Sari Wilson - Girl Through Glass

Now she truly begins to cry, babyish, trusting tears that pour out of her as if there is no end. Felix comes out from behind the desk and walks her to the elevator, a careful hand on her elbow as if she is an old woman.

Judy’s apartment is filled with heavy shellacked furniture and puffy couches. This is furniture left behind by a previous life of Judy’s that she’s replacing slowly, since some of it still has sentimental value. Spilling out to the hall from the kitchen is a bright light, her father’s deep arguing voice. She pauses in the dark living room, trying to gain control over herself. Her skin burns, her throat is raw; her eyes feel full. The way Maurice looked at her when he called her “beautiful”—like a curse word. He has told her that beauty is the highest thing in the world. (Not the magazine kind, but another kind, a kind only he can see when she dances in the dark for him.) Bella must exist not just for him but also for others. He must have taught her something she can use. Slowly, she straightens up and lets her breathing return to normal. She wipes her eyes. She tries out a smile.

Entering the kitchen, she finds Judy and her father standing at the breakfast bar. Her father has his suit jacket over the back of the stool, his tie is loosened. He is holding a rattling cup. Judy wears a long black dress with sparkling things hanging off of it. Her father’s cheeks lift up in a smile and Judy gives her a quick birdlike grin behind which lie a thousand questions.

“Mira, your father’s judgment is really—” They like to argue but they have little smirks on their faces the whole time.

“Judy, leave her out of this. Hi, darling,” he says going over to Mira and giving her a hug. He is too warm and smells thickly of alcohol. She recalls Maurice’s dry, powdery scent and feels an internal bolt of something — fear? — move through her.

“Honey, your hair needs a trim,” says Judy, moving toward her and giving her arm a squeeze. “The ends look tired.”

“She doesn’t need anything.” Her father pats Mira awkwardly on the back. “Her hair is beautiful,” says her father. A pie, waiting on the breakfast bar covered by plastic wrap, quivers and molts before her like an oasis. She feels the lurch of her whole body toward it. She allows herself an apple from the fruit bin, which she slices in half carefully on a napkin.

“A trim, I said.” Judy snatches up the other half of the apple. “Can I?” she says as she takes it. She puts her hands on her hips and stares at Mira. Tiny beating veins stand out on her temples. “So, Mira. Listen to this. The congressman says, ‘I don’t think I can get involved in that discussion.’ And your father says ‘Well, that doesn’t hold City Hall back from getting involved!’ Even if he didn’t know that the congressman is backing the mayor’s zoning plans — which I don’t buy — he could have listened—”

“I didn’t have a chance—”

“Oh, come on! You could have guessed .”

Her father sighs and turns to face Mira. “How was babysitting?”

“Fine.”

He turns back to Judy. “And you shouldn’t be so quick to judge—”

“They are going to come into their own soon,” Mira says.

“Hmm?” her father says.

“The kids. They are going to be coming into their own soon.”

“Oh, honey, they’re still little, right?” says Judy.

“They’re getting bigger,” says Mira.

“Well, believe me anyway, it takes a long time.” Judy and her father exchange a long look. Mira turns away, her face burns as if it has been slapped. She gets down off the stool, ready to leave.

“It’s my birthday,” Mira says.

“Oh, darling!” says Judy. “Of course it is!”

“Right-o,” says her dad. “Happy birthday, honey,” says her dad.

“Happy birthday. Happy birthday,” sings her dad. “Tomorrow we will celebrate.” He gives her another awkward pat.

“We have reservations at Le Cirque for tomorrow night— our birthday celebration for you,” says Judy. “Sam is coming.

“Mira, you must be hungry,” says Judy. “Please have some.” Judy whips off the plastic wrap and pushes the whole pie toward Mira. Mira’s stomach lurches again and the light-headedness she felt earlier comes back. Judy cuts a piece of the pie and wraps it in tinfoil and shoves it in the oven. She looks at the silver bowl of shellacked-looking lemons on the enormous black-topped stove, at Judy’s wrinkled-but-still-pretty frog face, and at her father’s starched-white middle straining against his tuxedo shirt. She is about to give in to the desire when Judy says it: “I’d like to know what you think.” That means it is a client’s pie.

“No, thanks,” Mira says.

Judy squints her eyes at Mira. “You may be a gorgeous little ballet dancer, and it may be your birthday, but you still need to eat to survive. Have you eaten anything all day?”

“Yes,” Mira says.

“What?” says Judy.

“Things.”

“What things?”

“Things.” Mira pushes the warm pie away. She could eat it to satisfy Judy but she doesn’t feel like it. She still has a core of roiling energy cycling around, hitting all her organs like a pinball machine on tilt.

“Not hungry. Where’s Sam?” Mira says as she turns to go.

“In his room. Not out for once,” says her father. “Get some rest, darling. Tomorrow’ll be a good night. We have a lot to celebrate.” It is one of his sloppy, drunken late-night “darlings” that she distrusts because they disappear in the morning.

“Good night, Dad.” She stands in the doorway for a moment.

“You look tired,” Judy says, looking at Mira as if for the first time that night. “Oh, and the Egremonts are coming for dinner next weekend and they want to meet a genuine New York City Ballet dancer.”

“That’s the company , Judy, and I’m—”

“I know, I know — you’re in the school. Close enough.”

Mira turns down the hallway, already leaving the complicated architecture of the kitchen behind. Her own hunger disappears strangely as she turns into the hallway.

Mira has gotten in the habit of stopping outside Sam’s room. Tonight there’s a light under his door. Sometimes there is a low thrum of music, but tonight it’s quiet. She stares at the sign on his door that reads in bold red letters IF YOU CAN’T PLAY NICE, PLAY LACROSSE . The door flings open and Sam stands there.

She screams.

He laughs.

“Idiot,” she says.

His baby face — his brown eyes are Judy’s — is flushed, cocky. He wears a robe that hangs open loosely and some kind of athletic pants tied with a drawstring. He has Judy’s practical competence — and cruel streak, too. His bare feet are big and bony and soft-looking. He is always bigger than she remembers. Behind him she can see his desk lamp spraying light on a loose-leaf binder.

“Want to come in?” he says. He holds the door wide open. From inside the room comes a warm moist draft, like someone exhaling.

She and Sam get along better now that they live together. He can say whatever he wants to Judy. Mira admires that.

“Shut up,” she says, and walks straight in and sits on the floor. Now here, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She notices the tracks worn into the rug where the grain has been pushed down in one direction to his desk, another to his bed, and still another to the spot under his basketball hoop on the wall, where there is a worn circle. Sam pads back to his desk. She considers getting up and leaving — he has left the door partway open — but something holds her to the spot. She tangles her fingers in his beige shag rug.