The Clay Girl

by Heather Tucker

  “The ones without clothes are colourful but the parallels you draw to spiritual nakedness are profound. The Dick is metaphor, right?”

  “Well, I suppose if I’m using an enormous Dick to connote a giant asshole, then yes. He’s the one who had me nabbed and hauled off to Crapdom.”

  “I’m really going to miss your contributions to the paper. When will you move?”

  “Barring disaster, next week.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Len hands me my sweater. “There won’t be many more nights this perfect before we leave.”

  We love harvest moons and late-October’s bite. At the water, we sit on our bench, contemplating the moon-painted road crossing the lake. “Is it hard to change your name? I’d like to be Ari Joy Zajac.”

  “You could marry cousin Alphonse.”

  “I was thinking, daughter of Len.”

  He nuzzles my headtop with his cheek. “You are Ari Zajac by love. Though, one day you will be Ari Butters.”

  “Jake’s a Tupper.”

  “He’s a Butter at heart, and you are bread to him.” His smile lifts me. “Come, corka, there is school tomorrow.”

  Len walks with his head up again. Whistles, too, but his hands aren’t in his pockets. One holds mine, the other Zodiac’s leash as we walk along the boardwalk. He stops to take in the evening stars, drops the leash, and grabs his arm. “Len?” His grip tightens on my hand. “Papa?” He crumples to his knees pulling me with him. “No, please, no!” I scream, “Help. Someone help! Call an ambulance.” People run, doing what helpers do.

  His head rests under my heart as he breathes out, “With you was best time I ever had.”

  “Don’t leave me, Len, please. Papa, don’t leave me.” His hand never lets go of my arm as our world ends.

  As people shift, even the pews remain silent. I hear, “Len’s daughter, Ari, would like to say a few words.” Aunt Mary releases my hand and a girl with my legs and hair, rises—black shoes on red carpet, up one step, two steps, three . . . past lily and freesia, all trying too hard to lay their thick sweet over the sadness. It will be my first words in four days. I’d stay in the silence forever but this is the only moment I have to say to the hundreds gathered that I love Len.

  They push you too soon to get things done and buried. I’m still on the splintered wood of the boardwalk, holding him, believing somehow, he won’t leave me. I stare at a trail of ivy spilling over the polished oak, talk directly to it for a while. “My papa believed that each day lived moves us closer, not to death but to rebirth; each birth connecting us to the past and opening up more love, more becoming. I’d look at his face in the moon-spill of our walks and wonder how many times he’d been reborn to have become this extraordinary person of quiet kindness and goodness. Six daughters. He took on six daughters and never once, with all the trouble we could be, did he raise his hand or voice. He just loved us. He loved me.” You feel it when the freezing starts to come out. I squeeze back blood from invading the frozen places. “My first day in the blue house I sat scared on the back steps. He came with ginger snaps and milk and sat down beside me. I asked, ‘What do I call you? Daddy?’

  “He said, ‘Start with Len. Papa is a name to be earned.’” I wait, swallowing hard, swallowing, swallowing . . . Franc, shy Franc climbs to the platform; rests his hand on my back as I catch a breath. “At sunrise last summer we had breakfast with a gathering of deer. A beautiful doe gazed at Len when he said, ‘I am honoured that you would eat from my hand’. . .” The ice breaks, I crack. “Papa, I’m honoured you called me, corka, daughter. Your family taught me to fly with no legs. Now you must show me to how live with half a heart here and the other half reborn with you . . .”

  Mr. West touches my shoulder. “Ari, you and Zodiac are coming with me.”

  Len painted my wall blue because we loved the ocean. I’ve lost sight of the shore, drifting for days, I think. My voice comes out thin and brittle. “Did they sort things out?”

  “They’re upstairs talking.”

  I haul my rumpled flesh into a sit. “Did Auntie Mary call you?”

  “I called. I’ve been worried about you since the funeral.”

