The Clay Girl

by Heather Tucker

  “If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”

  Auntie Nia sways Auntie Mary in a hush-hush. “Don’t let what went on in the past rob us of the joy we have with her right now.”

  “I don’t know how to help her.”

  “All I ever needed to get through was love from one solid person, and creative work.”

  FIVE

  Daddy hated his job at the bank, and the one at Desjardins, and especially the one at Bombardier. He’d come home, landing like a bruise on all Jennah’s shining of the house. He and Mummy snapped and snarled like chained dogs until the brandies soaked in.

  At Skyfish, Jasper watches as I careful-wrap a set of mugs and make change from a twenty. Too bad Daddy never got to play at work like we do, eh, Jasper?

  One hundred and fifty-two dollars grows in the Bank of Nova Scotia from the sale of Ari-Fairy Chimes. Four of my pots sit on the wabi-sabi shelf, priced one-fifty to three dollars. Wabi pots are beautiful in their wonkiness. When Auntie’s muck-wet hands circle mine, the pots come out full-moon round but when she sets us free the pots fly where they please. Now that I’m near being a ten-year-old, grade four graduate my pots hardly ever fall flat.

  Auntie Nia watches as I roll clay bits into beads. “Are you making birthday presents again this year?”

  “Hope everyone likes them.” Last birthday I suspected the trains were rerouted to India or the postman had bubonic dysentery until Auntie Elsie sent a letter saying she thought of me every time the breeze sang through the chimes. Grandma sent a clown card with one dollar. That was all I heard from the west and it was enough—almost.

  “What would you like for your birthday?”

  “Pardon?”

  “A gift? What could Mary and I get that you would like?”

  “What did you get when you turned ten?”

  “My Grandma made me a new dress every birthday. The year I turned ten she broke her wrist so Granddad took me to Sydney to buy a dress. We came home with a set of wood chisels.”

  “That’s what I’d like.”

  “Are you brave enough to ask the wood what wants to come out?”

  “I like wood people. Will you teach me how?”

  “First, we’re going to make Sadie a dress for your party.”

  I pick a purply-blue piece with white daisies from the fabric trunk. Auntie Mary looks like an African princess with pins lining her lips as she fastens the pattern in place. “Your grandma taught me to sew.”

  I careful-cut around all the paper pieces. “How come she didn’t teach Mummy?”

  “She did. She taught all of us to cook, sew, and sing.”

  “Mummy can sing?”

  “She and Elsie sang duets. They won competitions all the time.”

  Nia shows me how to match the pieces, then bends willow-like over the old Singer. She guides my hand as the machine makes cha-cha-cha music. “Now stop at the end, move this knob up, and reverse a few stitches. Ari?”

  “Mummy can sing?”

  Sadie wears her new frock to a toe-tapping Skyfish party. Jake fiddles near as good as Huey and keeps my feet clogging until the moon pulls all of us home. On the way out he kisses my cheek. “Birthday best, Ari. Come out on the boat tomorrow if you like.”

  “Can I be first mate?”

  “Always.”

  Auntie Nia latches the door then stretches out in the middle of the yellow floor. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  I lie beside her. “Only thing you’re too old for is foolishness.”

  Mary fills in the empty side. “None of us is ever too old for that.”

  “Auntie Dolores said you’re both short on beans.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That you’ve got less beans, but I think you’re full of them.”

  Auntie Nia cages a laugh in her throat ’til it bursts out like a jungle full of happy monkeys. Mary laughs like one of them is tickling her. She blots her eyes with her sleeve. “Oh, my land.”

  Chuckles settle into the weathered old bones of the roof. “How come you called this place Skyfish?”

  Nia turns her moonlit head. “You ever see a fish swimming in the sky? We wanted to live where impossible things happened. After the war we turned this place into a studio with our own four hands.”

  “You were in the war?”

  “Patrolled the home shores. That’s a story for another night.”

  There’s a shiver to the grass and a haunt to the ocean’s hymn as we push on to the house. Auntie Nia scatters handfuls of corn. “We love you, Ari Appleton.”

