want to… I want to…”
“Go home,” Princey said. “Home to Zephyr.”
We were back at the railyard, amid the whistles and chugs. Princey said they’d go back some of the way with me, to make sure I caught the right train. Here came a Southern Railroad freight train, with one of its boxcars partway open. “This is the one!” Princey said, and he jumped up into the opening. Franklin went next, moving fast on those big old shoes when he had to. Then Ahmet, his cracked flesh puffing dust with every step.
The train was picking up speed. I started running alongside the boxcar, trying to find a grip, but there was no ladder. “Hey!” I shouted. “Don’t leave me!”
It began pulling away. I had to run hard to keep up. The boxcar’s opening was dark. I couldn’t see Princey, Franklin, or Ahmet in there. “Don’t leave me!” I shouted frantically as my legs began to weaken.
“Jump, Cory!” Princey urged from the darkness. “Jump!”
The tons of steel wheels were grinding beside me. “I’m scared!” I said, losing ground.
“Jump!” Princey said. “We’ll catch you!”
I couldn’t see them in there. I couldn’t see anything but dark. But the city was at my back, part of the world that ate up boys.
I would have to have faith.
I lunged forward, and I leaped upward toward the dark doorway.
I was falling. Falling through cold night and stars.
My eyes opened with a jolt.
I could hear the freight train’s whistle, moving somewhere beyond Zephyr on its way to that other world.
I sat up, next to Davy Ray’s grave.
My sleep had lasted only ten minutes or so. But I had gone a long way, and come back shaken and sick inside but safe. I knew the world beyond Zephyr wasn’t all bad. After all, I read National Geographic. I knew about the beauty of the cities, the art museums, and the monuments to courage and humanity. But just like the moon, part of the world lay hidden. As the man who had been murdered on Zephyr earth lay hidden from the moonlight. The world, like Zephyr, was not all good and not all bad. Princey—or whatever Princey had been—was right; I had some growing up to do before I faced that monster. Right now, though, I was a boy who wanted to sleep in his own bed, and wake up with his mother and father in the house. The apology to Leatherlungs still stuck in my craw. I’d hack through that jungle when I got there.
I stood up, under the blazing stars. I looked at the grave, sadly fresh. “Good-bye, Davy Ray,” I said, and I rode Rocket home.
The next day, Mom commented on how tired I looked. She asked if I’d had a bad dream. I said it was nothing I couldn’t handle. Then she made me some pancakes.
The apology remained unwritten. While I was in my room that evening, my monsters watching me from the walls, I heard the telephone ring four different times. Dad and Mom came in to talk to me. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Dad asked “We didn’t know that teacher was raggin’ the kids so hard.” He was, as I’ve said before, familiar with being ragged.
One of the callers had been Sally Meachum’s mother. Another had been the Demon’s mustachioed mater. Ladd Devine’s dad had called, and Joe Peterson’s mother. They had told my parents what their kids had told them, and suddenly it appeared that though I was certainly wrong for flying off the handle and whacking Leatherlungs’ glasses off, Leatherlungs herself was responsible for some of this.
“It’s not right for a teacher to call anybody’s child a blockhead. Everybody deserves respect, no matter how old or young they are,” Dad told me. “Tomorrow I believe I’ll have a little talk with Mr. Cardinale and straighten this thing out.” He gave me a puzzled look. “But why in the world didn’t you tell us to begin with, Cory?”
I shrugged. “I guess I didn’t think you’d take my side of it.”
“Well,” Dad said, “it seems to me we didn’t have enough faith in you, did we, partner?”
He ruffled my hair.
It sure was nice, being back.
3
Snippets of the Quilt
DAD DID GO to Mr. Cardinale. The principle, who had already heard rumors from the other teachers that Leatherlungs was a burnt-out case two bricks shy of a load, decided that the time I’d spent away from school was enough. No apology was necessary.