  Voices escalate upstairs, again. I rest my head on his shoulder. “My mum thinks she owns the store. Told Babcia and Uncle Iggy they had two weeks to get out. Mum’s loading horror on their pain and sadness. Every night I hear their tears raining down the walls. I can’t stand it.”

  “They won’t have to move.”

  “Mr. Pace says she might have the right because she and Len were still married.”

  “Mr. Lukeman is on his way over. He wanted you on the East Coast before he opened Len’s will, but Miss Standish’s place will have to do.”

  After Mum’s screaming tantrum last night my backpack is stuffed, ready for running. I follow Mr. West out, stopping for a minute to listen. Aunt Dolores sounds like Grandma. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Theresa, stop being so bloody self-centered and think of Ari for once in your life. Let her go with Mary.”

  “And let her ruin Hariet’s life like she has mine?”

  “Your pathetic life is your own doing. Yours.”

  “Richard and I need her here at the store.”

  “She needs stability and fresh air and school. And God knows she needs some peace, especially from that horse’s ass you’ve saddled yourself with now.”

  “I’m her mother.”

  “So you finally figured that out. Well then, stop acting like a spoiled brat and give the child what she needs for a change.”

  Aunt Dolores means well. But she’d have more luck reasoning with a rutabaga. “I can’t remember, did Mum come to the service?”

  Mr. West gentles me out the door. “I didn’t see her until the reception.”

  “With Irwin?”

  “Alone, sober, and acting the widow.” Zodiac helps himself to the space behind the seats of Mr. West’s jeep.

  “Miss Standish won’t mind him coming?”

  “She loves dogs.”

  Life sure gets jumbled for a kid middled in a money grab. Auntie Mary doesn’t belong on the sofa in my teacher’s living room drinking tea from a china cup.

  Mr. West touches my elbow. “I’m only a phone call away if you need me.” I reach back for his hand and he takes mine like Len did when I was scared. “Everything is okay.”

  Miss Standish is likely older than my mother but gets more graceful the longer I know her. She leads me to a chair. “How’d you like to stay here until things get straightened out? I’ll arrange home school and you can just have some peace.”

  “Auntie Mary, I can’t go with you?”

  “The custody agreement wasn’t signed and your mum’s going to be angry about the will.”

  “Why?”

  “The business goes to Franc and Jacquie. Everything else, apart from a few bequests, goes to you.”

  “Then give it to Mum and let me go with you.”

  “It’s in a trust. Except for an allowance, it can’t be touched until you’re eighteen.”

  My pillow smells of lavender. Out of respect for the lace, Zodiac stays on the rug, but his soft fur is under my hand.

  “Night, Ari. Call if you need anything.”

  I want Aunties M&N. I want Chase. I need Len. “Thank you, Miss Standish. I’m good.”

  “You think you might call me Belle now that we’ve moved on to being friends?”

  “It’s a pretty name.”

  A body should sleep good in such a quiet place, but nightmares land me in a corner with porcupines throwing needles. “Ari? What’s wrong?”

  My voice sounds like metal vibrating. “If I die does my mum get the money?”

  “It goes to Arielle, I believe.”

  “What if he kills Arielle?”

  “No one’s going to hurt you or Arielle.”

&n
bsp; “He’d think nothing about knocking my head off, and Arielle’s so little. It’d be nothing more than wringing a kitten’s neck.”

  “Mr. Lukeman will sort it out. Come, I’ll set the kettle to boil.”

  I sit, cracked, leaking. Mum sees only a golden egg as Mr. Lukeman reads the will. Len’s notes have me thinking he suspected a rebirth was ahead. The fact that he wasn’t afraid makes me a little less scared. A thousand dollars for Jennah: “Just because you’re precious, not because I’m sorry.” A thousand for June when she’s found: “Embrace Spring. You are new and good.” A thousand for Jory: “One man on this earth wishes nothing more than for you to see your incalculable worth.” For Jillianne: “Your restitution has been fully paid. Begin anew knowing you are my cherished daughter.” Jacquie and Franc receive the building, business, and expense money for Babcia and Uncle Iggy. “Jacquie, could I have been blessed with a more perfect woman to become mother to my family? Only goodness has ever come from you.”

