The Potter's Daughter (Literary Series)

by Smith, Daniel Arthur

  Over the years the highly detailed urns tended to be more popular and brought in the most money. Urns Will did not like that much because he thought they appeared contrived. Each grape vine, humming bird, and floral decoration was created with such skill and artifice that they ironically lacked naturalness and spontaneity. Will’s favorite urns were tall and plain. That is what he was about to create.

  Though the shop had electric wheels, for the tall urns Will always used the manual kick wheel with the pedal on the floor just as his father did. When Will’s son Michael was alive, the two would have competitions. Will on the manual wheel and Michael on the electric. The contest was to see which of the two could raise the clay to the tallest urn. Will had played the same game with his own father.

  The clay Will was working with started as a blob and was that no longer. Will reached over to get the wet sponge while holding his other hand effortlessly still on the side of the clay. The wheel hummed. The pedal pumped up and down. Will’s upper body was postured statuesque, the clay waiting to dance before him. Will squeezed the sponge above the clay as the water uniformly engulfed the form. The time was right. Leaning into the wheel, Will put his other hand lightly to the side, beckoning his partner. The clay responded and began to lift from the wheel, agreeing to join him. Will led, the clay followed. His right hand caressed below the rising nape of the rim. His left hand stroked the side at the waist.

  The clay began to dance.

  If Will respected the clay, if his hands were steady, the clay would become a tall plain urn.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 4

  After Will finished the urn he stood up from the kick wheel, turned toward the lake, and reached inside of the pocket of his flannel shirt for a Camel cigarette. Camel shorts without the filters had been his cigarettes of choice for many years, yet after Emily died twenty years ago, he switched to the light filters and then only smoked those sparsely in the studio or at the Stone Tavern. Will put the cigarette in his mouth then reached into his pants pocket for his Zippo without removing his gaze from the frozen lake.

  There were three snowmobiles crossing the lake from Peters Beach, Will was not focusing on them.

  Will’s mind was drifting from the completion of the urn to the inevitable thought that he was capable of completing a piece at all. How effortless the wheel had been for him, as throwing the clay had been countless times before. Surely the tremors were no reason for everyone to be so concerned, he was after all as able bodied as ever.

  Just under six feet tall, Will was as solid at sixty-seven as he had been at forty or twenty. He was moderately stocky and shared the crystal blue eyes and the sandy brown hair of every Bellen man before him. Grey was the color of his hair now, yet all there, and a color that blended well with his studio. Will was quite proud of that. A little grey did not debilitate him.

  Will thought Abby was audacious. His daughter was always welcome to her childhood home. Taking time away from her job was a bit much though. If Abby had her own issues to work out, he would support her just as long as she did not project them on him. Abby having an early mid-life crisis was not his fault. Abby did not have to meddle in his life for distraction from her own. Meddlesome is what they all were. Little Caroline calling Abby in the city burned him a bit too. Abby should be taking care of her life and he should be taking care of his.

  Will threw down his half smoked camel and crushed the tobacco on the dusty cement floor, his eyes still fixed across the lake. Shrugging off thoughts of Abby and Caroline, he turned to one of the worktables in the center of the room. Under the worktable were a set of cabinets that held dyes, sponges, and water bottles. Along side of the supplies were two bottles of red wine and some paper cups. Will pulled a half bottle of wine out of the cabinet along with a paper cup. He opened the wine and filled the cup.

  Alone in his studio Will began to sip from the paper cup.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 5

  The party was a celebration for Brian’s fortieth birthday. Brian’s favorite jazz music permeated every corner from the surround sound system. Paper lanterns donned the stairwell and were hung in strategic points of the house so that the fireplace and a few scattered candles appeared as the primary light. The twins had helped make decorations and a banner that read ‘Happy 40th Brian’. Balloons were scattered across the ceiling.

