Shattered Glass Read online

  “Nah, it’s okay.”

  It was pity. I was an exceptionally superior judge of pitying facial expressions, and I could tell that Ethan was wearing one.

  I hated pity. We, all of the Seven, hated pity. Never pity an orphan.

  “So, uh, thanks,” I said when we got to Grady’s. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

  Yup, I was pretty sure it was pity.

  I was dragging myself up the stairs to spend the rest of the night in my room and have a proper, private pity party when Grady stepped out into the hall.

  “Toni? Would you like to join me for dinner?”

  I came down a couple of steps. Was she feeling sorry for me too? I wanted to feel sorry for myself all by myself.

  “It won’t be a regular occurrence, so don’t get all excited or count on it, you know. It’s just that I baked a whole chicken and it looks like Eddy went straight to the bars after his classes, and I know you usually grab something at the club so…How about it, just you and me, kid? You don’t have to talk about…well, you know. I mean, you’ll have to tell me at some point, but not now.”

  “That’d be real nice, thank you.” I followed her through the parlor door and into the kitchen. Grady was a little less done up than usual. She wore a peach-colored sheath; it looked like she had raided Jackie Kennedy’s closet.

  “Not here, dear. We’re going to eat in the dining room. Go sit; it’s all ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I’d never been in the dining room before, just glimpsed it through the glass-panel doors. There was a massive mahogany breakfront that held the fine china and elaborate figurines. The table, which could seat at least twelve, was covered with an ornately embroidered tablecloth. There were two settings, one at the head of the table, nearest the kitchen, and a setting to its immediate right. It was set formally, with wineglasses, water goblets and an array of forks, spoons and knives, linen napkins, a crystal water jug and silver salt and pepper shakers. We’d been taught at the orphanage how to set table for all manner of occasions. Miss Webster had drilled it into us hard. I guess the thinking was that we’d likely end up becoming maids, waitresses or well-trained housewives. Grady kept swanning in with trays—chicken, potatoes, vegetables and a salad.

  “Sit, dear, sit. I’ve just got one more thing.”

  “You’ve set a beautiful table, Grady,” I called out after her.

  She waltzed back in with a large glass of wine in one hand, and her cigarettes, lighter and an ashtray in the other. “That’s thanks to my third husband. He’d beat the crap out of me if I had the fish fork out of place.” She took a sip of her wine and grimaced as she sat down.

  “I’ve never seen you drink wine before.” I poured water for both of us.

  She took another sip and shuddered. “I don’t. Can’t stand the stuff, but I’m turning over a new leaf, and wine’s supposed to be good for you. The French drink it nonstop. It doesn’t even count as booze.” She glared at the glass.

  “Did you buy a bad bottle?”

  “Shouldn’t be.” She took another sip and shrugged. “It was the most expensive bottle they had, but what do I know? Want some?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am, I don’t drink.”

  “’Course ya don’t. Well, let’s not stand on ceremony. Dig in!”

  It was delicious. She had stuffed the chicken with lemons, of all things. Grady really and truly could cook. She and Joe would have a lot to talk about. And so did we. In between mouthfuls of food, I told her that Scarlet Sue said hi and then, before I knew it, I told her everything. She only got up once to replenish her glass, at which she was grimacing less with every sip. I told her about my mom and me and the fire and my dad and searching for him and…finding him.

  “Doesn’t get much grimmer.” She shook her head. “So what now, kid?” she asked at the end.

  “I don’t know, Grady. I honestly don’t. Scarlet Sue said she’d write. They only gave us a few minutes to talk. I don’t know what happened after my dad died. Thing is, I don’t know that I want to know.”

  “But you’ve come so far. I’ll grant you it’s a heart-hurting story. But it’s your story. You gotta find and face it head-on, or…or you’ll end up making a mess of things.”

  Was she talking about me or her?

  She didn’t know how badly the story ended. How could she? “No, you don’t understand. Look.” I pulled the scoop neck of my T-shirt down far enough that the scars would be visible.

  “Oh honey, what the…?”

  “I’ve always had ’em. They’re nothing now compared to how they used to be when I was little.”

  Grady quietly took another sip.

  “I get these nightmares,” I continued, “but I don’t know if they’re nightmares or if I’m actually remembering stuff. A fire, glass shattering and my mom, my mother, hurting me bad.”

  “Eddy mentioned the nightmares. I am so sorry, but you still—”

  “See, I’ve hated her all my life for doing this to me and then deserting me, but I guess I maybe understand how she could have turned crazy or whatever. Truth is, Grady, I don’t know how much more of my story I can stomach.”

  Grady put down her glass, got up and hugged me. “You can take a lot. You got to, and so do I.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll be right back. I need a proper refreshment for this.” Grady returned with her more familiar highball glass in hand and kicked off her high-heeled sandals. “Remember how I told you how the hole changed my first husband, pretty much left him in shreds? He even divorced me!”

  I nodded. I knew that part already from Big Bob. Where was she going with this?

