Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(13)

My favorite were the golden lilies. They’re exquisite little flowers about a foot high; three thin green stems topped with orange lightening to yellow petals. And all growing out of what looked like a maelstrom of burning detonations. I can’t imagine the kind of skill, patience, and talent it took to make.

I was entranced, lost in their colors and shapes. The way the light would pass through them, all of them, as I walked by.

“You like them?” She gestured to the flowers and said, “My early work. Paddle and parchoffi, before I got into this 3-D printing racket.”

We were standing in the entrance hall, not far from the open door to her workshop. I could see the printer humming, next to what she described as a “space age kiln.”

“It’s really quite simple,” she said, waving her hand over the machinery. I hadn’t asked for a lecture, but got one anyway. She prattled on about making a 3-D CAD file, converting and importing it to the printer, loading it with the raw silicon-polymer blend, then waiting for it to extrude a nearly finished piece before popping that piece into the kiln to melt away the polymer. I do have to admit, this new process seemed interesting, and the finished objects were undeniably cool.

There were at least a couple dozen of them, all lined up on shelves above the workbench. Rows of little houses, none more than an inch or two high. And one larger, arching structure. A bridge, maybe. All cute, and I guess amazing when you factor in how they were made, but nothing compared to the handblown works of art right in front of me.

I wish I’d said something profound, insightful, anything except what I did say, which was, “They’re wonderful.”

Mostar smiled warmly and put a hand on my arm. “Thank you.” Her eyes shifted to the flowers rising from the flames. “I like to think that beauty can come from fire.”

Okay, this is going to sound weird, I know, but as she said this, for just a split second, she was someone else. Nothing you could put your finger on. Something with her voice, her face, the muscles around her eyes. Just for a second, and then one of those small rumbles hit and my heart practically jumped right out of my mouth. I must have made a move toward her sculptures, because her hand shot in front of my face.

“It’s all right, don’t worry. I put that, what do you call it? That pasty material, like you use for earthquakes in California. I’ve stuck it to all their bottoms.” Her eyes scanned the shelves. “Can’t be too careful, eh?”

“Got it!” Dan lumbered in with the other two bags, one under each arm. He hesitated in the doorway, expecting, I guess, a big expansive thank-you.

“What, you want a medal?” Mostar motioned to the workshop. “Over there next to the printer.” Dan hopped to, placing the sacks where he’d been told, then came out to receive, yet again, another slap on the arm.

“Look how helpful your man can be.”

I wanted to melt through the floor.

But I looked at Dan’s face. He wasn’t upset. And he didn’t have that “Oh God, what’s happening?” face anymore. This look, I didn’t recognize it.

“Now go help your wife and get your groceries.” Mostar gestured to the van. “Go on now, she’ll come help you put them away in a minute.”

He didn’t say anything, rushing out the front door. Neither did I, stepping into her workshop to lay down my burden. I thought I was done, just a few more seconds to escape. But she waited for me at the front door. That knowing expression from the first night we met.

“What was it?” she asked, watching Dan carry our groceries home. “Couldn’t get the job he wanted? First business failed? Couldn’t get back up because his parents never let him get knocked down?”

How did she know!

“Trust me, Katie, fragile princes aren’t new.”

I don’t know how I got out of there. A mix of nods and thank-yous and slipping out of her grasp like an eel. I don’t know if she watched me leave. I don’t care. I’m never speaking to her again. Crazy bitch.

But what she said.

I wasn’t mad. Not then. Shocked, I guess. Even now. X-rayed like that. Violated. Too oversensitive? I don’t care. It’s how I feel. All I wanted to do was get away, get past it, find some way to feel better.

I couldn’t go home. Dan was there. If he was angry, or hurt…I couldn’t deal with him right then. I couldn’t go back. I haven’t really talked to you about that time. When things didn’t work out, those silent, sullen days, weeks, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for the universe to recognize his genius. I had to recognize it. The endless compliments, reassurance, validation. The endless need. And when I needed him?

I thought about calling you, right there, scheduling an emergency session. I’m not sure why I didn’t, or why I decided to turn and head for the Durants’ house.

I rang the bell before deciding to. “Kate, what’s wrong?” Yvette answered, clearly pained to see what I was trying to hide.

I babbled something about having “a day” and if it’s not too inconvenient, if it’s not the right time, but since she asked if I’d like…

I’m not a crier. You know that by now. In control. Put together. But when she reached out to hug me, I came really close to losing it.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said over my shoulder, rubbing my back. “Whatever it is, I know how to fix it.” She released me just long enough to grab a couple of yoga mats and air pillows next to the door. “I was hoping you’d finally take me up on my offer.” She led me over to the Common House. “I’ve got the perfect meditation session for this.”