The Clay Head Benediction

by Marty Rafter

head I had left there. But when I get there, there are loads of people going inside, so I walk around the block a few times until everyone is out of sight, then I go and check the pond. The head is gone. I plan to put the new head among the rocks, but then I see an old woman in a long blue skirt and quilted jacket slowly making her way up the stairs of the cathedral. I jog over and offer to help the woman up the stairs, and she casually accepts without objection.

  “There are a lot of people already inside” I say

  “It’s All Saints” she says

  “Oh” I say

  “You aren’t going in?” She asks

  “No, I just thought you looked like you could use some help up the stairs”

  “Well, aren’t you nice” she says as she gently pats my arm

  When we reach the doors, I ask her if I can give her a present, and she says “I’m a bit late already” So, I quickly take off my backpack and take out the box that I had intended for Maria Olson and hand it to the woman.

  “Oh, it’s a real present” she says

  “It’s actually something I made myself”

  “And here I thought you were going to hand me a pamphlet. Thank you very much” she says as she drops the box into the long rectangular pocket of her coat “I will open it at home”

  Then, she thanks me again, and I wish her a good day, and I start towards home. I guess in retrospect; Maria Olson has a right to be afraid. It wasn’t too long ago that a guy went in to Western Psych and started shooting, and her and probably everyone like her stopped feeling safe. Or maybe they never felt safe, and now they do because they hired the armed guards at her office. I don’t know. I try not to think about it, that was a terrible thing. And things like that happen way too much. The sad thing is the natural human antidote to real fear is imaginary fear. ..Ben is right about that. And so there is my antidote, applied directly to the source, in the only way I can. In the face of an impossible sickness that is too tragic to comprehend, there is me, a lonely man with a simple solution. And it is naïve and simplistic, but it won’t turn me into an agent of what I oppose. Either way, I don’t blame Maria Olson. What I can do is try to create my opus, but the whole episode at her office didn’t help the way I thought it would, and I am finally tired, so my only option is to wait, and hope that inspiration comes.

  When I get home I try to draw for a bit. But when I do, everything I make is garbage, and I examine my supply of clay which is has rapidly depleted, and my entire store of eyes and hair is only enough to make two more heads, so I temporarily give up and decide to sleep. And when I do, I dream. I dream that I am outside a white storefront with huge windows facing a crowded sidewalk and I am amongst a crowd of well dressed people waiting to enter the store, and the people mingle and talk and great each other like long lost friends. And then the man from the theatre opens the door, and the crowd tries to push past him, but he calms them all quickly with a few words. Then he pushes through the mob to find me, and I see dozens of faces turn and look at me, and most of them are regarding me with open disdain. In response to their looks, I glance down at my clothes, and see that I am wearing a filthy tuxedo and waterlogged shoes. The man from the theatre calls out to me and walks towards me grinning with his hand extended. When he reaches me, he shakes my hand vigorously, and escorts me through the crowd to the front door. The rest of the people assembled outside start to whisper and point, and their expressions turn from disdain to eagerness, as I move past them. And when we enter the store, I see that it is not a store, but a gallery with bright walls and a sealed concrete floor. The man leads me around the room and explains to me my own creations, each of them affixed firmly to the wall at eye level and staring at me with their accusing glass eyes.

  “This is an example of the artist’s early work” the man says

  “I know”

  “Oh yes, well, of course you would.” He says smiling at me with perfectly straight teeth.

  “Of course, his career didn’t really begin to take off until the emergence of some of his later work, which captured the public’s attention with...”

  “I am not trying to become famous” I say

  “Oh, of course you’re not. Nobody is” The man says pleasantly, as he strides across the room to the front doors which he swings open with both hands. “But your public awaits”

  Then, he steps aside, and the crowd that was waiting outside of the door charges into the gallery where they immediately reassemble into the same groups and resume their noisy conversations. Then, the man walks with me around to the groups of the people and makes introductions, but I know everyone. They are the people I have always known, my childhood friends, people from the bar, people that I hadn’t seen in ages, and I am happy to see all of them. At first, they seem happy to see me, but then, there is something else there too. They shake my hand and smile, but none of them really seems happy, and so I say to the man. “Are they happy to see me?