  Caroline had borrowed a young bartender from the Stone Tavern to pour drinks and a neighboring high school girl to take coats. Champagne flutes were filled with peach or mango belinis and given to guests as they arrived. Proseco filled other flutes for continual toasts to the man of the hour. Bob Jensen, owner of the Stone Tavern and close friend of Brian’s, walked among the guests with a bottle in hand ensuring everyone was well provided for.

  Brian looked ahead to each year as something new and was pleased at forty as he was at thirty and would be at fifty.

  Abby was not sure she would feel the same as Brian when she turned forty and thought that when her time came the celebration would be a wake for her youth and vitality. This party contrarily celebrated Brian’s ongoing adventure and the conversations he was having with his guests reflected as much. Brian spoke of plans for his home, his family’s cross-country vacation, and most of all planning for his guests. Some of the guests at the party had Brian and Caroline design or renovate their homes and many more would have liked them to.

  If Abby was afraid that forty was a tiresome ending point then Brian was there to assure her that he was still peaking. Listening to Brian discuss architectural designs with the guests was exhausting to her. So much so that she mentioned to Caroline, “ How can you actually pull off all of those amazing things Brian is talking about? How can you do all of that?”

  “Ah,” said Caroline. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”

  Caroline lightly pulled Abby’s arm and led her across the room.

  “You discovered our secret. Well not so secret. When Brian and I do a design, we actually don’t do the magic by ourselves. We call on a third,” said Caroline. “Abby, I would like you to meet Mitch Carlson, the magician.”

  Abby let her eyes synch with Mitch’s dark brown eyes and was charmed by the quick to react curve of his lips. His brownish black brushed back hair, a bit shaggy, went well with his white-collar shirt that hung loosely outside of his blue jeans. Abby guessed that Mitch was some type of artist or craftsman by his dress and the relaxed air of confidence that shadowed him. She had grown up with two such men.

  When Mitch took Abby’s hand to greet her, she noticed that his skin was tough like coarse leather yet his muscular touch though firm was gentle.

  “So you make it all happen?” asked Abby.

  “Well the building part, Caroline and Brian handle the design,” said Mitch.

  “You sell yourself short,” said Caroline. “If it weren’t for Mitch we would be doing theory of design rather than implementing it. Mitch has been working with us since we got out here, every design has his mark on it.”

  “I love you too hon,” said Mitch, “You make me all gushy inside.”

  “Seriously,” said Abby, “All of these projects sound exhausting.”

  “Excuse me, the Franks are just getting here,” said Caroline as she stepped away leaving the two to talk.

  “It’s not exhausting at all, really,” said Mitch. “Abby, you’re the cousin from the city?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Your famous around here. Working at the art museum, I love that place!”

  “Really?”

  “It’s one of the only places I care to see when I’m in the city. There and O’Malley’s,” said Mitch.

  “Well of course O’Malley’s, there’s days I’d rather be there than the museum.”

  Both laughed and clinked their glasses together in an ad hoc toast.

  “El Greco,” said Mitch, Abby interrupted, “—El Greco, yes!”

  “El Greco,” said Mitch, “one of my favorite exhibits a few yea
rs back.”

  “That was a good exhibit, I was an assistant curator on that one.”

  “Well, I must say you did a good job.”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Abby paused, “You don’t know what I do there, do you?”

  “Not at all,” said Mitch. They both laughed again. “Could you tell me what exactly a curator does because I did sincerely find the exhibit both enjoyable and memorable? ”

  “Well in a nutshell a curator manages or executes all of the effort to put on an exhibit. There is a lot of research, planning, gathering media and of course what needs to be exhibited, then there is marketing, most people do not associate curating with marketing, let me tell you, ” Abby nodded her head.

  “So you organize the entire exhibit.”

  “The entire exhibit.”

  “Where does the research come from if you are already the biggest museum in the city?”

  “We do have amazing archives. We have to go through all of that stuff. Oh, we teach too sometimes. I taught a class last year,” said Abby. She took another drink.

