The Sound of Glass Breaking

twisting sensation every time Rufus goes out of sight He feels this way when he watches a friend board a plane. Or the night of the miscarriage, when he woke to find Marti’s side of the bed empty.

* * *

Gordon goes upstairs to the mailboxes and hears a sound, liquid and human, from the stairs above. A man in a blue bathrobe is sitting on the steps, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes, a littering of open envelopes and papers at his feet. It’s the cop. His shoulders are shaking. Gordon realizes he’s crying.

The cop starts to move his hands away and Gordon quickly turns to his mailbox, fumbling with the keys. He opens the lock, takes out a mail order catalog and three white envelopes. He tries to appear intensely interested in the cover of the catalog.

“Hey,” the cop says.

Gordon looks up with a smile that says, oh, didn’t see you there. The cop’s eyes are bright, but his manner is familiar, as if they are longtime neighbors who meet every day by the fence to compare gardens. “Hello,” Gordon says.

There is a moment in which Gordon senses that something else could be said, but the cop looks away and Gordon is afraid he’s going to cry again. In his bathrobe, out of uniform, the cop appears older, almost frail. Gordon holds up the catalog in a vaguely explanatory gesture: “Yeah. Well.” He escapes down the stairs.

* * *

“I’m going out to look for him.”

“It’s only been a couple of hours,” Marti says. “He’ll be back. He’s a cat and it’s nighttime. Cats are supposed to do this.”

Gordon pulls on his running shoes with quick, jerking motions. “He’s got no protection, Marti. He can’t climb trees. He can’t fight back. All he knows is carpet and food at nine-thirty.”

Outside the night is cool. He circles the apartment complex inspecting hedges, cars, the dumpster. He calls the cat’s name, but quietly, feeling a little foolish.

In the street, he half expects to see Rufus’ corpse beneath each lamppost. He walks down the sidewalk, calling him with tocking noises. At the end of the block he turns right. The street is darker here, which somehow makes finding Rufus more probable. “Ruu-fus” he calls. “Tock-tock-tock.”

At the next corner a long shape lies in the grass near the sidewalk; a voice says, “Spare change for a veteran?” Gordon picks up his pace without answering, unwilling now to call out or make noises. In the silence he feels blind, and he realizes that the sounds had been a kind of sonar; without them the streets are darker.

He turns the last corner of the square. Marti waits for him in front of the complex, her arms wrapped around herself. She walks toward him, shaking her head.

“You shouldn’t make yourself cold,” he says.

She hugs him. “Aw, hon.” She takes his arm. Her skin is warm. “Come back in.” He walks with her to the door, hoping that Rufus is watching from the bushes, ready to pounce and chase them inside.

* * *

Years from now, Gordon realizes, he will want to remember events in the proper order, in their correct proportion. On the night of the miscarriage, he first heard the sound of his name. He rolled over, discovered she was gone, and heard his name again. There was an edge in her voice. He came out of the bed clumsily, eyes trying to find details in the dark. The bathroom door was ajar and a wedge of light illuminated the hallway. Marti sat on the toilet, one arm across her stomach. Her left arm. There was a bloody towel at her feet. She had looked at him, her face white. Lying in bed, Gordon replays the scene until he memorizes the exact tone of her voice, the precise hue of the light as it struck the hallway wall.

* * *

It’s a Saturday and the office building is empty and strange. Gordon keys into his room and gets out the manual sweeper, the paper towels, the industrial cleaner. He gathers up the post-its and stray notes and presses them into a pile that he zips into the Franklin Planner. He sprays every flat surface with the cleaner, letting the foam build up, and then wipes it down. He rolls the little sweeper around, stooping to nab staples and paperclips worked into the carpet. In an hour he has a new office. He takes down the framed list of Long Range Goals and tosses it into the garbage can. His goals have changed. He’s got new responsibilities. He opens the Franklin Planner to Monday and records everything from the post-its, every task, promise, and appointment. He can hear himself advising the Team Leader: it’s important to take care of the small things, Rob. It’s important to not let things slip through your fingers.

* * *

He lies beside her on the bed, holding her hand until her grip goes slack. He pulls the covers over her shoulders. The breeze from the window has turned cold and it’s two hours before dawn.

Above, the floor creaks with heavy footsteps. Gordon waits. After a time the television whispers through the ceiling. Nothing else.

His eyes adjust to the dimness. Each article of furniture has become strange, like repeating a word fifty times until it loses all sense. He gets up and moves to the window, pushes aside the blinds, and looks out across the parking lot into the hedges beyond. “Ruu-fus,” he sings quietly. “Here, boy.” He can see each car, each bush in painful detail.