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Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
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high on a grassy hill. You could see the river in the distance, bright as a switchblade, and it gave him the feeling of a miraculous recollection, a memory that comes to you so sudden and true, like the smell of his mother’s coffee, how it always woke him before light, or her perfume at the end of the day, hardly noticeable, when she’d lean down to kiss him good night.
They set their ladders up against the library and went to work. The men tried not to be noticed, like they’d get kicked out for being stupid, and it occurred to Cole that being smart was another reason people could be afraid of you. On the drive home, his uncle asked if he wanted to go to college, and the men started whistling and making jokes, so he shrugged as if he didn’t care, but Rainer reached across the seat and gripped his shoulder like he knew better. I got a feeling about you, boy, he said. You may just make it out of this town.
—
RAINER SAID he knew what people were made of. The war had taught him. I could tell you stories, he’d say, make your hairs stand on end. Speculating about one person or another, he’d say, Well, I wouldn’t put it past him. If you messed with him he’d never forget it. Same thing if you did something nice. He’d read the newspapers with a magnifying glass, like someone searching for clues. Taking an interest, he called it. You had to look out at the world. You had to open your eyes.
He knew things about his customers, what cars they drove and when they went on vacation. Once, they did some banker’s house in Loudonville. Rainer tiptoed all around the place, like someone walking through a minefield. He told Cole to do the garage windows. You won’t find no trouble out there. Cole set up his ladder and got started. He had a view of the pool. It was still cold and the pool was covered. He could see a boy around his age in the yard, playing catch with a friend. Must be nice, he thought, rolling out of bed on a summer morning and jumping into that pool. He wondered what it was like to be rich. It didn’t seem right that some people got to live like kings and others lived in shit-boxes like the old farm.
After he finished his windows he told his uncle he had to use the bathroom.
Make it quick.
The housekeeper was a black lady with tough eggplant skin, wrangling the hose of the vacuum like an alligator wrestler. She pointed him down the hall. He wandered up a back stairway and found the boy’s room, his name, Charles, spelled out in red letters on the door. Soccer trophies lined a shelf, along with other things the boy had collected. Cole had begun to perspire. He went to the window and saw the boy and his friend in the yard, tossing the football. The men were loading the ladders into the truck. He could hear the housekeeper running the vacuum. He was about to leave when something caught his eye on the shelf, a snow globe. On impulse, he took it down and got some dust on his fingertips. Inside the globe was a trolley car. Cole wondered where he’d gotten it. He knew there had once been trolley cars in Albany and he remembered seeing one on a box of rice in the cupboard, but since the boy had put it on his shelf he concluded that it was a souvenir from some special place. Cole didn’t have any souvenirs of his own; he’d never gone anywhere. He shook the snow globe and watched the little flakes dance. Then he put it in his pocket and went back downstairs.
He muttered his thanks to the housekeeper and climbed into the van, his hand curled around the warm glass. Everybody piled in and they got back on the road and a few minutes later they were on the interstate. He felt strangely light, weightless, a little dizzy. Almost like he’d left a piece of himself in that room, some clue to who he was, the real person inside that nobody else knew, not even him.
Later that night, he took out the snow globe and held it in his hands. He shook it once. Taking it had been wrong, but he didn’t care. He was glad he
They set their ladders up against the library and went to work. The men tried not to be noticed, like they’d get kicked out for being stupid, and it occurred to Cole that being smart was another reason people could be afraid of you. On the drive home, his uncle asked if he wanted to go to college, and the men started whistling and making jokes, so he shrugged as if he didn’t care, but Rainer reached across the seat and gripped his shoulder like he knew better. I got a feeling about you, boy, he said. You may just make it out of this town.
—
RAINER SAID he knew what people were made of. The war had taught him. I could tell you stories, he’d say, make your hairs stand on end. Speculating about one person or another, he’d say, Well, I wouldn’t put it past him. If you messed with him he’d never forget it. Same thing if you did something nice. He’d read the newspapers with a magnifying glass, like someone searching for clues. Taking an interest, he called it. You had to look out at the world. You had to open your eyes.
He knew things about his customers, what cars they drove and when they went on vacation. Once, they did some banker’s house in Loudonville. Rainer tiptoed all around the place, like someone walking through a minefield. He told Cole to do the garage windows. You won’t find no trouble out there. Cole set up his ladder and got started. He had a view of the pool. It was still cold and the pool was covered. He could see a boy around his age in the yard, playing catch with a friend. Must be nice, he thought, rolling out of bed on a summer morning and jumping into that pool. He wondered what it was like to be rich. It didn’t seem right that some people got to live like kings and others lived in shit-boxes like the old farm.
After he finished his windows he told his uncle he had to use the bathroom.
Make it quick.
The housekeeper was a black lady with tough eggplant skin, wrangling the hose of the vacuum like an alligator wrestler. She pointed him down the hall. He wandered up a back stairway and found the boy’s room, his name, Charles, spelled out in red letters on the door. Soccer trophies lined a shelf, along with other things the boy had collected. Cole had begun to perspire. He went to the window and saw the boy and his friend in the yard, tossing the football. The men were loading the ladders into the truck. He could hear the housekeeper running the vacuum. He was about to leave when something caught his eye on the shelf, a snow globe. On impulse, he took it down and got some dust on his fingertips. Inside the globe was a trolley car. Cole wondered where he’d gotten it. He knew there had once been trolley cars in Albany and he remembered seeing one on a box of rice in the cupboard, but since the boy had put it on his shelf he concluded that it was a souvenir from some special place. Cole didn’t have any souvenirs of his own; he’d never gone anywhere. He shook the snow globe and watched the little flakes dance. Then he put it in his pocket and went back downstairs.
He muttered his thanks to the housekeeper and climbed into the van, his hand curled around the warm glass. Everybody piled in and they got back on the road and a few minutes later they were on the interstate. He felt strangely light, weightless, a little dizzy. Almost like he’d left a piece of himself in that room, some clue to who he was, the real person inside that nobody else knew, not even him.
Later that night, he took out the snow globe and held it in his hands. He shook it once. Taking it had been wrong, but he didn’t care. He was glad he
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