Free Glass Boys by Nicole Lundrigan

him and treasure it.
    When she was little, she would hide inside the coat. Opening the wooden closet with ill-fitting doors, she would step on old shoes and boots, worm her arms up and in, dangle, completely obscured by fur. Her mother might open the closet, jam her own coat or hat inside, never notice that Wilda had transformed. That there was a seal in the closet that was fatter and sillier. But her father would notice. Haul open the door, and she would hold her breath when he’d exclaim, in his melted way of talking, “Lor, Jays. Nev woulda fathomed.” Uncontrollable snicker when he squeezed the coat with his two big hands. “We got us-selves real live wilda-beast. Jessie, come see.” With that, her mother would strut over, yank open the front panels of the coat, surprise, child revealed. Smacks about the head. “Wilda Burry. Get your bloody arse out of there right this instant fore I tans your hide. Always at where you got no business.”
    When she stole it from the box in the barn, she didn’t allow an ounce of guilt to settle. It should belong to her now; it was an important feature for so many of her memories. Her father was always wearing it when she thought about him. Sliding down the back of Old Mackie’s land, the two of them on a long wooden sled. Making perfect holes with the auger, lying flat on their bellies, foreheads touching, watching fish nibble pale worms. When she arrived at the woodpile on any given blustery afternoon, he would always wink at her, then abandon his crosscut saw for the two-man. Memories like this made her glad, and she ignored the fact that she could not recall ever seeing the coat on his back. Or that he never did any of those things, and was long dead when she thought them up. But they would have been real, she was certain, if he had of stayed around. If, as her mother always told her, Wilda had gone to find help, instead of running off to play on the beach.
    Wilda dug into the pockets, found the bent cigarette she had pinched from whatever-his-name-was. Lit it, took several deep drags, let the smoke curl out from her nostrils, waft upwards. Her eyes watered, dripped. They were allowed to do that, as long as they weren’t crying. Picturing the store owners, she snarled into her knees, “I wouldn’t fuckin’ work for you if you paid me.” But what did she expect, with her sour breath and disheveled hair. Bare legs, mess of blue veins. Stench like a puffy carcass rejected by the water. She could hear her mother’s voice, and knew it was true. “You looks like something a mutt tossed up. And don’t even get me started on the smell.”
    Her mother was a seamstress, making skirts and aprons for the women in Teeter Beach. Wilda made no attempt to learn how to sew, not that there was much opportunity. She didn’t linger at home. Most days, after her few chores were completed, she was out strolling, along the beach, up and down the laneways, wasting her hours. She liked to play a game with her eyes, pretending to look at any disturbing scene in Teeter Beach, and see it a thousand times at once. Men hacking heads from fish, golden balls mistakenly severed with a scythe, a young boy screeching, his free spirit tethered to a stationary clothesline via an inhumane length of rope. She tried to turn a single image into a mass of them, all butting up against one another, each identical and now meaningless. Over the years, Wilda had learned that if she could only see through fly eyes, she would feel nothing.
    Visits to Eddie Quick’s shack helped with this illusion. Eddie told Wilda he was in the distillery business, but she noticed the majority of his product went to serve his own needs. Smiling, teeth like burnt twigs, he’d offer her Whiskey Daisies without the daisy, or in wintertime he’d give her a mug jammed with snow, liquor poured over the top. “Dat’s me famous Whiskey Shiver.” And he’d