The Sound of Glass Page 23

“Are you all right, Miss Fuller?” Gibbes placed his hand on her arm.

  She nodded. “I’m fine. This is just such a . . . surprise. Did Edith make this?”

  “We have no idea,” I said. “Although we assume so, because it’s up here, and from what we know, nobody else was allowed in the attic.”

  “Except for Cal.”

  We both looked at Gibbes, unsure what, if anything, that meant.

  He continued. “There’s also a bag with the pieced-together wings and about forty or so passengers, some still strapped in their seats, each showing various injuries. Some of them with mud and grass stains on them.”

  “Do you have any idea what this is?” she asked, her voice distant.

  “According to Owen, it’s most likely a passenger plane used in the forties and fifties—maybe a DC-six. But that’s all.”

  “That sounds right,” she said out loud, although it seemed she was talking to herself. “There was a plane crash here in Beaufort. It was the summer—1955.”

  Gibbes nodded slowly. “That’s what the man at the antique store said—that the bolt Cal and I found in the marsh could have come from a crash that happened in the fifties. It might be the same one.”

  “It was horrible.” She took off her glasses and rubbed them with a tissue she pulled from her pocket, as if she needed them to see her memories more clearly. “I was a little girl at the time, so I was protected from hearing about most of it, but I did a lot of eavesdropping on my parents and their friends. There were forty-nine souls on board, I believe. All of them perished.”

  She continued to stare at the fuselage, a distant look in her eyes. “It was low tide, so the pluff mud collected a lot of the wreckage.” She swallowed, her hand on her heart. “Our neighbor had a seat with a passenger still strapped inside land in the marsh across the street from his house. The man was dead when they found him, but there were scratch marks in the mud on both sides of the seat, so he must have been alive when he hit the ground. Eight of the victims were never recovered, and two of the bodies went unclaimed and were buried at St. Helena’s.”

  “That’s horrible.” I stared at the plane model with renewed fascination. “So this must be Edith’s attempt to re-create the scene.” Looking up at Deborah, I asked, “Did they ever determine the cause?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I know of. For a couple of decades they printed anniversary articles in the local paper, but they stopped that in the nineties, I think. Even up until then there were always a lot of theories, but nothing conclusive. The final explanation that the experts seemed to agree with is that something sparked a fire in one of the gas tanks, which exploded just as the plane was flying over Beaufort. It was a hot summer—the hottest summer on record—and they think that might have played a part.” She thought for a moment. “I remember one of the newspaper articles mentioning that it was at its cruising altitude of twenty-two thousand feet at the time it exploded, which explains why so little of the wreckage was recovered, and why no definitive cause of the explosion could be determined. So much of the wreckage went into the river and the marshes and was then taken out to sea.”

  She replaced her glasses on her face. “One of the things that struck me was that it wasn’t supposed to fly this far inland, but a little farther east, over the ocean. But there were some sort of military exercises going on offshore, so commercial traffic was rerouted. It added fifteen minutes to the projected flight time, on top of any delays they might have already had. I remembered wondering whether that would have made any difference, if that extra fifteen minutes could have been the trigger or something.” She shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  I had the oddest feeling that I needed to warn these hapless passengers as I looked at them strapped in their seats. Like I could somehow play God and turn the clock backward. But I couldn’t, of course. I was like everybody else, forced to watch events unfold beyond our control.

  Deborah continued. “One of the last articles about the crash mentioned that flight data recorders weren’t required until sometime in the sixties, so it was impossible to determine whether or not the pilots had any warning before the explosion. I’ve often wondered whether, if this had occurred just a decade later, we would have had enough technology to find out what really happened. It’s very difficult not having answers, isn’t it?”

  I nodded absently as I squinted my eyes, seeing something I’d missed before. “All the seat and row numbers are painted in over the seats. I wonder if the dolls portray real people who were in those assigned seats.”

  Deborah looked affronted. “If Edith made this, then of course they’re accurate. She never overlooked a single detail.”

  I was barely listening, paying closer attention to the sightless people facing innocently forward. I noticed a woman with a pregnancy bulge under her dress, and a young boy wearing shorts and a jacket and tie sitting next to an older woman with gray curls and a neat hat. I jerked back, an unwilling witness.

  Gibbes turned to me with sympathetic eyes. “I’m guessing my grandmother wanted to solve this mystery—that’s why the plane was put together in puzzle pieces and why some are still missing. Since she had an ‘in’ with the police department, she would have had knowledge of each plane part that was recovered and then made a copy of it. The pieces that weren’t found, she made of clear plastic.”

  “Do you know where the plane was flying from or where it was going?” I wasn’t sure why it mattered so much to me. Maybe it was human nature to separate the strangers in a tragedy from yourself, to illuminate all that was different between their lives and yours, to convince yourself that such a thing couldn’t happen to you.