  “Well, that’s on me, kid. It’s all on me.” Before I could open my mouth to challenge her, she put up her hand. “See, Mario did kill a guy his papa wanted hit, and there were probably others, but it was me who got him put away. Nobody knows to this day except me, Bobby and now you. I tipped off the cops on the sly, just enough to lead them to the truth, just enough to nail him.”

  “Grady, I don’t—”

  “Shut up and let me tell it.”

  I shut up.

  “We were the big love match, right? Ask anyone. We all ran together as kids, Mario, Bobby and me. But Mario was faster and smoother with his moves, so like a turnip I fell for him, and we got hitched. I honest to God didn’t know how deep he was into…well, his father’s business.” She took a swig and then leaned back and looked at the chandelier, as if for guidance. “I’m not saying that there wasn’t love, and lots of it, but the boy had a temper. As it turns out, most of ’em had tempers.” She snorted. “I’m not saying I didn’t deserve it. I was mouthy, but you know, at the end of the day, I didn’t deserve it. No woman does. And Bobby, well, Big Bob was always there for me, and that made things worse with Mario. The cops were sniffing around about the Carmine hit, and I got wind that Mario was going to go after Bobby next. Mario was crazy jealous. His best friend…my Bobby.” She hugged herself. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.

  “I did it,” she said. “I put my own husband away. So that’s my story, kid. Time I faced up to it.” She downed her glass. “And you know what? I’d do it again.” She seemed to be talking to herself more than me. “Yup, that’s the sticky truth of it.”

  I wished more than anything else in the world that I was older and could say smart, solid words that would comfort her. But I wasn’t, so I didn’t.

  “I’m sorry, Grady.”

  “Yeah, well…” She examined her glass. “My point is, you make choices…just own up to them. Even when it seems that life is making all the decisions for you, you’re still making choices, kid. But, for all that”—she sighed—“the fifties were my era, my time. You should have seen me then, Toni. I was something back then.” She drained her glass.

  How could she not see herself? “No, Grady! You’re something now! You’re gorgeous and good through and through. You didn’t have to open the door
to me way back in June. A girl right off the bus from nowhere. You’re the only one who did, Grady!” My voice trembled. “The only one! Where would I be without you?”

  She waved her hand dismissively.

  “If you could only see yourself through my eyes or Big Bob’s eyes or, well, just about anyone in Yorkville, you’d never have a single doubt about being something again.”

  “Yeah?” She turned her head away, but I caught a raised eyebrow before she did so.

  “Yeah!”

  “Okay, okay. Look, all I’m saying is, don’t wait until you’re forty to face up to your story. Now go away.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I started clearing the plates. It seemed to me that life was definitely making all the choices when it came to me, and lousy ones at that. I washed everything in short order and did a quick cleanup of the kitchen. Grady did not move or speak. When I got back to her, I suggested that she’d be more comfortable in her armchair in the living room.

  “You still here, kid?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Let’s go to your chair.”

  I got her settled, got her cigarettes and then covered up her stocking feet.

  “You’re a good kid, Toni.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She grabbed my arm just as I was turning to go.

  “I mean it, Toni. Find out the rest of your story. You’re strong enough for whatever it is. Find it and face it. You’re young. Don’t hide; don’t dodge. It catches up. The shadows cripple you.”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Promise!”

  I nodded as I reached for the door.

  “And Toni?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Quit ma’aming me, damn it!”

  “Oh, Pretty Woman”

  (ROY ORBISON)

  THE NEXT DAY I found out that I was a high-school graduate. Almost. All I was missing was one course. I got the letter from Miss Webster. Mrs. Hazelton had somehow arranged for all of us to get full credit for the whole year even though we hadn’t quite completed it. It must’ve pained Miss Webster something fierce. She was a real stickler for detail. I had mostly taken courses a year ahead of where I should have been right from the start, so I was only one geography class short of completing all of my requirements for grade twelve.

  And I didn’t much care.

  Betty would have earned all of her credits to graduate. And Betty would care.

  Dear Betty,

  God, I miss you! Well, first off, congratulations! I know that you got your diploma from Miss Webster already. I am so pleased for all that is going so well in your quest. I mean, you seem to have got yourself a wonderful fella and the family of the house really care about you and…

  I ripped up the letter. It was going to be a long list of things going really good for her versus my mess of a story. So…

  Dear Betty,

  Hey, congratulations on getting your diploma. All is good here. I’m still trying to piece my…

  No. No, I wasn’t. I wasn’t trying to piece together anything, let alone the rest of my story. A letter from Scarlet Sue had arrived along with Miss Webster’s, and I hadn’t even looked at it. I didn’t want to know. I was back to my original nightmare about my mother trying to hurt me, but now I just felt sad for her. Anger was better.

  So what I do know is that my father and mother were married. So much for your theory about me being the love child of a famous movie star! Funny thing, though—my father was a musician after all. The story is kind of gut-wrenching…

  Actually, the story left me with nothing.

  I was adrift without any hatred to hang on to. My hatred of my mother had carried me a long way, even though I had never dared to say it out loud, even though I could barely whisper it to myself.

  Was she alive somewhere?

  Where?

  Did I want to know?

  Maybe. I was no longer an orphan, no longer part of the Seven, no longer a daughter who hated her mother. The few shreds of who I’d thought I was were gone. I just couldn’t whip up any righteous rage now that I knew what my mother had gone through. I bet I was a difficult child.

