The Girl Made of Clay

by Nicole Meier

  Christ, she was uptight.

  What was Sara so bothered about?

  The other gal took it all in good fun. He merely let on that he’d once shared an artist’s loft with a lesbian, way back in the day. If memory served, that chick had been some type of abstract painter. Lots of oil pastels—avant-garde, if you will. Large-scale canvases and such. Boy, that place was the scene of some wild parties. The things he saw! One time, he confessed, they’d all taken some particularly potent ecstasy. And that drug can put everyone in a loving kind of mood, if you know what I mean. Man, those were the days.

  Sara’s face nearly turned inside out at that one.

  Too bad. It was a great story.

  Apparently, he was offending his daughter’s sensibilities. He could tell by how twitchy she’d turned. All red faced and glaring. So, on Sara’s account, he downgraded the conversation to something a bit tamer. No need for anyone to get her knickers in a knot.

  He asked Birdie from where she originated. When she claimed she hailed from the great state of Georgia, he gleefully inquired about her proclivity for whiskey. In his experience, every southerner he’d ever crossed paths with was a fan of Mr. Jack Daniel’s. To his delight, so was this Birdie woman.

  Things were looking up again!

  He was about to suggest she might procure a little taste for him, something to wet his whistle, when Sara frantically batted them apart.

  His daughter had grown up and turned into the fun police.

  In the end, he’d been sequestered to the singular subject of the weather. The rain was mentioned, and that was about it.

  The neighbor departed too soon, but at least she was considerate enough to leave behind a chilled bottle of wine. The glistening bottle caught TR’s attention as soon as he entered the kitchen. Just the thought of popping the cork added a little perk to his stumbling step. But just like the case of the good coffee, Sara snatched it away with a frown and placed it high up in a cupboard to indicate it was off-limits.

  Apparently, his punishment continued.

  When TR awoke later from his afternoon nap, thanks to a fresh supply of meds placed on his bedside table, a hankering for something from the muffin basket lured him back into the light. He’d heard Sara announce she was going out earlier. Perhaps now he’d be free to bend the rules. He rose and set his intentions. Priority number one was to score a little alone time with a certain bottle of vino.

  Thrusting his feet into a pair of wooly slippers Sara bought him, he heaved himself from the bed and navigated his way into the stillness of the house.

  A faint clicking noise came from the main living area. He assumed it must be the dog. That thing was always gnawing on some kind of elaborate rubber toy. There was a whole basket full of them. TR shook his head. That animal was spoiled, if you asked him. Whatever happened to staying outside with a good old-fashioned bone? Apparently, his daughter’s pet was too sophisticated for such a thing. Don’t even get him started on the ridiculous fur-lined bed featured in the living room. Since when did dogs require designer furniture?

  This yuppie lifestyle was beyond him.

  Rounding the corner, he poked his head in to investigate.

  To his surprise, he discovered the boy. Sara tended to keep the kid close by her side. But here he was, planted on the living room sofa, with his eyes glued to the television. Sara must have decided she trusted him around her son after all.

  TR hovered in place for a moment, quietly observing his pint-size grandson. Up until a short time ago, he hadn’t even known this boy existed—a lot of that going around lately. Now here he was, the next generation of TR’s existence. It was remarkable, really.

  The boy dangled his socked feet off the edge of the sofa, his spindly legs not yet long enough to reach the ground. Two worn sneakers and a half-opened book bag lay askew just below. Pens and papers had been spilled carelessly out onto the woven jute rug. A shiny white binder peeked out.

  Something else caught TR’s attention. Among the heap was a plastic sandwich bag containing a compact red-and-white asthma inhaler. His throat caught. He’d seen one of those before. A roommate of his in art school had suffered terrible breathing problems and carried one around religiously. A couple of times the guy had gotten himself into rather frightening situations. It had always unsettled TR.

  Was his grandson sick?

