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NOTICE: The copyright law of the United States (Title 17, United States Code) governs the making of reproductions of copyrighted material. One specified condition is that the reproduction is not to be "used for any purpose other than private study, scholarship, or research." If a user makes a request for, or later uses a reproduction for purposes in excess of "fair use," that user may be liable for copyright infringement. RESTRICTIONS: This student work may be read, quoted from, cited, for purposes of research. It may not be published in full except by permission of the author. VIEW FROM THE GLASS CASKET A NOVEL SAM RUTAN 2 DISCLAIMER: What you are about to read is a rough draft—a visit to a film set where the actors haven't memorized their lines, the cameramen and green screens are all too visible, and the director is in a panic because his stubborn, leading actress refuses to follow the script. For what works, I take full credit. For what doesn't—blame the characters; they became more real than I ever intended. 3 1 Four of them, all male and over forty, held hands and smiled at each other as they waded into the river in their white gowns. Gwen Foster—not male, not smiling, and only just turned nine—stood on the end of the line, already waist-deep in cold water. The sun burned her arms and face while the water bit into her thighs, and the gown kept getting tangled between her feet. “If I’m going swimming, why do I have to wear a dress?” she argued on the car ride over, pulling at the thick cotton front. “It’s not a dress. And because. That’s just what you do.” Her grandmother always said things like that—it’s just what you do. “I don’t want to go. It sounds stupid.” “We’re going. Don’t you want to see your mom again in Heaven some day? And hang out with your old Grammy and Bill, after we kick the bucket?” Gwen tried not to think about her mother. Bill, who seemed to sense her discomfort, turned around in his seat and smiled. "It's not so bad, pumpkin. It'll be over before you know it." But what if I don't want to go to Heaven? Gwen thought of her father, who hated church and wouldn't be allowed in. Two pastors, one senior and one in training, stood further out in black gowns. Gwen imagined their reflections on the water as evil twins lurking below the surface, and for a moment, the two sets seemed to merge—a legless pair of Siamese twins, rising from the water on invisible cables pulled by God. Gwen looked down at her own reflection and wondered what it would be like to live inside the river. Her reflection beckoned to her, smiling with the knowledge of another world. 4 “Welcome! My friends, join me in prayer. Lord, Father, Savior—thank you for allowing all of us to be here today, and to—” The Pastor's words echoed back flat and hollow, as if the dead trees along the bank sucked the marrow from the sound. Cicadas chattered, and somewhere, a crow cawed. A frog splashed, and the pastor droned on. Gwen picked up her left foot and giggled, the mud sucking around it. She did the same with her right and started hopping back and forth from foot to foot, relishing in the squishing between her toes. Her grandmother hissed her name from the bank. "Stop fidgeting!" Gwen twisted around. Helen—or Grammy, as Gwen called her—stood in the dry grass in her open-toed white shoes, wearing her pretty Sunday blouse with all of her gold jewelry glinting in the sunlight. Bill hovered by her elbow, and the loved ones of the other soon-to-be- baptized crowded the bank with their small cameras and big smiles and shiny jewelry. Gwen tilted her head back and groaned. "I'm sorry, Lord. Sounds like we better hurry this thing along, then." The pastor said. His congregation laughed. Gwen's grandmother laughed too, although she faked it. The man next to Gwen laughed the loudest. Gwen realized, in that moment, that she hated them—all of them— and especially the man next to her—his hand was dry like construction paper and warm like a chair someone else had been sitting in for too long. And she hated the way the pastor kept saying 'father'—she only had one father, and he would've hated them too, but Grammy made her promise not to tell. Helen nudged the woman standing next to her and apologized for Gwen's behavior. "She's gifted, you know. The school had her tested and everything. They want to put her in special classes." The woman nodded and smiled. "She is just the cutest." 5 A crow, maybe the same one as before, cawed again—once, twice, three times—as the pastor finished his prayer. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” "Amen." Gwen didn't say it with them, only looked down at the water. "Come forward, Child." The pastor beckoned to her. Gwen took two steps forward, then looked back. Her grandmother had a disposable camera out, held up in front of her face. Bill had disappeared—he snuck back to the car for a cigarette. "Go on, sweetie," Helen said. The crowd cheered. "Don’t be afraid, Gwen. It's okay." The younger pastor said. The line of white gowns clapped and goaded her on. She finished the walk, with the water now up to her armpits. The two pastors flanked her, placing a hand on each elbow like the safety bar coming down on a roller coaster. Wait, I think I want to get off. "Do you, Gwen Foster, accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and savior?" She looked to her grandmother. The camera flashed. The little wheel clicked as she wound it back up for another shot. Still no Bill. "Yes." "Then upon your profession of faith and in accordance with the Lord's command, I baptize you, Gwendolyn Elizabeth Foster, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Buried in the likeness of His death and raised in the likeness of his resurrection." Gwen's feet were off the ground. "Wait—" 6 "Plug your nose." "What—" Water shot up her nose and got in her mouth, crowding in behind her eyes and distorting her view of the world. She tried to stand, but her feet kicked at nothing. She twisted and thrashed, but a dozen hands gripped her—the entire line of white robes had crowded in to hold her under. Don't you want to see your mom again in Heaven? The pastors' faces stretched and changed behind the rippling surface, their smiles too big and their teeth too long. Laughing. They're all laughing. The crow circled overhead, screaming now. Don't you want to see your mother, don't you want to see— Dad! Dad, help! Dad, please! You have to promise not to tell your father— She flailed and broke her arms free. Her right fist connected with black fabric. She hit the bottom of the river and pushed off along the mud. A hand wrapped around her ankle and pulled—not from above, but below. Pain clawed against the inside of her lungs and she punched and kicked. Sand and dirt shot upward and enveloped her in the dark, but even through the cloud, she could make out black hair billowing around a pale face— Mom? Don't you want to see don't you want to— Yes, clawing her way up from— don't you want to be with your mother again? Mom, let go— Dad— 7 And then she wasn't underwater anymore. She coughed, sputtered, and tried to wipe the water from her eyes, but the pastors held her arms. "I can't see." "It's okay, dear. You're okay." The two men laughed and pounding her on the back. "Let me go." She ripped her arms free. "Are you okay, Stan? Looked like she got you good." "I'm okay. You wriggled right out of our grasp, Little One." Everyone laughed and clapped and cheered. Gwen's cheeks burned. Her grandmother laughed too, snapping and cranking away on her little camera. Gwen marched over to her, pushing past the four white gowns who clapped and patted her on the back or squeezed her shoulder as she walked by. She ripped the camera from her grandmother's hands. "I want my ice cream now." But of course, she had to wait and watch the others pushed beneath the surface before they were allowed to leave. 8 2 Every night, their ritual began the same. Gwen read from a fat, leather-bound tome that smelled of damp basements and occult symbols drawn in chalk. She conjured wolves and forests, witches and trolls, goblins and devils, while John, hands clasped and head bowed, listened beside her bed. That night, she read of mirrors and poisonous apples, of a woman trapped inside a glass coffin and of the seven ruddy-faced dwarves that found her. She read until the words began to slither and crawl, and to keep them from pouring off the page, she closed the book with a heavy thump. "Your turn," she said, and set her copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales on the nightstand. "Bravo," John said, as he hoisted his own Necronomicon onto his lap.