© 2003 Jane MacDonald By Jane MacDonald
She stood there on the Huntington Avenue sidewalk, luxuriating in the unaccustomed warmth of the spring sun, waiting for the Number 39 bus. She knew she must look funny, standing there all alone, smiling.
Chipping away, two whole hours, all her own. Stealing time, and chipping away, each time making a little progress. Working in marble took ages, so she probably had six months to go. That was all right. It was stolen time, time not looking at a screen, not worrying about punctuation, not caring about grammar, not arguing with some semi- literate writer. It was exacting. She didn't think of other things. She just carefully chose the spot, and chiseled away a tiny flake of stone. Then another.
She heard the instructor in the background, teaching his class of beginners, but it was only background noise. There were three others like her, but she didn't chat with them. Oh, she said hello when she came in if they were already there, but she didn't chat. She just chipped away. Slipped away and chipped away. Two whole hours, twice a week.
New people came when each new class started. She saw them, she just didn't see them. Out there on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus, she could see them better, really. Nothing to chip away. Four or five housewives, stealing time, trying to learn. A couple of lonely widows. Two men. The one who looked like a salesman and the other one who looked like Hemingway, without the beard. And the instructor
showing them how to make an armature, demonstrating his technique, quietly criticizing each one's work. She never really looked at them, never really saw them. She just chipped away.
Sometimes her arms got tired, and she just sat there, not thinking, except maybe about the next place to put her blade, not seeing, just staring into the distance. Nothing to see: the wall, the people. She'd seen them, she didn't really see them anymore.
But that morning the woman next to her had dropped a chisel. Nobody could not hear that. The noise stopped the instructor right in the middle of his prideful talk about the hideous little clay model he'd just made, but he quickly recovered and picked up where he'd left off.
The chisel bounced over her left foot, so she slid off her stool and reached down to pick it up. She handed it back to the woman who had dropped it and turned back to her marble. But she'd seen something when her head came back up, while she was holding the chisel out toward its owner, so she looked back toward the class and one of the men caught her eye.
Just for a moment. How long? Two seconds? Five? Not very long. Standing there in the sun, barely smiling, she marvelled at the amount of information that one tiny glance could transmit. Probably 10k at least, she thought. It would take her half an hour to read proof on it if it were a novel she was editing. So much! In such a little glance!
Her eyes took in more than just his message. Yes, he looked like Hemingway a little. Probably fifty at least. An outdoor face, cut by deep lines. Short grey hair. But no beard. Stubby fingers, big hands holding the clay--he was making a woman's head, but he had stopped when the chisel fell, and he was still. Very still. Not like most of the men she knew, not nervous, just still. Strong arms, big biceps showing at the edge of his short sleeves. Striped shirt, blue and white. Clean. And he was looking directly at her.
His lips were still, not a muscle in his face was moving, but she knew he was laughing, laughing with her at the instructor's model. It's funny how talent doesn't always go with taste, isn't it? Or maybe the instructor thought that was what the students' taste was like, if you gave him the benefit of the doubt. But no, you didn't do that--it was the instructor's taste. And it was terrible! The things he made! A drunk leaning on a lamppost. An ugly clown, laughing. It
was really pretty funny that the teacher could do it so well, and end up with such kitsch. It wouldn't sell in the Museum Shop, but it probably would go well at a kiosk on the beach.
Actually, life was pretty weird, too. He knew she was stealing time. That was what he was doing, too. Both of them there, upstairs in a rough, dirty room at the back of the pretentious-looking museum instead of where they ought to be. He knew she was good, he appreciated the bust that was just beginning to look like a bust, the face that had begun to show a hint of a nose, a mouth. He wondered who she had in mind, she could see that. A man she loved? Her father? A memory? Or just a man, a sort of Ur-Mann, just a prototype of a man.
He was just playing. He could make of clay a woman's head, though, and it would look like what it was. It wouldn't be kitsch, like the things the instructor made, for he had taste. But not art, like hers, just something to make, to learn with. He'd learn, but he knew he'd never be able to sculpt the way she did. Not a chance. He had a little talent; she was good. There was a big difference there. And he respected talent. His talent was to lead men, she knew. How, where, why, she didn't know.
But he had authority. Like a soldier. Yet he respected her talent, too. That put a lump in her throat. She wondered if he could see that.
Yes, he could! He knew what she was thinking, how she felt! She could see that.
Was she sending a message, too? She must be.
His intelligence. His care. He thought, long and hard, then he made his decisions. He had experience, the kind that made him strong. And made him thoughtful. She could see that.
He knew that chipping away was not what she'd always done, that silence wasn't always her way, even now. He wanted to make her talk, to tell him the things she knew, the things she'd done, the years she'd lived, the sights she'd seen. To listen to her stories.
He wanted to tell her his stories, too, about foreign places, sand, water, cities teeming with strange people. White walls streaked with rusty red. Crenellated walls. Crumbling walls. Places he'd triumphed, and places he'd suffered and lost. Oh, yes, he'd lost. She could see that. Great losses. Things that would have broken a lesser man. But he'd persevered, and he'd won, sometimes, and he'd cared for the wounded, the hurt, the broken, the tired. He didn't hate. He had compassion. Compassion for her, too. He knew nothing of her, nothing of her joys, of her sufferings, nothing of her victories, nothing of her losses, but his compassion encompassed her as well as those he knew. All that she saw.
He wanted to hold her. Not to ravish her. To hold her gently, to comfort her. To stroke her brow, to turn her hand palm upward and caress it with his thumb. He'd seen her hands, and had noticed them. She thought they were just hands, but he thought they were not just hands, but beautiful hands, good hands, her hands, and he wanted to hold them in his own big hands, to feel her bones, her nails, her skin.
He wanted to look into her eyes and see her soul. He cared about her, not just her body. How did she know that? She knew it, from his glance. She just knew.
She could tell that he wanted her with him to show her off. Her! To dress her in a long dress with a flared skirt, a silken blouse, to walk with her in front of hard men and beautiful women, to let them know she was his. To put his mark on her, so that even if he were not there, others would know she was his. He wanted her to belong to him.
He wanted to take her to his home, to make her comfortable on
is sofa, to bring her things to drink, to nibble. To sit across from her and laugh with her at what they'd done, to marvel at what they'd seen, to share the ways they felt.
To sit next to her, he wanted that, too. To put an arm around her and pull her close, to kiss her gently, then with passion. To caress her breasts, to let his hands roam over her body, touching her in secret places as well as all the rest. All the rest, all. He wanted to know her, truly.
And he knew that she felt exactly the same.
Two seconds? Five? She'd turned back to her stone, found the place she was looking for, touched her chisel to that spot, tapped the chisel with her hammer. Flaked away a tiny piece of stone. And chipped away. Chipped away until her heart stopped racing, until all she thought of was her marble, her chisel, her hammer, and her hands.
But she'd left a few minutes early, putting down her hammer and chisel in their accustomed spots, running her hand over the places she'd been working, picking up her bag and slipping out the door without looking at anyone, without looking back.
Foolish woman! What she could see in a two-second glance! Oh, my! So silly! But she stood there, smiling, waiting for the Number 39 bus.
The bus still hadn't come when the car pulled up in front of her, stopping as if ignoring the traffic whizzing by on its left. The passenger door opened and she looked in.
"Come on," he said.
(This story appeared in the February, 2001, issue of LoveWords, the e-zine.) |