The Clay Girl

by Heather Tucker

  “Huh?”

  “Can’t be explained. Just don’t weight yourself down with shame about a kiss.”

  “Think I better show Otto how to get that heap purring.” I watch him down the steps. His ass has nothing on Mr. West’s, but his shoulders are fine.

  Sabina packs a Good Friday feast. The afternoon warms and the airplanes are ready for test flights. Chase hands Ricky a rolled up kite. “This will do it. Let’s go fly her.”

  “Do what?”

  I push Ricky toward the loaded truck. “You’ll see.”

  When we’re at the lake, I sit on the boardwalk, further along but still the same boardwalk where Len left me. The hurt tangles with Mikey’s laugh as he launches spitfires in the wake of his spirit cousins.

  Chase holds the unfurled kite while Ricky prepares to sprint. I have a feeling it’s catching this time and Iggy will see what Chase painted on top: Iggy, I got in. Thanks, Ricky.

  “I miss you, Papa.” I search the sky for my message.

  “Come eat, corka.” Sabina extends her long-fingered hand.

  “Auntie Bee, will you teach me what the frig I’m supposed to do with a turkey?”

  “Tomorrow. This day is for worship.”

  “How do you worship?”

  “When the sun falls we will dance along with the fire.”

  Saturday morning the old Ford returns with twenty-one fresh-killed turkeys. Twenty for the St. Vincent de Paul and one for me.

  Sabina and I walk to the market with her basket cart. We circle the aisles in the dance of feastsecrets passed from one generation to the next. She pushes my wallet aside. A holy offering to me.

  The air smells like apples as we saunter home, and my memories taste sweet.

  Saturday, April 13, 1968 ~ Offerings

  Before the craphouse, when I lived among my spirit family, the Duchess called the Bee a witch, not a bitch witch, a spell kind of witch. Watching her weave, hearing her bracelets tinkle like chimes, tasting delicious old-world secrets passed down from her Babcia, made me long to be a witch.

  When the Bee’s pockets bulged from her hard work, the Duchess called her a Jew. I thought I’d like to be that, too; after all, it was so close to a Jewel and I’d longed to be that for as long as I could remember.

  “During the war we lived months on turnip soup and black bread.” Sabina lifts her face to the burnished trees. “But on special days Babcia would miraculously surprise us with a little sausage or cake. And, there would always be enough for anyone who stopped by.”

  Jasper swings in my hair. I want to be like Miep who shared everything she had with Anne and the others. I wish there was a war so I could.

  We’re in combat with the Dick.

  Yeah. Maybe making a kid feel safe is the best battling.

  From all the poppied fields we’ve tromped, Jasper, I have to agree.

  I have a list of what goes on when. The bird has to be in the oven by eight and it’s nearing seven. Chase yells down to the basement, “Car’s loaded. Let’s go.”

  I rummage through the racks of old Pennyworth’s stock, filling two bags before returning to crapdom. By the time the Dick stumbles in at nine, turkey aroma fills the kitchen. Ricky is peeling potatoes and Mikey, carrots.

  The Dick rumbles, “Where’s the others?”

  “Mum’s pulling herself together. Todd’s getting dressed and Ronnie’s comatose.”

  He grunts up the stairs to launch Ronnie. Ricky smiles at me. “You look real pretty, Ari.”

  I turn to his glance over my shoulder and whistle. “Pretty snappy, Todd. Told you they’d fit.”

  He pulls a navy blazer over his white shirt and grey pants. “This was nice of you.”

  Mum feels her way into the kitchen looking more like a stewardess than a Church Street hooker.

  Shaved, showered, and in a suit, the Dick is still an ugly Dick. “Is she still not outta bed? I’m going to fucking kill her if she doesn’t get her ass to church.”

  Ricky herds Mikey and me toward the door. “We’ll walk and save seats.”

  Easter miracle: Todd passes on a second breakfast to come along. We snag a row when the masses change Masses, playing rock-paper-scissors to see who has to sit beside “The Hood, the Sad, and the Ugly.” Ricky loses.