I returned to find I was a conquering hero. In years to come, no astronaut home from the moon would feel as welcome as I did. Leatherlungs was cowed but surly, Mr. Cardinale’s shrill admonitions ringing in her brain like Noel bells. But I had done my share of wrong, too, and I realized I ought to admit it. So, on that day I returned, which was also the last day of school before Christmas vacation, I raised my hand right after roll call and Leatherlungs snapped, “What is it?”
I stood up. All eyes were on me, expecting another heroic gesture in this grand campaign against injustice, inequality, and the banning of grape bubble gum. “Mrs. Harper?” I said. I hesitated, my grandeur in the balance.
“Spit it out!” she said. “I can’t read your mind, you blockhead!”
Whatever Mr. Cardinale had told her, it obviously wasn’t enough to persuade her to hang up her guns. But I went ahead anyway, because it was right. “I shouldn’t have hit you,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Oh, fallen heroes! Idols with feet of miserable clay! Mighty warriors, laid low by flea bites between the cracks in their suits of armor! I knew how they felt, in the groans and stunned gasps that rose around me like bitter flowers. I had stepped from my pedestal and pooted as I hit a mudhole.
“You’re sorry?” Leatherlungs might have been the most stunned of the lot. She took off her glasses and put them back on. “You’re apologizing to me?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well, I… I…” Words had fled from her. She was treading the unknown waters of forgiveness, trying to find the bottom of it. “I don’t…know what to…”
Grace beckoned her. Grace, with all its magic and wonder. The grace of a moment, and I saw her face start to soften.
“…say, but…” She swallowed. Maybe there was a lump in her throat.
“…but…It’s high time you showed some common sense, you blockhead!” she roared.
It had been a lump of nails, obviously. She was spitting them out.
“Sit down and get that math book open!”
Her face had not softened, I thought as I sighed and sat down. It had just been luffing like a sail before its second wind.
In the hollering madhouse that was called lunch period, I noticed the Demon sneaking out of the lunchroom as Leatherlungs was blasting some poor boy about spending his lunch money on baseball cards. She returned about five minutes later, sliding into her chair near the door before Leatherlungs knew she was gone. I saw the Demon and the other girls at her table giggle and grin. A plot was afoot.
When we were herded back to our room, Leatherlungs sat down at her desk like a lioness curling around a meatbone. “Get those Alabama history books open!” she said. “Chapter Ten! Reconstruction! Hurry it up!” She reached for her own history book, and I heard her grunt.
Leatherlungs couldn’t lift the book up off the desktop. As everybody watched, she wrenched at the book with both hands, her elbows planted against the desk’s edge, but it wouldn’t budge. Somebody chortled. “Is it funny?” she demanded, the fury leaping into her eyes. “Who thinks that it’s fun—” And then she squawked, because her elbows wouldn’t leave the desk’s edge. Sensing calamity, she tried to stand up. Her ample behind would not part with the seat, and when she stood, the chair came with her. “What’s going on here!” she shouted as the entire class began to yell with laughter, myself included. Leatherlungs tried to shuffle to the door, but her face contorted a
s she realized those clunky brown shoes were as good as nailed to the linoleum. There she was, crouched over with her butt stuck to the chair’s seat, her shoes mired in invisible iron, and her elbows stuck fast to the desk. She looked as if she were bowing to us, though the expression of rage on her face hardly approved of the courtesy.
“Help me!” Leatherlungs bawled, close to maddened tears. “Somebody help me!” Her cries for assistance were directed at the door, but the way everybody was hollering and laughing I doubted if even her foghorn voice could be heard beyond the frosted glass. She ripped the cloth of one arm of her blouse away as she got an elbow free, and then she made the mistake of placing that free hand against the desktop for added leverage. The hand was free no longer. “Help me!” she shouted. “Somebody get me out of this!”
The upshot of all this was that Mr. Dennis, the black custodian, had to be summoned by Mr. Cardinale to free Leatherlungs. Mr. Dennis was forced to use a hacksaw on the tough fibers of the substance that bound Leatherlungs so firmly to desk, chair, and floor. Mr. Dennis’s hand unfortunately slipped during the hacksawing, and a patch of Leatherlungs’ rear end was thereafter in need of reconstruction.