  He studied the boy a beat longer. The semi-interested dog beside him lifted an eyelid, his wiry tail twitching once, and then he was still. The boy had a firm grip on some kind of gadget, the other hand buried in a bowl brimming with popcorn.

  A buttery scent circled as TR approached.

  “Hey, there, little fellow.”

  The boy broke his laser-sharp focus from a flat-screen television affixed to the far wall.

  “Oh, hi.” He briefly glanced back at the screen.

  TR cleared a coating of stubborn phlegm from his throat and hobbled over to the edge of the couch. He silently cursed his body for not cooperating. Waking from sleep always required a reboot. TR’s system was a lot slower than it used to be. Movement required effort; his limbs had taken on a significant stiffness lately.

  TV was not something TR cared much about. Never had the use. (Too much propaganda and useless content, in his opinion.) But it must have been important in this household given the sheer size of the thing.

  TR grunted. The ratio of art hanging on the walls compared to the technology showcased was disproportionate. Where was one’s sense of self-expression? A higher sense of aesthetics?

  “My mom said I wasn’t supposed to wake you.”

  The boy crunched noisily on his snack as he spoke, his elfin jaw moving up and down. TR noticed his features were masked in caution.

  TR nodded. “That’s quite all right. I didn’t hear you one bit. Just got a touch hungry, that’s all.” He patted his belly for effect. The pleasing aroma of popcorn caused him to salivate.

  The boy nodded.

  TR eased closer, hoping he wouldn’t scare the boy off. There was something delicate and slightly skittish about this youngster, like the deer that lived in the woods beyond his property. Would this kid run off just as his father had?

  Unfazed, the boy swiveled his head back to the screen.

  TR squinted at what was so interesting. He had no idea what he was seeing. Textured 3-D cubes of varying size and color floated around and filled up the monstrous monitor. The frame changed several times. Mechanical clicks and clacks sounded as the boy deftly manipulated a controller in his lap. As a result, colorful boxes began stacking on top of one another to form a structure of sorts. More boxes popped up, and then what appeared to be an animated pickax came into view. Things were destroyed and reorganized, and the building resumed once more.

  “What in Sam Hill is all that?” TR angled his chin toward the wall. The picture moved too fast for his taste. It was enough to make a person dizzy. Reaching out, he clung to the back of an upholstered chair and steadied himself.

  “Minecraft.” The boy kept building. It seemed nothing could break his concentration.

  TR rubbed at his eyeballs. “Mind-what?”

  The boy giggled under his breath. “Not Mind. Minecraft. It’s a game. You know, on the Xbox?” His tone went up an octave, as if he were now addressing a very small child.

  It sounded space-age.

  TR didn’t have the foggiest idea what this kid was talking about, but it intrigued him nonetheless. “Well, I’ve never handled an Xbox before. I’m more of an organic materials type of guy.”

  The boy paused and scrunched up his face. He was clearly not following.

  TR took this as his opportunity to connect. “You know, paints and brushes and all that?”

  “Oh.”

  With this small window, inspiration struck. Perhaps the two of them could speak some kind of common language if it involved the concept of creating.

  “It looks to me like you’re crafting some form of architecture. Is that right?” he asked.

/>   “Uh, yeah.”

  Cubes moved at rapid-fire speed. He was going to have to look away soon. Either that or sit firmly in a chair for fear of falling over.

  “How so?”

  “The game lets you create worlds. See?” The kid pointed enthusiastically up at the screen. “In this world, I’ve made a couple of skyscrapers and a garden. There are some cows down there by a pond too.”

  “Cows and skyscrapers? Huh.” TR didn’t follow at all, but he was determined to try.

  “Yeah, and I’ve got a bunch of tools too,” the boy replied. “And fire. I’ve got fire.”

  This kid reminded him of how Sara used to be as a child. She was so clever and creative. Making little villages out of spare clay from his studio, fashioning farm animals and treetops from scraps. He used to adore this about her.

  A pang of nostalgia seized him. Where had the time gone?

