The Glass Village

“Doesn’t he smile?” asked Johnny. “I don’t think I ever saw a face with such a total lack of expression outside a military burying ground.”

“Guess Calvin thinks there isn’t much to smile about,” said the Judge. “Far back as I can remember, Shinn Corners youngsters have called him Laughing Waters. Fell out of a farm wagon when he was a baby and’s never been quite right since.”

They crossed Shinn Road to the south corner. Burney Hackett, who owned the corner house, Judge Shinn explained, was not only the local constable, he was the fire chief, town clerk, tax collector, member of the school board, and the Judge didn’t know what all. He also sold insurance.

“Burn has to keep hopping,” said the Judge. “His wife Ella died giving birth to their youngest. His mother, Selina Hackett, keeps house for him, but Selina’s pretty old and deaf now, and the three children have kind of brought themselves up. Hi, Joel!”

A stocky boy in jeans came slouching down Shinn Road toward the Hackett house, looking curiously at Johnny.

“’Lo, Judge.”

“Burney Hackett’s eldest, Johnny — junior at Comfort High. Joel, this is Major Shinn.”

“Major?” The boy left Johnny’s hand in midair. “A real major?”

“A real ex-major,” said Johnny, smiling.

“Oh.” The Hackett boy turned away.

“Aren’t you up kind of early, Joel, for a summer’s morning?” asked Judge Shinn pleasantly. “Or was the thought of today’s excitement too much for you?”

“That corn.” Joel Hackett kicked the sagging picket gate. “I’d a lot rather take my twenty-two and go huntin’ with Eddie Pangman. But Pop made me go over and ask Orville for a job. I’m startin’ tomorrow — strippin’ his darn-fool cows.”

He went into the Hackett house and banged the door.

“You’ll have to make quite a speech today to impress that boy,” remarked Johnny. “What’s that sign?”

The house next to Burney Hackett’s was a red-painted clapboard with drawn white blinds, sitting primly in the sun. A sign on a wrought-iron stand in the front yead read PRUE PLUMMER-ANTIQUES AND OLD BUTTONS. Everything needed paint.

“Well, there’s enterprise,” said Johnny.

“Prue makes out. Sells an occasional piece in summer, when there’s some traffic between Cudbury and Comfort, but mainly she does a small year-round mail order business in antique buttons. Prue’s our intellectual, has some arty Cape Cod friends. She’s tried to interest Aunt Fanny Adams in ’em with no luck. Aunt Fanny says she wouldn’t know what to say to them, ’cause she doesn’t know anything about art. It’s just about killed Prue,” chuckled the Judge, “having a national art celebrity as a lifelong neighbor and not being able to turn her into a profit. There’s Orville Pangman.”

“Judge, don’t introduce me as Major Shinn.”

“All right, Johnny,” said the Judge quietly.

They had rounded the stone fence separating the Plummer lot from the Pangman farm and were trudging past the small farmhouse toward the big red barns. A huge perspiring man in bib overalls was in the barn doorway, wiping his face.

“’Scuse my not shakin’ hands,” he said when the Judge introduced Johnny. “Been cleanin’ out the manure troughs. Millie feedin’ ye all right, is she, Judge?”

“Fine, fine, Orville,” said the Judge. “What do you hear from Merritt?”

“Seems to like the Navy a lot more than he ever did farmin’,” said Orville Pangman. “Raise two sons, one of ’em enlists in the Navy and the other’s too lazy to scratch.” He shouted, “Eddie, come ’ere!”

A tall skinny boy of seventeen with great red hands appeared from the interior of the barn.

“Eddie, this is the Judge’s kin from N’York, Mr. Shinn.”

Johnny said hello.

“Hello,” said Eddie Pangman. He kept looking sullenly at the ground.

“What are you going to do when you graduate next year, Eddie?” asked Judge Shinn.

“Dunno,” said the Pangman boy, still studying the ground.

“Great talker, ain’t he?” said his father. “He don’t know. All he knows is he’s unhappy. You finish cleanin’ those milkin’ machines, Eddie. I’ll be right along.”

“Hear we’re due for a rain tomorrow, Orville,” said the Judge as Eddie Pangman disappeared without a word.

“Aya. But the forecast for the summer’s dry.” The big farmer scowled at the cloudless sky. “Another dry summer’ll just about finish us off. Last September we lost practic’ly the whole stand of feed corn; rains came too late. And there wasn’t enough hay in the second cuttin’ to see us through Christmas. Hay’s been awful scarce. If it happens again...”

“Don’t ever be a farmer, Johnny,” said the Judge as they walked back toward Shinn Road. “Here’s Orville, with the best farm around if you recognize degrees of indigence, good herd of Brown Swiss, Guernseys, and Holsteins, makes almost ten cans, and it’s a question if he can hang on another year. Things are even sorrier for Hube Hemus, Mert Isbel, and the Scotts. We’re withering on the vine, Johnny.”

“You’re really setting me up, Judge,” complained Johnny. “For a time there I thought you had designs on me.”

“Designs?” asked the Judge innocently.