Lisa Unger - Fragile

She sank onto the stiff couch and found herself staring at the empty crystal candy dish that sat atop a dusty lace doily on the old mahogany coffee table. It had borne witness to every misery her father and brother could offer within the walls of this house. It had sat there, looking pretty, doing nothing. Just like her mother. Leila loved her mother, missed her every day. But God help her, the woman was weak, stood by and observed every abuse from the petty to the criminal. And still she got up before dawn to cook the old man’s breakfast and see him off to work with a kiss and a smile.

Above and around her, Leila could hear the heavy footfalls of her husband and her sons. The old clock on top of the television set-a wooden monster standing on four legs that hadn’t worked in years-read almost nine. She’d lost her energy to clean and organize, to find her father’s important papers, some indication of his final wishes, and to make the arrangements she needed to make. It was getting late, too late to make any more calls; she couldn’t stand to look in any more old boxes, to see any more old photos. More than anything else she hated those photographs, which her mother had painstakingly arranged in albums, labeled in her looping hand with little captions. Leila hated to see them, some combination of the four of them stiff and fake, smiling for whoever was holding the camera. Every time she looked at one of those pictures, all she could remember was what happened before or after. She and Travis in matching pajamas on Christmas morning, smiling, surrounded by gifts and a drift of torn wrapping paper-what were they? Maybe six and eight? Her mother’s caption: “Our angels on Christmas morning!” Leila remembered her father sulking because he felt that her mother had spent too much on gifts. Then later, her father beat Travis because he’d broken a dish while helping to clear the table. She remembered her brother screaming, trying to run up the stairs away from her father, her father chasing and yelling. You stupid little shit .

Chief, please. It’s Christmas , her mother said. Even she called him Chief. At some point, it had become his name. There were pictures of him young-in uniform, at their wedding. He was handsome once, strong and virile with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He had a wide forehead and a wide, long nose that somehow looked right on his face. But those eyes. Those ice water eyes, they were always small and narrowed, as though he saw through your skin and flesh to every bad and rotten thing that even you didn’t know was there. She didn’t know what it was like to be loved by her father, to be held and comforted, to be adored like they say little girls should be. He’d never once told her he loved her, never hugged or kissed her except in the most awkward way. She’d given up wanting or hoping for that long ago. But the knowledge that his life had passed the way it had, leaving her with only an empty space inside where he should have been, slumped her thin shoulders, drained her of energy. Still no tears, no sadness at all.

“You grieved years ago,” her husband had said. “He’s been dead all your life, honey.” Mark was right. He was always right.

She saw her warped reflection in the picture tube, ran a hand through her dark hair, which had pulled away in strands from her ponytail. There was a smudge of dust under her right eye. She wiped it away.

“Mom?” It was Ryan. “You okay?”

He sat down heavily beside her, threw his feet onto the coffee table, making the candy dish rattle. She was about to scold him. But why? He could jump up and down on that table, reduce it to scrap, shatter that dish beneath his boots and what did she care? What did anyone care? It was all garbage. She wouldn’t keep a thing.

She looked at her son. She remembered when he was a tiny bundle in her arms. Now when she reprimanded him, she had to look up at him. Sometimes when she needed to get tough, she tried to do it from halfway up the staircase, to give herself more height. Ryan and Tim, clean up those rooms! You’re a half hour past curfew! You’re grounded!

But they were good boys. They listened to her. She’d managed to keep them away from Travis and her father, kept them closer to Mark’s family, where men treated their loved ones with affection and respect, not distance or violence. In marrying Mark, she’d broken the chain of misery and violence for her family. She was proud of that.

“Look what I found in the closet upstairs,” said Ryan. He still had sun on his skin from his summer job as a swim teacher and lifeguard at a local sleepaway camp. On his lap was a varsity jacket, HOLLOWS HIGH LACROSSE.

“Your uncle’s, I guess.”

Ryan shook his head and flipped it over. The embroidered name on the front was JONES COOPER. It looked new, the white leather arms still shiny, the navy blue wool body still stiff and pristine.

“Hmm,” she said. “That’s strange. How did that get here?”

Ryan offered a shrug, his communication of choice. “I bet he wants it.”

“I’ll bet he does. Put it in the car. I’ll bring it over to their house tomorrow.”

As Ryan crashed off-what was it with those boys, why did their very existence create so much noise?-she thought guiltily of her last conversation with Maggie Cooper. Leila had hung up on a good doctor who was trying to help her nephew. She wondered if Maggie understood why she’d had to do that. She’d taken a big risk by reaching out to Marshall, by exposing the boys to a disaster Travis had created. She only did it because she knew they were all strong enough to help Marshall-as long as Travis was out of the picture.

Was she in some way responsible for what had happened-the abducted girl, the murder of her father? Now her brother was missing, probably still on the property somewhere. She walked onto the porch and heard the rotting wood groan; one of them could step right through some of those old boards if they weren’t careful. She leaned against the railing and looked out into the thick stand of trees. The sky above was clear and riven with stars, the moon waning. It was a pretty watercolor night in a place where she’d never found beauty or love or comfort. And the sight of the black trees left her cold and angry. She’d have this place on the market as fast as she possibly could. They’d make a fortune on the land alone. And she’d use some of that money to help her nephew. She wouldn’t leave him to the system. Lord knew Marshall’s mother, Angie, wasn’t going to be of much help.

Leila heard the calling of a barred owl, eight sad notes on the air. Who mourns for you? Who mourns for you? She thought about yelling Travis’s name into the night. But she knew, even if he could hear her, he wouldn’t come. There was no connection there, their sibling relationship strained and confused by their father’s abuse, their mother’s failures. They didn’t know how to be family for each other; they’d never been taught. Angie, for all her many shortcomings, had called it years ago. You two aren’t even speaking the same language. The old man never hit you, never humiliated you. You might be brother and sister, but you didn’t grow up with the pressure of being the chief’s only son .

In her pocket, Leila’s cell phone started to vibrate, startling her. She pulled it from her jeans and looked at the screen: Hollows General Hospital. She answered quickly.

“Aunt Leila?” A young voice on the line, sounding faint and afraid.

“Marshall.”

She was surprised by the wave of relief she felt at the sound of his voice. His voice always sounded sweet to her ears. Even now, with the knowledge of all that he had done and all that he had become as Travis’s child, she could still remember when he was born. She could remember when they were all born-Marshall, Ryan, and Tim-how it was in their wide eyes and round cheeks that sweet innocence resided. Sometimes, especially when they slept, she could still see the light of childhood on Ryan’s and Tim’s resting faces. Her boys had been sheltered, adored, blessed with good looks and charming personalities. Because of this, they were younger than their years. They slept on their backs, arms slung wide open, faces slack and peaceful. Marshall slept curled up in a ball, a frown on his face, blankets wrapped around him like a protective cover.