  “It was going to Miami. From New York, I think.” Deborah frowned, her glasses dipping low on her nose as she bent closer to examine the jagged pieces on the plane’s right side. “This must have been the big secret project she was working on, then. It just doesn’t make sense why she wouldn’t have shared it with anybody. Her husband died that night; I do remember that—hit a tree with his car. Police think he might have been distracted by the explosion. Anyway, there was really no reason to be so hush-hush about her work, since she didn’t have to worry about his disapproval.” She tapped her chin, her eyes narrowed as she walked the length of the table to view the plane from as many angles as she could. Looking directly at me, she said, “Knowing Edith, I’d have to say she probably knew something that nobody else did.”

  The silence in the room grew stifling as the hot air and the quieted voices of the forty-nine lost souls became almost a palpable presence, a growing shadow that threatened to overtake any light in the room. I headed toward the stairs, needing a deep breath of air, and walked down into the foyer and out onto the front porch, Deborah and Gibbes close behind me.

  “Are you all right?” Gibbes asked.

  I nodded. “I just needed some fresh air.”

  Deborah smiled. “Thank you for letting me see the attic. I’m sure Gibbes will let you know what our plans are for the nutshell studies. I’d ask for the plane, too, but since there’s nothing conclusive drawn from it, I doubt the police department will want it. But maybe the museum will. We’ll see.”

  “May I drive you home, Miss Fuller?”

  “No, thank you. And please call me Deborah.”

  The sides of Gibbes’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “I’ve known you since I was a baby, and it’s a hard habit to break. But I promise to try.”

  Deborah squinted up at the sky. “It’s cooled off some and the exercise will do me good. Thanks again,” she said with a wave, then jogged nimbly down the front steps. She walked away with her head down, looking up only to cross the street so she could stroll alongside the water. It was low tide, the sea grass appearing bereft. She paused for a moment and looked up at the attic window, as if expecting to see Edith Heyward in the early evening shadows. Then she continued on her way with her head bent, deep in thought.

  “We might be able to find something about the crash on the
Internet,” Gibbes said.

  I started, having almost forgotten he was there. “That’s probably a good idea, but we can’t do it here. You probably won’t be surprised to hear this, but your grandmother wasn’t set up for Wi-Fi, or cable, or really anything else that’s been invented in the last forty to fifty years. I think there might still be an antenna on the roof, or at least the remains of one. And I have to change my phone plan, because I can’t get service inside the house with my current carrier. The e-mails I’ve managed to send and receive from my smart phone have happened only when I’ve stood on the garden bench outside—which isn’t really practical. I’ve got people scheduled to be here by the end of the week, but I’m not going to bank on that.”

  “All right. I’ll Google it when I get home tonight and let you know. Assuming you’re interested.”

  I thought of the nameless passengers and how their existence was recorded only in the fading memories of a few people. I’d never had the desire to be famous, but there was a particular tragedy to being forgotten. “Of course I am. Please let me know if you find anything.”

  Loralee stepped out onto the porch, and in the last rays of sun she appeared pale under her makeup. Or maybe it was just the directness of the sun that bleached out her features and made her eyes a startling blue.

  She grinned widely and she was the old Loralee again. “Owen and I are making chocolate sundaes, and we’ve got two with your names on them.”

  “No, thank you,” I said automatically. “I need to go through the hutch in the library. There are all sorts of papers and miscellaneous items in there that Gibbes might want.”

  “Are you sure? I can put it in the freezer just in case you change your mind.” Loralee sounded genuinely disappointed.

  “I’m sure. I’m not a big ice-cream eater, anyway.” I thought my explanation would make things better, but when I saw the look on Gibbes’s face, I knew I was wrong.

  “All right,” she said, still smiling but with a lot less wattage. “I’ll tell Owen he can have yours, too. That boy is way too skinny.”

  “I’d love one,” Gibbes said, after giving me a pointed look. “I’ll be right there.”

  Loralee nodded, then went back inside, closing the door. I stared at it, wondering whether it was too late to tell her I’d changed my mind and that I actually liked ice cream, too.

  “Why do you do that?” Gibbes’s voice lacked any warmth.

  “Do what?”

  “Push people away. I’ve known a lot of New Englanders, and while most of them had a definite reserve, they were never like you. Is it something we’ve said or done? Because I thought that everybody you’ve come in contact with since you arrived here has treated you with nothing but kindness.”

  I wanted to shake my head and tell him I couldn’t explain, because it was something I’d never been able to say out loud before. It’s because sooner or later everybody leaves you. I blinked back the sting in my eyes, feeling the power of his words and my involuntary response to them. “I think I’ve told you before that you know nothing about me, and I don’t think that’s changed. So don’t pretend you do.”

  “You’re right. The only things I know about you are from the stray crumbs you’ve dropped along the way.” He stepped closer. “I also think that you haven’t been completely honest with me. I don’t believe your story about how you and Cal met. That whole scenario is so . . .” He searched for the word, his hands raking through his hair in frustration. “So foreign from the brother I knew that it can’t possibly be true.”

  We faced each other for a long time while he waited for me to respond, but I said nothing. How could I explain something I didn’t understand, either? That the man I first met wasn’t the man I’d married?

  I bit my lip, embarrassed to feel it trembling. “I loved him. I did. And that’s all you need to know.”

  He blew out a long breath, then turned to go into the house. “I’m going to load up my truck with the boxes in the hall, and then I’m going to have a chocolate sundae. Don’t bother to see me out.”