  One minute to spare and looking like shit squashed into my kitten sweater, Ronnie plunks into the pew, followed by an unexpected Tool and, just when I think my definition of scum can’t go any lower, his broken-down wife with a rounded belly and one saggy-diapered, grey-socked toddler collapse beside him. We squish down to accommodate the Duchess and I wonder at a God of lightning bolts who doesn’t fry the pecker of a creep sitting in His house with all his little fucks all in a row.

  Twenty minutes in and I wonder why someone isn’t helping the mother at the back with her three squalling kids. Jasper bites my ear. Hey, Ari, we’re someone. So I navigate over Todd. Mikey follows. We start with a game of Screed peekaboo over the back of the last pew and end with the brood being released into our custody to be entertained on the foyer steps. The littlest one, smelling like moldy bread, holds Jasper tender-like in the palm of her hand; the middle kid talks to Screed; and the oldest, maybe five years, follows the movement of my pencil. “Hey, Mikey, get me one of the envelopes over there.” I tuck last night’s tips and shirt sales, a grand total of one hundred and fifty-four dollars, into one. Jasper smiles as I write in my fanciest script: “For my daughter, the gift of Easter. We are born again in our children. Yours are precious. Love, The God of our Mothers.”

  We return the trio before the benediction just in case their mother has it in her mind to sneak out without collecting them. Mikey slips the envelope into her hand while I try to make a clean getaway.

  The Dick incarcerates my shoulder as I dash toward the streetcar. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “Ah . . . to . . . the cemetery to pay my respects to my loved ones on this holiest of days.”

  “You’ve work to do.”

  “The turkey has hours to cook and everything else is ready to go on when the paper says. Todd said he’d do it.”

  “Home you get.”

  “No, sir. You can murder me but then who’s going to mash your friggin’ potatoes?” I walk jelly-legged away, ready for the sharp death bullet between my shoulders. Only that could stop a third-Sunday rendezvous.

  My last diary entry percolates in my head as Mr. West walks toward me, blue-jeaned and leather-jacket fine. “Deep in thought?”

  “Probably thoughts I shouldn’t be having on Easter Sunday.”

  He sits close. “Like what?”

  “Like, I don’t think the God of our Fathers is so great.”

  “I wonder about real.”

  “You don’t believe in God?”

  “Let’s just say I’m on a fact-finding mission and I’m open to all possibilities.”

  “Let me know if you figure anything out.”

  “Only if you’ll do the same for me.”

  “Len and I used to talk like this all the time. Sometimes the only thing that keeps my cells from deflating is the belief that he’s in the air that I breathe. And that his goodness is in what I exhale into the world.”

  “You’re an old soul.”

  “More of an odd soul, I’d say.” My arm rests against his goodness. “Am I allowed to ask how old you are?”

  “Sure. Twenty-five.”

  “You ever going to get married and have kids?”

  “I have a long list I want to get through first.”

  “Like what?”

  “Last year I went to the Great Wall.”

  “In China? Far out, in the literal.”

  “This year I’m going to cross the Taj Mahal off my list.”

  “I just want to go as far east as Nova Scotia and never move again.�
�� I tuck up my legs as an easel for the photos he hands me. “Zodiac good?”

  “You might have to move west because my family loves him.” I shuffle through the pile. He taps a picture. “I used to skinny dip in that pond.” We eye-lock for a long minute. He exhales a low, “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

  “Please, don’t be. It’s nice you talk to me like a friend.”

  He straightens a little. “Belle told me they yanked you out of Birchmount.”

  “Whatever they do to me I keep catching lucky breaks. My art and English teachers make me happy, even when it’s Monday and that means a full week in the craphouse.” My head turns from its rest on my knee. “How come I get all the great teachers like you?”

  “Once, when I was snorkeling off the Baja Coast I saw a seahorse. An explosion of sea life whirled about but I couldn’t take my eyes off this impossible shape balancing on a thread of seaweed.” He measures the sky. “You’re like that. You attract people with that same kind of impossible magic.”

  “You don’t think I’m crazy for trundling around a seahorse in my pocket?”

