Trespassing(60)

Papa Hemingway is at my heels, curling around my legs as I step inside.

“What happened here, Papa? Whose space is this?”

The cat stares up at me, blinks, and continues his figure-eight path around my ankles. If he knows anything, he’s not telling.

“What do you suppose people do with these?” I pull from a hook on the wall something that looks like a thick thread—fishing line, maybe, or a thin wire—with knobby buttons fastened to either end. I crouch to the cat’s level and pet his head while he bats at the strange tool, as if it’s merely a toy there for his amusement. “Yeah, I don’t know, either.”

After hanging it back where I found it—Why? Shouldn’t I simply throw it away?—I make my way past the shelves along the right end of the room. I feather my fingertips over plastic-wrapped cubes of clay, over mason jars of glazes—among them, cobalt—and some plastic jars of silica, alumina, kaolin, all labeled by hand.

The handwriting is an artsy block, with serifs and ending strokes. Definitely not the no-nonsense style of my ex-roommate, Natasha Markham.

I pull a package off the shelf and blow dust off it. It’s a plastic-wrapped cube of clay. The label tells me it’s earthenware. Other cubes along the shelf are labeled terra-cotta and porcelain. However long this stash has been sitting upon this shelf, the seals on the plastic wrapping must be airtight because the clay is still malleable. I press my fingers into the mass; even through the plastic, I can make an imprint.

I look to the dusty potter’s wheel.

While I’ve seen people working these things at art fairs back in the city, I wouldn’t know how to begin to use it, even if it worked, which I’m not sure it does.

Still, there’s an electric outlet just behind the mechanism, and its plug practically dares me to try it out. Balancing the clay in one arm, I bend over to plug in the wheel. Flip the switch to “On.” It hums but doesn’t move.

Broken, perhaps?

Then I see the pedal. I press it with the tip of my toes, and the wheel starts to turn at a lazy pace.

Old clay residue seems to spiral out at me, like beads in a kaleidoscope, mesmerizing me, playing tricks on my vision.

So the thing works. Good to know, in case I decide to sell it.

Then again . . .

What if I could learn to use it?

I have clay and a kiln . . .

I call up a video on YouTube and watch a few minutes of a tutorial. Seems easy enough. I plunk the cube of earthenware atop the sturdy pine table and twist the plastic wrapping until it starts to unravel.

First, I dig into the stuff with my hands and pack it like a snowball, but the stuff accumulates under my fingernails, and I can only imagine recreating the airtight seal might be difficult without a smooth edge. I retrieve a butter knife from the kitchen and lop off a hunk as evenly as I can manage it.

Now that I have a decent chunk of clay, I fashion it into a ball and plop it down at the center of the wheel. Now what? As soft as the clay is, my hands aren’t going to slip around it very easily.

How did the artist in Old Town do this? The guy on YouTube had sponges, a bucket of water.

I retrieve more supplies and sit on a tiny stool behind the potter’s wheel. I step on the pedal to start the wheel spinning and cup wet fingers around the clay.

The clay is lopsided, not centered, and I can’t manage to control it, let alone shape it into anything with some semblance of style. It hobbles and topples and rips, and I can’t seem to get a good pace going. I put either too much pressure on the pedal or not enough. I kick off my shoes. Maybe direct contact between my foot and the pedal will help.

I mash down the clay and try again.

And again.

And again.

I’m filthy, and the diamonds in my wedding ring are caked with earthenware, but eventually I manage to manipulate the clay into a cylinder. With enough water and patience, I pinch the sides of the cylinder so that they thin out and grow taller as they do. I press it back down and try something else, this time molding it into a bulbous shape.

Still lopsided, still ugly. But it’s a creation nonetheless.

“You will not defeat me,” I say to the machine.

I’ll let this whatever-it-is dry, and maybe I’ll fire it in the kiln.

I attempt to remove it from the wheel, but it won’t budge. If I squeeze it any harder, it’ll squish into nothing. If I let it harden on the wheel, I’ll never get it off.

The ugly thing stares at me, silently proclaiming victory.

I scan the shelves for some sort of spatula. Then my gaze lands on the weird wire-and-button tool, hanging on the hook.

Worth a try.

I retrieve it, hook it around the clay creation, and with a button in each hand, I scrape the wire along the wheel. Miraculously, the vase-slash-cup-slash-flowerpot liberates itself from the crust of wet clay still stuck to the wheel.

Carefully, I carry it to the shelves and set it there to dry.





Chapter 30

November 25

“Baby?” I’m halving grapes and slicing strawberries and placing them on a paper plate for Elizabella. “Come eat some fruit.”

Today, we took a walk to a market, where I bought some essentials for lunch and dinner. Living here is similar to living in the city. Nothing is very far away, and for oftentimes unprepared moms like me, life is actually easier when grabbing things on the go. Along the way home, I stopped for a few cheap sundresses and a pair of flip-flop sandals for each of us, as well as an umbrella stroller. We’re set for a few days at least.