The Girl Made of Clay

by Nicole Meier

  Rotating on the stool, she viewed the wall behind her. Along a far side, stacked onto the shelves of metal racks, were various works in progress, including sculpted busts, curled hands, and miniature human forms. Sara wondered how long TR had been working on each one, as some appeared abandoned.

  The most recent image, not yet completed, was the face of a woman. The large, almond-cut eyes with finely molded lids emoting a somber expression were highlighted by gentle wisps of a prominent brow. Peering closer, Sara knew this to be the face of Marie. She tugged at her hair to keep from reaching out and handling the still-drying clay. She had the urge to rotate this face away from her own. She wasn’t ready to deal with Marie yet.

  It was odd to think of her father sculpting other women. Of course he had over the years. Why wouldn’t he? But still, she knew Marie meant more to him than most. The idea floated in her gut, like something unsettled. Had Marie posed for this piece? It was difficult to fathom. The fiery woman didn’t strike Sara as the patient type. But clearly TR had sought to capture his lover’s beauty. From what she could tell, he’d done a nice job of it.

  Tearing her gaze away, she looked down. On the concrete floor, beneath the racks, were piles of hulking gray blocks protectively wrapped in streams of waxy plastic. Sara locked in on these the longest. The flicker of temptation lit up. Blocks and blocks of unused clay were just sitting there, waiting to be made into something.

  Spinning back around, she glanced at the room’s filmy window. As far as she could tell, Bo was busy elsewhere. How strange, she thought, that he’d pushed her into the studio and expected her to know what to do. To help herself to TR’s things and make herself at home. Other than being presumptuous, he had no idea whether Sara was the creative type or not. What did he know about what she needed? Yet his words lingered.

  Therapy, humph.

  She wiped moisture from her palms onto the front of her jeans and stared. It certainly was a nice studio.

  Everything had its place, neatly organized, but not so much that it couldn’t be put back if it were to be handled. Tapping her foot against the edge of the stool leg, she debated. No. She really shouldn’t. What would be the point in moving things around, in touching them? This was TR’s stuff. Not hers.

  She was not the artist. Not really.

  But something beckoned her anyway. Wheedling past her stubbornness and beyond her preconceived notion of why she’d come in the first place was a nagging desire. An appetite for something she couldn’t quite identify. Perhaps if she just peeled back a small corner of the protective wrap, she might allow herself to feel the gratifying coolness of the clay. She’d just run a finger along the edge of the blocks for old time’s sake. That would be enough. Surely.

  Sliding from her perch, Sara made for the storage racks. Just for a minute, she told herself. And nothing more.

  She followed the scent of damp earthiness. Her soles plodded along the cold ground, echoing throughout the vacant room. Rather than putting her off, the chilled temperature was invigorating, shaking off the funk from her long drive. Coming up on the first row of blocks, she leaned down and pinched the plastic sheets between her fingers. Lifting them, she revealed a sizable mass the color of pale ash.

  Squatting down, she read the large print across the flap of an adjacent decapitated cardboard box. Her eyes widened. “Porcelain?” she said aloud. That was strange.

  Her father had always sculpted with a type of oil-based clay, oftentimes followed by the construction of a wax casting, if he wanted the end product to be bronzed. But never something as refined as porcelain. That was for dishes and such.

  This type of clay was something entirely new. And by the looks of it, this particular supply was fresh. She slowly pieced the clues together, her eyes traveling to the empty pottery wheel. Of course. TR had ordered a different type of clay with the intention of throwing pots. It made sense, but it was also bizarre for Sara to think of her father in this way. Creating vessels just wasn’t his style. He was a disciplined artist, meticulously carving organic forms to represent life through his lens with fine-tipped tools, not cupping his hands to create a cylinder object on a wheel.

  Had Bo not told her about the wheel and TR’s interest in a catalog, Sara would have never guessed her father would have changed his ways. But then again, the old man’s property was full of surprises. There was so much she still didn’t know.