  I’m back at Jillianne’s note, thinking about the gift of starting anew, and all I want is one more walk with Papa’s hand in mine. Mr. Lukeman talks profits and insurance, house sales and savings. “Ninety-eight thousand will be held in trust for Ari.”

  “Is there a note?”

  He hands me a box. Inside I unearth Len’s best pot, saturated sea green and blues. “Ari, corka, my spirit child. You are the richest of clay. As you create, know I am in the earth, the sea, and sky, and your hand and heart will always connect with mine. Papa.”

  Two seats away, Mum quakes, ready to blow. I slip into Babcia’s room, secret my treasure inside her trunk under the special-day linens then hide behind the door. She erupts, “What about me? What about our deal?”

  “The divorce proceedings have no relevance now. Nothing had been signed. Mr. Zajac’s will is ironclad.”

  “Hariet is mine, so that money is mine.”

  “Except for a small allowance it can’t be touched for three and a half years. I’ll be managing it on her behalf.”

  “I’m her mother. I’ll manage it.”

  “You have no say in the matter, ma’am.”

  “Richard, do something.”

  “Now, listen here, the widow is entitled to her fair share. This is the address where the kid will be staying. Have the expense cheques sent there.”

  Jacquie says, “Mum, you can have the expense money. Let Ari stay here, near her school.”

  I don’t know what’s flying out there but an Armageddon of smashing erupts. “You . . . you and that filthy little bitch. First you take your father from me with your fawning and flirting. Now, Hariet steals what’s mine from that spineless excuse . . .”

  I scurry out the window, down the fire escape, peeling along the alley, over fences, through prickly shrubs. I locate Belle’s key from under the patio stone, stuff my gear into my pack, and fly to the basement. My choices end in small spaces: the furnace room, laundry room . . . I opt for the crawl space under the stairs.

  I have Len’s soft flannel shirt under my head and the arms of his lanky sweater hugging my shoulders. I fish out my Pennyworth’s flashlight and stack of condolences, re-reading the one I always turn to.

  I walk the shore, more restless than the waves. I’d let my imagination run these past months as I scoped out spots for Len’s store. I saw us as a family.

  I was sitting by our log this morning thinking that for me family is only a wish that will disappear the moment I reach out. And right then an eagle walked by, just like that. Wings tucked in, like Len’s hands in his pockets. It stopped and gave me a look, eye to eye, I swear. A whole book, with unwritten chapters was in that one look, an exhortation to hold onto hope. I half expected him to leave behind a feather for me to continue the writing of our story.

  If I could find a way to come and hold you through this sorrow I would. More fosters arrived yesterday—twins, the most cantankerous pair I’ve ever come across. They only quiet when I fiddle so I can’t leave the Missus.

  Len was like Huey in his softness, don’t you think? When my dad drunk himself off the boat it was more relief than a sadness. Just imagining the time when I’ll have to let Huey go makes me wonder how your heart isn’t falling to pieces. If love can keep it beating then you’ll be okay, because I am sending that to you every minute. Jake.

  I fold the letter. Papa, I want to go home. Please, I just want to go home with you.

  I drift until sounds snap me awake: dishes clinking, the phone ringing, kettle whistling, and then a pounding at the side door and a police-big voice, “We’re here for Hariet Appleton.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “We’ll have a look if you don’t mind, ma’am.”

  “Help yourself.”

  They clomp around like the goon patrol. How they miss the jackhammering of my chest pounding under the stairs is a Jesus-strike-them-deaf mystery.

  “You hear from her, call this number.”

  “Why? So Officer Irwin can smack her around? She’s a good kid who’s just lost her father. Leave her alone and go do what the taxpayers pay you to do.”

  “This is a serious matter, ma’am.”

  “Don’t be the fool. She a fourteen-year-old honour-roll student. Now get out before I call the chief of police.” Then Miss Standish’s voice comes again, softer now, “Mary. Any luck?”

