Still Knife Painting

by Cheryl Hollon

  Patricia stiffened. “I know this sounds silly, but I’ve never worked with fire before. I’m actually very nervous.”

  Herbert learned over and said in a low voice, “Don’t let that stop you. You need practice in order to get comfortable.” He quickly glanced over to Savannah and then straightened. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s not my place to answer questions. Force of habit, I’m afraid.”

  “But you’re completely right.” Savannah noted his deft handling of Patricia’s fears. “It’s perfectly normal to be cautious, but not to the point where you don’t learn. I spent my first weeks near Seattle at Pilchuck Glass School making paperweights. I made so many I could do them in my sleep.”

  Patricia raised her hand. “Did you meet the famous Chihuly? I love his work! I practically haunt his museum downtown.”

  Savannah raised her eyebrows. “We’re very lucky he decided to put a museum here. Anyway, the demand for his time was incredible, so he couldn’t come near the beginning studio, but I met him later when I was one of the senior apprentices. He radiated amazing charisma—you couldn’t help hanging on his every word.” She paused, remembering her apprentice days.

  “Gosh,” said Patricia. “I’ve never met anyone who worked with him.”

  “It was the experience of a lifetime.” Savannah felt a dreamy smile softening her jaw. She shook her head a bit. “Anyway, back to our class. Let’s begin by becoming familiar with the tools lying on your workstation.”

  Each student’s work area was set up with the tools they would need for the class. Savannah then described the names of the tools laid out neatly on each side of the torch. She explained how to use the tweezers, a graphite marver, a mosaic cutter, a bottle of bead release, a tungsten bead reamer, a rod rest for the glass rods, and a mandrel for holding the bead as it was formed.

  She held a pair of bright blue glasses up for everyone to see. “Here’s your most important safety equipment. These are didymium glasses that not only protect your eyes, but they filter out the orange sodium flare, so you can see how to manipulate the molten glass.”

  She walked over to her teaching workstation. “This is your primary tool for flameworking. It’s called a hothead torch, which provides as big a flame as you can get with this style torch. The bigger the flame, the more BTUs and the faster you can work the glass.

  “Your torch has two nozzles. Each nozzle has a dial for butane and a dial for oxygen. The small nozzle on top is for light work with the smaller rods of glass that don’t require maximum temperature. The second nozzle right underneath the small one is for larger rods of glass as well as for your finishing steps—we’ll talk about those later.

  “To light your torch, you can use either a striker”—she held it up and made sparks by compressing the handles—“or a match.” She held up a small box of wooden matches. “Most students find it easier to simply use a match or cigarette lighter.” Savannah shot a glance at the Rosenberg sisters and made sure she had their full attention. She selected a match and lit one using the grit panel on the side of the box. “Turn the knob slightly to the left to start the flow of gas—remember lefty loosey—then hold the match right against the torch.” The torch whooshed a bright orange flame.

  Savannah blew out the match. “Now you turn on the oxygen. You want to adjust the two so that the flame is steady.” Savannah turned the flame down until it was a steady pure blue. “Now go ahead and try it at your station.”

  Everyone except Herbert used matches. He expertly clicked the striker so that it sputtered huge sparks, lit his torch, and adjusted the oxygen and butane knobs to achieve a perfectly steady blue flame.

  Not his first rodeo.

  Savannah adjusted the gas-flow knobs on each student’s torch so everyone had an efficient setting. Both Rachel and Faith overreacted to the sweater fire to the point that their flames were barely lit at all.

  “Ladies, you couldn’t toast a marshmallow on those flames.” She adjusted their torches. “Can you hear the difference between a bad mix of air and butane and a good one? This is a good one.” Then she increased the oxygen and the torch responded with a loud rushing sound. “This is a bad mix.” She readjusted the torch so that if fell nearly silent. “Good. I want everyone to practice adjusting your torch.”

  After a few minutes, even the twins seemed more confident with the adjustment knobs on their torches. “Okay, now we’re ready to start. The process we need to practice first is to punty up a clear glass rod with a colored rod. We will be repeating this process many times, so the more practice the better. It is not fun to be working on a piece and have the colored glass fall off the punty.”

  Savannah held up a rod of clear class about twelve inches long and a short three-inch rod of lime-green glass. “Punty is the name for any piece of material that is used to hold and manipulate glass. It’s also used as a verb, such as ‘punty this piece of glass.’ ” She demonstrated the steps required to join a single-color rod to a clear rod. “The trick here is to heat both glass rods to the same temperature, so they will form a good join.”

