A Prisoner of Glass

plate slipped out. It clattered on the floor and skittered under the coffee table. Billy brought my denture back, and while I rinsed it in the fountain, he continued. "I know, it don't figure. So I went back to the morgue and read a lot of old clips. Hell, to be honest, I don't know just what I was looking for, except I found this." He handed me a yellowed newsclipping ripped from an April '47 edition. It was the simple obituary Hines wrote for Margaret. "I didn't know all these years that Hawkes was her maiden name," Billy said hoarsely. "Margaret Alice, see? M. A. Hawkes?" I stared at Billy in disbelief, moving my mouth to ask a hundred questions, but I couldn't think of one that made sense. Billy nodded. "I know, what about the Dodge, right? That's what I wondered. Hell, he's drove that old Buick since the big flood in '36 washed his Stutz away. I heard him telling that story to Betsy, that redhead in sports, just last week. So I got curious and went up to his place and looked around. I found it in that old carriage shed out back, a '65 Dodge Dart, all right. Great shape, not many miles. I still wouldn't have believed it but for this, smack-dab in the middle of the seat." Billy handed me an envelope. Inside, neatly typed on bond paper, was Benjamin Franklin Hines obituary, and there wasn't a mistake in it. I left Billy and walked back to Ben's room. I thought a lot of things while I watched him sleep, about Ben s politics, about the wild times that our little Bugle tried to record and make clear to our records. Hell, I don't understand the world any better than anyone else. I only wrote about it, as Ben did, trying to get the facts and copy right. Ben's eyes fluttered and he smiled vaguely. I leaned closer. "Hines, you bastard, why didn't you tell me it was you all these years?" He shook his head and whispered, "No, Margaret first. She always said was two sides to every story. I just took over. Now it's your turn, Mr. Hawkes." A Prisoner of Glass The cold has sculptured blue fields into dusk. Power lines are etched upon vast loneliness. Sky litters roofs with stars that fail to shine. Your voice startles the moment into life. You talk the glitter of the dusk away. Time elongates a paling height of leaves. Islands of color decorate bare floors. The rag rugs look as rich as Joseph's coat. Wind whistles sharply to white herds of clouds. They scatter curious shapes across the moon. Winter becomes a prisoner of glass. The room fills with the firelight of your mood. -Sandra Fowler 52 ...