  “How do you go about gathering artwork from around the world?”

  “That is a bit tricky. You see most stuff comes from private collections and --,” Abby stopped.

  The sound of a revving engine and breaking glass came from the driveway. Some of the guests moved toward the atrium to look out the glass plate wall to see what was going on outside. Abby scanned the room for Caroline then saw her already walking toward the window see what the disturbance was. Caroline glanced back at Abby for a second, and then out the glass plate wall of the atrium. Then without turning her head away from the ongoing action outside Caroline stretched her arm toward Abby then wiggled her fingers.

  “Excuse me,” Abby said to Mitch and then walked to where Caroline was standing.

  The loud revving truck engine could be heard shifting gears and there was a clinking of glass bottles falling on top of each other. Abby looked out the window and her teeth slowly started to grind. She saw a 1961 blue Chevy pickup that, because so many guests had already parked, had tried to park on the snow covered edge of the driveway and had ended up on top of the recycling bins, already half full of containers from the party. The driver was making a loud awkward unsuccessful attempt to correct his mistake.

  Abby knew the pickup was a 1961 Chevy not because she was any type of auto aficionado. Abby knew the owner of the truck and what condition he was in behind the wheel.

  “I’ll go get him,” said Abby.

  Caroline was by Abby’s side as Abby stepped out the door of the atrium. The two women looked down the driveway from the elevated porch to the truck. The truck did not appear to be stuck in the deep snow. The driver was relentlessly trying to find a parking space to his satisfaction and was revving the engine to power through the snow. The pickup was going two feet back and then two feet forward and then two feet back again. The recycling bins and landscaping beneath the snow had fallen prey to the parking maneuvers.

  “Will Bellen!” yelled Abby.

  The truck was revving loudly.

  “Will Bellen, get out of that truck!”

  The revving stopped.

  “Will! Turn off the key!”

  The truck was now in a position where the driver’s door was blocked by the pine trees that skirted the yard.

  There was a pause and then the engine of the truck stopped running. The silence was peaceful. Abby and Caroline gazed at the sleeping blue pickup sitting in the snow and waited. Against the snow in the shadow of the pines, the truck took on a cerulean hue. With a heavy creak the passenger door opened. Out into the snow climbed Will Bellen. He thrust himself forward to make a couple of spry steps then teetered. Will put one leg forward, unsatisfied he thrust the same leg a little farther out into the snow then fell back on the other leg finally coming to rest with a gentle sway. Having achieved the great feat of standing up Will flashed his crystal blue eyes at the girls and showed all of his teeth in a grin.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 6

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Will.

  “You’re drunk!” said Abby.

  Will’s eyebrows raised and his jaw dropped open. Abby’s jaw clenched tighter.

  “Are you Ok Uncle Will?” asked Caroline.

  “Couldn’t be finer.”

  Will reached into the truck, pulled out a bottle of wine, and then held the bottle into the air.

  “I had two of these,” said Will, “one seemed to dry up.”

  “Your intolerable Will Bellen!” snapped Abby.

  Will was unfettered by Abby’s reaction to his entrance.

  “Well if you are not going to invite me in, I’m coming in from the cold,” said Will and proceeded to the atrium choosing to tromp directly through the deep snow covered yard rather than by way of the driveway where the snow was clear.

  Abby wanted to go back into the party and let Caroline deal with her father. There would be no speaking to Will rationally. Abby’s clenched jaw, ironically a trait from her father, made speaking tough.

  When Will got to the steps of the porch he took them two at a time, though Caroline and Abby were not sure that was his plan. He stumbled, almost dropping the wine, before setting the bottle on the top of the porch in front of him.

  “Whoa,” said Will.

  The women reached out their hands for Will then each grabbed an arm. They pulled him to the top of the porch where he stood on his own balance. The odor of smoked camels filled the porch and the women could see the purplish hue of Shiraz on Will’s lips.