  Savannah explained each step in the basic process of making a glass medallion with an attached glass loop. After she showed the finished medallion to each student, she slipped the whole business into an upright kiln to keep it warm. The students caught up by selecting their medallion colors. Then they puntied each color onto clear rods.

  “How hot does the glass get while in the flame?” asked Patricia.

  “Good question,” said Savannah. “Glass begins to melt at six- to eight-hundred degrees. It varies with thickness, of course. As you get more experienced with manipulating the hot glass, you’ll be able to tell its temperature just by looking at it.”

  The class progressed, with Savannah working with each student on their first attempt at a medallion. Except for Herbert. He crafted a perfectly symmetrical oval with four swirls of colored glass in a pattern. “Wow. That’s gorgeous. Your science-lab experience is serving you well.”

  He ducked his head a bit. “I have to confess. I’ve tried my hand at the creative side of glasswork before, but I became fascinated with all the demonstrations you can find on the internet. However, I’m delighted by how much more I retain with in-person instruction.”

  Myla Kay formed her first medallion using a Salvador Dali–like selection of vivid high-contrast colors—yellow, azure, lime, and royal purple.

  “Well done, Myla Kay,” said Savannah. “That was risky. Sometimes a high contrast selection of colors will result in a horrible muddy mixture, but yours is terrific. Beautiful!”

  Myla Kay smiled broadly. “I have some experience with color. I like to paint. Actually, I like to paint a lot.”

  “Well, that explains your sense of color. Good job.”

  There were no accidents, and at the end of the class each student left behind a newly formed glass medallion annealing in the kiln. As the Rosenberg twins—always first to arrive, and last to leave—wished her a good day and walked out the door, Savannah programmed the kiln to start the cooldown cycle in four hours from now. The kiln would do its work after hours. When she first took over the glass shop, she’d felt uneasy leaving the kilns powered on. Not anymore. The kiln was absolutely safe, and it rested on fire-proof bricks, which were even safer.

  Amanda Blake, office manager and instructor for Beginning Stained Glass, walked into the flame-working classroom. “So, how was the first day of bead-making class?” Amanda’s voice sounded flat and toneless.

  Savannah glanced up at her, concerned. “Exhausting, but exciting. I can’t believe that two hours have flown by! Are you on your way to see your mother?” Savannah noted the somber outfit. A zaftig woman of size, Amanda’s appearance typically displayed her bohemian side. Today she wore muted shades of beige. Her normally neon spiked hair was brushed down into a soft, wavy, fawn-like color.

  “I did the Monday inventory of supplies and got everything ready for day two of the stained-glass class. The new students are great. They’re attentiv
e and calm—perfect. I’ll help you clean up here and then push off for an evening of reading to Mom.”

  Without another word, Savannah walked over and folded Amanda into a huge hug. Amanda reacted by stiffening, then relaxed into the comforting gesture. In a flash, she was sobbing like a toddler. Poor dear. Savannah gave her a light squeeze and rubbed her back in small, soothing circles.

  After several long moments, following a whole-body shudder, Amanda stepped back and snuffled. “Thanks for the attack hug. I’m going through an emotional roller coaster. I’m either stiff and stoic or a crying waterspout. I don’t know how I would cope with the hospice visits without you, Edward, the Rosenberg twins, and even young Jacob giving me the support I need.”

  Savannah nodded. Jacob was her late father’s final trainee in a long line of apprentices who benefited from learning to make glass art. His parents had purchased his adorable service beagle, Suzy, to let others know by a special bark if Jacob began to have an anxiety attack. She also soothed him with her calm presence. If left alone, he could escalate into a full-blown asthmatic crisis. The inhaler was stowed in the pocket of Suzy’s blue service pack. “We’re all here for you.” Savannah continued to rub Amanda’s back. “We’ve weathered through a few crises together.”

  “As your investigative posse—we have certainly made a difference.”

  “What are you reading to her?”

  “You’re not going to believe this. She looks like she would be the perfect candidate for listening to a cozy mystery with a magical cat who solves the murders. But, nope. She is having me read a Tim Dorsey thriller.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Pope of Palm Beach, the newest installment of the Serge Storm series. When she still had good mobility, she never missed his signings down at Haslam’s Book Store. I think his books keep her wondering what horrible thing he will make happen next.”