  “We do at that.” Auntie Mary stops to take in the size of the night. “If the tides change for a time, don’t be afraid. She knows where you belong.”

  “Who? The God of our Mothers?”

  “Aye.” There’s a kitten-cry in auntie’s throat. “She’ll be painting the grass pretty tonight.”

  “Are you sending me back?”

  “Never sending. But sometimes, no matter how tight the hold, storms take.”

  SIX

  Jake is forever surrounded by pounds of foster Butters wanting to hear the stories in his head. He spots an orangey-red confabulation among the rocks. “You’ll like this one, Ari. It’s a lion’s mane jellyfish.” I reach out to have a test of what the globbie feels like. He scoops my hand away, right quick. “Whoa, there’s a nasty sting in her prettiness.” He helps it out of the stuck place, back to open water. “You stick with me and I’ll show you what can be touched.”

  Sea drops gather on his hair and Jasper goes exploring in the little jewels. “You ever see a seahorse, Jake?”

  “In these waters they’re as rare as lioneagles. But you might catch sight of one if there’s seahorse blood in you.” He arms me to my feet. “Let’s go see what we can catch for the Missus.”

  I never worry my aunties will run errands and forget to pick me up like was known to happen with regularity when I was a one-r Hariet. Supply runs to Halifax land me with the Butters for sleepovers beside my best-ever friend. Huey and Jake send songs up to the loft, making me heart-happy—most of the time. I poke my head down through the ceiling hole. “Jake Tupper, don’t you be playing ‘Farewell to Nova Scotia.’ It’s more than a tired body can take without blubbering.” He looks up, leaning his cheek to his fiddle and asks it to play ‘Tura Lura Lural’ just for me.

  The Missus calls up, “Says your prayers now.”

  Sadie murdalizes my hand. “Don’t say it, Ari. Not the die-before-waking part. It gives me shivers and my eyes won’t stays shut.”

  Just say prayers like me:

  Now I’m going off to dream

  Of lovely places I have seen.

  If I should dance before I wake

  I’m sure to get a fish from Jake.

  Only the god-listeners hear “kiss from Jake.” Sadie would never laugh, but too many foster ears fill this house. She arrives soft on my shoulder. “Make one special for me.”

  Um . . . let me think . . .

  Sadie’s going for a ride . . . on . . .

  on eagles’ wing and ocean tide.

  If she should sing ’til morning come

  Then we will see a pretty sun.

  “You must be the smartest poem maker God ever borned. I sure hopes they don’t come and takes you away like times before. The Missus says it’s a mortal sin the way they ripped you from Mary.”

  “What?” Now I’m mixed up in my head. Hope the soup stays off the bed.

  “I heard the Missus telling Lizzy Harmer that your papa said you could stay but your mum came and took you away. Hey, I worked out a poem.”

  SEVEN

  The scarred wooden box full of chisels is hidden under my pillow. I read the note in the moon ribbon, Ari, my child, to teach things I know and have her teach me back. Nia.

  My head burrows un
der the covers. Jasper, they’re sending us back.

  Hide us.

  The air ices my skin and the lingering smell of burnt grass mixes with the salted air. My nightie licks up dew as I wade through August grass. The summerhouse glows firelight-soft; the aunties’ shapes knitting into one on the other side of the screen. Auntie’s sobs slap the shimmery night. “I can’t bear this again. I . . . I . . . I’ll die without her.”

  “I know, love. I know.” Auntie Nia hushes the black. “We’ll get through. Somehow, we’ll all get through.”

  Jasper shivers in my middle as I back away. I tuck my quivery self between the apple bushels in the shed and wait out the long darkness.

  From a dream a muddled-headed moose snatches me for dinner. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

  “Auntie? Where’s Auntie Mary?”

  “Sleeping in the summerhouse.” She snugs me on the sofa with a downy plump. “I see you found your chisels.”

  “I don’t like night presents.”

  “Why?”

