1
Jamie
A pieceof glass can be as cold and desolate as the depths of a lonely man’s heart, brittle and eager to be broken. Or a piece of glass can burn, a bright, wild inferno that blazes as hot and desperate as first love, undulating with passion as I fill it with my breath.
The blue-green waves of glass curl with white froth, the promise of a rising wave, right before it breaks. I run my hand over the cold, smooth surface, and even though I know a glass sculpture can’t love you back, I put enough sweat, tears, and heart into this piece over the last three months to pretend that it might. My studio, an old stone barn that squats like a tired donkey at the corner of the property, is tinged with the sweet scent of seared cherry wood, and the acrid smell of smoke lingers on my overalls.
The early morning is dark, full of country racket—the percussion of the bullfrogs and the melody of the cicadas, interspersed with the occasional crow from our resident rooster. Out the barn door I can see the crescent moon and the morning star hanging low in the indigo sky. It’s nearly six, the kids will be up soon, but not yet.
I still have a few minutes before the mad school rush where eating breakfast, bathrooming, packing lunches, and managing to get three kids dressed with two matching socks and matching shoes, becomes as impossible as using ice to melt glass.
I stick my thumbs in the pockets of my overalls and breathe out a long sigh.
The sculpture, a three foot by five foot iridescent wave, is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. It’s our ticket to a better life, the chance I’ve been praying for, and it’s all thanks to a man I’ve never met.
Gavin Williams.
I don’t know much about him. We only corresponded by email. Short, terse, uninformative emails. But I know enough. Mainly, he’s rich. At least, rich enough to commission a ten-thousand-dollar piece of art and pay a ten percent advance. Which is the best, the absolute best thing that’s happened in this little corner of West Virginia in a long, long time.
I stroke my hand over the cold azure glass. I can still feel the waves of my breath flowing through it. Gavin wanted the sculpture to represent rapids on the Cambodian river where he met his fiancée. It’s a wedding present, which is nice for the fiancée but even better for me.
Ten thousand dollars better.
I stroke the line of white froth at the edge. The glass is as soft as a kitten’s paw. I smile. That’s some nonsense Bobby would’ve said. He was a pure romantic, always coming up with ridiculous metaphors and turns of phrase. Me, I never had time for romance. And with Bobby gone, there isn’t any call for romance anyway.
Besides, I’ll take cold, hard cash over love and romance any day of the week. I’m no fool.
That old curmudgeon rooster crows again, and I expect the kids will wake up soon. But before I start grilling pancakes and sliding bacon into the oven, there’s one thing I have to do. A cool breeze from the open barn door stirs up dust from the dirt floor and lifts the scent of beeswax and smoke from my overalls. Bobby said that smell was the best, most exotic perfume in the world.
See? A romantic.
I tug the silver chain necklace from around my neck, lifting the dented heart locket from under my overalls. I don’t take off the necklace unless I’m working glass, but I do now, lifting the warm, delicate chain from my neck. The necklace coils in my palm, the links settling into my hand with a soft metallic hiss. The heart locket is dull, the metal is discolored and scuffed. It clicks as I pry open the latch. Most people put a picture inside, but Bobby wasn’t most people. I drop the sliver of glass into my palm. The orange-tinted shard glints against my skin.
I can hear the memory of the shattering stained-glass window, a thousand shards raining to the stone floor, the noise of all that senseless destruction an echo of my life.
Six years ago I took this shard, dug the needle-sharp end into my pointer finger, pushed out bright red blood, and promised that I’d keep going, that we’d be okay.
Today, after six years of sweat, struggle, and clinging to okay by the skin of my teeth, I’ve finally done it.
I press the shard into the same spot, right over the white star-burst scar on my pointer finger. I ignore the sting and grit my teeth until the glass slices into my skin and the warm tang of blood slides over my finger. I stare at the crimson drop welling up, as round and new as a dew drop on a curled leaf. I can almost taste its coppery tang.
Then I curl my hand into a tight fist. Holding onto the locket, the glass shard, my promise.
“I did it. I promised I would, didn’t I? The kids are going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay. You can rest easy now. Alright? I told you we’d be okay.”
The breeze drags its fingers over the back of my neck, rustling my hair, and although it’s only the wind, I’ll take it as a sign. From this day forward, everything is looking up.
Elijah will finally get a pair of new shoes, heck two pairs. And I’ll have enough money for gas to drive him to play on the little league team, and enough money to pay the club fee. I’ll be able to afford a math tutor for Tanner and finally take him on that weeklong camping and rafting trip he’s been begging for.
And Shay, she really, really wants that cedar shake treehouse, the one that looks like a miniature replica of a seaside mansion. It’s been stationed in the parking lot of Beaner’s hardware store for a year now, and every time we go shopping, she parks herself in that treehouse and sits cross legged on its wood plank floor for the whole thirty minutes I’m in the store. I’d be able to get her that little house. My heart nearly doubles in size at the thought of how happy the kids will be.
And me…I’m dreaming of a meal, one with crispy-skinned chicken where the salty grease drips down your chin, hot yeasty rolls that flake off and melt in your mouth, sweet corn slathered in creamy butter, and greens braised with salty bacon. I’d have gallons of iced tea with fresh lemons and fancy sugar, and there’d be pies, peach pie with double the peaches, and lemon meringue with the meringue so high it’s excessive, and strawberry shortcake, with gallons and gallons of strawberries, and while I’m gorging on the best food I’ve eaten in years, I won’t be worrying, I won’t be worrying about anything at all.
And it’s all thanks to Gavin Williams.
Like I said, I don’t know much about him, but I do know that he’s an angel.