Glaciers by Alexis Smith Read Free Book Online

framed picture from her dresser and handed it to Agnes. Isabel leaned in to look. It was a matte print from the 1930s of a woman about their mother’s age. The family resemblance wasn’t obvious, but the shape of the eyes and the nose looked like their mother and their aunt, and somewhat like Agnes.

    The Astrologer went to her closet again and pulled out a dress—the dress Gigi wore in the photograph—brown silk with ivory beadwork along the collar, long sleeves cinched at the wrists, pleated skirt. It looked so small—too small for either of her mother or aunt to wear—but small enough that Agnes might.
    They spent the evening looking through old photographs and reading letters. Before they went to bed, their aunt opened up the little decoupaged box and revealed a few pieces of jewelry nestled carefully on a silk scarf.
    She let the girls gaze into the box, then told them to pick one thing each for themselves.
    The girls looked at their mom, then at each other. There were glittery costume brooches, a mother-of-pearl bracelet, and a gold watch. But Agnes chose an amber pendant that the Astrologer said had been a gift from Gigi’s third
husband, Vern. Isabel chose the smallest thing in the box, a garnet ring. It was too large for her, but she put it on her middle finger and spun it round and round.
    That night as the sisters lay side by side on their mattress, they talked in hushed voices about what it must have been like to live back then, and how lovely the clothes were, and how exciting to have an adventuress in the family. They said that someday they would have daughters, and they would save precious things for them, too.
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    On the last day of their visit, they went for a walk in the Astrologer’s neighborhood. They all enjoyed looking at the older houses, with their roses and wisteria and other flowers that you didn’t see in yards in Alaska. The Carpenter pointed out different architectural features of the houses and how differently houses were designed today.

    Most of the houses in this neighborhood are called Foursquare, he said, because of the rooms in each of the four corners of the house. They call them Seattle Boxes when the porch is under the second-story overhang like this (he pointed to a house in the middle of the block). You could order a house from Sears, Roebuck and Company in those days—it came with everything you needed to build the house, from plans to shingles and floorboards to doorknobs. You could build it yourself or with your neighbors, or hire someone like me to do it for you.
    They were back at her aunt’s house, looking at the cracked cement stairs that curved up to the porch, the roses clambering over the picket fence, the lawn gone to seed and white clover.
    You can always tell when something is handmade, the Astrologer said, sighing. They just don’t make things like they used to.

Details
    Next to the adult bookstore, a small door says VEGETARIAN HOUSE, and underneath ALL VEG NO MEAT. A window on the street displays the menu and a few Bible verses in Chinese and broken English. On the other side, one door down, is another restaurant with a steamy window and a case of rotating roast ducks.
    Isabel steps inside the Vegetarian House and feels the moist quiet of the place. Clean, with a whiff of mothballs. The first time she and Leo came here, a small cockroach walked down the wall nearly to their table, then scurried at the last minute
onto a fake apple tree in the corner. The hollow papier-mâché apples and silk leaves glowed luridly beneath the insect. They watched it throughout their meal with good-humored detachment, calling her Oolong and addressing her in conversation. Whenever Isabel recounts this story, people are astonished that she returns to eat here. But there is something about the place that she finds cozy and private. Off the crowded track of food carts, she can disappear.
    As she walks toward the tables, Isabel becomes