I heard Mr. Dennis tell Mr. Cardinale, as the ambulance attendants wheeled Leatherlungs away wheezing and gibbering along the holly-decked hall, that it was the most godawesome glue he’d ever seen. The stuff, he said, changed color depending on what it was smeared on. It was odorless but for the faint smell of yeast. He said Leatherlungs—Mrs. Harper, he called her—was mighty lucky she still had her hand connected to her wrist, the stuff was so powerful. Mr. Cardinale was enraged, in his flighty way. But no jar or tube of glue was found in the room, and Mr. Cardinale was stumped as to how any child could’ve been cunning and devious enough to perform such trickery.
He did not know the Demon. I never found out for sure, but I assumed she must’ve had the glue bottle hanging from a string outside the window and had reeled it in while the rest of us were eating lunch. Then, when she was through smearing all the necessary surfaces, the glue bottle had gone out the window again to be collected after school. I’d never heard of such a strong glue before. I learned later that the Demon had concocted it herself, using ingredients that included Tecumseh riverbottom mud, Poulter Hill dirt, and her mother’s recipe for angel food cake. If that were so, I would’ve hated to taste Mrs. Sutley’s devil’s food. She called it Super Stuff, which made perfect sense.
I knew there had to be a reason the Demon had skipped a grade. I’d had no idea her real talent lay in the realm of chemistry.
Dad and I ventured out into the woods on a chilly afternoon. We found a small pine that would do. We took it home with us, and that night Mom popped corn and we strung the tree with popcorn, gold and silver tinsel, and the scuffed decorations that nestled in a box in the closet except for one week of the year.
Ben was learning his Christmas songs. I asked him whether Miss Green Glass had a parrot, but he didn’t know. He’d never seen one, he said. But they might have a green parrot in the back somewhere. Dad and I went in together and bought Mom a new cake cookbook and a baking pan, and Mom and I went in together and bought Dad some socks and underwear. Dad made a solitary purchase of a small bottle of perfume from Woolworth’s for Mom while she bought him a plaid muffler. I liked knowing what was inside those brightly wrapped packages under the tree. Two packages were also there, though, that had my name on them and I had no idea what they contained. One was small and one was larger: two mysteries, waiting to be revealed.
I was snakebit about picking up the phone and calling the Glass sisters. The last time I’d intended to, tragedy had struck. The green feather was never far from my hand, though. One morning I woke up, after a dream of the four black girls calling my name, and I rubbed my eyes in the winter sunlight and I picked up the feather from where I’d left it on the bedside table and I knew I had to. Not call them, but go see for myself.
Bundled up, I rode Rocket under the Zephyr tinsel to the gingerbread house on Shantuck Street. I knocked at the door, the feather in my pocket.
Miss Blue Glass opened the door. It was still early, just past nine. Miss Blue Glass wore an azure robe and quilted cyan slippers. Her whitish-blond hair was piled high as usual, which must’ve been her first labor of the morning. I was reminded of pictures I’d seen of the Matterhorn. She regarded me through her thick black-framed glasses, dark hollows beneath her eyes. “Cory Mackenson,” she said. Her voice was listless. “What can I do for you?”
“May I come in for a minute?”
“I am alone,” she said.
“Uh… I won’t take but a minute.”
“I am alone,” she repeated, and tears welled up behind her glasses. She turned away from the door, leaving it open. I walked into the house, which was the same museum of chintzy art it had been the night I was here for Ben’s lesson. Still…something was missing.
“I am alone.” Miss Blue Glass crumpled down onto the spindly-legged sofa, lowered her head, and began to sob.
I closed the door to keep out the cold. “Where’s Miss Gre—the other Miss Glass?”
“No longer Miss Glass,” she said with the trace of a hurt sneer.
“Isn’t she here?”
