The Sweetness of Salt(39)

“Yeah.” Aiden stood next to me, regarding the starfish. “That was the first one he ever did. It took him about a year. The other one”—he stopped and pointed at the other end of the wall—“only took him about six months. He’s gotten pretty good at it now.” I walked down to examine the other design. It was a tree with bare branches. No leaves at all. Just stark limbs, stretching out in all directions, like spindly fingers.

“They’re so beautiful,” I said, running the pads of my fingers along the pebbly surface. “And so sad.”

“Sad?” Aiden raised his left eyebrow again. “How do you get sad out of a stone tree? Or a starfish?”

I shrugged, embarrassed suddenly, and walked over to the large contraption I’d seen the day before. The broken leg had been reattached with duct tape. Several magazines had been wedged under it for leverage, but it still sat at a slight angle. In the middle was a large mound of pale brown clay. “Tell me about this thing. What is it?”

“This,” Aiden said, squatting down to examine the taped leg, “is my Laguna Pacifica Glyde Torc 400.” He looked up at me. “Or your basic pottery wheel. I was right in the middle of centering a new piece when you came by.”

“Centering?”

“Yeah,” Aiden said. “After you prepare the clay, you’ve got to center it on the wheel. It’s actually pretty hard to do. Sometimes it takes me four or five times to get it just right.”

“Can you show me?”

“Now?” Aiden asked.

“Well, yeah. I mean, if you want to.”

Aiden hesitated, but only for a moment. “Okay.” He straddled the little chair attached to the far end of the wheel and yanked off the mound of clay in the middle. “Centering is pretty much just what it sounds like,” he said. “You’ve got to make sure your clay is directly in the middle of the wheel. Otherwise, you’ll just fight the clay the whole time you’re trying to shape it.” He turned the mound over, looked at it, and then plopped it firmly on the wheel. “Doesn’t look too hard, does it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay, now comes the hard part.” He looked up at me expectantly. “You ready?”

“Yes.”


Aiden pressed a pedal beneath the wheel with his foot. It began to turn, slowly at first, and then more rapidly. I sat down along the edge of the wall, watching as his hands pressed and pulled and shoved the clay between them. His whole body tilted as he leaned into the wheel, almost as if he was forcing the clay in a direction it didn’t want to go. Suddenly, like a tree trunk growing at superspeed, a column of clay began to rise up from between his fingers. And then in the next moment, even under his flat, steadying palms, it flopped over and sank down into a heap. It looked like a crushed baby elephant’s trunk.

Aiden sat back. “And that is what happens when your clay has not been centered properly.” He began scraping the mound off the wheel again. “You know, all the glory around this process goes to the shaping and the decorating and even the firing of the clay, but centering is really the most important thing of all. None of your pieces will ever work unless the middle is strong enough.”

He started again, putting the clay down and kneading it back and forth as the wheel began to turn. Small grunts came out of his mouth as he worked. Overhead, a few yellow leaves from a birch tree fluttered lightly, and somewhere in the distance I could hear a dog barking.

“I think it’s…,” Aiden said. “Come on, come on!” All at once he sat back, his hunched shoulders releasing themselves, and exhaled. “There she is!” he said. The wheel was still turning and the clay had not been shaped into anything worth mentioning. But it was centered. And even as it sat there, pale and bloblike, I thought it looked almost strong. Maybe proud, even. And ready.





chapter


27


I could smell the Chinese food as soon as I walked into the house. My stomach growled. I’d been so immersed in Aiden’s pottery lesson that I hadn’t even realized how hungry I was—or how long I’d been gone. By the time I walked back, the sun was low in the sky. Not quite dusk, but still. I’d been gone for hours.

“Jules?” Sophie’s voice came out from one side of the house.

“Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?”

“Living room,” she said.

The living room was completely empty, except for the red and white checked tablecloth Sophie had spread out on the floor. Two stubby-looking candles, their flames soft and flickering, anchored opposite corners, and white cartons of food—some with chopsticks sticking out of the middle—had been placed in the middle.

“Oh, it’s so nice!” I squatted down, crossing my legs in front of me, and reached for a carton. It was filled to the brim with shrimp, snow peas, slivered carrots, and water chestnuts. I pulled a large pink shrimp out with my fingers and stuffed it into my mouth. “Mmmm. Spicy shrimp is my favorite. Thanks!”

“I never knew you liked Chinese food.” Sophie picked up a carton of brown rice and began eating it with chopsticks. “You should’ve said something. Mom and Dad and I would’ve taken you out to a Chinese place for your graduation.”

I shook my head, trying to form words around the wad of food in my mouth. “Mom’s allergic to MSG.”