A Different Blue(62)

you. In fact,” Wilson reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a card. “Tiffa asked that I

give you this.”

It was a shiny black card with gold lettering. Tiffany W. Snook – The Sheffield was all it

said. A phone number and an email account graced the right hand corner. I ran my fingers over

the engraved letters and then peered up at him suspiciously.

“The Sheffield is the big hotel on the south end of the strip that looks like an English

Estate, right? The one where your girlfriend works?”

“Tiffa is a curator for both the art museum and the gallery. She bought nine of your pieces

Friday night. Did you know that? She would have purchased ten, but I begged her to let me have

just one.”

“I knew she bought them. I didn't know why, though. I'm still not sure I do.”

“She wants to place a couple of your pieces in the gallery and see how they do. The Sheffield

will take a cut if they sell. But she'll give you what's left, minus what she already paid.”

“But she bought them. She can do what she wants with them.”

Wilson shook his head. “Call her, Blue. If you don't, she'll hunt you down. She's very

persistent. Now, the class is waiting.”

The kids behind me weren't waiting. They were noisily enjoying the fact that class hadn't

started, but I didn't argue with him. I returned to my seat, wondering how long it would be

until Wilson embarrassed me. It wasn't long.

“Many of you are most likely wondering about this stunning sculpture.” I wished he would lay

off the over-the-top descriptions and cringed a little. He turned toward a boy who sat to my

right named Owen Morgan.

“Owen, can you read the word carved down here by the base of the sculpture?”

Owen stood and crouched down so he could see the word Wilson was pointing to.

“Echohawk,” Owen read. “Echohawk?” he repeated with a surprised inflection. Owen whipped his

head toward me, his eyebrows raised doubtfully. I really, really didn't like Wilson very much at

that moment.

“Yes. Echohawk. This piece is called 'The Arc,' and it was carved by Blue Echohawk. Blue has

agreed to answer some questions about her work. I thought you all might find it interesting.”

I stood and moved next to Wilson but kept my eyes trained on the sculpture so that I didn't have

to make eye contact with anyone in the room. The class had fallen into stunned silence. Wilson

started by asking some basic questions about tools and different kinds of wood. I answered

easily, without embellishment and found myself relaxing with each question.

“Why do you carve?”

“My . . . father . . . taught me. I grew up watching him work with wood. He made beautiful

things. Carving makes me feel close to him.” I paused, gathering my thoughts. “My father said

carving requires looking beyond what is obvious to what is possible.”

Wilson nodded as if he understood, but Chrissy piped up from the front row.

“What do you mean?” she questioned, her face screwed up as she turned her head this way and

that, as if trying to figure out what she was looking at.

“Well . . . take this sculpture for example,” I explained. “It was just a huge hunk of

mesquite. When I started, it wasn't beautiful at all. In fact, it was ugly and heavy and a pain