  “I grew up in church, remember. People talked to imaginary beings all the time. Yours seems more rational and fair to me. If you called him Jesus instead of Jasper you’d get ribbons in Sunday school.”

  “Jennah says hearing voices makes me schizo.”

  “You’re just off balance because of all the craziness around you.”

  “When are you going to let your inner animal out?”

  “What you see is what you get.”

  “I see it plain as plain, bumping at all the walls inside you, trying to break free.”

  He turns, eyes expanding with a six-year-old’s anticipation. “What do you see?”

  “You have to discover it, but I will tell you it loves water, big open water.”

  His laugh coats a little nervousness. “That’s why you get all the great teachers. You tempt them with possibility.”

  I check my watch. “Prepare yourself for this turn on wonderment. This morning I stuffed a turkey’s asshole and now I’m going to stuff a bunch of assholes with turkey.”

  “Like I said, magic.”

  Two forty five has me home and everything cooking according to the list. An aged and shrivelled replica of the Dick sits on the sofa. “Dad, this is Theresa’s girl.”

  His face lemon-curdles. “Look at the size of this. What are you? Six foot two?”

  She just looks big ’cause you’re a weenie prune.

  Hush, Jasper.

  The Irwin boys and I make a damn good team at getting up a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. No one has any trouble shovelling it in but me. I can’t stomach the senior Dick and his constant go-round of crap: useless, son of useless, whores and sluts and bastards and losers. He calls me “the bean,” “the freak”—endearments mixed with sentimental things like, “You’d need a giant cock on ya to fuck that Jolly Green . . .” The shrivelled Dick shines a whole new light on the gaping hole in the big Dick’s chest. I wonder if the Dick ever heard “You’re a good little boy” even once in his life.

  While the kitchen team scrapes dishes the big Dick comes sniffing for more pie. “Good job, kids, that was really great.”

  Silence descends. We stare at one another, ready to fall on our knees at the Resurrection of Christ Almighty.

  Sunday April 14, 1968 ~ Resurrection

  I might hate the God of our Fathers or I might not believe in Him at all. If I’m Catholic I’m headed to purgatory to earn my way out. If I’m Protestant, I’d better prepare myself for fire. If I’m Jewish, I’m not exactly sure what I’m in for but Anne tells me I’ll be returning to my ancestors, which could make for an unsettling eternity. Jasper says if I’m honest with how pissed I am with the whole mess I may just find the truth.

  After Mass, I disobeyed the Dick, walked south, and sat east of West. He’s brave enough to say “I don’t know.” He’s looking at all possibilities.

  On the Queen streetcar back to crapdom I stayed present in the “I don’t know.” I looked out the window and fell under my skin, tumbling toward possibilities. I opened the room where I turn pots with my Spirit Father. He always shows me that in the clay we are born and born again. Behind the room is a field of sea-blown grass where Mother God walks. Step through the grass and there is a meadow that folds into a dappled wood. Inside the wood is a vast ocean, inside the ocean is an expanse of heaven, inside the heaven is a star and inside the star is a room and inside the room is a chair and on the chair is a small girl, eagle wings folded tight behind her back, tucked under her bum where the feathers tickle bare legs. And in the centre of her centre is a little seahorse that says, “God of our Fathers, I do not believe you are good and you should say how very sorry you are to Anne. Amen.”

  Jasper doesn’t mind the dark. He says here we see things that disappear in the light. Watch close and you’ll see it, the tiny flicker of faith that looks inside the room and sees outside the walls.

  FORTY-TWO

  Auntie Elsie has perfect pitch; knows when a note is off by a dust mote. I have perfect pinch. I know when a touch is off or perfect the instant it hits the lightfield around my body. On Monday, my diary lands with the others on Mr. Ellis’ desk. Wednesday Miss Burn stands at my shoulder watching me draw a guitar resting on yards of scarlet silk. Her palm connects with a few strands of my hair. “Is Jasper your soul?”

  I shade the space beneath the guitar’s long neck. “A soul can be lost.”