  I bet I’d want to kill me too.

  I ended up writing Betty about everything. I wrote about Scarlet Sue and the Reformatory and everything I knew about the tragedy of the Noronic. Even in the writing, it was still like it was someone else’s story. As if I was reporting something that may as well have happened to Tess or Malou.

  What was the matter with me?

  I finished my letter to Betty as best I could and signed and sealed it without reading it over. If I reread it, I’d toss it for sure. I picked up one of the professor’s poetry books, opened it and then shut it. I got up, started pacing, sat down and glared at Scarlet Sue’s envelope. I got up again. And there it was again—the no-guts thing. Oh, I’d done stuff at the orphanage that looked fearless, but it was just stupid stuff. Like getting everyone to sneak out of their rooms and meet up for a cigarette in the garden shed when I didn’t even smoke, or recklessly grabbing one of the Little Ones who had climbed on top of the roof. None of that was real. It was pretend.

  Joe always said that fake courage was better than no courage. Just remembering him made me look harder for my grit. My shift didn’t start for almost four hours. Plenty of time. I needed a new dress, a special dress, for the party at Mr. Marcetti’s. Grady said that the only place to go for something that posh was Simpson’s. She also insisted that I get myself some cream-colored stockings, because all the young girls were wearing them.

  That was it. Shopping! I would find the perfect dress, and I would impress Mr. Marcetti and his guests so much with my fine dress and fine manners that Cassidy would feel absolutely compelled to kiss me—a lot—and then I would know for sure that he was my own true love, and then I’d write Betty nothing but good news for once, and then it wouldn’t matter about my story, because he, Cassidy, would love me for whoever I was at the moment and…did I mention that he would kiss me?

  I was firing on all cylinders.

  I grabbed my purse and Betty’s letter, raced down the stairs, ran to the subway and went straight into the most elegant, breathtaking store in the world.

  Simpson’s!

  Every single saleslady had mauve hair, and they all had eyeglasses on long sparkling crystal chains that rested on their bosoms. The glittering, glistening main floor of Simpson’s housed the perfume and makeup department. It was a temple of beauty. You could actually spritz yourself for free with the bottles of perfume that sat on silver trays on the counters. I must have spritzed myself with a hundred different perfumes and colognes. I’d never worn perfume before, and I was instantly enthralled by the scents, the packaging and the beautiful names. Miss Dior, Chanel No. 5, L’Air du Temps, White Shoulders, Shalimar…they all seemed to promise something—a story, a much, much better story.

  “Put the bottle down, dear.” One of the purple-haired ladies touched my arm.

  Was I in trouble? Were they were going to throw me out before I even got near the dress department? “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” I felt like I’d been caught stealing. “I thought we could try the perfumes. I saw some of the other ladies spritz…”

  She made a clucking sound. “No, dear, it’s okay. I’m just trying to save you from yourself. You’re going to leave here smelling like a parade of working girls.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” What was wrong with that? I worked, after all.

  And then she got that look on her face that I could now read at twenty paces. She knew that I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “Follow me.” She went behind another perfume counter and reached deep into a drawer. “This is a sample of L’Air du Temps. Trust me, it’s going to read the best on you. I’m only supposed to hand them out with a purchase, so don’t be flashing it around.” She handed me an exquisite, perfect, miniature replica of the bottle that was on the counter.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think tha
t I can afford—”

  “It’s a sample, dear.”

  It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. It had gorgeous little crystal birds stuck to the top of it. I sighed and put it back on the counter.

  “It’s free.”

  “Free? Oh! Thank you so much, ma’am. That’s incredibly generous of you and this very fine establishment. Grady said that Simpson’s was the best there is, and she knows everything!”

  I could tell she was trying not to smile. “Are you just looking around or…?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I have money. I’m here to buy a special dress for a party, and stockings too. The stockings have to be cream or white, but I have no idea about the dress.”

  “Young ladies usually come in here with their mothers for that kind of purchase.”

  I felt my shoulders slump.

  “Or their aunts?”

  More slumping.

  “Older sisters?”

  Would she want the perfume back?

  “Never mind. You get yourself to the third floor, the Young Miss Department, and ask for Miss Zelda. No one else will do, got it? You tell Miss Zelda that Mrs. Howland said that you have to be done up proper. Understand?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am!”

  “And dear…” She opened my hand and dropped another perfect little bottle in it. “Your first perfume marks a very special day in a girl’s life. I’m honored that I could be the one to share it with you.”

  I reached out and gave her a hug, startling the both of us. It felt so good. God, I missed hugs. We Seven were always hugging each other, and we’d hugged the Little Ones nonstop. Yet it never seemed to be enough. I ran off to find the escalator.

  Miss Zelda was a wonder. We tried on eleven different “frocks.” I loved each one of them, but there seemed to be no pleasing her. She finally settled with some satisfaction on a sleeveless, pale-blue “water silk” dress with an empire waist. “You could easily be a house model, dear. You get tired of the Purple Onion, you just come marching back here, and I’ll set you up.”