  “No, I hoped Zodiac could track her down.” Nails clickity-clack down the steps and I pray the fuzz have retreated because Zodiac is scratching at the crawl space door wanting Len and me to take him for a ramble.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Jennah sets the table with her prettiest china. “I’ll get things signed, sealed, and delivered before the petit fours.”

  “Why does she want someone she hates?”

  “To stick it to Len like she thinks he stuck it to her.”

  “He was only ever nice to her.”

  “She rewrites everything in her head. Somebody’s always done her wrong.” Jennah folds the linen napkins into a crown. “You lay low. It’s easier getting her mind off the meat when it’s in the freezer.” Jennah cuts lemon squares with the exact same hands as our mother. She’s like Mum down to the wave in her hair. The difference is, Jennah owns every bed she’s made. I don’t know what she does about the beds that aren’t her making, but last year, in her pool, she taught me to scream underwater and she’s really good at it. She fills a crystal dish with cigarettes.

  “Thought you quit.”

  “Smoke keeps bees from stinging.” The old truck pulls into the drive. “Take your book into the den. Jacquie and I’ll handle this.”

  November cool skitters in as Jacquie arrives with Mum. She sounds like an old barmaid full of other people’s smoke and troubles. “Where’re my sweet-D’s? Grandma’s brought candy.”

  “They’re at playschool. Um, hello. I didn’t know you were bringing a guest, Mum.”

  “This is Richard’s girl, Ronnie. She wanted to meet her new sisters.”

  Frig, Jasper, the Dick’s planted a snitch. I settle into a leather chair, more interested in the story unfolding in the dining room than in Wuthering Heights.

  Fifteen minutes into the cucumber sandwiches Jennah says, “Do you like pinball, Ronnie? There’s a machine in the rec room. Plenty of chips and coke behind the bar.”

  When the basement door closes I creep down the hall and peek into the living room. Jacquie sits quiet, pushing against the pain in her head with her palms. Mum’s right eye folds into her face as she sucks on her cigarette. “That one’s a firecracker like you, Jennah. Could you spare a twenty? I’m a little short until I get this money mess straightened out.”

  “You know, Mum, I bet we could finagle a cash settlement from Mr. Lukeman if you’d give Wilf and me custody of Hariet.”

  “What kind of settlement?”

  “Maybe the thirteen thousand originally worke
d out in the divorce agreement.”

  “That’s not cutting it now. The penny-pinching bastard. All I did without because he said he had money troubles when he was sitting on a gold mine. As his widow, it’s my estate.”

  I swear I’m going to pitch her in an urchin stew.

  “Let’s not talk about money right now. I never realized how hard having kids was until I had my own. With all your struggles, all your hard breaks, you made sure we were okay.”

  Who’s she talking to, Ari?

  She’s just catching flies with crap.

  “And look at us, Mummy. I’ve got this lovely home. June’s travelling the world. Jacquie’s a businesswoman. Jory’s doing the Lord’s work. Jillianne’s taking a design course. And Hariet was top mark last year. She’s been moved about more than any of us. Let her stay put at the store for high school.”

  “I’ll have to ask Richard.”

  “He has nothing to do with this, Mummy. Think of Hariet.”

  “She’s never thought about me, has she?”

  “How can you say that? She’s a bundle of kindness, especially to you.”

  “Me? The way she was always climbing over your father? And don’t think I don’t know what she was up to with Len. That Mary ruined her.”

  Jacquie starts hissing, “You—how? You are—”

  Jennah clenches her words. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to Arielle? Wilf will drive Mum home. Take the package in the hall with you.” Jennah fills Mum’s cup with whiskey. “Well, for all the trouble she’s caused, let’s get her out of your hair once and for all.”

  “So she gets what she wants and I get nothing? Again?”

  “You’ll get thousands if you give over custody. But if you take her, all you’ll get is a thorn in your side. You need to take care of yourself.”

  “He’s laughing at me.”

  “Who?”