  She’s silent, her soul touching mine, telling me she loves the hush of the ocean and the brush of forest things, too. Perfect touch.

  In English class Judy asks, “Have you read our Anne Frank assignments, sir?”

  “It’s difficult to digest hundreds of pages of drama in two days. Perhaps by next week. Tell me what you learned from the exercise.”

  “Um . . . gratefulness for what I have.”

  “And the rest of you?”

  Answers fly: “I have a boring life.” “To appreciate freedom.” “My mother sucks, too.” “I hate writing.” “I love writing.”

  “How about you, Ari?”

  I feel betrayed that he’s turned the heads to me and asked for an intimacy. I sort through all of it, tossing thoughts that could potentially water my eyes, landing at the end of the book with few possibilities. “In her last entry, Anne wishes she could find a way to become what she could be if people would stop getting in the way, but they’re the reason she becomes even more than she ever dreamed possible.”

  Tim jokes, “What? Toast?”

  “No, a voice for peace that transcends generations. We become what we become because of other people, and because of what we do with whatever they throw into our lives. I’ve never read of more messed-up people messing up a kid’s life, or of more courage from people like Miep and Bep.” The pages fan across my fingers. “Anne took it all and created this.”

  “Good place to end,” says Mr. Ellis. The class folds and unfolds. “Tomorrow, there will be Frost.”

  “No, sir, it’s supposed to be warm.”

  Mr. Ellis whips a sea sponge at Sean and gives me the wait behind chin up. A knot of eager minds wanting his attention blocks the door. I try to slip through and he soft-grabs my arm. Perfect. He unravels questions with answers until just him and I remain. He leans arm-folded against the door jamb. I wait for a Holy Shit or a What the Fuck? He doles out his words in little tastes. “Possibly, my memory fails me after thirty years of teaching, but I believe your assignment is the best writing I’ve ever received from a student. That includes the years I taught at college.” His hand on my arm is a good father’s you-are-a-magic-girl touch and I believe more than ever in Shit. Holy Shit. I turn to hide my pathetic grin and move toward gym class. “Hey, Ari. Is Jasper your Spirit?”

  I walk backwards. “People turn to spirits and leave me all the time. I told
you Jasper has never bailed.”

  “Hang on. Mina and I have a student writer’s circle at our place on Friday nights. Would you consider joining the group?”

  “I work Fridays.”

  “Where?”

  “The Riverboat. Excuse me, sir, I have a volleyball to murder.”

  My feet never behave in the presence of rock and roll. It’s the price I pay for letting the East Coast soak in through my toes. I watusi a full tray around and pony an empty one back to the kitchen. Times when I possess only my order pad, I’m an arms-in-the-air dervish, which is how I come smack up against Miss Burn followed by a clump of Jarvis seniors. Mr. Ellis dances Idon’tgiveashit free behind the group. He shouts, “We decided on a field trip.”

  I yell over bass too big for the small room. “Great place for a character study.”

  I catch Mina’s ear and point to the bar. “That one is Soldier Boy. And there’s Existential Love. How friggin’ lucky am I?”

  “Is Jasper here?”

  “He’s swimming in the pool of sweat in my bra.”

  At midnight Chase and I walk the herd of them outside. The cool air shiver-bumps my hot skin and Chase warms me. Mina asks, “Chase, do you know who Jasper is?”

  “Intimately.” Music spills up the stairs and we sway in a back-to-front dance.

  “Okay. I’ll tell a little story about Jasper. On one of my adventures I lived with the Woburns. A nice old pair but they had this rodent situation that got very noisy whenever the house got ready for bed. I couldn’t sleep for fear some toothy rat was going to help himself to my nose. Jasper would sit on my pillow, whispering, ‘That’s just bunnies chewing away the wall. See there? A violet meadow and a picnic by the little brook with Jinxie and her new puppies.’ He promised if I closed my eyes I’d see right through walls. He wasn’t lying.”

  Mina connects with my ear. “Jasper is your imagination.”

  The song “I’m a Believer” somersaults up the stairs. I jump my way back to work while Ellis whines, “What? What is it?”