  “Night before Daddy . . . went away he put a war ribbon on all our pillows. Jennah threw them in the stove. Burned them all up.”

  “Is that what you keep in the little bottle you brought?”

  My head nods to my knees. “Jasper told me to.”

  “Smart little seahorse. You know, it’s ashes that make my hydrangea so full of blooms.”

  “Did I live here before?”

  “You stayed for your first year until your mum got on her feet. Then for some lovely months when you were two.”

  “Mummy sure has troubles with her feet, doesn’t she. I’m leaving, aren’t I?”

  “She’s moved to Toronto near your Grandma and wants you home.”

  “I want to stay with you.”

  “Skyfish will always be your home. Even if there are times we have to be apart.”

  My “No” has the sound of the far-off foghorn.

  “My mummy died when I was little. My father worked for the railroad so he brought me here to this very house to live with my grandparents. Look here.” She lifts the lid of the trunk to ribbon-tied bundles. “He put treasures for me in letters. And living here, they were good years. When I turned twelve, there was no school past grade six, so I went to live with relatives. Aunt Pru was nothing but thistles and Uncle Gene was forever looking for something up my skirts.”

  “Auntie Nia?”

  “I hated it there, but I always knew this place was home and I’d come back. Sleep now and tomorrow I’ll give you your first lesson in carving and tell you how each dark place I’ve lived has given me treasures.”

  “Can I sleep with you?”

  “I’ll sit by your bed ’til dreams find you.”

  Auntie Elsie and Jory come to take me back. Just as Skyfish has smoothed and shined me, Jory has been edged by Auntie Dolores. She shares my bed, leaving no room for Cork or Wabi.

  I listen to hushed voices in the kitchen. “I agree it would be best, but it’s not up to me. Theresa pitched a fit when it sunk in where Hariet was.”

  Nia snorts. “Took her twenty-two months to bother to find out?”

  Auntie Elsie says, “I’ll find a way you can keep in touch.”

  Mary’s snuffles scramble me out of bed and into her arms. “Everything’s okay, sweetheart.”

  Nia untwists my shoulders. “Remember, Ari, there is a treasure hunt ahead. For now, go get your ashes.”

  I return with the little bottle and under the full moon we plant a linden tree. “Sprinkle the ash around the tree and water it in. The roots will drink it up and it’ll become part of the tree.” Auntie Nia claps dirt from her hands. “Now, come see what we made for you.”

  They made me a treasure box for the hunt with a carved lioneagle flying toward the moon. “It’s made of a Skyfish tree that will go with you.” Mary’s eyes are ocean-full. “And we’ll always be looking out for you. I promise.”

  Jory follows me for all the goodbyes. Jake crooks his head from under Huey’s broke-down Buick. “Off on your adventure, then?”

  I give him a book. “This is for you.”

  “Our world, eh, Ari?” He hugs The Sea Around Us. “I’ll sure miss you.”

  “You will?”

  “You’re the best first mate I’ve ever had.”

  His grease-mucked hands have me feeling fiddle music in my toes until he looks past me to Jory. Buttery hair melts on her shoulders. Her fourteen-year-old chest is near spectacular. She’s as beautiful as a lynx. Next to her, I’m a gerbil with stressed fur.

  I heavy-foot inside for the terrible farewell. When I come out, Jory surfaces from under the hood of the Buick with a giggle and eye flap. “Bye, Jake. Ever so nice meeting you.”

  “Bye, Jory.” He sad-smiles at me. “Write me, Ari. Okay?”

  He gets bigger as the distance grows.

  “He’s really cute. Too bad he smells like fish.”

  “You shouldn’t get that close. He has smallpox, very contagious.”

  “Bet he doesn’t have smallcocks. Did you see the size of his feet?”

  Just like that, Mrs. Butter’s “Farewell to Nova Scotia” lemon loaf sours in my belly and lands on the road.

  EIGHT

  I rummage my pocket for a hankie and pull out a note. Find the treasure, Ari, and bring it home.

  “I see you’re still a big baby.”