  She reached out and splayed her fingers over the surface of the creamy clay. A tingle traveled up her arm. Sara closed her eyes, allowing the feeling to melt her rigid insides. A faint sigh escaped. She’d missed this.

  Withdrawing her hand, she inched back and told herself this would be enough. Just the act of laying her hand on the material would sustain her. She certainly didn’t need to disturb TR’s collection just because Bo told her to.

  What exactly did he imagine she’d do?

  But then again, she thought, there’s so much of it. She doubted TR would even notice if she nipped off a small piece for herself.

  Gliding over to the workbench, she performed a quiet inventory. It took about two seconds to locate the wire clay cutters employed for slicing off material from the clay blocks. Snatching the set of wooden handles, she made quick work of crossing the room and sinking the thin wire into the flesh of velvety porcelain. She cut all the way through, a satisfying wedge tumbling onto the floor and falling at her feet. Retrieving it, Sara moved to the wedging table and planted it on the wood top with a giant smacking sound.

  Stifling a laugh, she glanced around to make sure Bo didn’t come running.

  Seeing no one, she lifted the mound, turned it over, and slapped it down again with all her strength. Right away she felt better. Sara could almost sense the taut muscles in her neck giving way.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” she murmured. “Bo was right. This is therapeutic.”

  Not wanting the feeling to go away, she dove the heels of her hands into the clay and leaned down and forward, using the full weight of her body. Curling her fingers at the knuckles, she cupped her hands and rolled the clay over to perform the action a second time. Strands of hair cascaded down, escaping from behind her ears. Her lips sent a puff of hot air upward. Scooting in closer, she braced her hips against the wood frame for better leverage. Pushing down, she manipulated the material again until it felt pliable. A kind of ease took over, and she continued.

  It had been a long time since she’d done something like this. The tops of her forearms burned slightly, the weakened muscles constricting and flexing as she went. Her hands gradually morphed into instruments, kneading and folding the clay over and over again. Pretty soon, a kind of hush filled her ears with only the sharp bursts of TR’s instructions to “wedge out tiny pockets of air” sounding in her head. Giving over to the motion, she permitted months’ worth of stress to gently slough away. A kind of rhythm picked up as she swayed and smacked until her once-geometric slice of clay had become a relaxed spiral. Standing back, she grinned. She’d forgotten how fun it could be.

  “Someone’s happy.”

  Sara jumped a foot. Her hand flew over her heart.

  Bo stood in the doorway, arms folded and a cockeyed smile plastered across his face. A sliver of golden sunlight glinted behind him.

  “Bo! You scared the life out of me.” Her breath caught. She hadn’t realized she’d been panting.

  His heavy boots strode farther into the room. “Whatcha got there? Anything good?”

  Sara leaned back and blocked his view of the table. A wave of guilt sent her hands into her back pockets. “Oh, just you know . . . checking stuff out.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough. Guess you decided to take my advice after all.”

  Sara paused. She wasn’t sure she should confess how gorgeously satisfying it felt to slam down a piece of clay and pound out her aggravation. But somehow she sensed Bo knew this already.

  “Wanna have a go at th
e wheel?” He cocked his head.

  Sara startled, her brow dipping. “What? Why would I do that?”

  “Um, because it’s just sitting there, being unused. And you seem to know what you’re doing. Aren’t you the least bit tempted?”

  “I actually don’t know what I’m doing.”

  But it was tempting. She’d been staring at the contraption for the better part of an hour. Every time she’d stop to roll the clay over, the wheel gleamed in her periphery. Her only experience with a wheel had been observing others use older versions, back when she was much younger. The kind of motorless kick wheels used by a friend of her father’s back in the early 1980s that was propelled by the rapid use of one’s foot and nothing more than a round plate of plywood. The one squatting in TR’s current studio had an intimidating steel construction, a curious tray, and fancy toggles and switches. Just the act of turning it on might be enough for Sara to damage it.