  Will bent over, picked up and then presented the bottle of wine to Caroline. “So how are you this evening my dear Caroline?”

  “Fine uncle Will. Are you sure your ok?”

  “Dandy. What’s the weather like sunshine?”

  “Partly cloudy, storm’s a comin’,” said Caroline.

  Will winked at Caroline, “So where’s the Birthday boy?”

  “You have some explaining to do,” said Abby.

  “He’s inside. C’mon in, I’ll get him,” said Caroline.

  Caroline opened the door and walked through. Will moved to follow her and was stopped by Abby.

  “Let me brush that snow off your legs,” said Abby.

  “Ok, ok.”

  Will had caked snow around the calves of his blue jeans tromping across the yard. From the inside of the door, Abby grabbed a small broom that was kept for that purpose and brushed the snow off for him. When she finished Will lifted his cool crystal blue eyes to her and asked, “Are we ready now?”

  “Yes, old man,” said Abby. Her brows furrowed.

  Will stepped into the atrium followed by Abby. In a low voice to the back of Will’s ear Abby said, “I can’t believe you were driving drunk on Willow Lake Road. You’re crazy.”

  “It was fine,” said Will, “no unsafe conditions.”

  Abby did not like him using that term.

  Winding twenty-one miles around Willow Lake was Willow Lake Road. Willow Lake Road many years ago had been a two-track road that after the war became a two-lane dirt road and on the map became County Road Twenty-Three. Summer people did not like stones chipping away at their foreign cars so a few years later County Road Twenty-Three was coated with asphalt and on the map became Willow Lake Road.

  Each summer Willow Lake road had at least one fatal accident, a motorcycle collision, or someone just driving too fast around one of the many curves, usually not a local, and each winter there were far more fatalities because of ‘unsafe conditions’.

  Asphalt gathers precipitation, moisture from the air, that when cold creates a layer of ice. County trucks then put salt on the asphalt melting the ice, ice that turns to water, water that is absorbed into the minute cracks and crevices only to resurface when the effects of the salt wear off forming yet a new layer of ice. The new ice brings to the surface all of the oil and sediment that was in the road creating black ice. Black ice is slicker than normal ice, virtually invisible, an
d in a word, deadly. Since the asphalt had been put down, the death toll rose and the blame is the layer of black ice. The police accident reports give a simple explanation when the black ice is blamed not requiring too much paperwork, ‘unsafe conditions’.

  When Abby’s brother died, his jeep flew off the road, hit a tree, and then smashed into the rocks at South Point. The accident report read ‘unsafe conditions’.

  Will had used that term to shut Abby down successfully. She would not be getting in the way of his good time. He removed his coat and scarf then handed them to Jenny, the neighbor girl Caroline had hired to help at the party. Then he entered the large main room, peeked around, made smiles to familiar neighbors, and made comments under his breath to Abby as to which smiling face was an idiot and which owed him twenty dollars. Will’s beige wool sweater complimented his silver hair and contrasted his blue eyes in a way that made them look brilliant. Will spotted the bar and walked there directly. Abby did not follow him.

  Abby picked up the white wine that she had set on the maple side table then headed toward the kitchen at the other end of the house.

  Set out on the kitchen island was a buffet. There was a bright orange ceramic plate with small chicken and egg meatballs covered in a ginger teriyaki sauce. A baby blue square ceramic plate held enoki mushrooms wrapped in bacon. There were many swiss, cheddar, and havarti cheeses with thin herb flavored crackers next to sopressata sausages, salami, tuna salad, potato salad, and a local favorite, cream cheese and green onion wrapped in sliced ham. Abby picked up a small plate and fork and allowed herself to become distracted.

  Especially enjoyable were the meatballs, they were downright addictive. Lightly grilled in the ginger teriyaki sauce they tasted like candy.

  “They’re delicious right?” said Mitch. He had walked up to Abby from the side and she had not seen him. Abby cleared her throat with a drink of wine.