The Sound of Glass by Karen White Page A

memories of him. I just couldn’t stop imagining him around each corner, waiting for me to say or do the wrong thing.
    After pausing briefly on the threshold, I walked into the middle of the room, forcing myself to breathe normally.
    Gibbes had been right: Owen had left the room spotless. The bed would have made even Cal approve, the bedclothes pulled so tight a quarter would have bounced off them. I imagined the corners of the sheets under the bedspread were folded with military precision.
    Gibbes walked past me, then squatted in front of a clear plastic boxlike structure tucked back against the wall.
    “It’s a terrarium,” a voice said from the doorway.
    We turned to see Owen, with his starched pants and buttoned-up shirt, watching us openly. I knew he was only ten, but he was like a little man, with his grown-up clothes and big words. I had no experience with children, but something in me wanted to rumple his hair and buy him a pair of faded jeans with patches on the knees.
    “What’s a terrarium?” I asked, although I already knew. I thought it had probably been a while since anybody except his mother had cared enough to show any interest in his hobbies. He looked so fragile all of a sudden, as if he were a small leaf hanging precariously from a tree branch.
    He looked from me to Gibbes and then back again, as if waiting for one of us to tell him I was joking. Taking a step into the room, he said, “Technically, a terrarium is a miniature ecosystem for plants.You’re not supposed to put bugs or animals inside them, but I like to collect interesting insects and spiders and watch them through a magnifying glass. But I always make sure I let them out after a few hours.”
    “Do you like catching and observing Lampyridae?”
    He looked at me with surprise.
    I cleared my throat and thought back to the many summer mornings in our brightly lit kitchen, where my father and I would peer into my own insect cage and he would teach me the proper names of the winged and six-legged critters I’d collected from my mother’s garden.
    “Lampyridae is a family of winged insects in the beetle order Coleoptera. They’re called lightning bugs because their bodies use bioluminescence to attract mates or prey.” I gave him a crooked smile.
    He smiled back, and I noticed how his front teeth slightly protruded over the others and he’d probably need braces at some point. Just like I had.
    “Did our daddy teach you that?” Owen asked.
    Something sharp and deep tugged at my chest. “Yeah. I guess he gave that to both of us.”
    “Did the kids at school laugh at you because you knew all the scientific names for insects?”
    I frowned for a moment, remembering. “They did at first. And then, when I picked up a big spider from Terri Zerbe’s backpack and took it outside, the kids thought I was pretty cool.”
    “Really?” His face was so bright and hopeful that I had to laugh.
    “Really. Believe it or not, most people are afraid of large bugs, especially spiders—although technically they’re arachnids and not bugs. My husband was a big and strong firefighter, but he was afraid of even the tiniest of spiders.” My smile faded as I recalled how angry Cal had been when I’d calmly scooped up a little house spider and set him out on the windowsill. Cal had crushed it with aflowerpot, and I’d learned quickly to never allow myself to acknowledge his fear.
    I looked up and caught Gibbes watching me carefully, and for a moment they were Cal’s eyes, and a small fissure of fear threaded its way down my spine.
    Unaware of the undercurrent of tension in the room, Owen said, “Spiders are pretty cool, but I like the fireflies the best. Sometimes I catch enough that when I turn out the lights in my room, it’s like having a night-light.”
    The sound of chattering glass came from outside the open window. A rusty screen with more holes than wire separated us from a wind chime suspended outside the bedroom window by a board nailed