  The boy’s announcement broke his musing. “I’ve got other worlds too. I built an ice cave yesterday. Wanna see?”

  A halo of warmth wrapped around TR’s heart. His grandson liked to make things. Sara appeared to have given up her practice, but maybe there was hope with this boy.

  “Yes, I’d love to see.”

  Just then, Sara burst through the back door. She was winded and overloaded. Balanced in her arms were bags of groceries. The crusty tail of a narrow baguette peeked over the top of one.

  TR’s stomach growled. He hoped the food was a sign that dinner would follow.

  Sara set her things down with a huff. She placed her hands on her hips and zeroed in on the room distrustfully.

  “What’s going on in here, you two?”

  “Minecraft!” TR boomed. His face broke into a proud smile. “I’m getting my first lesson!”

  The boy giggled.

  Sara glanced from TR to her son, an eyebrow raised. “I thought you were working on some overdue homework, Sam?” Her tone remained unimpressed.

  The boy’s face dropped. “I was. But it’s Saturday, Mom. I need a break.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sara scowled and went about putting the groceries away.

  TR wondered if his daughter might be keeping too tight a grip on this kid. She held a keen eye on him wherever she went.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Sara announced, seeming hesitant to leave them.

  “Roger.” TR threw a mock military salute in her direction.

  Sara shot him a stormy expression and walked off. He watched her go, wondering how in the heck they might ever get on the same page. Even when he tried to lighten the mood, she took it as an offense. There was no winning.

  Her bedroom door banged shut.

  With a sigh TR returned his attention to his grandson. The tension in his lower back eased as he settled deeper into the living room chair.

  “So, Sam,” he said. “Let’s see what else you got going on there.”

  “Okay, cool.”

  “Cool.”

  TR’s heart swelled as this pleasantly imaginative boy chattered on at warp speed, happily regaling him with the intricacies of Minecraft. It didn’t matter that every other word was completely foreign. What mattered was that he and the boy were connecting. This was something he’d missed out on with Sara after a certain point. There was so much he’d missed out on as a father.

  For the next half hour TR was content. He was alive, despite his injuries, and was spending quality time with a grandson he never knew he had. After all this time, goodness still existed for him.

  It reminded him of something else. Someone else. A ribbon of guilt wound its way into the room. And then suddenly TR was torn.

  Was it wrong to be happy? Although he’d been determined not to admit it, he’d left things significantly unraveled back home. Things that were his fault. According to the cops who’d visited, careless use of cigarettes and paint supplies had sparked the fire. At first, TR had refuted the accusation that he could be so careless in his own home. It was preposterous, he told them. But deep down he knew they were right. He hadn’t just been acting rashly the night of the fire; he’d been a damned fool. But he wasn’t too keen on admitting this. He’d never live it down. With anyone.

  Was it right to sit there in that living room and pretend? Not to tell Sara so much? To pick up and start fresh without looking back—again?

  Because that was exactly what he’d done. There was so much left up in the air between him and Marie. She’d had enough and planned to leave him. This he knew. But he hadn’t even tried to patch things up with her, let alone to bridge the divide with Bo. He hadn’t even tried to reach out since leaving the hospital. Instead he let his pride stand in the way of all of it. He’d simply left.

  Ever since the fire, he’d tried to dismiss these shameful realities from his mind. But doubt had a way of creeping in. On top of this, he feared Sara could only be held off for so long. Something was eventually going to have to give.

  TR watched Sam move things around on the screen, manipulating worlds and rearranging the landscape as he liked. He witnessed his grandson partially build something up, only to abandon it and move on to something else when this no longer suited him. He moved on without giving it a second thought.

  Cold reality began to settle over TR. This game was starting to feel a bit too familiar.

  What had he done? He was no longer sure.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SARA

  Guilt eventually got the better of her. That, and mainly she was just too tired to give a damn.

  By dinnertime Sara went for the wine. At first she’d only meant to have a few sips, something to take the jagged edge off her week. But two glasses in, her resolve loosened. Tired of policing TR, she threw caution to the wind and slid the delicate bottle in his forlorn direction.

