The Glass House People Read Online Free Page A

head down, finishing quickly, then washed down the scanty portions with gulps of beer.
    "It's been ages since I've had chicken potpie," said Hannah. "This is really a treat."
    "I make it often, you know," said Grandmother. "You could have come back at any time."
    Hannah was silent. Iris passed the heavy tureen of stewed chicken to Tom.
    "Thanks, Aunt Iris."
    "I like to see a young man eat," she said. "1 hope you and your sister aren't picky eaters." She filled the tall glass by his plate with beer. "There you go."
    "Oh, Iris—Tom's too young to drink—," began Hannah, but Tom cut her off.
    "Thanks a lot!" He seized the glass and drank deeply. "Don't worry, Mom."
    "Tasty, isn't it?" asked Aunt Iris.
    Hannah ignored the smile her sister bestowed on Tom. "There's plenty of time to drink when you're older, Tom. One more sip and that's it."
    "Oh, Mom. It's only one glass. I'm grown-up enough."
    "He's right," said Aunt Iris, her voice cold. "What were you doing when you were around his age, Hanny Lynn? You thought you were plenty grown-up then, didn't you?"
    Hannah set her fork down gently. "I did, then," she said. "But maybe I've learned something since. Tom's only fifteen, Iris. I'd hate to see him or Beth grow up too soon." She removed the glass of beer from Tom's place and poured him some ice water from the pitcher into a clean glass.
    "What's with the beer, Iris?" asked Grandmother. "You haven't touched alcohol in ages!"
    "Hanny Lynn's here now." Aunt Iris's voice was succinct. "So I drink."
    Then no one said anything else, and Beth remembered how her mother had lit that cigarette at the rest stop during their journey. She continued picking at her meal until everyone else had finished. After dinner she volunteered to do the dishes, knowing her mother would be pleased and surprised. But her true reason was she wanted to be alone so that she would not have to talk to anyone else. When Tom offered to help, she shoved him into the living room with the others.
    From the kitchen, Beth could hear Grandmother pumping Tom for information about their life in California. Her questions made it clear she believed only degenerates and movie stars lived on the West Coast. Beth could hardly make out Tom's answers; he spoke in a murmur. But Grandmother's questions were loud and sharp, almost as if they were not meant for Tom's ears, but for someone else's.
    "So you were born in a commune, hmm? It couldn't have been an easy life for a child. I've read about those cults."
    "No, Grandmother," he said. "It wasn't a cult—it was like a group house. There were three families and one or two couples without children, and we all lived in a big house and shared the space and the work. That is, the adults did. We kids had a great time just playing. It seemed like there were acres of space! We moved away when I was little, anyway. I don't remember all the people—"
    "Too many folks coming and going, eh? Hard to keep track of?"
    "Well, no—"
    "But there hasn't been much in the way of family life for you, has there, way out west? With your father getting himself killed racing around in those sports cars they all drive out there, and your mother taking up with—"
    "Mama!" interrupted Hannah.
    "Taking up with anyone who would put up with two little kids." Grandmother's voice continued inexorably. "Such a shame, I always felt, two little kids growing up in day care, while their mother was off doing God-knows-what—"
    "Off working, Mama!" Hannah's voice, sharp now, cut in. "Stop talking nonsense. I had to work, and I've worked hard. Tom and Beth were always well cared for."
    Grandmother's voice was even sharper than Hannah's. "Are these children of yours on drugs, Hanny? Most kids today are—especially in California. I want you to make it clear to your children that there's to be no running around with drug dealers here. They both look like they're on something right now!"
    Beth nearly dropped the cup she was drying. She set it on