  “Well, you could’ve fooled me. You break that shit down exactly like your father.” He eyed the spiraled clay in front of her. “You even made that ‘ram’s head’ shape he refers to.”

  Sara perked. “You know about the ram’s head?”

  “Of course!” Bo exclaimed. Then he planted his feet wide apart, cradled an imaginary piece of clay in his two hands, and dropped his voice to mimic TR. “Boy, you’ve gotta cup it like this, see, then throw it down and make a tight spiral. Keep those—”

  “Thumbs together!” Sara laughed at the uncanny imitation of their father, finishing his sentence.

  “Exactly! It’s the same speech every time, like I’m an imbecile who can’t take direction.”

  “That’s what he used to say to me all the time: ‘Keep your thumbs together!’ God, I can remember it like it was yesterday. So you guys hang out in here?” She swallowed back a small pebble of envy.

  “Yeah, I’ve hung out in here with him before. I think the old man hopes some of his creative mojo will rub off on me. He’s tried to teach me a couple of things, but woodworking is more my jam, if you know what I mean. The sculpting, not so much.”

  “Huh.” This was all news to Sara. That TR had even taken the time to apprentice his new son meant TR trusted Bo enough to invite him into the secret lair. Not everyone got an invitation to TR’s creative space. She felt a new kind of connection to Bo because of this.

  “So did he teach you how to use the wheel?”

  “Nah. But that’s what YouTube is for, right? I looked up a video when TR asked me to unbox the thing and hook it up with electrical. It doesn’t look so hard. You just get some water and throw on a glob of clay and spin. Presto.”

  Sara laughed. “Somehow I doubt it’s as easy as ‘presto.’ But okay.”

  “Okay, you’re going to try it?”

  “Okay, I’ll watch a video. Later. When I get some free time.”

  “Cool.”

  “Bo,” Sara started.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” It was something she’d wondered since her first visit. His mother seemed to know some history, but she hadn’t exactly been welcoming. And TR hadn’t exactly encouraged the two of them to meet either. So far, all signs should be pointing Bo toward keeping his guard up, creating a distance between himself and the unwelcome stranger who was snooping around. But Bo had been quite the opposite. It was almost as if he was glad she was around.

  He shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I be? I mean, like you said, we are related. I know about the statue and how TR kind of left you and your mom after he hit the big time. You’re the sculptor’s daughter. I’m familiar with some of the story.”

  “I see.”

  “Besides,” he said. “I can relate, if that makes any sense. My father situation is equally screwed up. My first dad didn’t turn out to be who I thought he was. Besides not being my biological father, he didn’t stick to the unconditional love part once he realized TR was my father.” His voice dipped.

  “I’m so sorry.” Sara felt bad for this kid; having two dads who didn’t live up to expectations must’ve been awful.

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. But TR and I don’t exactly have the smoothest of relationships. So when you showed up, I thought you might be someone I could relate to. You just seem sort of, well, affected by this life. And that is something I can understand.”

  Who was this kid, with his gentle words and thoughtful insights? Normally it would crawl under her skin whenever someone said they’d read about her rocky history with TR. She’d never appreciated the very public invasion of her privacy. But when Bo said it, she’d felt consoled. Like he’d been trying to support her. As crazy as it was, Sara felt the thread of a connection wound between them. She suddenly was glad she’d come.

  This must be what it feels like to have a brother.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  SARA

  Sara returned home later that evening under the dusky cover of an orange October sky. Parking the car, she let the lids of her eyes drop. The events of the day had sapped her. Fragments of her time spent with Bo played over in her head. The conversation, the workspace, and perhaps most surprisingly of all, the welcome sensation of gorgeous clay between her fingers. Sara left the property on a high of sorts. It was ironic, really. Rather than follow through with her plan to uncover mysteries of the charred home—and subsequent discord between its residents—Sara had been drawn by the lure of TR’s art studio. Before she knew it, the hours had slipped away from her and it had been time to leave.