  “Ah, I see we’re having a French wine this evening.” Her father feigned an air of surprise and reached across the table. As if he hadn’t been lusting after the bottle all evening. She caught a flash of his true desire as his fingers swiftly coiled around the stem of a glass. Seizing the bottle, he helped himself to a hefty pour. “Merci, madam.” He sat opposite her and tipped his chin graciously.

  “Pace yourself,” Sara cautioned.

  “Oui,” TR replied solemnly.

  “You speak French?” Sam asked.

  “Oui. Un petit peu.” He winked across the table at her son. “Yes. Just a little. You know, I lived in Paris for a stint. Lovely country. Beautiful landscape. But the Parisians didn’t quite get my art. L’américain, they called me. It didn’t work out.” His gaze turned distant.

  “Uh-huh.” Sara rolled her eyes and took a long pull of chardonnay. She could only imagine what he really meant. TR had probably pissed off some French father by courting his much younger daughter, or he’d drunk too much French wine and offended someone important in the Parisian art community. Meanwhile, she and her mother had been back at home, heartbroken and struggling to pay the bills.

  Sara regarded him now. Did he even care?

  Sam picked up the drop in conversation as he pierced a forkful of roast chicken and urged his grandfather to continue. “Cool! What other languages can you speak?”

  Witnessing her son’s eagerness, the crack in Sara’s heart deepened a little. Sam would likely get burned if he got too close to TR’s orbit.

  “Well, I can speak a little Spanish—and some Italian too,” TR said. “But only enough to order at a restaurant.” He rambled on, inhaling large portions of his dinner. Oblivious to her discomfort, he continued. “Oh, and I know a lot of curse words in other languages! They’re the easiest to learn.”

  “Ha!” Sam tipped forward, thrilled.

  Sara banged her knife loudly against her plate. It was like dealing with a disruptive child. She shot TR a disapproving glare.

  Her father shrugged as if to say, I’m only telling the truth.

  “I know tacos and enchiladas!” Sam interjected, midbite. His excitement defused a sliver of tension.

  “Bueno!” TR brighten
ed and swung out his glass in a lively salute. Golden liquid threatened to spill over the rim.

  Sara held her breath and silently thanked her son for innocently shifting the direction of the conversation.

  The two continued to chatter on, listing all the Mexican dishes they could think of. Each congratulated the other as they did.

  She pushed the food around on her plate and listened quietly to her father recall a world in which she never got to be a part. An alternate universe where she and her mother were never allowed. But in a small way, TR’s enthusiasm toward Sam reminded her of times she and her father had spent together. TR used to take on that same sparkling demeanor, happy to engage in a little fun with her as a child. She only wished it had lasted.

  She knew TR had moved to Spain at one point, thanks to Joanne’s constant tracking of her ex-husband. It had made Sara sick, the way her mother was so obsessed with the man who had left them both.

  Living with her mother had been like living with a pendulum. Joanne would be seething with rage one minute, tearing up TR’s mysterious letters that Sara never got to read, and promptly lighting a match to the papers at the bottom of the bin. And the next minute she would be pining for the “one true love” she’d let slip from her life, tearfully running her finger over old photographs and pasting up clippings of press releases from the art section. Sara could never keep up.

  They were always changing addresses, switching friends and sources of income. Sara did her best to be the responsible one, but it had been difficult when the rug was constantly being pulled out from under her. For the majority of their lives, they were two lost souls twisting in the wind.

  TR’s absence had left them both untethered.

  That was why finding Charlie had been like a lifeline for Sara. When a mutual girlfriend introduced them at a party, Sara was enamored right from the start. At a mature twenty-seven to her twenty-three, Charlie was kind yet driven. He impressed her with his lofty aspirations and shiny aviation degree. Getting to know him, Sara was struck by how cool Charlie could be under pressure, methodical and steady handed. He was everything her parents were not. And that was wildly attractive.