Unshattering

TW: violence, domestic abuse, war trauma, suicide

It was not uncommon on a dreary Tuesday afternoon for Trevor McKiernan to wander about, tripping on cracks in the sidewalk (which sometimes seemed like cemented canyons) in search of a story.  Where there are people, Trevor discovered, there are stories, and he often loved to chance upon strangers and ask them things like, “what did you have for lunch yesterday?” and “where did you go to college?” and “have you ever lost someone that you loved?”.

     This particular Tuesday, however, a glimmer of light struck his eye and bewitched his attention to the little glass ornament shop across the street.  There were wind chimes dancing leisurely under the awning, twinkling and reflecting careless rays of sun onto strolling onlookers and meandering daydreamers and of course, wandering adventurers.  Trevor let the sun soak his face a minute more before he headed to the shop, pausing to finger the fragile stems of glass that dangled so freely from above.  Excitement overcame him at the sight of their beauty, and he went inside.

     Trevor had never seen anything quite like this shop.  Spiraling colors of glass filled the space. The light touched every forgotten and banal corner with brilliant rainbows.  He saw spheres of crystal hanging from the ceilings, and little prisms and jewels arrayed upon tables that reminded him of his own insignificance in the face of all loveliness and light.  Tiny bodies drifted about the room – maybe twenty-some children; deadened stares gazing at the oeuvre. Trevor’s eyes fell upon the old man at last, who sat at the cluttered desk in front of the furnace, nearly lost amidst the agglomeration of glass.    

     “Good afternoon,” the old man said, “can I help you?”

     “Yes, hello sir,” Trevor replied, making his way across the shop.  He was careful not to bump any of the children.  “Did you make all of this?”

     “Does it matter?” the old man said, setting aside an unshapely crystal in his hand.

     Trevor hesitated.  “I think it does.  But I don’t matter, so maybe it doesn’t.”

     The old man smiled.  Wrinkles threaded across his face.  “What’s your name, son?”

     “Trevor McKiernan, sir.  May I ask yours?”

     “D. Dwight, but strangers call me ‘Mr. Dwight’ and my friends call me ‘Double D’s’ – rather, what’s left of them.”

     “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dwight,” Trevor said, outstretching his hand, which the old man shook.  “I wanted to ask you some questions if that’s alright.”

     “It is.”

     “Thank you,” Trevor said, absently running his fingers along an orange glass vase perched on the table next to him.  “Do you like glass blowing?”

     “I don’t like anything,” the old man answered, returning to polish the crystal in his hand.  “Especially not glass blowing.  I hate it.”

     Trevor paused.  “But how could you hate it?  Your art is beautiful!”

     The old man shook his head.  “I don’t think it’s beautiful.  Glass is just sand that can be broken.  It has no soul.”

     Trevor had never thought of it quite like that.  He glanced around the room again, still unable to see the crystalline fractals as anything but breathtaking.  “I thought artists create things out of love.”

     “I do.”

     “I thought you hated them?”

     “I hate the glass,” the old man said, looking around the room.  Some of the silent children turned and smiled.  “But they love it.”

     Trevor watched as his skin crawled with little bumps that chilled his bones.  “You make all this for them?”

     The old man nodded.

     Trevor wondered for a moment, studying the children’s pale complexions.  “Have they always been here?”

     “Not always,” the old man said.  

     “Have you always been a glass blower then?” Trevor asked.  

     “A lifetime ago, I was a soldier.”

     “A soldier?” 

     “Yes, in Vietnam.”

     Trevor’s eyes brightened.  He loved meeting veterans and hearing their tales of bravery and battle.  “That’s amazing!  I am honored to be in your presence, sir.  Thank you for your service.”

     “Please don’t,” the old man replied.  “What we did there was not service.  It was death.”  He looked around the room.

     Trevor hesitated, unsure of how to respond.  He felt as though all the little eyes were staring at him.  “What branch did you serve under?”

     “I was a bomber, in the Air Force.  We flew B-57s.  Dropped bombs wherever they told us.” 

     “Oh,” Trevor said, trying to grasp what that would be like.  “Did you kill people? Is that why you’re sad?”

     “We all killed people,” the old man said, narrowing his eyes.  “My best friend was a sniper – he said he never could shake the deadened faces of hollowed souls, staring blankly after he tore through their bodies.  He said their eyes followed him wherever he went.  He was killed back in ’69.”

     “But you were a bomber.  So, you never saw anyone that you killed.”

     The old man paused.  “I never paid any attention to what I was bombing.  Made it easier.  I was just flying, that’s all.  The sky was beautiful out there.  Mostly we’d fire on militarized ground.  Except once,” he said, voice fading into memory, “it was just like any other day, we did an air raid, and I dropped three bombs before my plane was struck down.  I crash-landed not far from where I’d hit.  I survived and tried to make it back to base, back in the direction from where I’d come.  The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burned flesh, and the collapsed buildings were knocked over like building blocks.  And then I saw them – the bodies.  Twenty or so, lay scattered across the ground.  They were missing arms, and legs, and burning in several places…I had bombed a school.  The little dead eyes seemed to all be looking at me.”  He gazed around the room.  “They still are.”

     Trevor spun his eyes gently around the room, looking at all the drifting children in horror.  “You mean…you killed all these kids?”

     The children all looked at the old man, who was smiling back at them with much sorrow, tears glistening in his eyes.  “Yes, I did.”

     Trevor considered the little, dead children, and he studied the old man, who he had discovered to be something of a murderer.  “They’re all dead,” Trevor said, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “but for some reason, you’re the one who seems dead to me.”

     The old man said nothing.      

     Trevor glanced out the window, and for a moment, he thought he saw Jordan, his brother, reflecting in the glass.  Jordan never asked questions like Trevor.  Jordan didn’t want to understand.  It was as simple as love and possession – Trevor loved people; Jordan wanted to possess them.  

     “I used to have a brother,” Trevor said softly.  “He killed someone, too.”  One of the dead children drifted closer to him and took his hand.  He felt warmth in the cold, lifeless fingers gripping his.  “Two people, actually.”

     “Two?” The old man asked, catching a glint of curiosity.

     “The girl with the ladybug clips,” he replied, “and himself.”

     The old man sat at his desk, beginning to mindlessly etch spirals onto the wooden table.  He was listening.  “Who was the girl with the ladybug clips?”

     Trevor smiled.  “She was lovely.  A young thing, with freckles on her nose and frizzy red hair.  I thought Jordan loved her, but I was wrong.  She just belonged to him, that was all.  And then, one night, Jordan came home, and they were both dead.”

     The sun outside the shop was setting, and the fractals of light shifted gently around the room.  The old man frowned.  “How did Jordan come home if he was dead?”

     “Well, he killed her,” Trevor said.  “But see, he’d given her so much of himself, that when she was gone, most of him was gone too.  So, he never really came home.  That’s why you make things for these children, isn’t it?”

     The dead child holding Trevor’s hand let go and wandered up toward the old man, and blew a kiss.  Trevor smiled; he saw so much love still in these children.

      “I give them what part of my life I still have,” the old man said, “because I suppose, every time I see them smile, a little bit of my soul is mended.  That’s why I make the glass,” he gestured around the room.  “I want them to see love, and beauty, even if I have none left.”  

     Trevor nodded.  He understood.  “Maybe I’ll tell the girl with the ladybug clips to come look at your glass someday,” he bowed slightly to the man, waved to the children, and started for the door.  “Thank you for your time.”

     The old man shook his head.  The little bell above the door rang, and Trevor was gone.