  I watched him head up the stairs, wondering not for the first time how I’d ever mistaken him for Cal. I closed the door and headed past the stairs and into the study, where the jumbled drawers of the hutch awaited me, my pocket feeling heavy with the weight of Cal’s ring. I opened the top drawer and stared into it for a long time, not seeing anything as I willed the tears I’d been holding back since my mother’s death to come. But they never did.

  chapter 19

  LORALEE

  Loralee awoke with her hand over her mouth, as if even in her dreams she battled the constant nausea and stomach upset that she dealt with during her waking hours. She lay still for a moment, waiting to see if it would subside and trying to remember on which side of the bed she’d placed the garbage can, just in case.

  The bedside clock ticked its slow progression through the early morning hours, a sound she was becoming more and more accustomed to as she began to find it difficult to sleep through an entire night. Very carefully she eased her way up the headboard, pausing so she wouldn’t jolt anything loose. Once there she paused again, taking stock before slowly leaning over to the bedside table, where she kept a roll of Tums. She chewed slowly, the sound of the crunching tablets loud in her head, then forced herself to swallow.

  She’d already started planning for her descent back onto her pillow when she heard Owen’s voice. Her mother’s instinct pushed aside any lingering stomach upset as she slid from the bed, hitting her toe on the garbage can she’d forgotten was there as she made her way out of her room and into the hallway.

  Owen’s Darth Vader night-light glowed dimly in the hall, guiding her to his open bedroom door, where she thought she heard very quiet singing. She stopped on the threshold when she realized it was Merritt, and she was sitting on the side of Owen’s bed. Loralee propped herself against the door frame, unwilling to interrupt, and listened. And then she almost laughed out loud as she recognized the words from the Gilligan’s Island theme song.

  The song came to an abrupt halt. “I can’t remember the next part,” Merritt said quietly.

  Owen’s loud whisper came back with, “‘The weather started getting rough.’”

  “Oh, right. Although I think I should stop singing, because I don’t want to wake your mother. Unless you need to hear more to make you feel better.”

  “I’m good,” he whispered.

  “Good,” Merritt said. “Are you ready to tell me why you were crying?”

  There was a long pause, and Loralee strained to hear.

  “I miss my daddy.”

  His voice was so full of hurt that Loralee thought she could now explain to people what a broken heart felt like, because hers must truly be splitting in half. She wanted to rush in and go to him, just as much as she knew that Merritt was right where they both needed her to be.

  “I miss him, too.” Merritt’s voice cracked, and it took a moment before she continued. “He was a good daddy. Did he teach you how to swim and how to ride a bike?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Me, too. His jokes were pretty lame, though. Did he tell you the one about Ewie Gooey the worm?”

  “Lots of times,” Owen said. “But I laughed each time so I wouldn’t hurt his feelings.”

  “Yeah. I did, too. I guess that’s something else he taught you—to be mindful of others’ feelings.”

  “Did he teach you that, too?”

  There was a small pause. “Yes. It’s something I’m finding I still need to work on, but I’m trying.” She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was thick. “I’m sad that I didn’t get to see him before he died—and that was all my fault, not his. But I’m really glad that he had you, and that makes me feel a lot better. I think we can be happy that we both had him in our lives so that he could teach us important things we’re always going to need. Maybe we should think of that when we start missing him, so we won’t be so sad.”

  It was quiet for a long momen
t, and Loralee wondered whether it was time to slip back into her room.

  “Merritt?”

  “Yes?”

  “If everybody was only on the SS Minnow for a three-hour tour, how come they all had so much luggage?”

  Nobody spoke while Merritt made strangling noises. “That’s a very good question. I’ve always wondered how the Professor could make a working radio out of bamboo but not fix a boat. Boggles the mind, really.” Another pause. “You know, Gilligan’s Island aired way before my time, so I think it’s pretty cool that you and I both somehow discovered it and liked it enough to memorize the theme song.”

  “Yeah, sort of like we were a regular brother and sister, growing up watching the same show but in different houses.”

  “Something like that.” The mattress creaked as Merritt shifted position. “Did I tell you that I used to be afraid of the dark, too?”

  “You were?”

  “You bet. That’s why, when I heard you crying, I thought the night-light bulb had burned out. I remember that happened once when I was a little girl. I was staying with my grandmother and she told me that it was time I got over it. It’s not that easy, though, is it?”

  Loralee heard the rustle of Owen’s head against his pillow as he shook his head.

  “So I just slept with a flashlight under my sheets after that, and did so for a very long time.”

  “Do you still?” Owen asked.

  “No. Because somewhere along the way I learned that even the darkest nights are full of light.”

  “Really?” Owen’s voice was slurred with sleepiness.

  “Really. Have you ever been outside after dark, when the stars and the moon are out? It’s like a filter has slid across the sun. Everything’s the same, except all the colors are different. And inside, after you turn off the lights, if you push your fear aside just long enough for your eyes to adjust to the dark, you’ll find that you can still see.”

  “But everything is in different colors,” Owen repeated slowly, barely finishing the last word.