  And he says “happy enough”

  “What does that mean ‘happy enough’?” I ask

  “…The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, my friend. The oldest story ever told… Cain and Abel...Let it go; it just comes with the territory”

  “I wasn’t planning on letting anyone find out it was me.” I say

  “You weren’t planning to, but they did”

  “So what about all this?” I ask

  “The reception, you mean? It is in your honor. We appealed to your better judgment...” He says

  “I don’t remember that” I say

  “You will”

  “I know what this is, you know. I know this is a dream." I say

  “I know. It is your dream. Your dream is the gallery, and me…and…surprise, surprise, all your friends are here”

  “It is not my dream that all this happens” I say

  The man smiles, “Of course it is. Why else would everyone be here? I didn’t think of it. You did. You planned your own coming out party…and you invited everyone you used to know to see your big redemption…the vindication for all these wasted years.”

  “It won’t happen like that. I’m not looking for notoriety...” I say

  “Not yet.” The man says. “But you will have the rest of your life to question your decision”

  I wake up in a panic. For the first time since I was a small child, I feel like I have had a genuine nightmare. I have had plenty of strange dreams, weird dreams, scary dreams, but not nightmares. And so, I sit alone in the darkness and think, and the hum of the refrigerator keeps me company until I can’t take it anymore, and I get out of bed and try to draw, but as soon as I pick up the pencil, I can feel it is a bad idea, and so I absentmindedly look through some of my notebooks for a while. And it is there, a poem:

  Come! O, human child!

  To the woods and waters wild,

  With a fairy hand in hand,

  For the world's more full of weeping then

  you can understand

  So, I get dressed in my winter clothes, long underwear, jeans, a sweater, my hat and coat and gloves, and push my blankets into a bag, and I leave the apartment. I walk for a long while, and finally, I am in the pine grove again, where I lie down gently on the ground. The wind blows and the big trees sway, and the darkness wraps its arms around my soul, and I sleep.

  When I wake, the ground has developed a frost and I am freezing, but I slept. The mania of feeling like my project must be completed right away is gone, and is replaced by the certainty that it will be completed. But I am not ready. A great project requires great discipline, and nervous energy alone will not make it come true. It is still early in the morning when I collect my belongings and leave the grove, and I am happy not to encounter any early morning dog walkers as I briskly walk away from the park with by duffel bag of damp bed clothes. I return to the building refreshed and happy and put my pillow and comforter into the drier before sweeping the hallways and inspecting th
e area around the dumpster. Then, I return to my apartment where I pack away my crafting supplies, and tend to the mundane administrative tasks of normal living. After I have paid some bills, and shower and eat, I make a second quick inspection of the building, and then walk to the entrance to the busway where I take the first bus that arrives.

  I ride the bus for a while until in finally makes its way down Grant Street and past the main port authority office where I get off and boy a monthly pass. Then, I after studying the maps, I take the bus to the big camping store on the Carson Street where I buy a heavy winter sleeping bag and a mountaineering bivy sack, which is a sort of waterproof cocoon for sleeping outdoors. Then, I ride the bus home and made another check of the building. At dusk, I pack the sleeping bag and the bivy sack into my duffel bag, and walk back to the grove where I spend a second dreamless night sleeping alongside the stand of bushes where I had originally left my shoes. The next days follow the same routine. I would wake in the woods, pack my sleeping bag and bivy sack into my duffel bag and walk home at dawn, check the building, and then I would spend the day on the bus, riding aimlessly around the city feeling the rhythm of the vehicle and watching the neighborhoods pass by the windows. Then, towards evening, I would return home, do a bit of work around the building, and then go back to the grove to sleep. It developed into the closest thing I have ever had to a decent