“No. She’s in…heaven knows where she is by now.” She took off her glasses to blot the tears with a blue lace hanky. I saw that without those glasses and with her hair let down an altitude or two, she might not look nearly so… I guess frightful’s the word.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“What’s wrong,” she said, “is that my heart has been ripped out and stomped! Just utterly stomped!” Fresh tears streaked down her face. “Oh, I can hardly even think about it!”
“Did somebody do somethin’ bad?”
“I have been betrayed!” she said. “By my own flesh and blood!” She picked up a piece of pale green paper from beside her and held it out to me. “Read this for yourself!”
I took it. The words, a graceful script, were written in dark green ink.
Dearest Sonia, it began. When two hearts call to each other, what else can one do but answer? I can no longer deny my feelings. My emotions burn. I long to be joined in the raptures of true passion. Music is fine, dearest sister, but the notes must fade. Love is a song that lives on. I must give myself to that finer, deeper symphony. That is why I must go with him, Sonia. I have no choice but to give myself to him, body and soul. By the time you read this, we shall be…
“Married?” I must’ve shouted it, because Miss Blue Glass jumped.
“Married,” she said grimly.
…married, and we hope in time you will understand that we do not conduct our own chorale in this life, but are conducted by the hand of the Master Maestro. Love and Fond Farewell, Your Sister, Katharina.
“Isn’t that the damnedest thing?” Miss Blue Glass asked me. Her lower lip began to tremble.
“Who did your sister run off with?”
Miss Blue Glass spoke the name, though speaking it seemed to crush her all the more.
“You mean…your sister married…Mr. Cathcoate?”
“Owen,” Miss Blue Glass sobbed, “oh, my sweet Owen ran off with my own sister!”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Not only had Mr. Cathcoate gone off and married Miss Green Glass, but he’d been catting with Miss Blue Glass, too! I’d known he had parts of the Wild West in him, but I hadn’t imagined his south parts were just as wild. I said, “Isn’t Mr. Cathcoate kind of old for you ladies?” I put the letter back on the sofa beside her.
“Mr. Cathcoate has the heart of a boy,” she said, and her eyes got dreamy. “Oh Lord, I’ll miss that man!”
“I have to ask you about somethin’,” I told her before her faucets turned on again. “Does your sister have a parrot?”
Now it was her turn to look at me as if my senses had flown. “A parrot?”
“Yes ma’am. You had a blue parrot. Does your sister have a green one?”
“No,” M
iss Blue Glass said. “I’m tellin’ you how my heart has been broken, and you want to talk about parrots?”
“I’m sorry. I just had to ask.” I sighed and looked around the room. Some of the knickknacks in the curio cabinet were gone. I didn’t think Miss Green Glass was ever coming back, and I supposed that Miss Blue Glass knew it. A bird, it seemed, had left its cage. I slid my right hand into my pocket and put my fingers around the feather. “I didn’t mean to bother you,” I said, and I walked to the door.
“Even my parrot has left me,” Miss Blue Glass moaned. “And my parrot was so sweet and gentle…”
“Yes ma’am. I was sorry to hear about—”
“…not like that filthy, greedy parrot of Katharina’s!” she plowed on. “Well, I should’ve known her true nature, shouldn’t I? I should’ve known she had her cap set for Owen, all along!”
“Wait,” I said. “I thought you just told me your sister didn’t have a parrot.”
“That’s not what I said. I said Katharina doesn’t have a parrot. When it died, the devil ate a drumstick!”
I walked back to her, and as I did I brought my hand out of my pocket and opened the fingers. My heart was going ninety miles a minute. “Was that the color of your sister’s parrot, Miss Glass?”
She gave it one sniffy glance. “That’s it. Lord knows I’d recognize one of his feathers, he was always flyin’ against his cage and flingin’ ’em out. He was about bald when he died.” She caught herself. “Just a minute. What are you doin’ with one of his feathers?”
“I found it. Somewhere.”
“That bird died back in…oh, when was it?”
I knew. “March,” I said.
“Yes, it was March. The buds were startin’ to show, and we were choosin’ our Easter music. But…” She frowned, her stomped heart forgotten for the moment. “How did you know, Cory?”