  “Hush, Jory.” Auntie Elsie passes a tissue. “Feeling things deep doesn’t make you a baby.”

  I find my knitting and clack along with the train.

  “Did Mary teach you to knit?”

  “No. The ladies at Wednesday Knitting and Prayer Society. ‘There’s no heaviness that busy hands can’t make a little lighter.’”

  “You sound like an old cow, but I dig the scarf. Make one for me: orange, purple, and red.”

  “Lord, Jory, that would be awful.”

  “No, Auntie, you should see when the sun spills those colours on the ocean.”

  Anticipation of Jinxie’s half-flopped ears and wiggling bum eases the missing—a little. I make my way to Mrs. MacLaren’s and knock. She dries her hands on her apron. “Why, Hariet, look how you’ve grown. Jillianne’s gone to the store. She’ll be back in a lamb’s shake.”

  I’m near bursting for Jinxie’s licks and leaps. I whistle. “Here, girl.”

  “Oh, Hariet, didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “What?”

  “Um . . . Jinx fell in love with a handsome farm dog and moved to the country.”

  Who would believe that Mrs. Iris MacLaren, president of the Catholic Women’s League could be a pants-on-fire liar? Running on cement isn’t near the joy of flying over red dirt and Aunt Dolores’ house doesn’t have the sweet cedar corners of Skyfish. The scratchy chair and warty gold curtains hide my blubbers. Aunties come into the parlour for a sit. I’m not stealing a listen; everything just falls into my ears.

  “Don’t you break that. It’s going straight back to where it came.”

  Jory says, “I’ll have it. It looks like peacock feathers.”

  They’re talking about one of Auntie Mary’s prettiest pots. The day it came out of the kiln she shook her head, saying, “Wish I knew how I did that.”

  Elsie says, “Dolores, she sent it as a kindness.”

  “I’m not having anything of hers in this house.”

  “Oh, would you give it a rest. She’s your sister and she’s never done anything to you.”

  “I know what she is.”

  “She and Nia are just business partners.”

  “Right. Jory, where did everyone sleep?”

  “Alls I know is I got stuck with Scari and the stinkin’ dogs.”

  The drapes ripple with the opening of the door. “Where’s Hariet?” Jillianne sounds as spring-light as I remember.

&n
bsp; “Thought she was with you.” I can almost feel Auntie Dolores’ spit-spray. “That child is never anything but trouble, too much of her father in her.”

  They all rumble into the kitchen and I slip outside to mourn Jinxie under the yellow-leafed pear.

  I discover a note in my PJs. Ari: A little treasure from Emerson. “What lies behind you and what lies before you are tiny matters compared to what lives within you.” Aunties M&N

  Kitchen whispers replace ocean lullaby. The sofa is zippered in plastic and every fidget sounds like a skiff rubbing against the docks. When the phone rings, I Jesus-wish for it to be Aunties M&N wanting to say goodnight. Auntie Dolores sounds thistle-in-her-panties irritated. “She’s moved to Toronto. No, you cannot have her number. She’s not interested in seeing her.”

  Auntie Elsie asks, “Who was that?”

  “St. Mary’s. Seems Vincent’s mother is on her way out. She wants to see the girls.”

  “Maybe you should let Theresa decide.”

  “No sense stirring things up. The sooner that family is wiped off the earth the better.”

  “Hush, Dolores. Little pitchers have big ears.”

  Over the years I’ve heard gallons of whispers said after too many tips and sips. I’ll wager that last one is the only Appleton of the lot. Look at them, then look at her.

  I know the way to St. Mary’s. Mummy went there often for major conniptions, so I navigate my lone self there on the bus. On the ride I remember a Nana, soft as velvet. She was a let’s-eat-ice-cream-from-the-carton nana until Granddad showed. Everyone steered clear when Granddad tipped the bottle. Except June, she’d turn sour-faced disgusted and let him know she thought he was poop. Granddad would swell like a mean-genie, screaming, “Get that look off your face.” Once he knocked her right off the chair. Her face blossomed like a red cabbage but she never did change her look.