  Savannah shook her head and grinned. “You can’t fault her logic. I didn’t sleep properly for a week after I read that one. I’ll stop by tomorrow night and read to her for a while.”

  Amanda beamed. “She would love that. Oh, I nearly forgot. You can bring Rooney. The nurses love fur baby visits. His big, cuddly dog energy would liven up the evening for everyone.”

  Savannah imagined the disruption her yearling Weimaraner would bring to the peaceful facility for hospice patients who didn’t have a home setup for receiving palliative care. On the other hand, the staff were experts in end-of-life experiences. They would know right away if his behavior was appropriate. “I’ll think about it. If he’s in a calm mood—absolutely.”

  “Anyway, if there’s nothing else, I’m off.” Amanda hiked her patchwork hobo handbag onto her shoulder and left by the back door.

  The over-the-door bell sounded a single ting. Eighteen-year-old Jacob Underwood entered the front door and let his service dog, Suzy, lead the way into the shop. Jacob had a strange knack for keeping the bell practically silent when arriving. Savannah thought it was a personal challenge he was playing against himself.

  He walked into the flameworking studio and handed Savannah a black journal. He didn’t look her in the eye as he said, “Webb’s Studio needs more supplies.” Jacob’s condition used to be called Asperger’s syndrome, but after the recently revised medical definition, he was medically classified as a high-functioning autistic.

  “Thanks, Jacob. I appreciate that you ask each artist what supplies they want for their works in progress. This is very good practice in communicating with clients.”

  Savannah had recently promoted Jacob to the position of journeyman in charge of Webb’s Studio. It was a new venture housed in a converted warehouse with by-the-month rental work spaces for intermediate and advanced students.

  “I’ll just gather the requested supplies tonight and drop them off at the studio for you to pass out tomorrow.” Savannah looked at Jacob to be sure that he understood.

  He nodded again and picked up Suzy, then managed to get out the front door without the bell making a single sound.

  She chuckled. Looks like he won the game today. Jacob 1, doorbell 42 million.

  As Savannah entered the final key to shut down the cash register, she heard a sharp yelp directly in front of Webb’s Glass Shop, followed by a sickening thud. Next, she heard squealing tires and then a roaring engine. Out the front window, she glimpsed a white car flying down the street.

  Jacob! Please don’t let it be Jacob. Savannah bolted out, nearly tearing the bell off the door.

  Jacob stood outside on the sidewalk as stiff as the tinman from Wizard of Oz. He let out a keening scream, which was overlaid by a howl from Suzy.

  Jacob abruptly stopped screaming. Suzy went silent as well.

  As Savannah moved to stand in front of him, a yard away, a tsunami of relief rushed over her. She quietly said his name. She was careful not to touch him. A critical precaution to reduce the chances of Jacob having a panic attack.

  Savannah noticed that Suzy appeared calm, so Jacob didn’t need his inhaler. He stared down the street without acknowledging her presence. She made no attempt to get his attention.

  Savannah followed his gaze out on the street. Crumpled faceup near the curb lay a woman dressed in khaki trousers and a white Queen’s Head Pub logo shirt.

  “Nicole!” Savannah shrieked. Nicole was completely unresponsive. Not even an eyelash fluttered.

  Terrified, Savannah became hypersensitive to every sound around her. The murmur of onlookers, the slowing of traffic in the street, the mockingbird singing nearby.

  Nicole was a good friend. She worked in the pub right next door, owned by Savannah’s fiancé, Edward.

  Shaking herself into action, Savannah placed two fingers on Nicole’s throat. She detected an irregular heartbeat. It was barely noticeable, and her infrequent breaths were shallow.

  She pulled back Nicole’s thick blond hair to reveal heavy-lidded eyes. There were streaks of road filth down her face and her legs didn’t line up properly. From the back of her head, a terrible wound leaked a small stream of blood, which made its way to the curb.

  This is bad.

  “Call 911,” she yelled to the gathering crowd of bystanders, pointing at a balding man with his cell phone already in hand. “Hurry! She’s still alive.”

  The man dialed.

  A sour taste hit the back of Savannah’s throat. She knew better than to try to move a victim of trauma. Instead, she gathered Nicole’s limp and clammy hand in both of hers. “Nicole, can you hear me? Stay with me, girl. Help is coming.”