  She was still contemplating how much of this to share with TR. So much had transpired over the past days, and her head was swimming because of it. Now home, she wasn’t quite ready to face what was likely waiting to greet her.

  No doubt Charlie was looming somewhere inside, prepared to pick a fight.

  Guilt was taking hold. She’d left Sandpoint much later than she’d aimed for and, as a result, had been caught in the snarl of rush-hour traffic. Dinnertime had come and gone. Other than shooting a brief text to Charlie, reminding him a friend would drop Sam home after school, she’d neglected to touch base. This had surely not sat well with her husband. Not because Charlie wasn’t used to looking after Sam—because he was—but rather that he’d been ditched by his wife and thoughtlessly saddled with hosting his difficult father-in-law.

  Charlie’s last words to Sara had been, “Your dad needs to go home.” And she’d promptly ignored him. Being left alone to whip up a meal for TR had no doubt thrust Charlie into a foul mood. A mood that required significant energy Sara currently didn’t have. And while she knew it was mostly her fault, she was growing to resent Charlie all the same.

  Their marriage had become an ugly tally sheet of blame.

  Peering up at the house, she caught a light in the window. Behind it, the electric-blue glow of a television screen pulsed. She wondered if Sam and TR might be into the video games again. It had become a sweet routine for the two of them, bonding over technology that her aging father didn’t totally understand but embraced anyway. It dawned on her this was new for TR, spending time with a boy like this. He’d missed out on years with Bo, never really knowing him as a youth. Perhaps he was making up for lost time in a way. As far as Sara could tell, TR seemed to gravitate toward Sam more than anyone lately. This gave her a glimmer of happiness.

  Squeezing the latch of the front door, she tried to tamp down the anxious feeling that bubbled up. She hoped Charlie was at least over the worst of his virus. Holding her breath, she prayed she wouldn’t find him still in bed. TR was fine as a companion, but maybe not so much in the way of caregiver for her ten-year-old.

  “Hello? I’m home.” Just inside, everything was warm and smelled slightly of take-out pizza. Her mouth watered, salivating at the idea of food. It had been hours since she’d eaten. Following the aroma of gooey mozzarella cheese, she was drawn farther inside. Her boots were the first to go, clunking heavily on the hardwood floors. Her quilted jacket went next, fluttering onto the back of a chair.

  S
he took stock of the house as she went, feeling as if she’d been gone for days. Most of the lights had been left to carelessly burn throughout the house. It was a small detail, but it irked her. Charlie always neglected to notice things like that in her absence. He’d probably left a pile of unwashed dishes in the sink for her as well. Sighing, she came to the back of the living room couch and flicked off an adjacent floor lamp.

  “Hey, guys.”

  Two ruffled heads sat huddled together. Animated images jumped across a monitor in the background. Just as she’d predicted, her son and her father were up playing games.

  “Hi, there, stranger,” TR said, turning to greet her. His spotted hand shot up, revealing his grip on a bright cherry Popsicle. Sara tried not to glare as he dangled the drippy dessert precariously over her cushions.

  She sagged. She was too tired to play disciplinarian.

  “Hi, Mom!” Sam popped onto his knees and grinned. A bright stain of red ringed his small mouth. “Grandpa and I are playing Minecraft.”

  “I see that. I also see you introduced him to the box of Popsicles.” She bent and pushed her nose to the crown of Sam’s downy head. He remained still, allowing her to nuzzle him a bit longer before sliding back down again. Sam may have been getting too old for her to hold, but he still had his moments of little-boy sweetness. Sara relished them, no matter how minute. She knew they wouldn’t last forever.

  “I didn’t realize what I’d been missing out on until Sammy boy here shared his dessert with me.” TR made a slurping sound and grinned. This sent Sam into giggles, with TR playfully poking him in the ribs. Sara smiled. Clearly, they hadn’t missed her presence.